[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-five years ago the Sultan of Sot paid a visit to the West Duluth American Legion and composed this article for the April 4, 2001 edition of the Ripsaw newspaper.]

So I pop into the American Legion last Saturday night and it smells like 1987. People definitely have their Brut by Fabregé on — at least the hoards of 35-year-olds who take up the bulk of the room do. But they’ve all brought their grannies and their kids, too, since everyone is here to help “offset medical expenses” for some dude named Dave who has been treated for the big C. And it’s obvious from the wall-to-wall people that this guy is a well-liked and respected member of the community, whoever he is.

And dinner is served. The $10 cover charge not only buys me a chance at valuable prizes, but gets me all the tacos I can eat, and allows me to hang around in a room full of women who have big hair. Now, I know better than to fill up on tacos before I drink, but I’m a herd animal. When I see people standing in single file, I just line up right behind them. So I’m standing there with my hands in my pockets and bouncing on the balls of my feet, and doing what I do best: eavesdropping. Quickly I discern that the guy in front of me is named “Pigger,” and he’s quite popular. It takes this for me to realize how stupid I am: I don’t even want any tacos, but I’m still going to attempt to get them by waiting in line behind a guy named Pigger. I need a drink.

In keeping with all of West Duluth’s finer establishments, beer is cheap as hell at the American Legion, and it comes in a huge glass. See, the huge glass comes in handy when there are lots of people in the room since you don’t have to wait in line nearly as often. And the line is long as hell. The three bartenders are really hustling, but it’s no good. At one point a guy leans over to me and confides, “I wish Miss West Duluth would come to my table and give me my beer.” I have no idea what that means, but I think it’s hilarious.

At around 8 o’clock, the drawings begin. A speaker directly above my head blasts out, “OK, WE’RE GOING TO DO THE DRAWINGS NOW. CAN YOU HEAR ME BACK THERE BY THE BAR? … CAN YOU HEAR ME BACK THERE BY THE BAR? SOMEBODY WHISTLE IF YOU CAN HEAR ME BACK THERE BY THE BAR.” This guy starts announcing prizes and winning numbers, and never seems to finish. Seriously, I’m not exaggerating at all when I say I listened for a half an hour to: “NEXT UP WE HAVE A $25 GIFT CERTIFICATE FOR THE BUFFALO HOUSE … AND THE WINNING NUMBER IS 3-4-1-3-9-8-7 … THAT’S A RED TICKET … NEXT UP WE HAVE A GIFT BASKET FROM REGIS HAIR SALON … AND THE WINNING NUMBER IS 3-7-8-3-6-4-3 … THAT’S A RED TICKET … NEXT UP WE HAVE A T-SHIRT FROM MR. D’S … AND THE WINNING NUMBER IS 3-5-1-7-9-5-7 … THAT’S A BLUE TICKET.” I hope all these small businesses are there to support me when the Slim Goodbuzz Benefit to Restore His Goddamn Sanity is held next week.

When the drawings end, and when my ears stop ringing, I realize what’s going on right next to me. This totally schmuckered bald guy is going on and on to his two buddies about the beauty of a website called Rotten.com. “It’s just, like, all of the grossest stuff on the planet,” he raves, going into detail about scatological contortionists and photographs of various wounds. “My little brother came up to me a couple weeks ago and said, ‘Sit down. Today I’m gonna teach you about something — it’s called Rotten.com.’ But I already knew all about it from the guys at work. Seriously, you gotta just … check it out.”

Across the room, a hideous cover band plays a few Guns n’ Roses songs, then turns things over to what seems like a jukebox to those who can’t see the stage. But it’s not a jukebox, it’s some band that’s good enough to sound like a real band. I’ve never seen these guys before, but one of them looks like the lead geek from Super D and the Double Chucks. Whoever these guys are, they are my new favorite band — at least until tomorrow night.

Meanwhile, some geezer notices on the TV across the bar that the Duluth East Greyhounds are losing the state high-school boys basketball championship game to some suburban Twin Cities team. In the spirit of Duluth’s east/west rivalry, the West Duluthians at the bar are happy to find out that their uppity neighbors won’t be taking the big trophy home. But one brave West Duluthian proudly admits he’s rooting for East. “It’s our cake-eaters against the Cities’ cake-eaters,” he explains, “I want our cakes to win.” The people around him reluctantly nod in agreement with this philosophy, but still enjoy watching the East kids cry at the end.

On my way out the door, I pass two guys who are raising their cans of Budweiser to make a toast. “To cancer — the disease that keeps bringing us all together.”