The college girls who come to the bar: they love their social media. Sure, there are regulars who use social media, but Not Like That. Not Like That basically meaning like This: snapshots and film clips and texting, seemingly every action, posted. Video or it doesn't exist. Video or they don't exist. In the evenings the college boys hang around the college girls, and the college girls hang out with each other and their phones. They make faces for one another, they pose, a shimmy here and there; they are no doubt aware that the college boys are watching, but the boys are mostly left as subscribers to the live feed: the girls just want to have fun. And it isn't fun anymore if you're not showing yourself having fun to your friends. So if a college girl is playing pool, one of her friends films it. They take photos of the empty glasses they have amassed on the table. They look at each others' phones, to see what each other is doing. They document their evening,

Marijuana is now legal in Seattle. Some of the regulars smoked weed before it was legal, of course; the difference now is that no one needs to hide it. Now people come into the bar smelling strongly of the no-longer-illicit weed. They are almost prideful of the smell: they have been smoking the Good Stuff. I said the difference now is that no one needs to hide it. But there is another difference: the legal stuff is stronger. More potent. Growers are working diligently on this, because there is open competition. Now it is like the proliferation of meticulous craft beers: you are aiming for a choosy market. People care about where the hops come from, say: they are discerning. It is no longer Sixties Damage Grass, or Forgotten Seventies pot, or even Eighties Without Hats weed. It is no longer what just happens to be available from shady guys on the Ave. It is like the steroids era in baseball: everyone wants the stuff that lets you hit seventy home runs. Everyone wants to slowly

The Beatles are great fodder for conspiracy theories, and conspiracy theories are great fodder for the bar. If it happened in the Sixties, and it was a negative thing, there was probably a conspiracy behind it.  JFK, RFK, MLK: the idea of it being just one crazy loser seems too small for some people to accept. The accepted thing is that the Government is big enough to do conspiracies, especially the CIA. The Military Complex. Big Business. The Mafia are good, too. You would think the Soviet Union was big enough, but no one seems to blame them for anything, even Lee Harvey Oswald, who actually lived there. The Beatles had Paul Is Dead, of course. Which really was kind of a conspiracy, after all: the Beatles planned it, instigated by their manager. McCartney admitted this in an interview a few years back, if you wish to look up the details. The sound engineer Alan Parsons stumbled across the "Turn me on, dead man" phrase that sounded plausibly like "Number Nine, Numbe

I was at the bar recently, and had a conversation regarding Star Trek with the Retired Black Curmudgeon. Star Trek is one of the things he likes to talk about: he will take off his earphones for a conversation with that one. Sometimes order another glass of wine to settle in. I enjoyed the original Star Trek; despised The Next Generation, never watched the others. I understand what they did with The Next Generation: they switched the main two characters. Kirk, the Man of Action, was the Leader; Spock, the Man of Reason, was the second-in command. So they switched it around: the Spock character -- Picard -- became the Leader, and the Man of Action became the Second Guy. To further the difference between the two shows they got a guy for the Next Generation's Man of Action who had no charisma. The original Star Trek also had Bones, Scotty, Sulu, Chekov: Next Generation had a kid, a robot and a blind guy. Bones, Scotty, Sulu, Chekov: they had names because they were characters

At the bar there are several guys of a type: we will call them the Nice Enough Guy Who Won't Stop Talking. He is pleasant; maybe a little ragged, maybe nicely dressed: there isn't a specific type for this type. Other than the fact that, if you engage him in a pleasantry he will now begin talking with you. And he won't stop talking. Like I said, he is a Nice Enough Guy: he is not like some of the Ragged Crazies outside who don't stop talking because the Voices In Their Head don't stop talking. And they are not pretending it is conversation: it is decidedly a monologue, if not a particularly coherent one. The Nice Enough Guy Who Won't Stop Talking, though: he thinks you are now having a conversation. Of which your part is to nod in agreement and occasionally say 'Yeah' or 'That sucks.' Depending on what he is going on about. It could be a particular sports player he is talking about -- a guy who isn't as good as everyone thinks he

Sometimes a line comes to me, and I don't even know if I actually agree with it or not. But the thought came. So. Some people view the Sixties like some communists view Communism: the Real Sixties haven't even been tried yet. -james james

At the bar there was a regular who fought in Vietnam. Long black hair, even at his age, worn in a ponytail; his girlfriend would occasionally braid it, before she went batshit crazy and disappeared. Rumors: there were rumors. He worked as a chef at a nearby mission, and was fighting a long battle with leukemia, which he lost two years ago, after having moved to Florida to be near family. He blamed Agent Orange for his disease. I have no idea if that was true or not, but it was his story, and he was entitled to tell it his way. He had a dry sense of humor, and would often shake his head at the foibles of the other regulars. Of course he had his own seat at the bar, at the corner. There are several older regulars at the bar who have strong opinions on Vietnam, and Richard Nixon. They didn't fight in the war -- they were children at the time. But the legacy of that period was ingrained in them: they knew they would have protested Nixon and the War if only they were old enough

