Break The Fourth Wall

Cheers to Emmit’s Irish Pub: A Chicago Life

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Cheers to Emmit’s Irish Pub: A Chicago Life

Story and main photo by Drew Biada INT. EMMIT’S PUB - EVENING  George Clooney eyes up Matt Damon across a high top in a Chicago bar behind the midday regulars. Clooney starts talking…something about robbing cas...

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Fox's Lounge: How the Community Came Together to Bring this Classic Bar Back to Life

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Fox's Lounge: How the Community Came Together to Bring this Classic Bar Back to Life

Fox's Lounge, nestled on U.S. 1 in Miami, has been a cherished institution since Betty and Bob Fox opened its doors in 1946. For decades, it served as a haven for locals, Eastern Airlines pilots, and visitors looking for stiff drinks, deli-style food, and the camaraderie only a bar can provide. Stories of first dates, clandestine affairs, and relationships formed or broken in Fox's shadowy corners became legendary, as did the happy hour debates over whether the painting of a 737 on the wall depicted a plane taking off or landing. When Fox’s closed in 2015, it left a hole in Miami’s heart. However, Randy Alonso and Chris Hudnall of Lost Boy & Co. refused to let this bar's legacy fade and spent years piecing together the bar's storied past to bring her back in full glory for the community, drawing from conversations with former patrons and the bar’s longtime regulars, including George Andrews, a retired Eastern Airlines pilot and a cornerstone of Fox’s lore. During the pandemic, Alonso had recurring weekly hour-plus-long phone calls with Andrews to capture Fox’s essence—its menu, ambiance, and the indefinable charm that made it special. The effort to bring Fox’s back was nothing short of a community project. Locals shared memories, recipes, and even relics from the original bar. One widow provided treasured recipes from her late husband, who once served as Fox's chef. Former patrons dropped off old plates and glassware at one of Alonso and Hudnall’s other bars, Lost Boy in Downtown Miami, and painstakingly recreated by manufacturers. Even the iconic 25-foot Fox’s sign with its martini glass—miraculously rescued from a dumpster during Art Basel, though no one knows how it returned to the bar and restaurant building site—was restored, blending the original metal frame with newly reinforced materials to preserve its historic glow. When Fox’s reopened in 2022, it was clear the bar’s "afterlife" was as vibrant as its past. The menu has stayed true to its roots with classics like Prime Rib and martinis served with full sidecars, but new twists on nightlife, like a yacht rock DJ and vintage music videos, are adding flair and attracting a new generation of patrons. The eclectic crowd, ranging from early-evening matinee diners to late-night revelers, echoes the bar’s original charm. Even the carved graffiti on the walls, a tradition frowned upon by old-timers but embraced by new patrons, includes names of celebrities like Miami Heat players and even our founders.  Fox’s revival is more than just a reopening—it’s a testament to the power of community. By preserving the darkest bar in Miami, with plans to reopen the original liquor store window and restart its supper club tradition, the Lost Boy & Co. team has ensured that Fox’s remains a place where memories are made and stories are shared. 

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Cheers to The Robin Hood Inn, the Last Outlaw bar of Kent, OH

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Cheers to The Robin Hood Inn, the Last Outlaw bar of Kent, OH

