I mentioned previously that, in a roundabout way, the appearance of the Acid Kid caused 'Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds' to be played on the jukebox. It really was a roundabout way, although -- in retrospect -- it pretty much just seems A to B. But back to the song: this brought forth a discussion amongst the regulars about a particular claim of trivia: did John Lennon really not intend the song title as a reference to LSD? The story is that his son Julian made a picture. When asked what the picture was of, he replied his schoolmate Lucy. And she was in the sky. With diamonds. John Lennon claimed he didn't notice the acronym formed by the major words. A lot of the argument at the bar can be boiled down to: of course he knew. Lennon took LSD. Lennon was clever. Lennon liked to tweak noses. Of those he believed needed their noses tweaked. Again: of course he knew. So I took the other argument. Because I like to do that. I pointed out that McCartney confirmed the p

There is a guy at the bar lately who got fired from his job because of something he posted on his Social Media. It involved a Hollywood Celebrity in the news and NAMBLA. Yeah: that celebrity. The post could not reasonably be misconstrued as supporting NAMBLA, but reason is like common sense: a lot of people don't have it. They probably have their reasons. That make sense to them. The post got the attention of a co-worker, who does not like the idea of grown men raping young boys. So the guy got called into HR, where he explained that he didn't  like the idea of grown men raping young boys, either. He was making a point about hypocrisy in the way points are often made on the internet: through hyperbole. HR informed him that child rape is not funny, and is certainly against company policy. There are people employed there who have children, and they do not want those children raped. The fear of child rape creates an unsafe work environment. She told him that, if he though

The Acid Kid showed up at the bar today. I call him the Acid Kid because he's a kid, and he likes to drop acid. I think he likes the nickname, which is good, because I can never seem to remember his name. His name is one of those that reminds me of another name, and then I can't remember either of them. So: the Acid Kid. His rhythm is to drop acid for about a week, then come down by drinking at the bar for a day or two. A month or two later he repeats this cycle. I'd say it works for him, but his brain is somewhat fried now, so there is at least a part of this that isn't working. At one point he talks of the President. His take on him is that the President should chew some acid, and then he would totally see what he needs to do. He also said this about the previous President, so it is kind of one-size-fits-all advice. The Illuminati inevitably gets mentioned: they sure do control a lot of things, and of course they should chew some acid, too. But he also sa

The City Employee With The Weird Grin came into the bar a few days ago. He is not a bad guy, or at least I don't know enough about him to say much one way or another. His default facial expression is a weird grin, but that doesn't always indicate a child molester. As far as him being a child molester: I don't know enough about him to say much one way or another. The problem when he comes in is that he is always talking politics. Always. He uses a standard template: people who agree with him are the Good Guys, and people he doesn't like are the Bad Guys. And Stupid: they are Stupid Bad Guys. Who are also Evil. That is, if one were to actually believe in the Concept of Evil, which is really just a laughable relic of superstitious religious folk who are afraid of Science. And those superstitious religious folk are obviously Bad and Stupid. And don't believe in Science: it is all connected. A lot of people can be like this, but they can generally mix it up with

I ran off to do some errands -- sometimes there is life that needs to be conducted outside of the bar -- and when I returned the girl with the tattoos and the streaked hair from a bottle who just quit her job was still there. She can hold her alcohol, but she now has had more alcohol than she could reasonably hold. The unseemly part of bar life is now happening: most of the regulars have left, and a few young men are around her, commiserating. That is, they are commiserating with her in the hopes that being the commiserating guy will get her to drunkenly go home with them and fuck. Hyenas. I usually keep a distance to people's dramas: you can't make everyone make a good decision. But I cannot let this happen. I slide between her and one of the guys and disrupt the path of the conversation. I ask her gently if it is time to go home. The guys are now upset with me. Upset, and drunk. They make comments, I make comments back. Eventually one guy infers that we should ta

The young bartender with the tattoos and the streaked hair from a bottle came in a few days ago. Her boss had been pressuring her to have sex with him for her to get more and better shifts. Now, she tells us that she has quit her job at that dive bar near downtown. Commiseration is expressed; her drinks are paid for. Commiseration with drinks bought for you is a sign that people take your situation seriously. You don't get drinks bought for you just because the wife is being bitchy again. Sometimes, in that particular situation, some people are secretly siding with the wife. Not every guy in the bar is blameless. Imagine that. So: Commiseration, and commiseration with drinks bought for you, there is a difference. Someone mentions that she should sue her boss for sexual harassment; she shakes her head. It is he-said/she-said, she says, and people probably won't sympathize with the girl with the tattoos and the streaked hair from a bottle. Besides, who has money for a la

