Sorry, ladies. The man who drinks for a living is taken. In fact, he's getting married this week, so here's a gem from the past, one of Alex's favorite bars.

Fagan's is an outpost in a sea of trendiness, the tail light on a shiny string of bars and funky eateries near the Denver University campus. Thirsty neighbors hie to it in the post-work afternoon to swill bottled beers and shoot stick. Longtime regulars sit, sip and reminisce. No one who works here is more concerned with an upcoming night on the town than with making sure your beer is fresh. In short, this isn't what Denver does.

Denver does snitty. Denver does bad service. Denver does post-hip, meaning that Denver does rude. Denver does rude better than anyone except the French and Don Rickles. So what the hell is up with this pre-Cambrian bar at the corner of Evans and Downing? What exactly are they thinking, providing service? Encouraging people to come back? Selling beer for less than $5 a glass?

Richard runs the place. He's been here for 10 years-- started as a night bartender. In a lifetime in the business, he's never been anywhere else like it.

"I've never stayed anywhere this long," he said. "My friend told me when I got hired that this is where old bartenders come to die. But I love it here. It's a neighborhood establishment, it's non-corporate and it has a very family kind of atmosphere."

There is no jukebox. Music used to come courtesy of an aged tape deck and a handful of well-worn cassettes-- among them Kiss, Def Leppard and The Velvet Underground(!)-- but alas, that setup has gone the way of the passenger pigeon and parachute pants. The "new" CD player is the place's only concession to change, however. The inside looks much like it probably did in the early '70s, when Fagan's first opened its doors-- dark walls, a faux-wood cigarette machine, a beaten copper bar that shines in the sun like ... beaten copper. One exposed brick wall has been standing for 98 years, since the original structure was built, back when the south Washington Park and Harvard Gulch neighborhoods were in their infancy.

Some of the graffiti in the bathroom is nearly as old. "Chris Butler Eats Monkey Shit," for instance, predates China's Shang dynasty.

There is a comforting feeling of stasis here. It's like the '90s never happened. Wings are 25 cents and Bud Lights are $1.50 during Happy Hour, which lasts from 4 pm to 6 pm every weekday. The regulars look regular. There isn't anyone all dandied up for downtown pimpery. An average person can go here with a few bucks and get a couple in 'em, and that, after all, is why the average person left home in the first place.

Deborah is pouring drinks. She knows all about regulars. She is one.

"I've been here off and on for three years," she said. "Twice in three years-- let's say it that way. I started drinking here. Then I quit a job, and an hour later I was working here."

This is the kind of place that she wants to work. She loves Rich, and loves the people who come in and visit on her lunch shifts. She usually makes pretty good money, but today's been a little slow. No matter.

"Once happy hour starts," she said, "it's going to rock."

And rock it always does. Fagan's is filled with smoke and people nightly. They don't come to eat dinner, even though the phone book lists the place as Fagan's Restaurant. They may have a basket of fries or chicken fingers, but they're hungry for something else-- the ease of companionship, the comfort of familiarity, a much-needed respite from this awful world. They look for it in this dark bar, and more often than not, they find it.

"This is a good place," Richard said. "This is a good bar. It's not a meat market. Single women come in here and feel at ease, because my personnel won't let jerks in here. And it's not just the staff, but the regulars. They won't let jerks in here. We don't tolerate it."

It is a good bar, from the 1979 décor to the spider plants in the window. It breathes life through a haze of Marlboro smoke. Fagan's is as comfortable as your living room would be if your living room had 10 beers on tap and four televisions. This is-- if such a thing exists-- a family friendly bar that doesn't compromise its booziness. It may be an outpost, surrounded by the scrubbed domiciles of the upper middle class, but it is a welcome one. Denver should do what Fagan's does.

Would that be asking too much? Do you think that Mr. Hickenlooper will jump on the 25-cent-a-wing bandwagon soon? A

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