A Tea Room, Nixon’s Lies, Grunge & More  If a bar ever personified a middle finger to the rich and a free pint for the poor, it was the legendary Robin Hood Inn near the home of Kent State University. An actual tea room near campus in the roaring twenties, the four walls of the Robin Hood could transport locals, and bar historians alike, into a time-warp through fine dining, Vietnam War protests, punk, grunge, and, later, the best damn pour of Keystone Light a bartender has ever seen. In the 1930s, The Inn would serve as the “go-to” spot for classy dining in Kent and Sunday dinners for students, parents, and faculty.  Through WWII, the ‘50s, and into the times of “American Graffiti,” The Robin Hood remained primarily a restaurant. Home to the Kiwanis Club of Kent, elected officials, deans, and business owners would all rub elbows with locals and undergrads.  Each decade in American history challenges different businesses and industries, well…differently. But big cultural changes in America often bring along cultural changes to our favorite watering holes and their clientele as well. By the 1960s, college students had become more involved in peaceful protests for various causes at home and abroad. Local bars became the ultimate hang-out spots for intelligent discourse and rebellious crusades of music and poetry. The Inn’s namesake would’ve dug it.  The Vietnam War protests of the late ‘60s trickled into 1970 like the over-poured head of a pint on a bar with no coaster. And the puddle got bigger.   Four days after Richard Nixon’s “plans for peace” were revealed to the world as nothing more than deeper involvement, Kent State and other schools around the country weren’t having it.  On May 4, 1970, The Robin Hood Inn became a temporary sanctuary to its patrons while hundreds of National Guardsmen invaded campus. A handful of students threw rocks. In return, guardsmen shot 67 rounds from their M-1 rifles. On the orders of the Ohio Governor (and many think Nixon himself), four were dead, nine were injured, and Kent State was forever immortalized in the song “Ohio” by Crosby, Stills, Nash, & Young. As time passed, so did several owners, name changes, and exterior and interior “upgrades” to The Robin Hood. The ‘80s and ‘90s welcomed plenty of music acts, comedy, and various stages of operation as a bar, grille, or “bar & grille.” Always for the people, punk, grunge, ska, and other genres were welcome at The Robin Hood, and countless ideas, shots, and 25-cent wings were shared. The Robin Hood Inn closed its doors in the summer of 2010. The city of Kent is on record saying it was not their choice, and it’s unclear to this day if the slew of violations in 2009 were a factor. The Robin Hood was finally demolished in May of 2011 when Kent State University was on the verge of a massive project connecting the downtown businesses with the campus. President Obama spoke at Kent State sixteen months later as new jobs, funding, and excitement flooded the region but the irony of the closest bar to campus being torn down wasn’t lost on its regulars.  The original structure of the Robin Hood Tea Room, approaching the century mark, remains today as the beautifully renovated Cleveland Bagel Cafe on E. Main St.  A home for many, a “no thanks” for others, an outlaw ‘til the end. Cheers to The Robin Hood Inn! It was a bar that certainly kept the good times… IN. - Tribute by Drew Biada, photos courtesy of Kent Alumni and Matt Fredmonsky

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Drinking in New York’s 200-Year-Old Ear Inn

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Drinking in New York’s 200-Year-Old Ear Inn

  If you want to drink whiskey in a landmark New York bar, few are better to find yourself at than the Ear Inn, located in SoHo a stone’s throw from the Hudson and a drinking destination for over 200 years (probably). The story starts back in 1817 when the building housing the Ear Inn was originally built. The story goes that it was constructed by a black Revolutionary War veteran named James Brown who opened a bar on the ground floor. We’re not sure if he really opened a bar at that time, but we do know that when he sold it to a man named Thomas Cloke in 1933, a tavern was finally opened here. At the time, the building was right next to the river (urban development has since filled in the river so that it’s now about a block away), and riverboats would often lash up to it so their captain and crew could get some refreshment. Cloke had a brewery and distillery in the basement while the top floors were used for…other sorts of recreation (we’ll leave it at that). The pub stayed relatively the same for the remainder of the 19th and even through most of the 20th century. As a riverfront, the neighborhood, and most likely the Ear Inn, was a dangerous place, filled with pirates and thieves. Then the area went through industrialization and was a hub of manufacturing right up through the 1950s when most of the commercial enterprises finally moved out. At this point, the area was pretty unsafe with blocks and blocks of urban decay. But in the 1970s, artists began moving into SoHo and converting the abandoned industrial buildings into lofts and galleries. Little by little, the neighborhood went through gentrification, and the urban decay was halted and then reversed. Today, the SoHo everybody knows is a trendy, hip part of town, a highbrow haven for the well-heeled and fashionable. If someone who lived in this part of the city in 1850 travelled to the present day and looked around, they wouldn’t recognize it. But then they would see the Ear Inn and probably feel right at home because despite all the changes SoHo has gone through, its oldest bar has remained virtually untouched. (Okay, there’s no longer a brothel upstairs and the owners don’t make booze in the basement but other than that the Ear Inn is pretty much the same.) Once inside a visitor finds a beautifully wood-paneled, dark but friendly pub. Along the wall to the left is the bar, festooned with Irish whiskey advertisements and Guinness signs. To the right are a scattering of tables and chairs, with locals and visitors dining on steamed mussels or a New York Strip steak. Some televisions flicker quietly above the bar, but for the most part, people are in conversation. You can hear laughter and shouts as stories are told and retold to friends and strangers alike. Adorning the interior are a smattering of relics and artifacts that demonstrate this place’s age. Huge glass “demijohns” used to bottle and ship wine between the 16th and 20th centuries sit regally above the bar. These were found in the basement and point to the Ear Inn’s 200-year-old past as a riverside pub. The bartenders here know how to pour a drink, be it a whiskey on the rocks, an Irish stout, or a craft cocktail. They make the classics – like the Manhattan or the Side Car – especially well, so don’t be afraid to order one of those. The crowd is friendly, talkative, and colorful. Many of those I met on my last visit were from the surrounding neighborhood who’d popped in for a bite and a drink, but as the dinner crowd drifted out, they were replaced by people who stopped in before going to a show or a gallery down the street. It was crowded, but in a good sort of way—people were pleasant and happy, having a good time, as it should be. Look, I love old bars, they have a character and quality that you just can’t put into words. Places like the Ear Inn are a rare breed even among the oldest of bars here in the US. If you’re in New York City, and if you get the chance, trust me: you need to spend a night in this pub. You won’t be sorry.

