Basement bars have always had a special place in my heart. Perhaps that's why I never really found my home in Seattle. Their bars weren't dirty enough.
Sure, Linda’s had a great jukebox, and I'm fairly certain that the floors of the Comet went unswept for the nine years I lived there, but they were surface level and lacked the character and wisdom that can only be found at the bottom of a flight of stairs.
Dim and smoky, I prefer places where you find old men nursing whiskey before noon. Geezers and coots with hard-luck stories. These were the men of my neighborhood—the bachelors and widowers on my paper route and in my barber shop. They knew things. They kept score. And they are disappearing fast.
When we were young, they were the ones who called us by our grandparents' names, and remembered our parents as children. They were men that fought wars and built railroads. I look for them when I ride.