[Editor’s note: For this week’s essay we’ve once again pulled out a relic from the drunken compendium of Slim Goodbuzz, who served as Duluth’s “booze connoisseur” from 1999 to 2009. Twenty years ago the Sultan of Sot paid a visit to 21 North, a short-lived nightclub at 21 N. Fourth Ave. W. in the Duluth Athletic Club building, and composed this article for the March 13, 2006 edition of the Ripsaw newspaper. 21 North closed in April 2007, when the Tap Room moved out of the Fitger’s building into its space. Less than a year later, the Tap Room closed.]

The first thought I have as I walk into 21 North is that somehow, suddenly, I’ve managed to walk into a room full of the type of guys who shave their pubes. Please don’t misunderstand; everyone here is fully clothed. This is just a suspicion I have. We’re talking hairy stomachs, hairy legs and a big pink arc of smoothness around the genitals.

I order a $4 whiskey-Coke, and it’s amazing how weak it is. While I might complain about a lot in this town, one thing’s for certain: No matter where you go, you rarely get a weak pour. Why the hell would a bartender care how much booze you get? In fact, it’s in his best interest to get you hammered because drunk people are very loose and generous with their money. Luckily, I’ve developed a policy for places like this: First sip, then tip.

The lights are twirling, the bass is pumping, but no one is dancing, and I think I know why. Something’s fucked up about the drunk shui in this place. It pulls you away from the dance floor and over to the tables. Seeing all this space, I defy the room’s weird magnetism and stand in the middle of the dance floor by myself for a while. I can feel the thoughts of the pink smoothies surrounding me. This will never work. No chick will go for that, dude. You got no game. I don’t really care, because I’m not here to make friends, and besides, they’re thinking with their razor burn. I’m as indifferent to their opinion as I am to my brother’s dog when it watches me take a dump.

Speaking of which, I gotta piss. I walk down a hallway and see a restroom which is clearly the women’s, because the door is propped open and I can see a pair of high heels beneath the stall without even trying that much. I find the men’s room, where the ad above the urinal reads “You can sleep when you’re 30.” I’ll keep that in mind.

When I order my next drink, I make sure to get it from the hot female bartender, not the dickslap who’s given me two weak pours in a row. I sip, and I taste the familiar bite of the whiskey I’ve come to know and love. Of course, it’s nothing compared to a Curly’s pour, but I’d never expect such a wonderful thing in a place where people use deodorant and have all their teeth. I lay down an extra buck and feel good about it.

Finally, someone starts dancing. This chick who’s been circulating the room all night looking for someone to dance with has finally persuaded the drunkest of the pink smoothies to hit the floor and boogie. Apparently, on this night at least, it takes a really hot babe and about nine really weak drinks to convince a shaven-pubed douchebag to shake his ass at 21 North. What will come of this union, I don’t know.

All I know is that I’m heading to Curly’s.