Every newspaper needs a bar

The Big I -- derived from the original "International Bar and Lounge," a name no one would recognize -- is a quick stumble across the street from the office. It's in a plaza of shut-down buildings.

A downtown traffic project threatened to close the entire plaza, and succeeded with five of the six businesses there -- including a Mexican restaurant that served burgers the size of my fist. But not the Big I, which stubbornly fought to remain and won.

It's not what it once was, even what it was a year ago much less 50, but I can still walk in and have a beer waiting for me by the time I find a seat (Molson, the cheapest thing on tap) from a barmaid that calls customers "sweetie" -- with a delightful hint of sarcasm.

 

Myself and another co-worker, on many an occasion, solved the world's problems over a six- or 12-pack in the alley beside the press after work. Sitting on my tailgate, shooting the breeze with beers, roasted peanuts and the occasional spicy Dorito bag.

Some of the best nights of drinking I can remember.

 

I can remember rushing to a Bennigans or O'Houlihans or Shenanigans or whatever and praying to make last call. If we did, we were good for an hour or two.