BOTTOMS UP! Alex Neth PARK HILL PBR @ THE THIN MAN 2017 East 17th Avenue

Don't be fooled by the Park Hill address. The Thin Man isn't your ordinary bar that lives half in a coffeehouse and sports a row of decorative birdhouses to complement a décor that might best be described as late neo-Catholic ice-cream parlor. Not at all. For one thing, they pour Pabst Blue Ribbon here.

Yup. The pride of the midwest. A swill of legendary proportion, right there in the pantheon with stalwarts like Hamm's and Carling's Black Label. Beer that some people drink and others kill slugs with. It was the object of Dennis Hopper's attention in Blue Velvet. It is the object of my affection as we speak. Finding a bar that pours Pabst is like finding a fiver in the street; there isn't much you can do but hitch up your belt and smile at your good fortune.

The Thin Man is owned by the guy who brought you St. Mark's Coffehouse, and he had a pretty good idea, stuffing this high-ceilinged bar into part of his 17th and Race store. The place has been open for about a month. The newness is palpable. Everything about the place-- from the white marble bar to the obligatory comfy furniture-- is shiny. Even the customers are shiny, goodlooking twentysomethings who might have been clipped from a Hugo Boss ad. Even the Greek Orthodox iconography and noir film posters look new. What this place needs is some dust.

Ah, but that will come. For now, the discerning lush can learn to enjoy a Pabst-- or Pilsener Urquell, or Guinness, or any number of spendier choices-- at a bar that feels more Lime Rickey than Rob Roy. Take a breath, drop by for the 4 to 6: 30 p. m. happy hour for a buck off drafts and wells. Sit on the high stool, chat with the bartender for a while. He, at least, doesn't look like he was just ordered from the factory. His name is Tom Schumacher, and he only wanted to make lattés. Demon liquour...

"I was working downtown at the Purple [Martini]," Schumacher said. "Then I decided I was gonna pour coffee. I went to St. Mark's, and then I ended up at a bar again. But this bar is much nicer."

Couldn't agree more. This place has the couches without the jerks and expensive parking. And there is little doubt that Park Hill is more pleasant than LoDo.

"This is a good neighborhood," Schumacher said. "Got a lot of professionals. These guys around here, they're all lawyers."

But Colfax lurks, huffing and touching itself, scant blocks away. This is still the city, and there's still an adjacent corner liquor store, there's still the odd malcontent or headcase. The Thin Man's best trick is making you think that the city and the liquor store and the headcases are somewhere else.

Which is not to say that this place couldn't use a screaming, urine-soaked tatterdemalion or two. Something's gotta get dirty here, or at least be put out of place. Bars this new tend to have that callow feel, like they haven't yet popped their maraschinos. This joint needs a brawl, or an impassioned lunatic who tells everyone he is Bobby Goldsboro, or some unidentifiable brown sludge in the bathroom.

But again, time. It's hard to hold being clean against a place that sports a big picture of Ralph "The True President" Nader behind the bar. The owner-- I saw him peripherally, and damned if he didn't look like Kid Rock's beatnik uncle-- clearly values his investment. Right now, that investment looks to be a sound one.

"It's been picking up every week," Schumacher said. "A little bit more every week. It's going to be real solid."

It's already solid. The Thin Man, in addition to being the cleanest Pabst-pouring establishment in Denver, might also be the only bar with so many, many birdhouses. They line the wall about eight feet up, and they all have some little decorative motif-- one is a Dia De Los Muertos birdhouse replete with painted bird skulls, one is metal with little knobs, one is covered in rubber duckies, etc. The wisdom of keeping them away from birds that might desire their use is lost on me, but they are nice, and art, well, art is cool. We need more art. Maybe if we had more kids making decorative birdhouses now we'd issue fewer tickets for public masturbation down the road. Think about the children, for God's sake.

It's a good place. Some time and grime can only help, but it's still fun to watch the baby steps of a hangout in its infancy. Besides, having a beer here beats having one at home in your underwear, unless you live in a floating bubble in outer space. And if you do, well, screw you. You didn't deserve a Pabst anyway. B