Somewhere in a godforsaken stretch of near northwest Houston, a very drunk man wearing a Texas Longhorns cap is smoking outside the front door of the strip mall bar on a moist, breezy Saturday afternoon. He sees that I too am rocking the burnt orange, and snarls, "Well, at least your shirt is the right color," as if that was the only thing stopping him from picking the fistfight he really, really wanted to be in.
Some say the true dive bar is an endangered species in Houston. And while it is true that they are somewhat hard to find in Houston's more fashionable Inner Loop districts, quintessential dive bars like the one above still flourish here. You just need to know where to look. Places like Montrose's Pik 'n' Pak and the Aquarium Lounge and Charley's, the infamously Bukowskian lounge on the ground floor of downtown's razed Hotel Montague, are all gone.
And yet, as we've discovered in more than 200 miles of walking through Houston's more neglected areas, there are still hundreds of them remaining. It's just that most are in neighborhoods like the East End, Garden Oaks/Oak Forest and other 'hoods bordering the Heights, and along time-warp, Outer Loop main roads like South Post Oak and Long Point. In those areas, dive bars flourish, sometimes in ramshackle stand-alone buildings or as icehouses, but often, at least on the West Side, in strip malls, where the description "hole in the wall" seems most apt.
For Christie Gutoski, one of the singers in the honky-tonk cover group The Good Luck Band, that's the most important rule of thumb in defining a dive bar in Houston. "Generally, if it's in a strip mall, it's gonna be a dive," she says, and it's hard to argue with her on that point.
But if strip mall locations are perhaps the Houston dive bar's most ironclad defining trait, there are other factors to consider. Age of the bar does help, as does a hint of danger, but once you get past a little initial fear, it should be a place where you can relax. "As a girl, they should be places I wouldn't want to go in without a little bit of backup," Gutoski says. "I don't want to be scared, but if you aren't a little unsettled when you walk in a place, it probably isn't a dive bar."
Other dive bar connoisseurs have other ways of defining true dives. Brad Moore, co-owner of Big Star Bar and a dauntless explorer of Greater Houston's dives, says that there should be an older lady behind the bar and that the toilets should be dirty, the walls covered with graffiti. Joe Lee, owner of local dives Roll-N (where the clientele is no longer dive-y, even if the bar remains so) and the Lone Star Saloon, has a view that focuses more on ambience than sanitation, or lack thereof. He says the interiors should show a lot of wood paneling, and that there should be lots of antique-type objects, if not actual antiques, lying around. "The light should be low, too," he says. "Not dark, but low light."
Lee says the definition of a dive bar has changed over the course of his long life. "Used to be a dive bar was a place that was falling down, dirty and full of disreputable people," he says. "When people started calling the Roll-N a dive, I got upset. But then when I saw how many people started coming in, I said, 'Well I guess you can call it any old thing you want to.'"
Drinks in a dive bar should be both strong (if mixed drinks are even served; many of the best dives in Houston are beer/wine only) and economical, and the beer should be virtually all domestic. At the purest dive bars, ordering a trendy-but-inexpensive brew like Lone Star will get you laughed at — the true-blue dive denizen likes Bud or other big national domestics and regards everything else as either cheap swill or namby-pamby crap. There should be a bulwark of regulars at the bar at all times, and it's best if they each have their own official unofficial stool. One of the regulars, the most grizzled, wizened and possibly drunkest of the bunch, is often thought of and occasionally even referred to as "the mayor." He might or might not have owned the joint at some point. At some dives, revered regulars even have tables marked with an inlaid plaque.
Dive bars should open at or before noon; hell, often the very best ones open at seven a.m., the better to draw in both just-off-the-clock shift workers and maximum functional alkies on their way to work, breath mints in hand and thirsty of soul. In Houston, dive bars often take the form of icehouses, though corporate-owned icehouse chains (Woodrow's, we're looking at you) need not apply for true dive bar status. If there's anything from the broad spectrum of pickled food items — except for plain old pickles — on the bar, it's pretty likely you are in a dive bar. There should be graffiti in the bathroom and these scrawlings should be memorable. And so should your nights in a dive bar — at least those parts of them that you can remember.
