THE LORD OF THE DRINKS: MR. BILBO'S, AKRON, OHIO.

"Bill," you ask, "have you been resting on your laurels these past 11 days? Are you so self-satisfied with posting your 100th beer that you're suddenly leaving well enough alone? Must we go on starving for your beer wisdom?"

The answer, dear friends, is no. Absolutely not. The first 100 beers were just that: the beginning. In fact, I've been hard at work behind the scenes, prepping the next batch to go up online. In the past 10 days, I've photographed no less than 126 bottles of beer. I've cropped, resized, and touched up each picture to best represent both the beer and the Wall, and saved them all into my Awaiting Review folder. And there are over 100 more still awaiting my attention, plus all the new ones I'll be trying between now and the end of my current collection. Yes, my friends, I have not yet begun to blog.

That being said, one of the boxes I dug through contained a very special artifact which I felt necessary to share with you on the Beer Wall: a beer cozy from the greatest bar I have ever set foot in, Mr. Bilbo's.

In 1980, years before the Lord Of the Rings movie trilogy made J.R.R. Tolkien's works accessible to an audience that wasn't merely comprised of LARPing Dungeons and Dragons nerds, Mr. Bilbo's was established in the heart of downtown Akron, Ohio. The place was a little watering hole that served both college students and working professionals who worked and studied nearby. They kept a couple beers on tap, but a great many in bottles. They served typical greasy spoon pub food, featured special weekly event evenings such as Thursday's Stupid Toy Night, and boasted the greatest jukebox in history. Some of the barkeeps and waitresses I remember by name: Don, Rudy, Katie, Tammy. Some came and went, others stayed to the bitter end. It was rare to see more than two on any given night, as the bar was rarely busy during the time I frequented it, and that was one of the reasons I loved it most.

The cultural and tourist-attracting renaissance that Cleveland underwent in the mid 1990s spilled over into Akron a couple years later. When Cleveland built the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, the Great Lakes Science Center, and a new stadium for the Cleveland Indians, Akron followed suit with the Inventors Hall of Fame, Canal Park (which serves the Indians' AA farm team, the Akron Aeros), and a rejuvenated downtown district and University of Akron college campus. As a student of that university, I began exploring downtown Akron with my friends. Many new hip clubs on Main Street opened and closed in a matter of months, changing names as quickly as young people change fads, yet Bilbo's remained a constant. There were many other options open to young adults--the Cosmic Cow, the Vault, the Groove Shack--but none seemed as inviting to me as the little hole-in-the-wall with the awesome beer, a jukebox full of classic rock, and quiet locals who let each person color the place as each saw fit.

I remember the very first time I set foot inside Bilbo's. It was February 1997, and I had just turned 19 a few days before. It was opening night of a play I was in, "A Doll's House," by Heinrik Ibsen. I had just finished my first performance as a villain in a fully-staged production, and the play was well-received. Everyone in the cast was flying high on adrenaline, and we marched downtown from the college campus through the bitter cold wind to drink in celebration. I was apprehensive about walking in the door, though there was no bouncer to check our IDs. I confided in my castmates: "What if the bartender asks for my driver's license? I'm not 21." They told me not to worry as they took their seats and I remained standing, prepared to be asked to make an early exit. About 10 of us were there altogether. A few days earlier, my director and mentor, Susan Speers, was surprised when I came to rehearsal on my birthday and announced that I had turned 19. She admitted, "I would have thought you were 27." It's true, I had always come off older than my real age, and I'm sure the Victorian-period goatee and mutton chops helped me on that particular fateful night at Bilbo's, but I was still very uncertain that I would pull a fast one on the staffers. Nevertheless, when Don, the bartender, stepped around the bar and approached our table, taking drink orders, I asked for a beer when he got around to me, and he took my money and fulfilled my request without raising an eyebrow. It was then that I knew I had to come back to this place, and often. And often I did. I made a good many memories at Bilbo's:

I began honing my palate on many different beers.

