Booze Pig swaggers out of the Swizzle Inn

The place is at the southeast corner of Bethany Home and 16th Street, behind a Starbucks — tucked away like all good dives should be. I park and walk up to the place and see on the wall some long beer prayer that I don't bother to read, but I do read the sign that says "welcome — swizzle in and swagger out."

I'm at the right place.

I beat D there, so I order a vodka press from the barkeep, Mike, who has been here for a decade. Mike tells me that the bar has been around for the past 30 years, and things haven't changed much. I guess you could say they're going for a Margaritaville/scuba-dive (bad pun) look. It looks as if the place were designed by the film crew from Jaws.

The front door has a porthole window, and the joint has rubber sharks over the register, as well as other seaworthy things nailed all over the dark place. I love that there is an atrium in the back left corner, complete with sliding door access to the little plant-thrivin' space, which lets a faint light into the otherwise seedy sippin' hole (love that term). The place has six flat-screens on the walls and a pool table. There's a jukebox full of oldies and an electronic dartboard. It looks to me as though they may have been open for a long time, but they sure have spruced the place up; it's clean and cozy here.

I settle in with a half-dozen codgers at the bar and can't help but feel like I'm on some faraway beach, my frustrations melting into the boozy surf. I know I'm landlocked, but no one else here seems to know it. Everyone is drinking hard.

I note that the TVs are showing women's softball. I watch for a bit. I had no idea how hot the players are! After an inning, I can't take much more softball, so I gander about the place. I notice the "special" board (shaped like a surfboard) reads "$3.00 Maker's Mark." I'm pissed I didn't order one, but when I inquire, Mike tells me the vodkas are $2 until 7 p.m. I've been to a lot of dives, but no place this nice has drinks this cheap. Okay, maybe this cheap, but they also taste fantastic; Mike makes a mean, well-balanced drink. I settle in and watch more hot young ballers and feel as though I'm sitting behind home plate — literally, as the bar is shaped like a pentagon.

D finally walks in the door, thin and as alluring as ever, and I tell her this place is a home run! D orders a Pacifico, and we kick back and reminisce. She has a new man, and she also has the $160 I loaned her through a rough spot. First thing's first: I'm psyched she's paying me in full, and second, I'm stunned she's dating a 54-year-old guy.

Nonetheless, D starts flirting with the barkeep, who tells us he graduated from Camelback High in 1964. D is my age (30-something), and she tells me the old guys are less complicated and up-front with what they want. I have renewed hope that when I'm in my 50s, I can date a 30-something (if I'm still alive).

Hell, most of the folks in this homey hang are twice my age and going strong. Screw the doctor; just come to the Swizzle to self-medicate with a strong drink.

Some classic old-school broads show up and sit around messing with their drink straws. (I start to get the "swizzle" part.) I think of that sugary childhood mouth-watering Swizzle Sticks candy treat. Now that I'm older, I think it's the way the gals talk while working that straw into the dark cauldron of bourbon that makes me drool. I keep looking over and I can't wait for the "swagger" part — perhaps one of them will need a ride.

I feel a nudge, and D goes on to tell me more about her new love and that Cialis is expensive. I quickly put two and two together about dating older men, and I offer the money back. "Nah," she stops me, "not to worry — just made it back from Mexico with a carload." Well, I'm glad to be back in the saddle with D and just living the life of leisure. For the most part.

D goes for a cig, and I hang at the bar. The night shift is on, and I'll be damned: The new barkeep looks like a softball player! I find she is also from North Dakota. I've dated a few girls from the Dakotas, so I refrain from asking her if she thinks any of the players are hot. I'm sad to see Mike retire for the night, but I'll tell you: If a strong drink were the equivalent of a 90 mile-per-hour underhand fast-pitch, then this chick is on the Olympic team.