Who says you have to wait until the sun goes down to have a good time?

Copyright © 2001 by Daniel Ter-Nedden

​"What are you lookin' at, girl?" A man in sunglasses asks me through the window of a beat-up gray van (complete with closed curtains in the back windows) as he slowly pulls up to the doorway of St. Elmo's Bar in Bisbee.

I point to the sky. "There's a big bird flying around up there."

"That's a buzzard," he informs me after sticking his head out of the window. "He's lookin' for somethin' that's dead. I'm lookin' for somethin' that's alive."

He sports a toothy grin a mile wide. "You know what I'm talkin' about," as he nods his head. His passenger, hidden up until this point, leans forward and grins, giving me a subtle wave.

Yeah, I know what he's talkin' about. He's talkin' about the best road trip day drinking joint in Bisbee, St. Elmo's Bar, and I'm only on my second beer.

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Holy moralistic mind-fucks!

​Can't a day drinker just have her morning brew without the hassle of soul-saving? Seriously, I'll be in a much better mood for it -- think of the glorious singing, friendly back-slapping, and alcohol-induced, "Lord, I love you's!"

That wasn't to be the case this morning fellow New Times scribe Benjamin Leatherman sent me a link to a comic simply titled "Happy Hour" by Chick Publications. Promoting and seeking to win converts to Christian fundamentalism, "Chick Tracts" (comics) are intended to reach those who are hostile to evangelists (hey, he said the hotel room was paid for) by appealing to their curiosity. Well that's just great, Mr. Jack T. Chick, 'cause I am curious, and I like comics, and I love happy hours almost as much as I love day drinking. Okay, just as much.

Unfortunately, after this righteous read and a video of a singing Christian puppet called Lil Marcy, I need to either calm my Jesus jitters with a seriously strong cocktail or cease the morning sauce altogether. But don't just take my word as gospel. See for yourself after the jump.

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Who says you have to wait until the sun goes down to have a good time?

​Today, my day drinking gal pal Tana I are off to explore a lead from one of our day drinking cyber-chums, Ginger Spice: The Coach House. Thanks, Ginger!

First, I should confess I have a love/hate relationship with Scottsdale. For every awe-inspiring visit to SMoCA, there's been a time when I've been dragged to Axis/Radius, Gluteus/Maxiumus, or some other crap-ass club where Ed Hardy and Juicy C. are making out by the ho-pole, stopping only to ask me if I have any snort. For every smiling patron enjoying a leisurely lunch at Cafe Monarch, there's a $2,000 pure-bred pooch wearing a Burberry sweater and gulping down a $5 cupcake outside of Sprinkles. You get the idea.

Then we pulled up to the Coach House.

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Who says you have to wait until the sun goes down to have a good time?

​Today Ronda, Tana, and I are raising our collective day drinker glasses to the good folks who graciously gave up their favorite watering-holes for our sunrise boozing indulgences in last week's post. Not only were we crazy-excited to start checking the boxes on each and every one, we basked in the alcoholic glow of folks who not only supported but indulged in our cause. Cheers!

That said, we're off on our first hot lead: Dizzy's from day-drinking idea maven clueheywood.

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Who says you have to wait until the sun goes down to have a good time?

​Since December of last year, we Day Drinking gal pals have covered 14 drinking establishments catering to those enjoying a libation or two in the morning hours. From dive bars to sports bars to casual neighborhood watering holes, Ronda, Tana and I have worked diligently to shed some sunlight on the places, people, and purveyors that make Day Drinking worth getting out of bed for.

But we're running out of ideas. Save for our favorite haunts, tips from friends, and the Internet God, finding quality hooch houses is proving to be a bit of a buzzkill. That's where you, dear Day Drinking readers, come to the rescue. Got a favorite bar you've frequented nightly but not sure what it's like during the day? A pub perfect for the sunlit hours? We want to know, and then drink there.

Find out how you can help keep day drinking alive and liquored-up after the jump.

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Who says you have to wait until the sun goes down to have a good time?

​"I'm later than I thought," the tall, white-haired, white-mustached man apologizes to Tana and I as he jumps out of his pickup in the back parking lot of The Recovery Room. It's a little past 10 in the morning. "I'll just unlock the doors and let you ladies right in."

"Whose car is that?" We ask, pointing at a Camaro that's seen better days.

The tall, white-haired, white-mustached man laughs. "Not mine," he says. "That's a leftover from last night."

Inside, The Recovery Room itself appears to still be recovering from St. Patrick's Day. Green beads, clovers, and streamers cover walls, ceilings, and mirrors. It's a welcoming joint: dark, low ceiling, blue-lit pool tables, claw machine in one little nook, Beatles Rock Band in another. Tana and I select our stools and belly up.

