G Hits the Spot

As a former resident of Mission, this barfly contends that anything you could possibly desire can be found on Johnson Drive. Coffee? Fabrics? Mini golf? Fast food? All there. Which is why we were sad that we’d never discovered the Clarette Club when we lived in the vicinity. It’s on the back side of the Mission Mart strip mall — facing the bowling alley on Martway — and someone described it to us as “sleazy good times.”

As we walked up to the reflective doors and darkened windows, we imagined Clarette to be a small, gritty place. We were stunned by its massive interior. It seemed to stretch for half of Mission Mart; we counted twelve pool tables, three dartboards, three Golden Tees and possibly the coolest gamey item: a World Cup ’94 pinball machine.

“It’s a spacious dive bar,” said Research Assistant Kym. “I like it.”

As NASCAR whizzed on the big screen, we decided to dis-discombobulate ourselves with alcohol. “What’s the specialty drink here?” we asked the congenial bartender, whom we later learned was named G (“for Gerardo”).

“We don’t really have one,” he replied.

We pressed on. “Well, is there something you make especially well?”

“Um … I don’t really drink,” he said.

We settled on an orange Stoli and 7-Up, which was particularly orangey and refreshing. A few drinks later, though, we spotted G masterfully making a Bloody Mary, so we had to order one. And it was a spicy, flavorful concoction that had us singing paeans to G.

“It’s got that tang, that tart taste,” said RA Betty. Added Kym, “That’s the best Bloody Mary in town.”

“You guys were right,” said G near the end of the night. “That’s my signature drink.”

Sated by the kick-ass Bloody Marys, we turned our attention to the karaoke in progress. The songs ranged from “Space Cowboy” to a caterwauled rendition of “I Will Always Love You.”

“That’s taking the hair off my legs,” Betty said.

Our favorite singer was Chris, a 28-year-old budding stand-up comic. He started off strong with “Funky Cold Medina” but then got way off halfway through, prompting the KJ to say, “Can we put some merciful applause together? That’s what happens when you get white boys rappin’.” Chris valiantly made another attempt with “Fight For Your Right,” but sadly, the same thing happened. He later denied to us that he was drunk.

Because Chris’ specialty seemed to be early-’90s mainstream soft rap, we requested that he sing our personal favorite, “Bust a Move.” He was glad to do it. “I bust a move anytime I can!” he said.

We asked if he was from the area. “I’m on Mission,” he said, meaning Mission Road. We couldn’t resist — we had to ask, “And you’re wishin’ someone could cure your lonely condition?” Alas, he didn’t pick up on our Young MC luv. “That’s why they call me Chuck Norris! I can’t bust alone!” he said, much to our confusion. This baffling statement was accompanied by a Walker, Texas Ranger air-karate move.

He redeemed himself with his performance, though he flubbed it a bit near the end. “I couldn’t help looking at the fuckin’ pictures!” he claimed, and indeed, the video had featured ’80s-haired women in neon bikinis. Nevertheless, he was high-fived afterward, as well he should have been.

Owner Phil Runyan says that Wednesdays and Saturdays feature karaoke (though the bar also draws a lot of people for pool and dart leagues Tuesday through Saturday). “It’s a fairly good crowd as far as singers,” Kym said.

But not as far as errant bachelor parties, such as the one that came in around 12:45 a.m., all of them looking like they could soon get a group discount at the Hair Club for Men. They said they’d just come from the Outhouse. That should have been Bad Sign No. 1. Then came the assholic comments.

“Hey, a dollar says you’re naked,” said one, pushing a dollar in our direction.

“How much for a table dance?” asked another.

“I’d like a Miller Lite,” said Chuck, the thirty-year-old bachelor.

That was when we knew it was time to go. “Good-bye, Baldy McBalds!” we gaily cried out. “May his dick go limp on his wedding night!” Though our snarky comment probably didn’t register in their alcohol-addled brains, we derived some satisfaction from it.