There should be a jukebox, and it should be well stocked with sad songs hand-picked by the owner of the joint with input from his clientele. If you are in an Anglo dive, it should include at least one CD by honky-tonk legends Gene Watson and Gary Stewart. On the whole, the music tends toward the venerable: "I haven't added anything to the jukebox at the Lone Star in years," says Lee, "and my customers sure spend a lot of money on it."
A dive bar jukebox should definitely not be one of those cheesy Internet nightmares. "You just don't have enough control over those," says Moore. "Someday, some time, somebody's gonna come in and play a Creed song. In your bar." Though dive bars can offer live music, it can only rarely be the primary focus of the place. (Thus the Continental Club is not a dive, though the Big Top is, sort of. The Big Easy is something of an exception to this rule.)
Many of Houston's dives have somewhat lax enforcement of the smoking ban — some even give you old beer cans to ash in. Others get around the ban by being located in unincorporated Harris County, or in an enclave city like West University, where the Marquis II still looks and smells like a place where Donald Draper would slum it after work.
Only relentless real estate redevelopment has been worse for Houston's dive bar culture than the smoking ban. "They're just x-percentage less divier now than they were before," says Gutoski. "It's just not the same when you walk in a place and it's not blue with haze, or there's not that two-foot plume hanging over the bar at the top of the ceiling," she says. "Plus, it's screwed with the whole regulars thing. For it to be a dive bar, there has to be a grizzled old male or female or indeterminate-sex person sitting there chain-smoking, leaning against the bar, and they have to be there every time you go in that bar."
Sure, there are a few famous local places where you will find scenes like that nightly. Most people — not including Gutoski, a strict dive bar constructionist — would say that the West Alabama Ice House is a 100 percent dive bar. Nobody we've encountered has argued the classification of Lola's as a dive, and few dispute the dive credentials of Heights mainstays like Alice's Tall Texan, the Shiloh Club and Jimmie's Ice House.
But no two people have the exact same definition of a dive bar — one person's friendly neighborhood bar is another's dive is a third person's terrifying den of sin. And yet there are too many Houstonians who are just wrong on the concept. Evidently, there are large numbers of people who think that a dive bar is any drinking establishment that does not sport a velvet rope, valet parking and tableside bottle service.
"By that standard, 95 percent of the bars in the world are dives," says Moore, who also was an original co-owner of Washington Avenue's flashy Pearl Bar. "I've even seen people call Pearl Bar a dive. It's just not the case."
And so today if you look up "dive bar" as a category on sites like Yelp and Citysearch, you'll find lists studded with at best borderline dives like La Carafe, and total nondives like Under the Volcano and Kenneally's. Just because a bar is old, like La Carafe, doesn't necessarily mean it's a dive. At Under the Volcano, they squeeze fresh fruit in their cocktails. Unless you're talking limes and limes only, that's not a dive. And the overwhelming majority of stateside Irish pubs south of Philly can't quite be classed as dives, so sorry, Kenneally's, you're just a pub.
Some Houstonians class the Davenport as a dive. Nope again. Yes, the drinks there are strong as hell, but lethality of cocktails alone does not a dive make. And there are plenty of people who claim that T.K. Bitterman's is a dive. It just feels like a cozy corner bar to us.
Enough about nondives and the dives you already know. Here are ten more we bet you don't know and that you need to explore.
11530 Burdine St.
The Cozy Corner, one of the more schizophrenic dives in town, has been in existence for longer than anyone there could tell us. One barmaid estimated that the joint had been open for more than 20 years, but she didn't know for sure. Whenever it opened, the surrounding neighborhood was in better shape, as the Cozy Corner is a hop and a skip away from the moldering, ramshackle ruins of Westbury Square, Houston's decades-ahead-of-its-time open-air mall that now looks years past its sell-by date.
In recent years, the Cozy has seen a definite demographic shift. Where once it exclusively served blue-collar Westbury locals with nicknames like Duke and Cookie Mama, nowadays there's also a new clientele. Earlier in the 2000s, the cheap, roomy houses and relative proximity to downtown of the bar's Westbury locale started attracting gays — mostly older ones — to the area, so much so that some now call Westbury "Little Montrose." The Cozy is the epicenter of Little Montrose nightlife, especially on karaoke night. There you will hear as much Gloria Gaynor as "Sweet Home Alabama," unless that last one is done by a 6'3" drag queen.
