BOTTOMS UP!

I just came here to get a burger. But now, five tall Guinness later, I'm at the Citygrille swapping stories with an old coot who calls himself Sage Remington. Sage Remington? Soap opera stars have names like Sage Remington. Hunky soldiers in Harlequin novels have names like Sage Remington. This old fella in a cowboy hat with a fresh scar on his nose might as well have introduced himself as Thor Powers or Lance Victory. But I knew one thing right away--the man had an eye for a good drinking establishment.

The Citygrille, tucked into an outwardly unimpressive little building at 321 E. Colfax across the street from the capitol, is mostly famous for serving big, juicy squares of beef. Justifiably so-- the sizzlers that come out of this kitchen could choke a horse, if horses ate meat. These are burgers with an emphasis on the urg. Eat one of these babies fast and you might wind up like poor Mr. Creosote in The Meaning of Life. This is food you could take into combat--not just to eat, but to use as a bludgeon.

But buns and patties only tell part of the story. Sage Remington, leaning on the big, juicy square of a bar that dominates the center of the place, tells the rest.

"You can't put out a good newspaper," he said. "There's good news in the world, but the media doesn't focus on it. There's gotta be good news. If the Rocky put out one 'good' newspaper, I bet no one would buy it. But if they put it out, like, here, 'No one will buy this paper, ' then it would sell like hell."

Sage Remington laughs, an open wheezy cackle. He's an engaging guy. He claims to have been the past president of the Screen Actor's Guild of Arizona and to have gone on gentlemanly dates with Adrienne Barbeau back in college. He says members of his old fraternity used to funnel money to the IRA. He says he had a bit part in a movie called Speed Trap, starring Joe Don Baker and Tyne Daly.

I don't have any reason to believe him, but I do. I don't know why. Maybe it's because he seems authentic, a quality that is of great use to politicians and actors (not to mention thieves and Elvis impersonators). Maybe it's that he seems to be able to tie everything together with an anecdote about Willie Nelson. Or maybe--just maybe--it's the fact that he is slowly but steadily drinking me under the table.

The place empties out quickly after lunch. The drones of the legislature hurry back to their offices to type star-spangled memos commemorating Ronald Reagan's 278th birthday. Or is it 279th? I can't remember. There's a poster on the wall opposite me of a cartoon metropolis being menaced by a gigantic burger. That, in my slanted state, seems an apt metaphor for the Reagan presidency. Where's Star Wars when you really need it?

Sage Remington, at least, is above politics. Or maybe I just ignore him when he tells me how much, as a native Texan and "Texas historian," he likes our smirky new leader. Again, the memory fades. When I hear Bush coming from the mouth of some-one I want to talk to, I just tune it out. That's much easier than explaining how Dubya's grandpappy Prescott traded with Nazi manufacturer I. G. Farben while the latter was happily supplying Hitler with enough Zyklon B to gas, I don't know, about 10 million people. Give or take a few.

After all, genocide isn't a good topic for afternoon bar conversation, unless you're Slobodan Milosevic. A good bar conversation should touch on the eternal verities without being weighted down by the ugliness of reality. A good bar conversation might be about movies, or fishing, or the hegemony of dogmatic linguistic structures. But not genocide. I bite my tongue.

Sage Remington doesn't bite his. Taking notice of my scribbling, he merrily turns the conversation to the alternative culture of his youth.

"You've got to be in touch with the people," he said. "Studs Terkel was in touch with the people. Jack Kerouac was in touch with the people. The beat generation, they were in tune with what was happening. Now, the hippie generation, quite frankly, just wanted to get nailed."

He moves as if to leave, then just sits back down on the barstool and has another, dammit.

I do the same. What the hell else am I going to do, now? I'm partially lit and still working on the fire. It's only just past three in the afternoon. I came in here to get a big, juicy, square burger hours ago, and instead I've just filled my empty stomach with beer.

Ah, well. The burger can wait another day. I mean, how often do you get to meet the past president of the Screen Actor's Guild of Arizona? B