I was down by the waterfront today, wandering through Vancouver’s lovely Downtown Eastside.
In case the neighborhood’s notoriety isn’t on your radar – we’re talkin’ skid row, here. Junkies, crackheads, and no shortage of plain ol’ drunks to be navigated around at any hour of the day.
After purposefully striding around/over several passed out folk in an effort to make a 2:00 interview, I glanced across the street at one of Vancouver’s most esteemed peeler bars: The No. 5 Orange, and was stopped in my tracks by their marquee sign.
I wasn’t sure if I should laugh my ass off or be filled with righteous indignation. I’m somewhere in between.
I remember seeing similar signs on the pubs near the wharves in Sydney.
That is blue collar gold. Welcome to Tennessee.
They seem still to be stuck to the idea that beer is just for breakfast. Someone ought to go and straighten the owner out by explaining that it’s perfectly good at lunch, dinner, and on the road to a sound, consciousness-free sleep, too.
It has long been my opinion that beer is, indeed, “The Breakfast of Champions.” I’m glad to see some courageous souls still totin’ the banner. Ok, it’s been years since I had a beer early in the morning, after working all night. That was our happy hour.
Man, I miss Vancouver and all the junkies and whores stopping off at the No. 5 before heading to court in the afternoon.
Along those lines, here is a placard my old man kept above his desk. I think my mom has only just taken it down.
Works for me. Coors over corn flakes is a great summer breakfast.
Why do you take a camera to an interview… or do we not want to know?
I’ve never heard “peeler bar” before. First thought was fruit peel for martinis but more likely it’s “strippers”?
I think you may be confused. We’re talking about beer.
Eh, I always drag it around. Sometimes you walk past something remarkable. On Hippie-haven Commercial Drive yesterday, for instance, I passed a hand-written plea that, incredibly, appears to have been honoured – even though the author has tempted fate by signing it “Thanks, Chuck.” I felt like I’d stepped into the Canuck Super-Politeness-Zone that U.S. comics describe. (Besides, I have to have something in my case.)
A Google search for “peeler bar” turns up mostly Vancouver results, with a few results from more easterly Canada. Guess I’ll add it to my list of idiomatic terms to avoid for clarity.
When Johnny Carson was still the reigning king of late night television, he told his audience of strippers named Joni Carson, Tequila Mockingbird, and Peeler Lawford.