There is a young woman at the bar who is cute, slender, funny, and has aggressive cameltoe. Whatever form of pants she happens to be wearing: cameltoe. Front-and-center, as it were. I am a bit baffled by this. She takes great care in her appearance and her wardrobe, so she must be aware of the phenomenon that is her vagina outlined by her pants: I do not believe it is incidental cameltoe. Is she toying with men? Is she exerting her sexual confidence in a bold, empowered manner? Do other women feel intimidated by her cameltoe? I'm sure the other women would say 'of course not', but I don't necessarily believe what women say when they are talking about other women. There are agendas. Myself, I usually do not wear pants tight enough to show off my cock. Pants tight enough to show off my cock are pretty uncomfortable. Maybe cameltoe isn't uncomfortable. I'm probably not going to ask. -jj

From regular conversation at the bar I know that several of the young women have had their pubic hair shaved. Or waxed -- whichever. Hair: gone. Like a young girl, which is an uncomfortable comparison. Some have said they have stopped, and are now growing it back. They say it itches, the growing-back. Men who haven't shaved for awhile could have told them that. They say bare was a thing, but it is not so much a thing anymore. So they are keeping me apprised of trends, which is nice. I do not know if these girls have such conversations with people outside the bar. At the bar alcohol is involved, and the people you talk with at the bar usually don't intersect with the people you talk with elsewhere, so there is a peculiar form of anonymity happening. Anonymity with people you know, but who don't know the other people. There is an aspect of purposeful titillation happening on the part of the women, I believe: perhaps they view the bar friends like surrogate gay me

Rumors went round the bar a few months ago about two of the regulars having hooked up for sex one night. They are both in their fifties, and probably figured that their Perfect Other wasn't coming into the bar anytime soon. And they were probably drunk. So: if they were in college it might have been considered rape. Which is another reason why the bar is better than college. Afterward, the guy told others that the woman's genital hygiene was atrocious. Yes: the rotting fish analogy was made. I thought this was poor etiquette on the man's part. And his own hygiene is not stellar, at least from a sweaty, disheveled same-clothes-day-after-day manner. From this: I would not bet on him changing his underwear daily. And I certainly don't wish to view those underwear to confirm my suspicion. But I think they would. Confirm my suspicion, that is. So I don't believe that particular stone should have been cast. When the rotting fish analogy was made the flamb

There is a young woman who occasionally comes into the bar, she is a bartender at a dive bar near downtown. Yes, she has tattoos. Streaked hair from a bottle. Still very cute. One afternoon she alluded to her boss wanting to have sex with her, for which she would get more and better shifts. Heads shook in commiseration. I hate that sleazy side of dive bars. She won't have sex with him, and is looking around for another job. Dive Bar Boss: guys LIKE the cute bartender girls with tattoos and streaked hair from a bottle. You should give her more and better shifts because it will be good for your business. Unrequited lust buys a lot of drinks. -jj

In Seattle everyone hates the Nazis. Young, old -- even the pasty white cis-gender dudes -- they all hate the Nazis. Because they are Good People. And Good People hate Nazis. There are bumper stickers. So you know they are serious about this. And they know where all of those Nazis are. The Nazis and the White Supremacists live just on the other side of the Cascades. Eastern Washington. Republicans, Nazis: they are all practically at the door. Seattle will be vigilant. There is a church in the University District -- an old brick church where Seattle people no longer go to church -- that has a giant 'Black Lives Matter' banner hung above the front doors. Yes: vigilant. Nazis don't think black lives matter, obviously. There is a problem. It is capital 'R' and it rhymes with Racist. Well, actually, it is Racist. Nazis are Racist. Again: bumper stickers. The Coexist bumper sticker has symbols of all kinds, but no swastika: this is on purpose. On the side

I don't spend all my time at the bar. It is Seattle: it is fun to get around. Things happen. But, in the bar, Seattle kinda comes to me. One guy lives in Ballard: you hear about the latest quirks in Ballard. One girl lives in Ravenna: you hear about Ravenna. And so on. I like the University District. Good bookstore, good bar, the kids and their energy and their little dramas that will look sweetly quaint a few years later. Sure, it's a bit seedy: heroin kids can make that happen. But when the sky is deep blue and it's a nice sixty degrees, well: pretty nice. There is a lesbian couple that come to the bar on occasion. When they do, they play pool. One is butch and covered in tattoos; the other is girly, with a tiny stud in her nose. In other words, stereotype Seattle. Sometimes they kiss and make out by the pool table, their cues laying against the wall; I think they are a little disappointed that no one cares about their display. No disgust, no rolled eyes, no

I know a woman at the bar who occasionally does belly-dancing at a burlesque club. It is Seattle: of course I do. She is a little heavy, but she moves well. I think she'd be more attractive with less make-up, but I am not going to tell her that: it is Her Look. Sometimes you gotta keep your male gaze to yourself. Conversations with her can be interesting, but a lot of the talk centers around her friends and their activities. And from their activities I think I really don't want to be their friends. Fringy. Piercings come up a lot. Again, it is Seattle: of course they do. I think she has a crush on one of the guys at the bar, a construction worker. I don't think he is into burlesque strippers, just stripper-strippers, probably. She stares at him from time to time, and he reads the newspaper, usually followed up by doing the crossword puzzle. I have seen the puzzles lying on the bar sometimes; he is good at crossword puzzles. I am sure there are guys in the a