The Cozy itself is housed in a tiny, beige-brick strip mall, where it shares a roof with, of all things, a dentist's office. It's small, thus living up to its name, and there's a shuffleboard set against one wall and a couple of fruit machines against the other, and karaoke on the weekends. The jukebox features a mix of Southern and classic rock, jazz standards (even a Charlie Parker collection) and plenty of country, from Hank Sr. to Big & Rich. They do serve liquor, and beer is two dollars, maybe a little more or a little less. A sign behind the bar proclaims that "Prices vary according to your attitude."
2957 Bingle Rd
Is there a difference between a dive bar and an out-and-out shithole bar? Club Max begs the question. Tucked away in a woebegone strip mall on the fringes of a dreadful, pebble-dashed office park, Club Max is the kind of place that bands like Ratt and Poison would have hung out in on the way up to stardom in the L.A. Sunset Strip of 1985. And that's not entirely a bad thing...
Once past the shrimpy, belligerent ogre smoking outside the bar (on the day of our visit) and safely inside the bar, you'll find yourself in a very dark interior. Of all things, "Candyman" by Sammy Davis Jr. is blaring from the Internet jukebox. (See what Brad Moore meant when he decried the day those things were invented?) A hugely raucous darts game is in progress, led in boisterousness by an older blond woman who has squeezed into a T-shirt that reads "Dead men don't cheat." The puffy-faced barmaid appears to have been Botoxed by someone who attended medical school in Haiti, and when somebody dials up a rock block of ZZ Top on the Internet jukebox, several of the patrons across the bar holler as one and sway in unison. Say what you will about Top, but it beats the hell out of "Candyman."
Or does it? Places like Club Max make you question your very soul, but only if you are a stranger there. If you're not, it's the kind of place where old friends settle old scores, most often peaceably. Christie Gutoski recalls going there with an ex-boyfriend named Tommy to see a band. As it happened, Mel, one of Tommy's best friends from high school back in the '80s, had since become "the mayor" of Club Max and earned the nickname "Uncle Mel." "So he was slumped over at the end of the bar when we came in, drinking what everybody in Club Max calls 'the Uncle Mel Special.'" (You might think this would be some type of elaborate cocktail, but at Club Max, the Uncle Mel Special is nothing more than Budweiser in a can.) "So he looks up from his Uncle Mel Special and sees Tommy and I swear, it took him a good 30 seconds for recognition to get through his brain, and then he goes, 'Tommy!' and he jumps up. And within a couple of minutes, he goes, 'Hey man, here's that 20 bucks I owe you.' Tommy knew exactly what it was for, but I found out later it was a debt from high school, like 15 or 20 years earlier."
Over all this debauchery presides the bar's one touch of grace — a 15-foot carving of the Houston skyline, with each of the skyscrapers outlined in magenta neon. Sure, it's tacky as hell, but also completely awesome. Kinda like Club Max.
The Rose Garden
2621 Link Rd.
Unless they are rolling out the barrel for a holiday, the Polish-American bars we've been to had one thing in common. They were both very mellow places where a quiet reverence for the powers of alcohol and music reign supreme.
Tucked away on the ditch-lined narrow backstreets of gentrifying Sunset Heights, the Rose Garden is a tiny white clapboard house trimmed in Polish red. Rose bushes — the bar is owned by a woman named Rose Marie, who is known to dish out homemade kielbasa — line the minuscule parking lot, and five or six tables are scattered about in the tiny one-room bar, which serves a variety of bottled Texas and domestic beers and suspect wine only. (Bring your own liquor.) And that's about it, save for some cool Elvis-iana on the walls and the jukebox, which is a true marvel if you like honky-tonk. And by honky-tonk we're talking the real deal: Johnny Bush, Gary Stewart, Gene Watson, Floyd Tillman, Patsy Cline and Ernest Tubb. And as you might expect, a little musical paprika in the form of Texas polka is also on the mix. Rick Heysquierdo, the host of KPFT's Saturday morning country-Americana show Lone Star Jukebox, says it's the best juke in the city and it's easy to see why. (Bring lots of cash, both for the juke and the bar. Neither accepts plastic.)
