Share Beer O Clock
Find a Bar
Specials and Happy Hours
Favorite this bar
Open Menu

COMING SOON! Save your favorite bars to create your own custom happy hours list. See all the places you want to go to and skip the ones you don't.

Create your profile now or Log In

COMING SOON! Save your favorite bars to create your own custom happy hours list. See all the places you want to go to and skip the ones you don't.

Create your profile now or Log In

Beer O'Clock GR

It's 1.06pm On Saturday January 23 And It's Happy Hour Right Now at 9 Bars In GR

Oh, and don't forget to see who has Daily Specials NOW!
See All

A Fresh, Positive Outlook at Pub 43

Well kids, the shit-show is finally over. The snow, the icy breeze, the, 6,000 white-knuckled miles of bobsledding my stupid car down

96 to 31, to 104 and back are now a distant memory. And my god, what a relief. I called it last week but now I am sure. The Gods have spoken, and the message received. It was last Friday evening, just after work. I was driving down 104 through Spring Lake, when the biggest goddamn bald eagle I’ve ever seen streaked out of the night sky and swooped down upon me from above. It split through clouds just as the sun broke free behind me, then eased out of its decent, sliding into a smooth drifting glide right out in front of my car.

I was so stunned at the size of the thing that I nearly drove into oncoming traffic when the winged mammoth banked left causing my eyes and the wheel to follow. It was a thing of beauty. Like a god-damn harbinger of light sent down from above to melt the fist of ice that had formed around my heart. It was one of the only truly cinematic moments in my life that didn’t resemble out-takes from the Basketball Diaries, or Bar-Fly or any other movie that involves some poor bastard spiraling down the toilet. And Holy shit folks, I pretty much lost it right there. I kid-you-not I started screaming with joy and whooping-it-up, all head out the window and shit, tracking the flight of my new found spirit-animal as it flew parallel to the car for a half mile or so while my favorite King Tuff song  blasted through the stereo. I must have looked insane, like that weird-ass kid who rides the dog-faced albino-dragon in the Never Ending Story I imagine.

Christ what a feeling, like first-flight. For once in my life, those crazy Wright brothers had jack-shit on me. And, right then and there I new it was over, that the thaw had begun, that it was time to immerse myself in the soft jellied glaze of sunlight and good times.

And so, with my newly adopted positive attitude, when the phone rang later that night with an opportunity to go to a show and watch happy-people play happy-music, I was all in.  Which is how I found myself at the Intersection for the first time in my entire life. And, despite prejudices founded on memories of annoying radio advertisements over a decade ago, I had a pretty fuckin’ good time. The beer wasn’t as expensive as I anticipated (four bucks for a plastic cup of Founders Pale) and, despite the large crowd I didn’t have to wait too long to get one. They even had servers walking around the place who’d save you the trouble of wading through the throngs of flower-powered Wicca-people who rolled in from god-knows-where to sway like lobotomized bobble-heads to the candy coated hillbilly ruckus the Crane Wives were kicking out that night.

All of which leads me to the inevitable bar review portion of this fuck-around column. And no, that wasn’t it up there, because who gives a shit about the Intersection anyway? I’ve got a feeling they’re making plenty of dough despite the inside of the place looking like the set for Robot Wars and the fact that they have an intimacy-killing metal cage surrounding the stage that prevents you from getting within fifteen feet of the band.

No people, I’m not here to prop up the kings and queens, I’m here to let you know what the rest of the deck is up to. And this week I’m telling you to get you’re ass over to Pub 43 at 43 S Division. Which is where my assistant and I went after the show to fill up on shit-beer and fried food, and happens to be one of my favorite bars in Grand Rapids. Pub 43 reminds me of the bars I used to frequent when I lived in Portland. A cheap, classic looking dive where you can usually find a table on a Friday or Saturday night, and where the staff aren’t a bunch of disinterested “attractive” twenty-somethings who’d rather be texting or fucking each-other instead of getting you a beer and maybe smiling once in awhile. They are friendly attentive, quick to the taps and treat you like family after a few times in. Pub 43 has pool tables, shuffle board, a pinball machine, television sets and a bunch of board and non-board games if you need something other than beer to keep you entertained.

My only complaint is that, for some reason, no one ever plays the jukebox. Which is kind of cool because I get to play Iggy Pop and Tupac songs all night but blows because I’m usually broke as shit but can’t stand to be without music on a Friday night. Which is where you come in Grand Rapids, so get down to club 43 and pump some quarters in the damn jukebox already. Oh and they also have an extensive collection of candy bars for sale, which is pretty damn smart if you ask me.  Word em up.