9.14.2005

Seedy does it

Saturday night, Bill invited me to tag along to an art opening. Normally, I enjoy art, but gallery spaces can seem so uptight that I generally pass. This opening was different--it was at the new clothing store in Ballard, Twenty/Twenty. The artwork was great and graphic-y (just the way I like it). To repay Bill for his kindness in including me, I decide to take him to the dive-iest bar I know. (Actually, Bill requested the dive-iest bar I know).
That, my friends, would be the
Golden City. The first time I went to the Golden City, I was treated to a stabbing. This alone does not make the Golden City the dive-iest. It merely puts it in the company with the pre-hipster days Crescent. One time Maggie and some of her Elliot Bay cohorts had the same request as Bill. Dive-bar. Ballard. Go. As we arrived, an altercation between two drunken men was taking place outside the bar. The gang opted for the second seediest dive bar. Ah well, their loss.
Luckily, the bar lived up to the reputation on Saturday. Neither Bill nor myself were disappointed. The nicotine stained painting of a riverboat, replete with the Negroes playing the banjo, welcomed us. The bartendress was aged beyond her years from hard-living. An old man sat at a stool on one side of the bar. A middle aged woman at the other. His glasses were thick and rimmed with square black plastic. Her discman provided her with tunes (thankfully) inaudible to the rest of the bar. Both were well into their cups.
Bill and I ordered and grabbed a seat. We each chose songs for the jukebox. When Blue Oyster Cult's "Don't Fear the Reaper" came on, the woman at the bar ripped her headphones off and lazily exclaimed, "I love this fuckin' song!"
And she did, too. She gyrated and sang-along--when she remembered what she was doing.
She gyrated all the way to the old man who told her to, "Keep [her] filthy fuckin' harlot hands off of [him]." She was dejected then ejected. She tried to run back in, but the bartendress kept her at bay.
The next colorful character was a man selling steak and cheese from his backpack. Had I known that he had a block of Tillamook, I gladly would have purchased it from him. As it stood, the bartendress got to the booty well before me. Everyone passed on the steak, though. There;s just something a little oogy about purchasing beef out from someone's backpack.
The final person to grace us with his presence was an artist. A real live artist!! He was a poet, too. Well, more of a rapper. He had this Eminem schtick down. He regaled us with not one, not two, but three different poems. Each misogynistic and bigoted in its own unique way. He, apparently, was on drugs. ("My toxicology report would look like a phone book," he said multiple times.)
But that was about all I could take. Dive right in, everyone, the bar is fine.

2 comments:

Keith said...

Tillamook? Sammy the dog is a big fan of the sharp cheddar.

I just finally caught up on the last few days of posting since my new job actually requires that I work (And we don't have internet access at our computers...).

Had to boast with the link too - it's my first real online/in print presence!

jeremy said...

Nice work, Keith!! Now's you's all published 'n' shit!
Next up, McSweeney's!