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Cheers to Hollywood's Frolic Room

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Cheers to Hollywood's Frolic Room

It seems that most of what Los Angeles is selling these days is nostalgia—what the town used to be. The movie industry started here in the 1920s and 30s, this was the epicenter of surfing in the '60s, and if you wanted to make a name for yourself as a rock band in the '80s, the only place to play was at the Whiskey. LA—whoever does the marketing for the city, anyway—is constantly reminding us of these things. But much of what LA was just doesn’t exist anymore. Treasured restaurants and trendy stores that were once the darlings of the city are always being replaced by something newer and trendier. But not everything. If you look hard enough, you’ll find some of those treasures that have somehow avoided the bulldozer and one of those places is called the Frolic Room. Located right in front of Gary Cooper’s star on the Walk of Fame, the Frolic Room remains an iconic and original part of storied Hollywood Boulevard. The interior dates back to 1963, when the last remodel was completed, but the bar itself was opened in 1934. There’s some speculation about when it actually started serving, though, as it’s attached to the Pantages Theatre next door. The rumor is that the little bar was used as a speakeasy for the theater beginning in the 1920s. In 1949, Howard Hughes bought the attached theater and moved his personal offices into the second floor. The Pantages then hosted the Academy Awards from 1949 until 1959, and it’s rumored that the Frolic Room saw more than its fair share of Hollywood elites as a private party venue in those days. These were the glory days of the old bar when patrons wore black ties, and Sinatra was crooning in the background. But then, between 1959 and 1989, Hollywood went through a number of changes. Gone was the glitz and glamor of Hollywood Boulevard, replaced by topless joints and low-rent dives. Walking alone at night could be a bit frightening as you had to avoid winos and prostitutes, stepping around small piles of trash and rubbish that accumulated on every block. But still, the Frolic Room soldiered on, its storied marquee never fading or going dark. As one by one the small bars of the city began shuttering, the Frolic Room somehow remained popular. By day it doled out cheap drinks to the low-rent crowd (like me), and at night served the pre-partiers. Despite the atmosphere it proudly exuded, it also saw its share of celebrities. The 90s band 311 wrote a song about the place after spending an afternoon here celebrating their recent music deal, signed in the iconic Capitol Records Building just behind the Frolic Room. When you walk through the door today, shutting out the world and its worries behind you, you have truly traveled back in time. The décor is straight out of Once Upon a Time in Hollywood, with UFO-shaped lamps above your head and neon orange stools waiting for you to settle in and order something cold. Opposite the bar, emblazoned across the entire wall it shares with the theater, is a mural of 1960s celebrities drawn in caricature by the artist Al Hirschfeld, the celebrated illustrator of the mid to late 20th century. When you see that mural, you know you’re in Tinseltown. Behind the bar, the offerings are simple and rudimentary. This isn’t a craft cocktail lounge, this is a bar, after all. A beer and a shot at one in the afternoon would be considered routine at a place like this. If you want to push your luck and order something mixed, keep it uncomplicated – maybe a Martini, or perhaps an Old Fashioned (but don’t expect hand-crafted ice cubes or fancy bitters). On one visit, early in the day when the place was empty, I asked the bartender what the crowd was like. She considered for a moment and then told me, “It depends on the time of day, some days you can be sitting next to a homeless person on one side and Kiefer (Sutherland) on the other.” On that visit, I sat next time neither, but I did have a nice chat with some locals who raved about the Frolic Room as if they were talking about a member of their family. It will get packed at night, especially during the weekend, often by those attending a show next door, but more frequently, it’s filled with regulars like the ones I talked to. These are people who like what LA was and, by having a drink at the Folic Room, are trying to hold onto it.

