Ripped at Tyomies in 2000

[Editor’s note: For this week’s essay we’ve once again pulled out a relic from the archive of Slim Goodbuzz, who served as Duluth’s “booze connoisseur” from 1999 to 2009. Twenty-five years ago the Sultan of Sot paid a visit to Tyomies, 601 Tower Ave. in Superior, and composed this article for the Dec. 12, 2000 edition of the Ripsaw newspaper. Tyomies closed at some point prior to 2014, when Sweeden Sweets took over the space.]

This restroom is huge! And everything is squeaky clean, but already there’s a dude in here christening the place with a bleeeeeeeee yyyyyyyyyy aaaaaaaaa kkkkkkkkkkk. He’s paying homage to the porcelain god, and the porcelain god is shiny new and still has a sticker on it. When he finishes, he positively springs back up on his feet — happy as can be — then flushes and gives me a wink and a thumbs-up before heading out the door.

I love when a new bar opens in town. For one thing, there are usually a lot of drink specials to attract new clientele. Also, unlike in every other bar in this rat-ass city, no one there knows me, so the staff is usually pretty friendly to me. In addition to that, new places are usually pretty empty, so there’s little chance of someone there ruining my buzz for me. I try to hit a new bar a couple of times before all of you losers discover it and wreck the place by making me deal with you.

I actually attempted to hit Tyomies a couple of times before it opened. There’s a big sign outside that says “Bar” and that’s about all I’m looking for at 1:30 a.m. as I’m stumbling down Tower Avenue looking for La Belle and heading in the wrong direction. But now, it really is open. And here I am, glowing gloriously with Old Milwaukee.

Speaking of which, it’s obvious the place is looking to cater to a cheap-beer crowd. Signs advertise such delicious lagers as Blatz Light and the like. A pitcher of Old Spill runs $3.50. But then, there are some signs of class as well: stamped tin ceilings painted black, dark red walls, hardwood floors, a space for a DJ and plenty of room for all manner of inebriated activities. This could be a great place. It really is too bad that it either will be overrun with you losers or else will fail miserably.

About seven or eight guys (everyone here is a guy, yet I did notice a purse on the bar, go figure) are here with me, and just about all of them are playing some sort of electronic game. Games abound here, and some of them are sort of wild, like this Alpine Skiing game where you actually have to hold on to these poles and move your body to ski on the screen. I’ve always wanted to see what it would be like to ski when I’m blasted, but I never had the guts. Trust me on this: You don’t want to do it for real. And if you think you do, just head over to Tyomies, slurp down as much Old Milwaukee as you can stomach, and get on this effing machine. You’ll change your mind real quick.

So before long this bald guy walks in and I start playing pool with him, and I end up playing like I’m a second-year kindergartner. With every shot I make, the cue ball goes careening off in the wrong direction, missing its target entirely. The problem is, the tables are new. I’m used to playing on a warped table with felt peeling off of one corner, and with pool balls that have all the color rubbed off of them so you have to just shoot and take it on faith that what you’re aiming at is supposed to be striped. Here, the balls are actually gleaming and I can’t play under these conditions.

In spite of the fact that the bald guy is sinking every shot, and in spite of the fact that he keeps calling me “Tina,” my mood brightens considerably when I discover a package of Barcelona Tube Nuts in the pocket of my parka, which I seem to remember buying at the Viking Lounge last March. But then the bartender starts crabbing about how it’s time to go. I check out my watch and notice it’s actually only 1:50, but I’m not one to complain. I figure if I can just engage the friendly bartender in some friendly conversation, I can at least finish my drink. Hell, I know the rules, and I know the way new bars work. He doesn’t really have to throw me out for quite some time, and he’s not going to want me to leave with a bad opinion of the place.

I stroll over to him and ask, “So what was this place before it became a bar?”

“A print shop,” he says.

“Did you have to do much remodeling?”

“Get out.”