One of the nice things about the Ave during the Holidays: it doesn't change all that much. It's cold, so the Heroin Kids aren't out as much, which is nice. Still, if you are on the street having a cigarette you will still be asked for spare cigarettes or paper money, just like always. The Ragged Crazies are still there; their mumbled spiels and shouted non sequitirs usually don't involve anything about Christmas -- the voices in their heads are on their own calendar, which might have a thousand days, or maybe only one. One of the things that doesn't change much: shoppers. Not a lot of people go Christmas shopping on the Ave. The malls and downtown and University Village are jammed like a Tokyo subway train, but the Ave is not really a shopping destination. Unless you buy your Christmas gifts at the drug store. Or Seven-Eleven. Or the Retro Gaming shop. The University Bookstore gets crowded -- books and UW sweatshirts are easy gifts -- but otherwise, well: t

On the bar there are the regular bar accoutrements: clear plastic paper napkin holder, black plastic holder of straws, stacks of coasters, a few rubber mats for the bartender to set down drinks. Maybe the clear and black plastic holders are different in the fancier bars; maybe they are ceramic, or glass, or just plastic with a marble pattern. I don't know: I don't often frequent fancy bars. I don't like my drinks to have what amounts to an eight-dollar ambiance charge. Down at one end of the bar is a black plastic holder of straws, but instead of straws it holds a collection of cheap grey plastic ballpoint pens. Sometimes one is used for a crossword puzzle; a surprising number of people at the bar do crossword puzzles on a regular basis. But the main purpose of the cheap grey plastic ballpoint pens is to write down a name and phone number. Sure, it is the era of the cell phone, but still people write down numbers, often on a paper cocktail napkin. You could enter t

There are Regulars at the bar, and there are Visitors. Pretty self-explanatory, I imagine. But because the world isn't always neatly binary, there are those that fall in-between; some of the college girls are like that. As an example. As another example; The Guy With The Frikking Band-Aids. He doesn't show up often enough to be a regular, but he shows up often enough to be recognized. It it is always easier to recognize a guy who always shows up with band-aids on his body. Sometimes his nose. Sometimes his forehead. Sometimes his cheek. Always at least a finger or four. Other than that, he appears normal: he doesn't look like a Ragged Crazy or a guy down on his luck. Although if you always need band-aids maybe your luck isn't all that good, either. Once in awhile, when he is at the bar ordering a drink, someone will ask him about what happened, indicating the band-aid with a nod. His usual answer is he doesn't want to talk about it. So, of cours

During the Holidays the Ave used to put up shooting stars that arced above the street, white lights star, white lights trail. They looked like something from the early Sixties; maybe their original appearance coincided with the 1962 World Fair, which brought the Space Needle and the Monorail. This origin is just a guess, but I like it, so have no desire to research further. They were there last year. This year they are not there. Instead, there are a few trees wrapped with white lights. Generic. Could be anywhere. Maybe too expensive to run, maybe too expensive to maintain. Maybe they require a unique part that hasn't been made since 1972, and they don't have replacement parts anymore, and they don't have the people anymore who can even jury-rig something like that. The last of the people with those skills retired last year, maybe. Perhaps it coincides with the Last of the Television Repairmen. So the Ave becomes a little less special. Which is pretty much the Stor

There is a younger guy at the bar who has talked lately of moving to Australia. The idea of getting up root and branch and moving somewhere else is still in the American Psyche. And in the psyche of the immigrants that come to America. So the American Psyche is found in other lands and identified by the decision to leave for America. There is a name for that kind of reasoning. In a far but recent past, such people would strike out from the East and move West. And as the East caught up with them they would move farther West. Some still do: they move to California. For many, the California Dream is bigger than the American Dream. Some even dream of going further West: these people dream of Hawaii and a land of relaxation and beauty and pleasing weather, exotic, but exotic in a way where the English language can get you by comfortably. Hawaii: America, but not too much America. Some of these Westward people made it to Seattle. By which point you are pretty much running out of lan

Television has a way of finding you. It is typically in your home, of course. The remote control is on your bed-stand, perhaps. It is in the airport, it is in the hospital waiting room, it is in the waiting room of the auto repair shop while you are getting your twenty-thousand-mile service. That car was new, once; now it is just your car. Television and waiting go together. And it is at the bar. It is on when there are sports, obviously. But when the game is over it usually stays on, muted, because: jukebox. When the game is on a local station what follows is some off-brand show that the local stations buy to put on after games to fill air. A lot of shows about animals. People drink their drinks, look at the animals. The off-brand animal show makers should probably just put on cat videos from the internet: perfect for watching with the sound off. Drinking alcohol and watching cats act like jerks; it is a pleasant combination. During the weekday afternoons, before the deluge o

