I expected the folks at Fergie's on the Ave on McKinley Hill to card me, but not for proof of legal drinking age.  Asking to see my AARP card would've been more appropriate. Seventy-five percent of the almost full house during a mid-week lunch in Fergie's Lounge was made up of local citizens well past the age of retirement. Even the bartender and two servers were knockin' on heaven's door. I approached the bartender and ordered a Bloody Mary. Apparently she thought I ordered vodka on the rocks with a splash of tomato juice, because that sumbitch was STRONG. Yikes! I concentrated on my day's agenda, calculating exactly how coherent I'd have to be to complete the rest of the day's tasks, when an apron-clad employee told me to smile. "You can't help but smile when you're at Fergie's!" he chimed. Wait; was that a beer in front of him? Was he working or not? I swear I just saw him bring out some food for a table. Ah, only at a true dive bar would you witness something like that, and it made me happy. I examined the table of loud-mouthed ladies sitting next to me who were decorated in long, fake fingernails, lots of makeup, and copious amounts of gold jewelry. The amount of hair they had on top of their heads made me thankful for the no-smoking law, and lack of people lighting matches.  Painted wood panel walls, square footage of approximately 500 feet, ridiculous amounts of valentine's décor, and a sign that read "Bingo Wednesdays at 7 p.m." made me feel all tingly in my special spot. Well, it was either that or Gertrude the bartender's Bloody Mary. Regardless, I like feeling tingly on a weekday afternoon. Who doesn't?