Ripped at Curly’s Bar in 2001

[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 visited Curly’s Bar at 2013 W. Superior St. in Duluth and composed this article for the Sept. 19, 2001 edition of the Ripsaw newspaper. ]

OK, for anybody considering going to Curly’s, here are two very important things to consider: 1) It’s located right next to the infamous Seaway Hotel. 2) Everybody there thinks that I — I, Slim Goodbuzz, rum-slugging sleazoid boozehound extraordinaire — they think that I am a cop.

Anyway, I step into Curly’s on a Wednesday night, and everybody appears to be “gettin’ some,” and I don’t mean sex. I mean the clap. All of the West End skanks are out in full regalia. We got your curly-mulleted dopers, your hookers, your rock-bottom alcoholics, your perverts, your predators, your Yoshiko’s Sauna regulars, all of them. And me.

I’m just sitting there, minding my own business, drinking Hamm’s on tap. And here’s another word of warning: Don’t ever, ever drink anything on tap at Curly’s. Have you ever drunk straight Palmolive? Have you? That would be a pleasant alternative to the swill they serve at Curly’s. You may be thinking, “hey, Hamm’s on tap is only a buck at Curly’s, think I’ll get me some.” No. You should just take your buck across the bar and donate it to the toothlessest hooker you can find, because drinking that beer ain’t gonna do you no good.

So anyway, there I am, enjoying this Hamm’s on tap, and taking in some of the local scenery. I got a guy on my right getting in an argument with two women, while half of the bar cheers them on. Meanwhile, I got a woman on my left wolfing down the godawfulest smelling hotdog with sauerkraut I have ever encountered in my life. And if there’s another thing I want you to understand here, it’s this: While I’m standing there breathing sauerkraut fumes and witnessing this domestic squabble, surrounded by petty thieves and hookers, I never think for a second that any of this is unpleasant. Oh, no. This place rocks.

Here’s what happens next: Some guy comes up to me and asks, “So, you a cop or what?” Then he goes on a 20-minute rant about how when you wanna mess wit’ somebody, you should pick a Chinese dude. Don’t ever pick a white dude, ’cuz he might be Irish. And the Irish, they’ll mess you up. Then he mentions that he’s Irish. I say I’ll take care not to provoke him, and he laughs and goes off to “provoke some poontang.”

These people shouldn’t consider me to be a cop. A cop would be able to tell the difference between the professional prostitute and the run-of-the-mill gutter-tramp, but for the life of me, I couldn’t say whether one variety or the other dominates the room. About 15 or 16 women are scattered about the place, and it pretty much seems that going home with any of them would be like throwing a hot dog down an empty hallway.

There’s the one-toothed mama who’s wearing a black bra underneath her white shirt; what side is she on? On one hand, she really does seem to be out hustling prospects. On the other hand, she occasionally goes over and talks to this other woman about her husband. What the hell? And then there are the two floozies on the opposite side of the bar. They’re making out with each other and occasionally dancing on the bar, and one of them even chewed on the other’s butt when the jukebox played “Slow Ride.” But that’s most likely because they’re really, really drunk and having fun; they don’t seem like they’re on the job. There’s one girl who is undeniably a professional, and I don’t say this just because I saw her lift up her shirt; expert eavesdropper that I am, I overheard her tell a detailed story about getting arrested. Hell, what does it matter? Women are losing their teeth gnawing on one another’s butts. Why question any of this?

Some people — hell, most people — might be frightened to enter a place like Curly’s. But the only thing here that really frightens me is this scrawny guy who’s standing where he can see everyone, but he isn’t talking to anyone and everyone is steering clear of him. He obviously doesn’t fit in; why is he here? This guy is definitely a mass murderer out hunting for prospects, and if his refrigerator isn’t full of feet, then I’m a little girl at a tea party. Then again, he might be a cop. Then again, he might be me.