A crossrocks is so fucking metal.
this is outside of the c.c. club in minneapolis, which is the most calloushand bar in the uptown area. to give you an idea of what it’s like: in the daytime it’s roofers and painters and local deadbeat grandpas (you will meet no drunks in the construction trades like roofers and painters), at night the jukebox plays the melvins or halo of flies or some other band that was on amphetamine reptile records and it’s where us beasts converge to churn up putrid and get veering drunk on speedrail whiskey (likely splo made in basement carboys). this is where the ugly in mind body and spirit go to unwind and break things … sin dipped in misery. every once in a while pretty girls come in looking for badboy-types but in truth the patrons carry far too much disdain towards such parlance and the pretty, so the well-heeled inevitably exit to liquor lyle’s where prettyboy badboys with respectable incomes haunt for trim. it’s quite a place and pretty much the only bar in minneapolis i could walk into tonight and see faces i recognize from the late nineties.
if you’re ever nearby i recommend dropping in for a lowball of whusk and a sidecar of grain belt. just don’t expect anyone striking up a conversation with you if you’re wearing clean clothes and have a tidy little haircut (bartenders and waitstaff definitely included).
nyc analogue: the old siberia bar when it was in that rat’s nest just past the turnstiles of the downtown-side 1,2,3,9 stop at 51st st.
