Eyeball to Eyeball

Ten Tons of Smackdown and You

A teen could get a beer at the Saloon, an alcoholic could get over-served, and a band adept at playing loud and spitting beer at the audience could get a gig. It was a place of wonder. The bathrooms, of the sort you'd expect to find in a Matamoros pulquería, required either a HazMat suit or a great deal of alcohol- or drug-induced courage. All of which made the coin-operated washer and dryer in the bar's corner an ironic touch.

But even a worthy establishment that responds to a bona fide need in a market can succumb to the tides of history. The Fort Lauderdale Saloon's turning point seems to have come, of course, with a citation for serving an underage drinker. Now, almost two years after it closed, it's being reborn as a private health club. Gone are the signs advertising all-you-can-drink specials (talk about your bona fide needs), along with the whole shabby façade. The new owners, who live in the adjacent Rio Vista neighborhood, have covered it all in a brand new coat of pastel yellow paint.

Don't worry, Santa won't bring you any unwanted gifts this year...he's a Passport holder.
Don't worry, Santa won't bring you any unwanted gifts this year...he's a Passport holder.

"I'm not sure what else would have gone here," says David, one of the partners who bought the building a year ago. Behind him there are weight racks, bench presses, and mirrors, and it is now possible to see clear from one side of the building to the other without squinting through the dim lights and cigarette haze. The air actually seems as clean as one of those air freshener commercials.

The private club may remain nameless, David says. He's already got a full slate of personal trainers. He says their roughly 40 clients will begin pumping iron in the gym starting this month. For all the improvements, the building will no longer be offering its visitors the chance to do a load of laundry on site. One thing the new managers can't seem to get rid of, though, is a furry, wraith-like figure of a man, curled up behind the StairMaster with a king-size Old English 800 clutched in one hand, muttering "Sex Pistols will never die."

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