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RIP Billymark’s West: As Authentic as a Dive Can Get

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RIP Billymark’s West: As Authentic as a Dive Can Get

It’s getting harder and harder to find a good, authentic dive bar in New York City. By "authentic dive bar," I mean, of course, a bar that’s been around for a while and has earned its reputation and moniker—not a new joint that designed itself to be one. Every time I make my way back to the city, it seems another one’s closed. You’d think I’d be used to it by now, but no, it always hurts—like when you start getting invited to your high school friends’ funerals. The latest to shutter its doors—Billymark’s on 9th Avenue and 29th Street—was a lot like the other irreplicable places that have shut down: it had a history, an atmosphere, and a following. Opened in 1956 as a neighborhood bar, Billymark’s was small and simple. It catered to the working people of the city, opening at 8 a.m. to catch the night shift getting off work and staying open until 4 a.m. to serve concertgoers and late-night partiers. It was originally called the “White Rose Bar.” White Rose Bars were a chain of small, neighborhood bars that dotted New York City starting in the 1940s. So yes, it was a corporate-owned joint over sixty years ago, but it eventually came into its own and crossed into the legitimate dive category (which is the way it’s supposed to be done). Anyway, in 1999, the tiny dive was bought by brothers Mark and Billy Penza, whose father, Mark Penza, manned the also irreplicable Mars Bar in the East Village until it too closed in 2011. Once through the simple façade facing the street, you’d find all that’s needed in a good saloon. On the left was a long, wooden bar with a few shelves of liquor behind it. There were bottled and canned beer available, but no taps. A battered old cash register rang out on each sale. The drinks were cheap and honest, but also simple and to the point (think an Old Fashioned or Manhattan, and definitely nothing with elderflower or black currants as ingredients). On the walls was a collection of bric-a-brac you might find adorning a college kid’s dorm room: old movie posters, gold records, and boxing gloves. There were no crushed-velvet lounge chairs, no polished stainless steel, and any exposed pipes and wiring were there because of age, not because of design. There was music to listen to and a pool table to hustle your buddies, but little else to distract you from friends, conversation, and drink. And yet all that simplicity seemed to work. People were dedicated to Billymark’s, and I mean dedicated. Some regulars had been going to this bar for five decades. They were brought by their dads back in the ’50s, and when they had kids, they brought them along too. The shift workers hit the bar every day at 8 a.m. and 5 p.m., and when there was an event at the Garden, you couldn’t even get through the door. In other words, it was a neighborhood place that also attracted a lot of visitors. But the beauty of it was the composition of the crowd. White-collared, blue-collared, no-collared—they all met and mingled. Like any good bar, the people were often good, though with a place so long in the tooth, it saw its share of a-holes and tragedies. But most felt safe going there. They loved the octogenarian bartender from Ireland who sang to them while making drinks. They loved the funny but gruff owners who seemed to make up prices on the spot for the booze they served. Most of all, people loved the authenticity of the place. “Authenticity.” I use that word a lot when it comes to dive bars, and I know that’s sort of a cop-out because I never really explain what it means. It’s not something easily described, and it’s often even more difficult to quantify. What makes a bar authentic is also what makes it special. It makes the place a destination. It makes people go out of their way to get there. But I don’t know if I can really tell you what it is. In short, what makes a bar “authentic” is anyone’s guess, but to summarize Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart when he tried to define pornography in 1964: we know it when we see it. Whatever it is, Billymark’s had it in spades—it was as pure as a dive bar gets, with no frills and no expectations. It was, in all ways, authentic. So, for Billymark’s and for all the dives out there staying authentic and true to the course, we raise a glass. 

