It happens in politics, it happens in families, it happens in the workplace, so -- of course -- it happens at the bar: people who were once close turn on each other. And, like in all of those places, it makes the people close to them uncomfortable. Uncomfortable with easy access to an alcoholic beverage, yes, but still: uncomfortable. Sometimes it is politics, sometimes a sense of betrayal. Sometimes a principle, sometimes unrequited love. Some causes seem rational, some seem silly, but that doesn't really matter. If the people involved are taking it that seriously, then the needle is in the red. And the needle stays in the red, because no mechanic wants to take on that shit. A lot of people think that, somehow, the bartender can fix these things. Because bartenders are Magic. They turn your money into alcohol, which is always a good trick. But unless one of the Red Needle People is a lousy customer, then there is not much he or she can do: the bartender is paid to serve c...

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...

At the bar there is a younger guy who fancies himself a poet. Now, he doesn't call himself a poet -- it sounds presumptive and pretentious to describe one's self that way, most likely --but he says he writes poems. I guess not all who plumb are plumbers, I don't know. He sits in a booth with a beer and writes in his notebook, scribbles things out, writes again. Sometimes he appears mildly anguished, which I can imagine poets looking like: there is a word, the perfect word, but it just won't come to mind.  Words can be tricky: they have different associations for different people, and you may be trying to play off of the different associations to achieve a deeper meaning. Or perhaps you're just trying to find the best word that conceivably rhymes. It probably sucks when you start with what you consider the perfect word, but then no other good word rhymes with it. Maybe Cole Porter already used up all of the good rhymes. And he wasn't even a poet. But...

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,...

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 is a girl who comes into the bar sometimes; she seems to have a crush on me. Others have noticed, and I am not oblivious to it. She is cute, smart, and as I have said before: I like the skinny girls who aren't too skinny. She is one of those. The aforementioned others tease me, ask me what I am going to do about it. By which they mean why don't I fuck her. It is a good question. She has graduated, and is going for her Masters. Twenty years ago I probably would've loved to have sex with her: she has more than a bit of the Naughty Librarian to her. Of course, twenty years ago I was legally an adult and she was probably two years of age. And that is the problem, really. I can't help but feel that, in some inchoate way, I would be corrupting her. Not like I would turn her out and pimp her: not that kind of corruption. And I have heard that pimpin' ain't easy. I just don't want to be a ready-made shortcut for her to become part of a more adult ...

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...

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...

I had a friend where we pretty much went our separate ways. He got married, and is now the kind of sober that falls off the wagon a lot. I'm pretty sure his wife doesn't want him around me, and I understand. I do not want to be his excuse for drinking; I have no desire to be the scapegoat in somebody else's soap opera. Early on, I did visit their house once. There was no alcohol in the house. Or I should say, there was no alcohol there that she knew of. Give me five minutes and I could find his hidden supply, I know it. It felt sterile and alien. But she did buy his clothes for him now, which only made him look more white-knuckle. No doubt they'll have kids and then divorce. -jj

I drink. I drink a lot. A wife would not put up with my habits, and would no doubt grow bitter at me not changing. Because love is supposed to do that. Now, I could marry a woman that drank a lot. And it might be good sometimes. But then she's drinking at seven in the morning because you're drinking, and you're drinking because she likes to drink around eleven. And so on. Now you're drinking far too much, and she's drinking far too much, and the house looks like shit. There is also the fact that most women who drink are fun for the first hour or so, then become needier and illogical as the drinking continues. Illogical or emotional, flip a coin. I need a maid maybe, not a wife. -jj

There's a girl from downtown I know who buys her heroin from various shady guys on the street. We were outside the bar having a cigarette when she offered to blow me for fifty bucks. I said no thanks and then she said forty bucks. I eventually bargained her down to ten dollars, but didn't actually want the blow job, so I just gave her two fives and went back inside the bar. She thinks the people at her work downtown don't suspect a thing about her habit. Sure. -jj

I went to the bar and had a few Thanksgiving drinks. There was a girl there from out-of-town, spending time away from the family she was in town to see. We talked, drank, smoked, and then ended up going back to my place to have sex. After we had sex she said she was really jonesing for cocaine. I told her I didn't have any, so she left to try to find someone who might know someone who had some coke. So it worked out rather well as far as I'm concerned. -jj