The Boneyard: A dive bar for you and me

I’ve always loved dive bars. Maybe it’s the crazy stuff you hear on the jukebox. Maybe it’s the crazy people you see in and out through their various levels of inebriation. Maybe it’s the strange hours or the odd smells. Whatever it is, dive bars have always appealed to that deeply harbored need to socialize with my fellow miscreants in an environment that just fucks with you enough to make you want to come back.

When it comes to local dive bars, my absolute favorite is the Bone Yard (1823 E 7th Ave
Tampa, FL 33605 (813) 248-6224). Sandwiched between the open-late Ybor City Food Mart and Las Vegas Tattoo, this building seethes with character. When you walk into this place, you’re beaten with a barrage of strange signage, Christmas lights and artifacts from the farthest reaches of crazy. This is what the world would look like if Hitler had won the war, and I love it.

From the first step in, you’re overpowered by the jukebox. It’s always just a bit too loud. Not so loud that your ears bleed, but loud enough that it can make you uncomfortable if you’re not drinking. Sales tactic? A damn good one if it is! As you make your way in, there’s a lot of artwork built into the artifacts, including decorated bar tables and a collection of old tin signs. Some assorted off-color messages fill the walls (as well as the ceiling). When you walk all the way through, pool tables line the right wall and the back wall leads to a pisser that’s beyond entertaining. If I could chronicle all of the wisdom found on these walls and regurgitate it onto the masses with proper effect, I might be able to push Twilight out of spotlight for a minute.

Stepping back to the bar, all the personalities are out. You get walking stereotypes of every breed, including the owner of Las Vegas Tattoo next door sipping on a coca-cola, a bunch of local gutterpunks, Ybor bouncers, random wanderers in, a few white collar folks, black girls with big weaves, the lonely girl at the bar drinking too fast for her own good, compulsive gamblers, playboys, wash-ups, creeps, stoners, perverts, gays and… well.. me. If there was a schitzo Village People audition, it should be held here. American Idol can suck it. This is entertainment.

Probably my favorite part of this bar is the staff. Millie, probably one of the sweetest women I’ve ever met, always knows what you want and gives it to you with a crackling Elvira-like laugh. When the zombies come, I’m shacking up with her. She’s that kind of chick. Her counterpart, John, is also quite awesome. As soon as I walk in the door, he is already pouring my drink. I see him do this over and over for the regulars. While he’s a skilled bartender, he’s also an avid statesman and psychologist to many. There are others that work at the Boneyard, but these two are the pillars that hold this community of chaos together.

The more I hang out at the Boneyard, the more I realize that this is the first place since New Orleans that I’ve really felt at home. Never once have I been judged unfavorably there. Women of all walks of life flirt with me as if I’m a star. They put up with my ridiculous jukebox picks ranging from Hank the Third to Guns N Roses to Abba. Being digital, the jukebox has it all and you rarely hear groans coming from the crowd. They also give out free popcorn in dog bowls to all of their patrons. Free popcorn with my booze? Sign me up!

If you, my avid readers, ever want to meet me, the Boneyard is the place to meet the true me. It’s hard to wipe the smirk off your face when you’re twenty bucks into a collection of $2 PBRs while swaying fore and aft on your favorite bar stool in a place like the Boneyard.

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