While going through my ephemera, I rediscovered the old Belltown Brain Fever Dispatch, which I started with Kevin Colby in the last century. This article was called Belltown at Night and appeared in the fourth issue, dated December 1, 1990. This means that eighteen years have past and I am still prowling around Belltown at night, although I don’t think I’ve been back to the Nitelite since.

In the Music and Art and Everything Else page were a Billy King art show at Chandler Fine Arts, the third annual artist-painted beer glass sale at the Virginia Inn, a request for musicians to form the Red Farm Symphony Orchestra, a newly-released tape by Somebody’s Daughter at Wall of Sound, and Joey Kline’s Wild West with Rattled Roosters from B.C. at the Rendezvous.
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We started out as usual from the corner of Virginia and First. A blustery wet fall evening. I was dressed for the weather, raincoat and Wellingtons. It was rather warm for late November. I had just watched Treasure Island twice the night before so I guess I felt a little pirate like….

AHOY! AVAST!

And pieces of eight echoed in my memory… where were my cutlass and eye-patch? Ah, here marooned on the corner as usual was our favorite panhandler, bundled up against the inclement weather. I emptied my pockets into the worn paper cup and headed up, pushed from the sound, to Second Avenue. We steered past the gated Moore Theater toward the lights of the Nitelite, a place I’ve past by many times with no desire to even peek in the door, but with promises of a DJ and a “hip” replacement décor, we strolled inside past the doorman with his omnipotent flashlight and white suit checking IDs (not mine). As soon as we walk in, we see our good friends Peete, Ray and Alister (names have been changed for the usual reasons). Drinks all around as I survey the joint. Blue is the color; it’s warm, TV wrestling, country western, Moonie roses. There are twenty assorted people, a smorgasbord, a virtual rainbow of humanity. There is a sign in the window: “Window has been closed due to suspected drug dealing thank you.” The wall in the small dancing room and the bar match, a ’50s plastic kitsch ant farm. You have to see it for yourself.

Well, it’s time to head on down Second to the next anchorage, the Frontier Room. Alas, we left the Vogue behind as my attire wasn’t trendy and neither was our group attitude. AARGH! MATES! I think the Vogue would be more interesting during the week when they have heavy metal punk thrash bands or on Monday nights with the Kookie Rastas and dat Reggae music mon. We’ll have to do it another night. The wind is fierce; it makes you scream AARGH! LADDIES, and want to lash yourself to the nearest mast with a full hogs head of rum.

So, away we go into the Frontier Room, past the sprawled doorman who doesn’t check my ID (are they all trying to tell me something). The bar hasn’t changed much from decade to decade. I used to go here in the early ’80s or before, taking a break from the thumping disco at Tugs, going next door to the small, dark, and mostly empty Frontier Room. In this decade the regulars are in their places in the daytime; by night they are replaced by the young, the very hip who line up 20 deep, calmly, for a longneck Bud or something stronger while the compact disc juke box plays Iggy or something stronger. Anyway, the bathrooms are still the same; after a quick stop, we decide to forego the line at the bar and head up to Wall Street and My Suzie’s.

We pass by Casa-U-Betcha. There is a line outside even in this weather and, once again, it doesn’t look like our attitude will get us in he door. Well, we’ll maybe try it when the bingo ball bounces on Sunday nights, but on to
My Suzie’s.

“Why, Why, Delilah?” We all sing and all of my companions know all of the words. Velvet nudes, Japanese fishing floats, and old Halloween decorations-dancing flowerpots, “I Did it My Way”, so “Send In The Clowns.” Ray orders a late turkey sandwich while the rest of are content to sip our generous drinks and sway to the crooning of Phil Westbrook, song stylist. Seated next top him in a place or honor an aging crooner takes the stage with his beautiful old-fashioned voice. We leave when they kick us out. The other two patrons have already gone home.

Well, now it’s time for some late night sports. It’s up to the 211 pool hall, transplanted from its original site on Union Street. At the front desk, we have to swear that we have IDs, but on reflection, I think I was left out once again. I think I get the picture. This place ushers us right on the big screen, us five and Paul Newman and Tom Cruise. Its cavernous high-ceilinged room contains a million pool tables. You can barely see across through the smoky seriousness. We are warned by the house rules not to talk too loud, sit on the pool tables, or play some teen-rebel type of pool. We go to a nice corner; Ray and Charles play a couple of games of pool. The rest of us sit and drink our beers and try not to get kicked out by howling at our own jokes, now really funny after a few drinks. The only sound is the crack-carom of sticks and balls crashing. There are mostly men in here except for Marion and her look-alike sister, one of whom is a championship pool player (she tells me).

What has happened to the time? It’s almost 2 a.m., so we slide on into the Rendezvous. Antonia tells us that it’s after last call and some of the clientele are getting rambunctious, so we go on back to the automobile. We is now HONGRY, and cruise down to Denny to the only all-night eatery in the neighborhood other than Steve’s Broiler and the Dog House. But the lights look too bright and the chairs too straight, so we have to say goodbye to Belltown and sail on up to Capitol Hill.

What fun night off the beaten path. We’ll have to do it again before all of the funky spots are forgotten or bulldozed over or de-funked. So, if you ever wonder what to do some night look us up. Ray, Peete, Charles, Alister and I will give you the inside tips on Belltown at night.