I am an idiot. For regular visitors to this site, the news is hardly a shock. Newcomers, however, have now been brought up to speed.  While evidence pointing to my lack of intellectual prowess abounds in the archives, the full extent of my idiocy only came to light late last night.

Let me explain. For almost 13 years, I lamented to anyone who could stand to listen, that Halifax lacked a truly cosmopolitan bar, one where age, race, and income did not matter. In my travels, I had encountered such venues, places where the music -and only the music - dictated the proceedings and caused people of all stripes to intermingle freely in one joyous and raucous mass. Up until last night, I was convinced that only a plane ride could get me there. Then, after thirteen years living in this city, I stepped into Bearly’s House of Blues and Ribs for the first time.

Nominally, this is a food column, but right from the start I must admit that I have absolutely no idea if the fare on offer – including the ribs – is any good. When I trundled into the venue at around 10 pm, my appetite had long been satiated. So had everyone else’s apparently, since food was absent from all the tables.  Booze (priced in the same range as other bars in town), on the other hand, flowed freely in anticipation of the blues which was about to start.

From the moment that the Roger House Band’s singer wedged his guitar underneath his ample belly and started to let the first chords rip, the night became a frenzied blur.  As I sit in front of my computer, a scant twelve hours removed from the action and saddled with what might be the finest hangover this side of the Mississippi, I will attempt to itemize the more memorable moments.

Impression number one: a middle aged (I am being generous here) black woman busts a grove with a heavily tattooed, white kid a third her age. A chance meeting on the dance floor, one that is significant when one considers the de-facto segregation that plagues most downtown  bars . Even without the race factor, the sight of a sixty-something woman dancing with a long haired, goateed twenty year old is a rarity in these parts. Mesmerised by the music, both couldn’t care less about the social statement they were making. Brilliant stuff.

Impression number two: by the second set the dance floor had become a sweaty, rhythmic cross section of this city. Fat danced with thin, old with young, gay with straight, poor with rich and so on. There, in front of me, a stunning blond with a body right out of  the Running Room was gyrating next to a couple in their sixties, who in turn were moving across the dance floor using a booze induced, over elaborate choreography. Their fat and tired limbs could only manage a caricature of the moves they likely learned in their youth. No one cared, no one laughed.

At the table next to me, a petite woman, with a natural and androgynous beauty, sat with two heavy set males. The three of them looked to be good friends, though from appearance alone, they should have never even known each other. As the evening progressed, the young woman, tired of being immobile, started to goad her buddies to the dance floor. At first, she failed, the young men visibly uncomfortable with the idea of moving their considerable frames into the spotlights. Still, as the evening progressed, one of them finally got up and progressed to the dance floor. A “fuck-it, I am going in” moment if there ever was one.  He dance clumsily, but he danced. No-one cared. It was about the music, after all.

Impression number three: C. only came down twice a year from the “mountains”, as she called the hills around Antigonish. Leaning side by side against the counter overlooking the pool table, she told me about shooting rabbits with a pellet gun, rather then using her .22. Less of a mess and cheaper, she argued. Looking and sounding a bit like the Deadwood version off Calamity Jane, I was somewhat relieved when she grew tired of my mumbling and looked for a more promising target. “All men are fucking boring” were her parting words. 

After returning to my table, having spent some time in the smoking room, I noticed that I was no longer alone.  He, a Bill Gates look-alike - she, a flirtatious Saraswati. They had driven up from Miami in his Porsche to do some sightseeing. Beers were bought and pleasant conversation ebbed and flowed whenever the music allowed it. Every time ‘Gates’ went to urinate, his companion would drag me out to the dance floor. A fourth rate columnist and a horny Yank tourist: another strange pairing. It was the music, you see.

As I left the bar in the early hours of the morning, I could not help but grin. For the last thirteen years, I had been a complete ass.  Mind you, I had been punished for my arrogance since all this time, I had to imbibe my drinks in places were I felt too old, too young, too poor, too straight, too bald, or too underdressed. Now, this madness can stop. I have found my Shangri-La.

PS. Michelle, one of Bearly’s waitresses, is rumoured to be heading west. I had previously met her at Salvatore’s, where she slings pizzas during the day, and found her to be a very good egg. Hurry down and enjoy the service of one of this city’s most down-to-earth and efficient servers before she joins the growing Alberta bound exodus. Tip well.

The idiot can be reached at This email address is being protected from spam bots, you need Javascript enabled to view it