The tall, white-haired, white-mustached man appears behind the bar after opening the front door to let the morning light in, and sticks out his hand. He's got a grip and looks at us straight on, a little smile on his face.

"Name's John," he tells us. We introduce ourselves and order up some morning brews.

John's owned the Recovery Room for 26 years ("I named it myself"). Originally from the Netherlands, he moved to Denver when he was 4 and traveled the world working in the airline business. Now, at 62, John's permanent home is in Phoenix, where he and daughter Shannon manage the Recovery Room. John's got an easiness about him that makes you feel you've known him for years. Strong, but with that understanding twinkle in his eyes that says he knows a lot but isn't going to give away the farm. Within seconds, he's the Sam Elliott to our Patrick Swayze, and we're hanging on his every sage-like word.

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Who says you have to wait until the sun goes down to have a good time?

​"Whaddya makin' for breakfast?" my day drinking pals Ronda and Tana and I ask Todd, the morning barkeep at My Ole Man's in Glendale.

"Anything you want," he answers.

"You're the Italian-American Jersey boy," I say. "Make me something you would eat."

"Hell, yeah," Todd replies.

"Unless you're a vegetarian."

"Fuuuuuuuuuck!" Todd groans and disappears into the kitchen.

Todd, or "Hot Toddie" as Ronda calls him, moved to Phoenix from New Jersey nine years ago for his now ex-wife. A muscular, clean cut, rough and tumbler, Todd did some bouncer gigs at MOM's and around Glendale, before becoming a full-time bartender.

"I used to be in the concrete business, but after that went to shit, I was luckier than most of those guys -- I knew how to tend bar."

Ronda discovered Hot Toddie (and MOM's) after a late-night wing hunt miles away from her downtown home.

"They open at 5:30 on Mondays and Todd makes breakfast!" she bubbled.

You'd miss this suburban sauce house if you didn't know what to look for: namely, the red sign in the strip mall that simply reads, "BAR" and, ironically, sits right next to an exercise joint.

"How you ladies doin'?" Todd beams at us as we walk through the door.

"Great!" We reply. "How you doin'?"

"Un-friggin'-believable," he says. "Now what can I get for you?"

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Who says you have to wait until the sun goes down to have a good time?

​"I used to like St. Patrick's Day, back in the '90's."

That's what Ron, the morning barkeep at Pat Murphy's, tells my day-drinking gal-pal Ronda and I when we pop in for pre-St. Patrick's Day brews at Pat Murphy's. Ron's scurrying around the bar, lifting huge sacks of potatoes over his head, and running through a lengthy to-do list in preparation for the next day's booze fest.

"I've worked St. Patrick's Day for eight years," Ron tells us. "It'll start getting busy around four or five o'clock, then, after seven, this place will get nuts."

Ronda and I look at the St. Patrick's Day countdown clock over the bar. We're sure it feels more like a doomsday one to Ron. We dig some money out of our wallets for some mornin' music. The juke's rejecting our dough. That's when we meet Morgan, a tanned, clean-cut, looker. He's sitting about four stools away and exchanges our crumpled cash for some crisp dollar bills.

Morgan's good people. Hailing from West Virginia -- with the accent to prove it -- Morgan tells us he's been in Phoenix for a little over a year, and is currently on a three-week suspension from his job after failing a piss test.

"Were you clean?" Ronda asks.

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Who says you have to wait until the sun goes down to have a good time?

​I said we'd be gone by noon. I said I wasn't going to give José a ride. I said I didn't know the second line to the chorus of Manfred Mann's, "Blinded By the Light". Only one of those statements turned out to be true.

It's not my fault. It's Phil's. Philthy Phil's.

Who knew the brawny baldhead my day-drinking gal-pals, Ronda and Tana, and I saw tearing down boxes by the garbage at 10 a.m. was the in-charge charmer we'd be downing tequila shots with later that morning? Phil. Philthy Phil.

"Mornin' ladies," he said as we walked by, "Let me unlock the front door for you."

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Who says you have to wait until the sun goes down to have a good time?

​"Linda, the ladies' bathroom is out of toilet paper."

"Well, you know where it is. Get it yourself."

That kind of no-nonsense backtalk from Linda, the night bartender, was one of the first things I'd heard on my inaugural visit to the Dilly Dally. I've been coming back for more ever since, and Linda makes sure I've got a King of Beers at the ready the minute I turn the corner of the darkened entryway.

"The Dilly's got T-shirts now?" I asked her one night, noticing a sign above the bar.

"Yeah. You want one? They're five bucks."

"Sure."

"Well, go pick one out," Linda no-nonsenses me, motioning for me to follow her to the storage closet across from the pool table. She opens the door and shelves of dark green, wine, and orange folded T-shirts stare me in the face.

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