On a typical night in the Rose Garden, you'll hear a well-selected sampler of classics by country music hall of famers, while in the corner, a table of fiftysomething men, each blessed with an ample beer gut, sit and play dominoes and reminisce about Houston's hurricanes past and how in pre-sprawl Houston, you could once reach virgin Gulf Coast prairie in a few minutes instead of an hour. It's like an evening sitting at the garage poker table with Uncle Emil from Hallettsville. In a city where size and flash are often worshipped at the expense of comfort and attention to detail, the Rose Garden should be a municipal treasure.
The Spot Club
1732 W. 18th St.
Longnecks are for lawyers and you won't find any of the former and few of the latter at this near northwest side strip mall bar. It's hard to believe, but the Spot has been there for over 40 years, ranking it among the oldest bars in the Inner Loop.
A bad smell greets you when you get near the bar, but you soon get accustomed to it. Pink sparkly curtains bring a touch of bedazzlement to the medium-sized room, where a stage for karaoke stands in one corner, and for those too sedentary to avail themselves of the bar's two pool tables, there's a paperback library with a couple hundred mysteries, potboilers and romances. Party pics of the regulars line the walls, and once a year, the owners festoon the ceilings with dangling parrots and flamingos for the bar's annual luau. Even Don Ho at his most chillaxed would sound like Guns N' Roses compared to the sounds we heard coming from the jukebox — a soporific succession of Barbra Streisand and Liza Minnelli and other show tunes. The older Anglo crowd was nodding off over their light beers at the U-shaped bar, when the aging barmaid — perhaps the very same woman who hung the nearby sign reading "I'm still a hot chick, only now it comes in flashes" — turned her attention to us.
"I've worked here 27 years and I don't even drink," she said with a deep, smoke-cured Texas drawl. "I am on a ton of antidepressants, though. You've gotta have somethin'."
Lone Star Saloon
It used to be that dives were pretty much the only bars you could find downtown. That all started to change in the 1990s with the coming of the light rail line. A nightlife boom was the result, but much of it was composed of oontz-oontz dance clubs that came and went — and continue to come and go — with dreary regularity. Most of the douchebag crowd has moved on, first to Midtown, and then to Washington Avenue, and by the time you read this, they will probably be somewhere else. Welcome to Houston, home of the wandering nightlife districts.
No doubt in large part thanks to its location in the extreme southwestern corner of downtown proper, far from the faintly throbbing pulse of the discos on Main Street, the Lone Star Saloon has observed all this hullaballoo with regal disdain. And thus it remains the dive-iest bar downtown, a title it acceded to after the demolition of Charley's (or whatever that bar on the ground floor of the now-demolished Montague flophouse was called.)
Local songwriter Greg Wood perhaps described the Lone Star best. "It has a real Deer Hunter vibe," he says. "I always feel like a Nam vet on my first day back 'in country' in there." Indeed, little of the barebones decor — including the tiny pool table — you see once you pass the cactus and the bull skull that adorn the front entry was crafted after about 1975. And neither was much of the music on the jukebox — it seems like every time I have quaffed a Busch tall boy or three there, something like Edgar Winter's "Frankenstein" or B.B. King's "The Thrill Is Gone" was playing. And then there's the barmaid. The Lone Star has been through quite a few, but one has outlasted them all, and is still there at this writing: a French-speaking Vietnamese woman in her '60s who likely remembers pre-fall Saigon and the shenanigans of our boys on R&R.
You don't go to the Lone Star in search of the perfect microbrew or single-malt whiskey or shots with esoteric liqueurs and clever names. You go for the bulk intake of domestic brew and cheap whiskey, and to hear the tales of woe from the seedy downtowners who call the bar home. It's not far from the city's Greyhound station and it's right across the street from a huge local bus terminal, so you get your bus passengers from near and far here, some wetting their whistles after a long ride in from Dallas or New Orleans, while others are steeling themselves to face whatever calamity awaits them in apron strings (or stained boxers and wifebeater) at home. Expect some surliness, but nothing buying a round won't cure.
Happy Go Lucky
4016 Telephone Rd.
If you've ever read A Confederacy of Dunces, you'll remember that the action in that classic culminates in a den of sin called The Night of Joy. The Happy Go Lucky is Telephone Road's Korean-style Night of Joy.
It's intensely dark, and there's a sickly-sweet oatmeal aroma about the place. Red leatherette is in abundance, both on the couches in their den-like setting and lining the bar. Where many bars have TVs, the Happy Go Lucky has monitors wherein the staff can watch four-way split-screens of the action in the parking lot.