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Remembering the City Tavern for Independence Day

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Remembering the City Tavern for Independence Day

It’s easy to say that bars are important, but the question is how important?  Well, there’s one that that was so significant that even the US Government has to concede its value. I thought it would be fun to talk about it on the 4th of July.  The bar in question was called the City Tavern, located in Philadelphia, a stone’s throw from all the other important buildings that played a role in our nation’s founding. Established in 1773, the City Tavern was elegant for its time, featuring a dining hall upstairs and a restaurant and bar on the ground floor. It prepared fresh food and served a variety of booze, especially rum, brandy, beer, and wine. More importantly, though, it offered booth-style seating and small rooms where conversations could be discreet. Shortly after its opening, members of the First Continental Congress began meeting there to have these discreet conversations. John Adams, who called the place the most “genteel” tavern in the country, was a frequent guest, as were many others. This is where the Founding Fathers shaped their plans for a new political system, not over a book of philosophy but over a pint. When the Second Continental Congress convened in May of 1775, members began meeting up at the City Tavern every Saturday, and eight of them, including John Adams and Benjamin Franklin, dined there every day at the same large table. In our history books and in most paintings and movies about the founding of our country, the activities always take place at either Carpenter’s Hall or Independence Hall. And to be sure, these stately buildings are where votes were cast and documents were signed. But the real action took place at the City Tavern. Political differences were argued over a dram of rum and a glass of Madeira wine. Real negotiations happened at a bar, not at a meeting hall. Once the dust from the Revolutionary War had settled, the Founding Fathers still had work to do – they had to build our government. For almost four months, the delegates convened in Philadelphia to write the US Constitution. As before, they wrangled, negotiated, argued, and bickered until finally, on September 14, 1787, they had a draft they all agreed on. That night, a Friday night, they put down their quills and picked up their glasses. Once again, they retired to the City Tavern, where they threw the rager to end all ragers. The harried tavern owner's receipts show how much these guys could drink. In one night, 55 of our most notable Americans went through 114 bottles of wine (Madeira and Claret), 34 bottles of beer, eight bottles of cider, and seven large bowls of rum punch – 45 gallons of booze. They smoked cigars, listened to a 9-piece band, and got rowdy (the bill notes charges for broken wine glasses and other glassware). It took them three days of sobering up before they could all sign the Constitution, but sober up they did, and our unique system of government was formalized. In 1854, a fire gutted the historic tavern, and it was eventually demolished. But then, in 1948, the US National Parks Service decided to build an identical copy of the City Tavern in the exact spot and with the exact same measurements as the original. Completed just in time for the nation’s bicentennial, the City Tavern gave a glimpse of what life was like two centuries ago and helped tell the real story of our nation’s founding. In 1994, Walter Staib, an internationally known chef specializing in colonial cuisine, opened a restaurant in the building. Staib, rabid about historical exactitude, served the same type of dishes with the same ingredients that Franklin or Adams would have been noshing on. He even used replica pewter ware and dishes. But for me, the hidden gem was the bar, which was exactly like the one that would have been serving George Washington or John Hancock. Staib even offered the same types of beer, wine and cocktails as the real City Tavern did in 1773. It was a rum-colored look into what drinking in the colonies would have been like. Sadly, the City Tavern restaurant could not survive pandemic closures and shut permanently in 2020. Though the Park Service is looking for another publican to run an eatery there, I doubt it will ever be as authentic as the one Walter Staib built.   But ultimately, what’s important is to remember that taverns were crucial in creating our country. Places like The City Tavern served more than just drinks—they also served as meeting places for early Americans who looked to break the bonds of tyranny and forge a new system of government. This Independence Day, raise a glass and give a nod to all those early bars that dotted the colonies and helped start a revolution.

