I first notice something is wrong outside the bar when I instinctively put my arms up for the usual frisk-for-firearms, then realize there are no bouncers around. The girl beside me suspects I'm coming onto her, so I play it off as "just stretching," but I don't think she buys it. She looks fifty, so I let her take the compliment.

There is no cover charge, and I'm strangely disappointed. Happy at having saved money, yes, but feeling a bit letdown. After all, how good can the inside be if it's free? If someone is giving away free ice cream, sure, you'll try some, but you know it's going to be sh*t, and you'll spend the rest of the day tracking down a Häagen-Dazs for a $12 sundae.

I step inside and my suspicions are confirmed. There's a handful of bikers near the bar, some frat boys along the walls, and a lonely, hollow space in the middle where twenty-something eye candy used to be on display.

A biker and I exchange looks. He lifts his Miller High-Life as if to say, "I hear you, man," but then he winks, and I realize I have been mistaken for a sorority girl. Sure, he was drunk and it was dark, but I'm definitely going to start doing more push-ups.

I turn and leave the bar. Outside it's eerily quiet, and the air is absent of any Gwen Stefani imitation-brand perfume. On the walk home I pass some bars with great bands and drink specials, but it's not the same. A bar without skanks is like a history museum without dinosaurs; the brochure seems interesting enough, but by the time you hit the Painted Metaphors: Pottery and Politics of the Ancient Maya exhibit, you just want to see a f**king Tyrannosaurus Rex.

RIP Bar Eye Candy, the latest victims of a poor economy. I fervently believe these college chicks need a bailout, as this would dramatically boost bar revenues. I tried calling my Congressman, and he assured me he would get to work on it, but I'm not holding my breath. I think it's ironic, really, that there is no room for cut-off jean shorts in a stimulus package.

JH


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