I introduced Dave to the best beer ever.

I celebrated with many a cast of actors after a show.

I had my first Screaming Turkey.

I mastered the Keith Moon drum solo on the Who's "Won't Get Fooled Again."

I set personal records for most shots consumed in one night (16) and longest hangover duration (36 hours) in the same sitting.

Sean and I almost got kicked out for wrestling.

I celebrated Dave's little sister's last night of freedom before she joined the Army.

I learned how to do the Hustle from a woman who worked construction.

I had my last Screaming Turkey.

I learned all the words to Monty Python's "The Philosophers Drinking Song."

I called out a gay guy who was flirting with my ex-girlfriend.

I foolishly almost threw away my friendship with Dave over the same girl while we were still dating.

I regularly crowed along with the jukebox to Bob Seger's "Like A Rock."

I called off work for the first time because I just didn't feel like leaving the party.

I celebrated my twenty-first birthday, but still had to lie about my age, because I'd been coming to the bar and getting served for the past two years.

I had some chips and cheese.

I defined my relationships with some of the best people I've ever known, and count as my friends today.

Then, sadly, on December 30, 2000, Dave and I set foot inside Bilbo's for the last time. We had been living in Cuyahoga Falls, a 25 minute drive from Bilbo's, and tough economic times had forced the owner to cut back on the days and hours that the business was open. A few visits to the bar, only to find it dark and locked, had caused us to find other haunts that were in closer proximity to our bachelor pad and were open regular hours, seven days a week. Alas, none were ever as cool as Bilbo's. The night of December 30, months after our last recent visit, our girlfriends wanted to go downtown. We voted for Bilbo's, but they wanted something with more scene. We accompanied them to a club down the street, quickly decided it was lame due to the thumping music and overpriced Coronas and Heinekens, and announced that we were leaving. We strode north on Main Street in the blustering snow and ducked inside our old hangout. It was then that we got the news that this was the second-to-last night of Bilbo's existence. The following night, New Year's Eve, they planned a big party, which we couldn't attend due to prior commitments, and at 2:15am, January 1, 2001, the first day of the new millenium, they would shut off the lights and lock the doors forever.

Dave and I were stunned with remorse. We asked ourselves the questions that usually accompany the 5 stages of grief: How could this place close down? If we had continued our regular patronage of this, the greatest bar in history, and continued to bring our other friends here, would it have made a difference? Why couldn't other people see what a landmark place they were losing? Why did they have to go to the newest club down the block when it would change names and ownership in a few months anyway? This place was a constant in our history, as far as Dave's and my friendship was concerned. In a way, coming to the realization that this was our last night at Bilbo's was as painful as growing up. We had no choice but to drown our sorrows in style, and drink only the Greatest Beer Ever Made, in the Greatest Bar That Ever Served It.

By the time our girlfriends tracked us down, we were shitfaced.

They walked in the door to see us clinking two more bottles of Great Lakes Brewing Company's Edmund Fitzgerald Porter together, and swilling them down our sentimental throats. They asked us how many we'd had, and we blubbered incoherent responses. We clung to our souvenirs and each other, bemoaning this sad, fateful night. Ultimately, the tally was 17 beers: 8 for Dave, 9 for me. We refused to leave over and over again, but my girlfriend, who'd driven us all, finally put her foot down. We rode home, Dave and I falling asleep in the back seat, pulling over every couple of miles so that Dave could lean out and ralph on the street. When we got home, Dave's girlfriend tried helping him inside the door, but I gnashed my teeth at her, refusing to let Dave out of my care. I would help him in, I told her, he's my best friend, not yours. We each stumbled inside, arms around each other, our free hands holding the last remnants of Bilbo's that existed: two foam rubber beer cozies with the bar's logo silkscreened on the front.

It is this very same beer cozy that you see before you. The last vestige of what was once the Greatest Bar In History.

Long live Mr. Bilbo's.