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The American Bar and its Role in the Gay Rights Movement: Part 2

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The American Bar and its Role in the Gay Rights Movement: Part 2

In 1934, Seattle native Joseph Bellotti decided to open a saloon on 2nd Avenue, just a stone’s throw from Pioneer Square and the waterfront. Bellotti was a sober, honest guy who had come by the two-story building and, with the fall of prohibition, saw an opportunity to make some money off the sailors, fishermen, and prospectors frequenting the area. Downtown Seattle was a fun place in those years. Filled with brothels, bars, and other dens of ill-repute, it was a gathering place for a rough but colorful crowd of people. The term “Skid Row” actually comes from this area of Seattle and came to be associated with the types of indecent entertainment and activities common to most red-light districts. Bellotti named his saloon the Double Header. The name came from the fact that there were two entrances to the joint instead of just one. There were also two floors in the bar – the ground floor and the basement, where couples could dance to the scratched-out sounds of an old jukebox. No one’s quite sure how it happened, but eventually, the Double Header started attracting a crowd of gay patrons. Seattle, while more tolerant than other cities in the US, still had laws against homosexuality, and so police frequently raided bars where the LGBTQ crowd was known to patronize. Unlike most other bar owners, Bellotti not only welcomed the crowd of same-sex couples but also paid off the police to have them left alone. The money came out of his pocket, and he never gouged his customers for reimbursement, something else that set him apart. interior of The Double Header Flash forward to 1960, just seven years after US President Eisenhower outlawed Americans that identified as homosexual from working for the Federal government, the Caliph opened its doors in San Diego. Less of a party space and more of a piano lounge-come-neighborhood-bar kind of place, the Caliph quickly became the safe haven for the LGBTQ population of Hillcrest and beyond. It welcomed all, giving each a quiet, secure place to be with friends or to simply be by themselves. If you were to walk into the Caliph, you wouldn’t know it catered mostly to a gay crowd, which perhaps was the point. It was simply a bar, but a bar that didn’t judge the people drinking there. It welcomed the diversity of the city and quickly became the place for gay and lesbian couples to unwind at the end of the day, listen to live music and drink a good cocktail. But despite the welcoming atmosphere, things were still tense. Outside the doors of the Caliph, or the Double Header up the coast, or indeed, outside of any gay bar in any city in the country, the patrons were still being hassled, still being judged, still being victimized. It was still illegal to be gay and often still illegal to serve LGBTQ customers. But, all that was about to change, and it would happen because of events in yet another bar on the opposite side of the country, in New York City. The building occupying 51-53 Christopher Street in Greenwich Village had been many things in its day – horse stables, a bakery, a speakeasy, and a restaurant (called the Stonewall Inn). Then, in 1967, a group of gangsters associated with the Genovese crime family bought the building to open a gay bar. They kept the old restaurant’s sign but painted over the windows, reinforced the door, and remodeled the interior. Because it was illegal to serve members of the LGBTQ population, they opened the Stonewall as a private club, charging a modest admission and then overcharging for watered-down drinks at the bar. While only in business to stuff the pockets of the mob, the Stonewall Inn was still a popular destination. With dancing and a barely lit interior, the crowd was mostly left alone by both the city’s residents and its police. The mobsters made sure to pay off the local cops, and if raids did occur, the gangsters were warned well in advance. Ultimately, there really wasn’t that much difference between the Stonewall Inn and any other gay bar in America. While the Double Header wasn’t owned by mobsters, and while the drinks at the Caliph weren’t watered down or overpriced, much of their stories were still alike. All of them catered to a crowd welcome nowhere else in those days. All of them were taking a risk by serving this crowd, a population of people who were themselves deemed illegal. And all of them were regularly hassled by authorities. And at the same time, all of them allowed a marginalized group of people to be themselves, at least for a little while. They all provided a place of safety and comfort where this group was welcomed and appreciated. But then, in the middle of 1969, everything changed. In a surprise to everyone, the New York Police Department raided the Stonewall early in the morning of June 28. While waiting for the wagons to transport people to jail, a scuffle broke out between one of the patrons and the police officer arresting her. Then there was another scuffle between patrons and the police and then another. The customers, it seemed, had enough of the hassle. The resulting riots lasted until later that morning, and that was followed by demonstrations in the street the next day and then the next. More riots took place on July 2 and 3 before the police finally got "order" restored. It was one of the first times that this group of marginalized, abused, and exploited people fought back en masse against the police, and it was inspiring. The next year, on June 28th, the first Gay Pride parade was held in New York City in commemoration of the 1969 Stonewall Inn Riots. A parade has been held every year since. The impact of what happened in that bar can’t be overstated—it was a watershed moment in American history, the founding of the gay rights movement, and the origin of Pride Month. Throughout history, bars have always been safe spaces, places where people can go for security, camaraderie, and comfort. For some populations, like the LGBTQ population, this was especially important. The legacy of not only the Stonewall Inn but all those gay bars that opened their doors and welcomed the unwelcome should never be forgotten. They represent what we all want in life and what we all need in our neighborhoods. 