The dreaded male gaze. Lighter to the cigarette. When I am at the bar and in the mood for a brief facsimile of love I look for the out-of-town girls. With that 'male gaze' thing. The regular girls at the bar: well, they are regulars, so you will see them again, and it will get complicated. And those complications will arise when one of the two involved is really drunk. And it is a bar, so the 'really drunk' is pretty sure to happen. Just thinking about it makes me want to be sober for a day. Or have a drink. One or the other. So: the out-of-town girls. The out-of-town girls are in Seattle on business, or tourists, or visiting a friend. And now they are in the bar. So: they want a bit of time away from what they came here for. Oh: and they probably have a hotel room. Which is good, because I don't want them to know where I live: I don't now need a stalker from, say, Montana. How do you know they are out-of-town girls? Well, for one, you can u

In a post yesterday I mentioned the band Loud Family. They had an album called "The Tape of Only Linda." This title is in reference... well, I'll let Wiki do the lifting:  "a reference to the notorious tape recording of a live performance of "Hey Jude" by Paul McCartney in which an engineer had isolated Linda McCartney's vocals." And the vocals are iffy: off-key, to begin. So, you know: a tape for the haters. On the internet some claim hoax, others swear to it. Meaning it is as real as you want it to be. Except Paul McCartney basically indicates it is true: "A BOOTLEG tape of the late Linda McCartney singing out of tune caused her so much hurt that Sir Paul McCartney has revealed that it was a prime reason for his latest project - a documentary on the history of his band Wings... But in an interview to be published in Mojo magazine later this week, Sir Paul says that a major motivation for the whole exercise was t

A lot of the kids at the bar still play Classic Rock on the jukebox. The sixties and seventies are still sticky in radio aspic, and many have a wistfulness about that time, without thinking too much about that being some of the music their grandparents listened to while having sex. What doesn't get played? Bob Dylan. For these kids there is a Dylan-shaped hole in their sixties and seventies: heard of him, likely, but not listened to. If they sense that hole then it is usually filled instead with John Lennon: they say they want a Revolution, too, and -- no -- they don't need to see the plan. This also means the song 'Imagine' will just not fucking die. The racing wordplay and ricochet rhymes of Dylan are now found in their Rap artists. "Bob Dylan's 115th Dream" has been supplanted by Jay-Z's 99 Problems. Of which a bitch ain't one: sorry, Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands. Dylan seems prissy to them, although you could certainly argue t

Looks like the UW is going to win the Apple Cup. The street will no doubt be teeming with kids from the bars, kids coming out from the stadium, kids from the dorms, and police in black at the corners to make sure things don't get too out of hand: keep them moving, keep them moving. Tomorrow, some boys will be nursing their first epic hangover. Tomorrow, some girls will be regretting their previous night's decisions, team decals still stuck on their face. Most of the kids will be fine. Because most kids usually are: they are learning to keep their balance. Some of them even still come from non-dysfunctional families. Meanwhile the heroin kids are in the alleys, their street temporarily taken over. They are like the cat of the house hiding under the bed when the party guests arrive. At the bar someone will certainly play Queen's "We Are The Champions." To which someone will jukebox-reply "Another One Bites The Dust." Then a lot of

Rich guys... Went to the bar to have a few pre-game drinks before the Apple Cup. Not staying for the game: the bar gets crowded, the crowd gets loud, the kids get drunk, and I'm not up for that particular energy right now. I love that they love their team: I just am happy for their excitement, as opposed to experiencing that excitement wobble and bump and jostle into me, along with the tremulous quivering nests of the LOUD DRUNK COLLEGE GIRLS WITH THE LOUD HIGH VOICES.  Loud high noises make my ears ring lately. While having a smoke, a guy with an expensive haircut, expensive clothes, maybe in his fifties, makes a display of parking his new silver Range Rover in front. Oh: he has an expensive watch, too. Shiny. Anyway, he gets out, nodding, but no one cares: everyone on the sidewalk is looking at the Japanese student's black Maserati parked two cars back. You work hard, sacrifice your personal time and perhaps your ethics along the way, and you finally get the

A few weeks ago a Traffic Enforcement Officer was walking down the sidewalk, issuing tickets. The city needs to keep feeding the machine that is the city, fifty-ish dollars at a time. Recently they removed some parking spaces and replaced them with yellow curbs -- no doubt it has increased the volume of infractions. Sly, in a bureaucratic conniving way. The first car she tickets is a yellow Maserati. There are three Maseratis that occasionally park on this block of the street. All are driven by Japanese students. There is a Japanese karaoke club they frequent in a building upstairs; they wait outside and smoke until it opens in the evening. An expensive door fee to get in pretty much keeps everyone else out: if that is the plan then the plan is working. I think it is the plan.  On the street, it is surprising to see young men who do not affect the American gangsta stances and poses. Even here, they are on an island. They stand by an expensive car, flashy rims, but they do not