Good-God, its nice to have a neighborhood bar that’s like your living room. Say what you want about the triteness of that ’80s television sitcom Cheers and the whole “where everybody knows your name” schitck but it’s fucking hella nice to just be able to walk in whenever with out worrying about what you’re wearing, who’s there or not, and know that the bartender not only knows you for real, but even has your phone number….and no, not like how your thinking! Get your mind out of the gutter! I’ve never been a bartender groupie.

I’m talking about shit like…

When baseball season hits Seattle and Mr. Rockstar and I go to a game with friends Mike & Sarah and Meg & Jim and Cory & Matt…and yes, Mike’s the bartender at my neighborhood bar. Or, I have a Girls’ Night Out with dinner at a nice restaurant and drinks & dancing at a club afterwards with five-to-eight other women friends…and yes, Michelle works at my neighborhood bar.

Or, when my wallet falls out of my handbag (it’s been known to do this more than once…I’m really bad about zipping that damn bag shut), or maybe I just forgot it on the bar, and I get a call at 1:00 am from my friend Sharon…who, yes, is the bartender…to let me know it’s behind the counter at the cash register and I can pick it up whenever. It’s safe. Yeah. That’s really cool.

We all need a place where, when you walk in, the bartender is happy to see you and, almost every time  you visit, gives you $5.00 to put music on the jukebox because she knows that, even if she isn’t familiar with all the music you’ll play, it’ll be something she will like and she’ll be asking you every few songs,”Who IS this? What song? Cool!” The Mecca Cafe, 2010. Photo by entOptic

A place where I can type this on my iPhone while sitting at the bar & nobody thinks I’m being antisocial because they know that in five seconds I’m more likely to be up & bopping about to some crazy tune I just put on the jukebox or that I’ll be fighting to get a word in edgewise with somebody sitting or standing next to me bending my ear.

This is my living room, damn it. And yes, I do use the TV remote here.

So, move over outta my seat, Sugar. It fits my ass bettah. 😉

© 2011 D. Kessler