The bar has football on Sundays on the big screens. During baseball season, baseball, during basketball season, basketball. Soccer, when it is the Sounders. Also on occasion, hockey, although I do not profess to know what their season actually is: it always seems to start earlier than I would expect, and go on longer than I would have imagined. I guess it always seemed like a game that would start in November and end in January. And then the hockey players would visit their dentists in February. Something like that. That said, I would not call the bar a sports bar. Sure, people show in crowds for the UW Huskies and NFL Seahawks games, but most of the other times games are on the screen, but people aren't paying them much attention. Usually the jukebox is playing, the games on mute. There is one guy who gambles on the sports: he usually is paying rapt attention to games no one else seems to care about. But when you have money riding on it I guess even boring teams can be ex

There is a guy at the bar who swears he saw a UFO back in the Seventies. Fast darting movements, strange lights, hovering. I do not doubt he saw a UFO: a UFO is an Unidentified Flying Object, and I believe he saw a Flying Object he could not Identify. But he obviously means alien spaceship, so, for him, it is actually an Identified Flying Object: he has identified it. It makes for good bar banter from time to time. Uranus jokes, alien anal probes; I was trying to think of something to add to that list but it is those two, mainly. Maybe cattle mutilation gets mentioned, but that is probably because I mention it. On space aliens I am agnostic. Maybe they are there, maybe not. It doesn't play much of a role in my wonder of the universe. I'm still excited that we landed men on the moon. And disappointed that we pretty much stopped there. But if a space alien arrived, he could do worse than visiting the bar to learn about human behavior. Pretty much all behaviors happen

The woman with the nice wardrobe and the ample cleavage: I have mentioned that she wears nice shoes, from serious to fun to flirty. On infrequent occasions she wears high heels to the bar. High heels, and even higher heels. This attracts attention. Apart from the ample cleavage she is slender but not too skinny. So: in high heels and higher heels she cuts an impressive figure. Men stare. They stare more when she crosses the room. Or leans over to take a pool shot. These actions attract still more attention. I do not profess to know why she decides on a particular day to wear the high or higher heels; she is dressed well, but usually not in a nightclub way. There must be a decision-making process that is layered and faceted. Or it is intuitive, and easily decided upon in the morning when selecting shoes. Either one. Again: I don't profess to know. Or even sound like I might know. When she sits at the bar she is at her regular, accustomed height. There is no apparent clu

David Foster Wallace had a collection of short stories entitled "Brief Interviews with Hideous Men"; at times, this seems like a perfectly reasonable title for conversations that happen with some people at the bar. Maybe not truly hideous; I could check a thesaurus for a synonym that seems somewhat lighter, but it is just easier to say I could check a thesaurus for a synonym that seems somewhat lighter, and you'll know what I mean. I have mentioned the broken men before, and those that instill distaste.They are usually obvious as losers: poor posture, poor bodies, questionable hygiene, enervated, isolated. The broken men who inspire fear -- sometimes it is just a vibe that says prison, or possible serial killer. The kind of guy most women instinctively know to never get in a car with. But there are also the broken losers who look like winners. They show up in a fashionable suit and tie; they wear an expensive watch, expensive shoes. Maybe mid-twenties; maybe earl

There is a woman at the bar who has an impressive wardrobe. She is the one who was touched on the shoulder, the arm, the thigh, if you are attempting to keep all of this straight. She is also the one with the ample cleavage; maybe that is the part you remember. But wardrobe: a nice array of stylish clothing, well-fitted, shoes from serious to fun to flirty. The flirty shoes get the attention of the guy with the foot fetish. They are nice feet, as far as I can tell; I usually only take much notice of women's feet if there is something distracting about them. For instance, the exposed foot in the heels of a transsexual certainly looks different than what I would reasonably expect. As an example. I am sure the guy with the foot fetish notices this right away. The woman with the nice wardrobe: she cares about her appearance. Sometimes this fact alone makes her stand out in the bar. Her clothing is not ostentatious -- it is not about money: she shops for bargains from the bette

I have written of the broken men before, such as the Guy Who Stares At Women's Asses Too Long. Being a bar, there is not really a shortage of broken men to be found. Some know that they are indeed broken; some even have an ex-wife on which they can lay blame. Some do not know they are broken: they believe they are simply misunderstood, usually. Maybe the world is against them: sometimes the world misunderstands. In the evenings there are the college girls. They are in their own bubble: in that bubble they dance with friends, make suggestive dance moves to the jukebox, pose with Instagram pouts for selfies. Occasionally they briefly intersect with the broken men, usually as they wait in line at the bar for fresh drinks, Sometimes the college girls are also looking for party supplies. One of the broken men -- the misunderstood kind -- is quietly asked if he knows where one can buy some cocaine. He says Sure, he can make that happen. I have no idea if he can actually make tha