The Tool, The Sink and The Hut

The Tool

This story most properly begins in the early 1960’s in Boulder, the home of the University of Colorado.

A certain section of Boulder was at that time the preferred after-dark site of student social studies. This area was known as “The Hill.”

An impossible snob even that long ago, I had left my Colorado home for the University of Wyoming at Laramie. But I would hardly miss a party, even if it meant returning to my native state.

So it was that I ended up in Boulder one evening. My high school friend was a CU student. He and I headed for “The Hill.”

We first found a beer bar and sandwich restaurant the proper name of which was “Tulagi.” Colloquially, this place was affectionately known as “The Tool.”

My friend and I spent a length of time there that evening with some other fellows, buying pitchers of Kid Beer (containing no more than 3.2 percent of alcohol by volume) and drinking it from large heavy mugs.

I’m not sure how it happened, or even less, why it happened. Suddenly, I found myself on my back on the floor.

One moment, the mugs and pitchers were on the table and I was seated on an adjacent bench. The next moment, the table was upside-down on top of me and broken glass and spilled beer were on the floor all around me.

A bouncer appeared. Then two more bouncers. My friend was escorted unceremoniously outside. I was allowed to descend a stairway to a fetid men’s room where I made some futile efforts to clean and dry myself. Then I too was ejected summarily.

Oh well. That place was a shithole.

The Sink

Having been evicted from The Tool, my friend and I did the next logical thing. We walked down to the base of The Hill.

There on the corner, at the lowest point on The Hill, was an even seamier dive than The Tool. This one had no formal name. It was simply “The Sink.”

Again, my friend and I bought pitchers of Kid Beer and proceeded to drink more of the familiar liquid from heavy mugs.

By and by, I went in search of the men’s room, both to try to dry my clothes further and to, um, recycle some Coors.

At “The Sink,” the men’s room was also down a flight of stairs and into a cellar. It was there that I determined the establishment’s name was an obvious euphemism.

Talk about fetid. This bar should have been named, “The Toilet,” or perhaps even more fittingly, “The Urinal.” Even I had the good sense to leave, then.

Déjà vu. That place was a shithole.

The Cheba Hut

There has been no little fuss in recent weeks about a sandwich joint in downtown Greeley, within a block of the University of Northern Colorado Campus.

The proprietor of this establishment had the audacity at one point to apply for a liquor license.

Since Greeley no longer has a Liquor Commission (they couldn’t get a quorum and they couldn’t get along) the application went to a municipal judge.

The judge decided The Cheba Hut wasn’t deserving of a Greeley liquor license because there is a graphic marijuana theme throughout the establishment.

At my suggestion, Laura and I and a friend went for lunch at the old Cheba Hut earlier this week. Hey. I’m a newspaper reporter. Gotta see for myself. O.K.?

We threaded our way through a small crowd of rather potty-mouthed youngsters at the entrance and went inside.

Sure enough, marijuana slang and images of the leaves of cannabis sativa were fairly predominant in the sub shop décor. Likewise, pot references were all over the menu.

Courageously, we ordered. Eventually, our small sandwiches were ready. Apparently, sanitation at the Cheba Hut is a do-it-yourself endeavor. The previous diners had left quite a mess.

After cleaning a table for ourselves, we ate food named in honor of marijuana. The sandwiches were served in those cheap plastic baskets that seem to be so popular. (Is that plastic weave really dishwasher safe?)

To be fair, the sandwich was tasty and the price was reasonable. The stereo blasted outdated rock and roll, curtailing conversation. I suppose loud music is de rigueur in such places. But this music was from a generation ago. No, actually, two generations ago.

Water mysteriously ran on the floor under a partition, its source and its departure point hidden from view. Not appetizing.

The entire interior of “The Cheba Hut” appeared to have been beat up, as if a youth gang had been locked inside over the weekend. The place had a sense of having been there since the 1960’s.

Damage, wear, lack of maintenance, ground-in grease and grime were on all the surfaces. The floor was unswept – that’s where the litter from the previous diners is traditionally deposited.

Later this week, after our noontime experience there, a district judge overruled the municipal judge and granted a liquor license to The Cheba Hut.

This is as it should have been to begin with. There was no real reason to deny the license in the first place.

However, it’s a mystery what profit there will be in adopting the pot imagery. Is it “cool” to have pot leaves printed on the menu? Not cool? Then what’s the point?

Perhaps the controlled-substance-imagery-approach to merchandising will find favor with even more of the college children, now that there will be beer as well as sandwiches. Perhaps not.

With a little nostalgic sadness, I realized I’m not likely to become a regular Cheba Hut customer. (Drum roll.) That place is a shithole.

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Words of the week: “Capital” vs. “Capitol.” This can’t be so difficult. It’s from Latin, capitalis, head or chief. Capital is related to principal.

Here’s a way to remember: “I love school. It’s just the Principal of the thing.” (Principal differs from principle in the same way, get it?)

Capital is something of primary importance. It’s the head of things. There’s lower case and upper case. The upper case letters are the “capital” letters.

A capital offense originally meant beheading.

Capitol, however, is much easier. It’s the building in which a legislative body meets.

Next week’s word: Pulchritude.

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