A cage with a tiny green parakeet in it rests on the bar. Stick your finger in there, and the little bird will attack.
Behind the bar, a fiftysomething Korean lady exudes authority. Another parakeet perches on her shoulder, and judging from the little bruises on the lady's arms, this bird had only a little better temper than his caged compatriot.
A few other, somewhat younger, Korean women flit about in the shadows, and dozens of bottles of bad, if not cheap, champagne sit on a table behind the bar. A buffet waits on a table in the middle of the room, casserole tins loosely wrapped with foil.
"What kind of girl you like?" the barmaid asks two visitors. "You like Asian girl? Wanna dance?"
The jukebox features an assortment of Korean pop, Mexican workingman's music and blue-collar country and classic rock. Patsy Cline has pride of place here, as she has always and will ever in all such places. A mix of Duane Eddy's "Rebel Rouser," Vicente Fernández's "Volver Volver" (the "Brown Eyed Girl" of South Texas and Mexico) and "The End" by the Doors really suits the place and will only set you back a buck.
Back at the bar, a clean-cut twentysomething Mexican kid in a leather jacket comes in. He's a live wire. "I'll have a Corona!" he beams. One of the shadow girls is immediately at his side, as the mama-san looks on approvingly.
Harrisburg Country Club
3618 Harrisburg Blvd.
A venerable quasi-icehouse in the shadow of what used to be the Maxwell House coffee plant, the Harrisburg Country Club is still a pretty close approximation to the titular bar in Eagle Pennell's cult drinking-in-Houston film Last Night at the Alamo. It's easy to imagine the bar's famous sign — "May Wives and Girlfriends Never Meet" — hanging in the Alamo, and while the clientele is more heavily Hispanic than those you would have found in Houston's East End of a generation ago, at bottom they are the same blue-collar folks with the same workaday blues.
On Friday nights, DJs spin a mix you'll only hear on the south coast of Texas — Emilio followed by George Strait followed by Outkast followed by Selena followed by Earth Wind & Fire, with a little P-Funk and Vicente Fernández thrown in for good measure. Fiftysomething Hispanic ladies dance together on the tiny dance floor, re-enacting their long-ago prom nights and quinceañeras — while the Vietnamese owner looks on. Outside, a wiry, wizened old Hispanic lady cadges cigarettes and tells a visitor the story of her life. She's from Corpus Christi, and she's so dark-skinned everyone has always called her La India. All her life she'd never had much luck, until a few weeks ago, when she got up at the nearby D&W Inn on karaoke night and sang Patsy Cline's "Crazy." Her version brought down the house. "I won," she beamed. "For the first time in my life I won something...Now, can I have one more cigarette?"
As of this writing, this just might be the finest all-around dive bar inside the Loop; it's certainly the most off-the-radar one in the very shadows of downtown's talls. But its obscurity is likely temporary. Yuppie condos are encroaching; indeed, they are now in plain sight, and the owner is not shy about expressing interest in attracting their custom. Get over there now before the Yelp crowd clouds your judgment.
The D&W meets just about every criterion of a great dive: It's old — it evolved out of a neighborhood hardware/grocery store that opened in the 1930s. It's open every hour the law allows, and indeed, some days there's a line of thirsty people — mostly third-shift workers from the nearby coffee plant — outside the place at 7 a.m. There's a stolid assortment of regulars from the surrounding predominantly Mexican-American blue-collar neighborhood, and the jukebox is full of heartbreak sung in both Spanish and English. As a bonus, the D&W is hard by some train tracks, so you can almost always hear that lonesome whistle blow.
And then there is the decor. Owner Keith Weyel, the son of the late founder of the nearby Harrisburg Country Club, goes the extra mile beginning on the smoking porch, where there's comfy lawn furniture scattered among potted ferns and pissing cherubim. As for the interior — white with red and blue trim and a cut-out of Uncle Sam demanding "You!" come in and sing karaoke on weekends — it's eccentric, but hardly hints at what is within. The rococo interior is replete with paintings of Frida Kahlo and Marilyn Monroe and other starlets of Tinseltown's Golden Age, a big statue of the Buddha, a plastic Waylon Jennings figurine, and a robot made out of tin cans, fashioned by one of the regulars. A couple of the tables were salvaged from a vintage Wendy's; the inlaid Victorian newspapers brought back memories of post-Pop Warner football practices from 1980.
