he bartender blew a ring of smoke in my face as I entered. She was deep into a game of Snifty Snakes on the patio. "Sit wherever" she told me.

It is difficult to find anything gritty on West Broadway. Lots of stuffed shirts and stuffed bras, which makes The Fringe stand out like a bikini in a snowstorm. The menu is a statement of purpose: "No diet, no decaf, no skim, all sin." And, as everybody craves a deep-friend menu, cheap beer, and The Ramones at dangerous decibels from time to time, let Fringe give you your fix.

The good ol’ boys are permanent fixtures at the bar. They hold on to their perch in the hopes that another scantily clad, piss-drunk UBC student will dance on the bar. Last week, there were several gratuitous underwear shots.

Some benders leave you groggily in search of greasy food on Sunday morning. After a night at The Fringe, however, you’ll wake up on top of your kitchen table, wearing an afro-wig, wondering where your pants are. The good ol’ boys will be there, too.

The place takes all. The women from the Rotary who plan bake sales, curse like sailors, and swill rye like it’s mother’s milk. It takes the writers who need a place to feel creative, and the unpretentious singles who prefer interesting folks to attractive ones. It even takes the polished types who have decided to slum it. They end up doing things that keep the regulars talking all week (i.e. pretending to be lesbians).