Among the shabby, most soiled dives in the world — yes, I said it, the entire world — the Mule Pub holds perhaps a singular place.
In it was a vibe and culture that could leave one feeling right at home and in his element, and another utterly and unreservedly repulsed.
The Great Smog of London, which history recalls as those five days of lethal pollutants hanging over The Square Mile, had nothing on this place. The stem glasses hanging upside down gave a good indication as to what was happening to your innards as the Marlboro carbon footprint opened large holes in organs. God only knows what else floated along like a Chinese Maoist, ahem, weather balloon over Montana awaiting an F-22 greeting.
If you spent any extended time in the Mule, Covid likely ran away from you.
One always also needed to watch his or her step at the Mule. As you entered from the front, there was a hard-to-see step down into the bar area that bit a many like an insulted, growling Chihuahua. Down further, closer to the bathroom was a hole in the floor, which, granted, ownership had patched at least once.
And then there was the men’s bathroom, an homage to the Third World.
There were dice games, too. The game was called “aces.” Not to worry. Management took no cut. It was one of the few things the Mule did completely above board.
But this is the bar we miss most. Or at least one guy does.
You see, it was here that Fort Worth’s Generation X, at least on the West Side or nearby, came of age, displaying its most totally awesome characteristics of not giving a damn, always insouciantly aloof in staying above the fray, while living out a work-life balance unique to all the generations of the free world that came before it.
It might have been unspoken, but the Mule, the phenomenon in the 5700 block of Locke Ave., just off Camp Bowie, was in open rebellion against the decadence of the world we grew up in. It was indeed a dump — our dump — and it was indeed world famous. There were very few things anybody, particularly owner Robbie Turman, cared about except a good time. (And a paid tab, naturally.)
It was an institute for fun and nonsense, which manifested itself in all sorts of ways. And the experience was worth the value of the money and time wasted. (I think.)
Like “Cheers,” in addition to its regular cast, celebrities were known to drop in.
Would you believe that one of them was Van Cliburn. Yes, the Van Cliburn, who came as part of a birthday party to watch and perform karaoke (he did not perform) on a Sunday night.
It was quite the sight, the stately Cliburn sitting among the shot glasses and crumbled napkins, a lone stuffed monkey, attached by Velcro, flying above on ceiling fan that hadn’t seen a duster since the 1970s.
There was nothing — nothing — that said “Tchaikovsky’s Piano Concerto No. 1” in the Mule.
Only days after a heartbreaking defeat in the NBA Finals in 2006, Dirk Nowitzki, the Dallas Mavericks legend, came to let his hair down in an appearance as epic as any of his Hall of Fame NBA career. The Germans have a culture of imbibing that dates back centuries. Dirk did his people proud.
Of course, as far as I’m concerned, Poo Live Crew, America’s favorite cover band, was discovered at the Mule. One guy actually lived there. His name was Larry, and he — or she — was a rat who generally appeared only after 2 a.m.
The Mule certainly isn’t the only bar we miss. Well, some we missed altogether, but they sounded like great times.
J&J’s Hideaway, home of the draft beers and bobbing green olives, was always an eclectic mix, starting with the scions of Fort Worth’s most notable families, born to a credit line as far as the eye could see, to those of us, who, well, weren’t.
You were as likely to sit next to a banker or lawyer as you were one who felt like an outcast.
The Hideaway was sentenced to a bulldozer in the name of progress, the Museum Place development.
The Rangoon Racquet Club was before my time, but I’m told it was beloved as a trendy watering hole for the city’s noble blue bloods and visiting celebrities in the 1970s. It has been mentioned in books and movies.
Could you imagine being at the Blue Bird in 1975 when T. Bone Burnett and Bob Dylan stopped by? The Como blues nightclub was an institution, owned by Robert Ealey, described as the elder statesman of Fort Worth Blues. This place, too, was said to have attracted every race and creed to Horne Street.
The Oui Lounge was an institution on Bluebonnet Circle for more than 40 years, hosting TCU students and neighbors who lived nearby.
As for the Mule, a lease dispute spelled its end. Turman and the landlord couldn’t agree on terms. After 17 years, the Mule closed its doors, leaving Larry behind, in 2016.
Our world hasn’t been the same. And neither has the building. One bar tried a run there, but apparently failed.
It would come as no surprise to find that no one can fill the shoes of the Mule Pub.