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The American Bar and its Role in the Gay Rights Movement: Part 1

Bars

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The American Bar and its Role in the Gay Rights Movement: Part 1

I’ve always argued that bars were the original safe spaces. In these places alone, you can shut out the rest of the world, truly relax, and be with others who share your values and beliefs. In the neighborhood bar, there’s nobody telling you to conform, pay your taxes, or worship their god. You walk in, take a seat, and order a drink. And, like magic, all the hassle, all the stress, all the worries – they all fade away – replaced by laughter and friendly conversation. This reprieve from reality is the most important part of the day for some populations. You might not know this, but it used to be illegal to be gay in most of America. Many states in the country had various “indecency” laws – typically targeting what they defined as homosexual behavior, such as same-sex dancing or maybe cross-dressing. Same-sex couples holding hands in public or otherwise showing affection would be arrested and charged with violations of such statutes, and so quite often, members of the LGBTQ community looked for places where they could be left alone, places where they could be themselves, without worrying about being hassled for who they were. That's where bars came in. Think about it. Have you ever been to a dark bar? I mean a really dark bar? Like, so dark that the guy three feet away from you is little more than a grey blob in an ocean of black. Anything can go on in a place like that, and it often does. The darkness of a bar can hide the conversation of patriots planning the Boston Tea Party (which it did), steelworkers planning to take over the steel mill during a strike (which it did), and two men dancing to their favorite song (which it also did). Back in the early to mid-20th century, bars were one of the only places in America where gay couples could spend time together without being bothered. The only place where men and women – who didn’t feel like men or women – could dress to match their true identities. These were their safe spaces. Across the country, in small towns and big cities, there was usually some out-of-the-way place, a hole in the wall, dark and cozy, sometimes with blacked-out windows, where the LGBTQ crowd could gather in safety and enjoy what everybody else got to enjoy every single day – freedom. But this freedom always came with a catch. Sure, these places – gay bars as they came to be called – were safe from the public. The blacked-out windows kept prying eyes from seeing who was dancing with who, who was holding hands at the bar, or who was sharing a drink in the dimly lit booths. But while the unmarked entrances kept out the curious gawkers, it wouldn’t keep out the one group they were most abused by – the cops. Not only was it illegal to be gay in much of the US up until the 1980s (or later in some places), but it was also illegal for bars to actually serve gay men and women. In other words, in some parts of the country (like New York City, for example), a member of the LGBTQ community couldn’t even legally get a drink. And so, in those same small towns and big cities emerged this absurd dance between the local LGBTQ population and the local police departments. Same-sex couples hoping to spend some time with each other, gay men and women looking for the company of people like themselves, and the bartenders and servers bringing them drinks were all victimized through late-night police raids, unwarranted arrests, and undeserved jail time. Payoffs became common to keep the police away, but sometimes they’d bust through the doors anyway, round up the people they found there, put them in a van, and then haul them away. This went on for decades. Imagine the constant stress, the worry, the exhaustion of living like that? Not only can’t you gather with your friends or partner and be left alone, but you can’t even get a drink without looking over your shoulder to see if you’re going to be hauled away to jail. The inhumanity of it all – to think this was a reality in a free nation – is mind-boggling. But things were changing, slowly perhaps, but at least progress was being made. In the 1960s, as people were tuning in and turning on, a new social consciousness was awakening, especially in the young people of America. College students began protesting injustices, and people were taking to the streets to demand equality and an end to the Vietnam War. Protest was in the air, and a new cause was about to be picked up and promoted that would finally secure equality for gay people in America. And bars would be at the center of it.