And there is a hint of danger, not so much from the men as the women. My wife and I once had to leave the D&W a little earlier than we might have wanted because a young woman decided she wanted to fight my wife, for no other reason than that she was a stranger around those parts. But there is also a strong element of law enforcement among the clientele — homicide detectives and DA's love to get together there to plot strategy and celebrate busts, and if there ever were to be a Houston version of The Wire, the D&W would be the Texan-ized Bunk's and McNulty's favorite bar, even if Jimmy would have to bring his own whiskey.
834 Wakefield Dr.
Wakefield Drive is the dividing line between two venerable-by-Houston-standards subdivisions: the late-'40s, early-'50s developments Garden Oaks and Oak Forest. (In fact, one local wag calls the area GOOF.) Wakefield is one of the very few streets in Houston that lives up to its no-zoning ethos: Mechanic shops abut day cares which are next door to bars which are next door to antique shops which are next door to churches which are next door to more bars.
The Dutchman, a beer joint, is the granddaddy of all the Wakefield Drive nightspots. Ancient window-unit a/c's struggle to cool the wood-paneled, exposed brick interior, and the classic rock/honky-tonk jukebox passes the Gene Watson-Gary Stewart honky-tonk test with flying colors. At the U-shaped bar, a bearded, shaggy-haired guy in an International Brotherhood of Electrical Workers work shirt was bantering with a Mexican man across the bar about whose truck had more rugged tires. It's a very friendly place. Before we knew it, a balding, mustachioed man had engaged us in conversation about the DWI's he'd gotten in the past. As punishment for one, he had been ordered to attend a course on alcohol and automobile safety.
"You shoulda seen the people comin' to that class," he chuckled. "Two of 'em came on bikes, two more came on roller skates and another guy came on a horse."
By and by, the man completed the course. "Yep, I graduated drunk-driving school. By rights, now they should give me a drunk-driver's license."
TA's Cargo Club
3604 Mangum Rd. #B
Margie, the fiftysomething co-owner of the Cargo Club, sits at a stool at her own sunken, compact bar, beneath a dropped ceiling that is, oddly, also vaulted. "It's a good thing we just painted these walls," she says. "Maybe that will stop 'em from talkin'." But there's nothing stopping her.
She remembers how she got hired here, decades ago when the place was called Crazy Guggenheim's and hosted doors-locked dirty movie nights.
"I came for my interview at four o'clock," she says. "The barmaid asked me why I was there. I told her I had an interview. She told me I'd better come back another day. I told her I needed a job so I would stay. She told me I'd be better off coming back some other time."
This went on for quite some time, with Margie refusing to budge. "And then from the back room I hear this woman wail, 'Nobody loves me!' and out came the owner in nothin' but a G-string, red-sequined, heart-shaped tasseled pasties and clear plastic high-heel shoes. She asked me why I was there, and I told her I had an interview. She told me to have a seat and she'd be right back.
"Now, I kinda assumed she was gonna go put some clothes on or somethin', but she came right back out with the same ol' next to nothin' on she had when she left me there. I was tryin' to just look straight at her face, but it's hard when those tassels on 'em heart-shaped pasties are wigglin' around. She asked me a few questions, and then she told me to go on over to the bar. 'Here, cut this lime,' she said. I cut the lime up. She said, 'Okay, you start at five.'"
A few years later, Margie bought the bar, sold it back to the old owner a few years after that and then reacquired it not long after that. Along the way, her boyfriend, a former shipping company executive (thus the name, and the vaguely nautical decor), started helping her out with the ownership. "He's my boyfriend, he ain't my husband," Margie stresses. "I'm the happiest widow there ever was. That bastard ex of mine got kilt in a tornada years ago."
The dirty movies and former jiggling owner are gone now (though she still visits), but Margie isn't the only one with stories. The selection of the Gap Band's "You Dropped a Bomb on Me" serves as a Proustian madeleine for the bar's lone Saturday afternoon customer, who drifts off into a spoken reverie of times past...
"This reminds me of when I was a titty bar DJ," he says. "I did that for three years. It gets old, going to bed with a different girl every single night. It wears a man down. It's just like any other job. You have to be their brother, father, sister, mother. And you get sick of seeing naked women."
"Same tits, different day," puts in Margie.
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