publess in paradise
The South End’s never had a tavern … at least not a legal one. Never had a bar. Surely never had a cocktail lounge. The Diner doesn’t have a liquor license although the Marina and Bait Shop can sell beer or wine To Go, but they don’t allow drinking on the dock.
Well, okay, they allow discreet drinking on the dock. Meaning, pour your beverage into a coffee mug or drink like the bums do from a bottle in a paper bag. Legalities are fluid down here, needless to say. It’s more than a bit ironic that the South End, notoriously bibulous, is today – and always has been – legally dry. This was, after all, one of the destinations of Prohibition rumrunners bringing in Canadian booze to us thirsty statesiders trying mightily to avoid the DT’s and wicked withdrawal. Back then we South Enders had our own speakeasy in the form of a bevy of burlesque dancers and their impresario who partied into the dusk of the Great Depression. Our old shack once boasted the marquis poster of Miss Ruby, our own in-house stripper, one of those party girls who now graces our bedroom with her still risqué outfit. She lived in our shack with her mom Pearl and then built the house next door that still stands too, although, like ours, not without a lot of help.
So I guess the tradition of private parties, ad hoc speakeasies, impromptu makeshift livingroom lounges still flourishes. Some might suggest this makes us a refuge of scofflaws, an accusation we accept as no small approbation and certainly nothing new down here. If we want to drink in legally sanctioned-by-the-state houses of intoxication, we obviously are forced to drive long distances. Since drinking and driving are rightly frowned upon in modern society, we South Enders have decided our best and obvious recourse is to do em one at a time.
Hits: 26