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Remembering the Back Door of Louisville, Kentucky
Remembering the Back Door of Louisville, Kentucky

A great bar will usually only last as long as its founder. Sometimes, you get lucky, and the kid will take over, but the kid has to be as passionate about the place as mom or dad was. That’s pretty rare. It’s not a knock on the kid (or kids), mind you; it’s just that the place was always more than a bar to mom or dad. It was a hobby, an addiction, a curse, a lover. It was everything. And that’s why they spent all their waking hours (and sometimes their sleeping ones too) at this watering hole. To the kids, it’s usually just “mom or dad’s bar,” but to mom or dad, it was much more. And so, when the original owner passes away, taking his passion and drive with them, it’s usually not too long before there’s a closed sign in the window. That’s exactly what just happened in Louisville, Kentucky. The Back Door, a great little neighborhood bar on Bardstown Road, just closed permanently. In October, the longtime owner, John Dant, passed away after a brief illness. His son, Taylor, took over and gave it a game stab, but, alas, the financial situation was not what you might call “ideal,” and so the place was shuttered this May. John bought the bar in the back of a shopping mall in 1987 and manned it for the next 36 years. He transformed it from a small, obscure saloon to one of the premiere destinations in town. He expanded it, brought in a kitchen and patio, and made it one of the most welcoming places in the area. The bar was everything you’d want—a pool table, a long, dark-stained wooden bar, beer signs, and flickering televisions. Seasonal decorations adorned the walls and ceiling at the appropriate time, and the din of conversation and laughter filled the air. Then there were the portraits. Back in 2007, a regular at the Back Door named Bill Page began painting caricature portraits on one of the walls, filling it with the faces of friends and Back Door loyalists (including himself). That started a trend that kept Bill busy for the next decade and a half. Before he was even done with the first set of portraits, regulars were asking to get their face up there too, so Bill obliged, and by 2019, every wall in the bar was covered by the smiling likenesses of the people who called the Back Door home. A native of Louisville, John was also a major supporter of all things local. Though he never attended college, he was a huge fan of the University of Kentucky, making sure the game was on whenever they played. He also generously gave to local causes for the arts and animal rescue, and whenever he could, he worked to improve his neighborhood (the local pickleball courts have his name on them). But more than any of this, he was what we used to call a publican, that is, a tavern keeper. He spent his mornings at the Back Door, afternoons, and most nights. He knew his customers by their first names and knew their spouses and their kids, too. Many of the married couples he served actually met at his bar for the first time. In 36 years, he served parents and their children, and he laughed and cried with all of them. He was, in other words, very hands-on. In an age when local bars, the mom-and-pop places, are giving way to the chain joints, people like John Dant are in short supply. Not taking anything away from the managers of the franchise places, but you just can’t replace the passion of an owner like John. He built the Back Door with his bare hands, with his sleepless nights and early mornings. And he did it for almost four decades. It came as a shock to the Louisville community when the bar posted the fateful letter on Facebook, telling them that it was closing down for good. Some people reacted with sadness, as if an old pal had just died. Others expressed regret at not going more recently and thereby losing their chance at ever having a drink at the Back Door again. Still others posted their memories of the fun times and late nights with family and friends. I’m sure John appreciates the sentiments of the many fans of the Back Door, and I’m sure it would make him proud to see how much his place touched the lives of the many locals who found a welcome spot at his bar. Now, they must move on, just as he did, and find another welcoming place to bend an elbow in. But they better hurry because places like this are getting harder and harder to find. So, here’s to John, to his passion and love for his bar, the Back Door. May he enjoy a well-earned rest after giving us a place filled with joy and happiness for 36 years. And here’s to all the other bar owners out there, filled with similar passion and drive to make their bar a home for the rest of us.

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