chez la buche qui rouler.

I always say that in order to appreciate the finer things in life, one must have some sort of basis for comparison. For this very reason I strolled over to Issaquah’s “Rolling Log” tavern Friday after work with a few of my co-workers to delight in cheap beer and (vagrant) people watching.


This dubious establishment is one of those places where upon exiting, no matter if you’ve touched nothing during your brief tenure there, you always feel filthy. But then again, there is an even better chance that you’ll find a foreign sticky substance on your seat (as I did) or reach in to a plastic container holding shuffleboard pucks only to find the pucks slathered with mucousy saliva (as my friend Kristin did.) The three cretins monopolizing the Log’s shuffleboard until moments prior had left their lingering essence not only by way of the Gwar and Winger music selections on the juke box, but also by way of their DNA.

I made my way over to the juke box with the hope that these vile death metal selections could not last much longer and so loaded the machine with a few of my favorite dive bar anthems: "Everybody’s Working for the Weekend” and “I Can’t Go for That” to name a few. As I pondered over my selection, I began waving wildly to garner the attention of my crew since I could not for the life of me remember which group performed “Everybody’s Working for the Weekend.” Whilst gesturing, an unkempt bearded chap took this to be a sign that I wanted to talk to him and came up to me. Not feeling as social as is usually the case, I smiled and nodded, paying no attention to his babbling and focused on selecting my remaining three songs. Please do not misunderstand, I had no notions that I was better than this gentleman—I simply wanted to listen to my tunes, enjoy the company of my friends, and partake of my Stella.

Guitar riffs continued to assault my eardrums and I found myself saying “huh” and “what” every few moments, such was the din. The Log clientele was one of my group’s “mane” topics of discussion due to the fact that every man looked either like Simba, Michael Bolton, or some horrific combination thereof. Since no one could hear too terribly well, we spent most of our time smiling, pointing, toasting, and enjoying some light snacks.

Particularly thrilling to me about the Log is their “Nut Bar.” For one buck, the trusty barmaid Jamie will fill a tiny cup with lukewarm mixed nuts. Also available, and preferable only after one has indulged in a couple of beers, is free popcorn. We threw caution to the wind and loaded up on this gratis snack, despite the fact that it appeared to have been made hours, if not days, before.



I ever so slowly nursed my second beer, indignant that I would not leave until my songs had been heard. The bar continued to throng even as wayward regulars shuffled in and out to smoke by the back door. I easily lost track of time considering how dimly lit it was inside. The darkness did not embrace that ever present “unaffected cool” vibe, but instead was instrumental in disguising layers of grime in which the Log is eternally encrusted. I attempted to distract myself as Kristin regaled me with debaucherous tales of the regulars.

noteworthy patron and a partial of jamie (barmaid)

Having passed a good two hours idly gripping my handbag and taking photos of the more noteworthy patrons, it was time to again delight in the finer things. Kissing my companions’ cheeks and bidding them all adieu, I washed my hands a few times and hit the road.

idly gripping my handbags