There is an Ave Casualty that is on her second round on the street. Years ago she would frequent the bar, play pool, socialize. A very pretty young woman, she was outgoing, with a quick smile. Drama did not seem to circle her, like it does some young women. Drama chases some women; some invite it. For her it seemed to keep a respectable distance. Then she stopped coming inside the bar as much, but you would still see her on the street, outside, passing by. She had fallen in love with a Heroin Kid. Maybe she thought she could save him, I don't know. But of course it went the other way, like it usually does: she began to get thin, her eyes became dull, distant. Soon the quickest way to see her was to wander by the Heroin Kids in front of the Sporting Goods store, hoping for spare change from the random pedestrians who hadn't seen all of this before. Then she disappeared. Which often meant an overdose. However, the word was she left to go back home to the Midwest, to fami...

A few years back there was a kid on the Ave that I called the Dylan Kid. He dressed in vintage clothes to wear things that look like Bob Dylan might've worn, back in the day. He had the electric howl of hair, only red. And the sunglasses. And the aloof pose: he obviously studied hard at studied cool. Like Madonna and the British accent she sometimes has. He would play his acoustic guitar a few storefronts down from the bar, and sing his songs, songs that sounded like Dylan songs from back in the day. Back in the day was back again, at least for him. I remember him being pretty good, if not particularly original. But then they said that about Dylan too, early on. For awhile the Music Industry kept trying to find the New Bob Dylan: Bruce Springsteen was one of those so anointed. By the New Dylan they meant pretty much the Young Dylan, or at least up to, then stopping, at That Christian Thing.  Maybe there were a lot of New Dylans that were doing That Christian Thing, and...

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 ...

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 guy who shows up at the corner in front of the Wells Fargo every few months. He preaches fire and brimstone through a loudspeaker. Echoes off the buildings. There are usually a few guys with him holding up signboards. Some of the heroin kids inevitably wander over there to mock him and his sign carriers. Eventually the police come. I helped the guy out once. His sound system was feedbacking horribly, feedback and echoes of feedback, absolutely painful to listen to. So I went over to show him how to set his levels and position him out of the direct line of the speaker. He thanked me, then resumed his preaching. I think that was possibly a Christian act on my part, but I probably get points off for mostly wanting to stop the noise. -jj