By Kelly Dearmore
By Jim Schutze
By Rachel Watts
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Anna Merlan
By Lee Escobedo
By Alice Laussade
"Did you hear about that guy on the news?"
"Oh, yeah. But what do you expect when you have a gas-huffing problem? One day you're going to absentmindedly light a cigarette and explode."
"You sure are. You got a light?"
Strange things happen when you go out on a Monday. You hear conversations that are just a few degrees off from those weekend ones, the shouted, slurred missives of the soused and pickled you're often forced to listen to if you're in the vicinity. No, Monday night conversations feel secret, like you're on the set of a movie no one else knows about.
As I slid into a leather booth at the Slip Inn, I thought about that. Right on cue, a man slid in next to me, his shirt wet, most likely from sliding into another booth after another lady and spilling his drink. He already had his pickup line ready, but thankfully it was not "Come here often?"
This is a place where you can purchase a "Defend Dallas" T-shirt, dance by yourself, sip your drink and listen to people talk about people who have exploded and dance with your friends who are not exploded. The Slip Inn's got the quality I love in a dive bar: You never know who will walk through the door. It's like the opposite of Cheers.
Monday night especially, the mix is a little less strung-out than on the weekends, which only added to the magical feel.
"My sister-in-law told me that at Six Flags one summer, a bunch of people died after the roller coaster got struck by lightning. I wouldn't mind going out like that."
"Yeah. And, I mean, you're on a roller coaster, which is already a metaphor for life and death."
These are the things you learn. The conversations you hear and wonder the next morning if they were real. The thing about Slip Inn is it feels like it's relatively unchanged over the course of time, untainted by the more upscale clubs just up Henderson. I know I went on a night that doesn't live up to the bar's packed-to-the-gills, grind-on-your-neighbor dance party nights, but that was sort of the point.
The Slip Inn feels sealed off, which has much to do with the fact that it has no windows, so its secrets never leave.
At the Slip Inn, a man will try to get you to dance, and you will accept, until his friend joins him on the dance floor, and suddenly you're getting A Night at the Roxbury-ed. Normally, this sort of unwanted (and, really, mind-boggling) approach to hitting on a woman would bother me, but the Slip Inn's cabin pressure sort of puts you at ease. Maybe it's the red lighting. Everyone looks good in red lighting. Oh, look! Another drink is in my hand.
The bathrooms made my right eye twitch. I've seen a lot of bad bathrooms, but I could practically hear the coke talk from decades ago. This is the price I pay to drink at a proper bar.
"Did you see that show on the Discovery Channel about the woman who eats her husband's ashes?"
"No, but fuck all that shit."
I will be back to grind on you, Slip Inn.
Webhead: A Monday night at the Slip Inn: Was it real or just a dream?
Who/What: The Slip Inn