The Oakley sunglasses! The gangs of senior citizens walking side by side unaware of the speeding Rollerbladers! Oh, the chubby, blonde beach babes chain-smoking their Marbs! The honking! The lumbering! The open-mouthed breathing! Half of these people could live for at least two years off of nothing but their own doublewide butts. The rest can just raid 7-Eleven’s freezer and play Scattergories. Oh, captain, my captain — I’m right down inside the belly of the beast. It’s Ruston Way on a sunny Sunday afternoon, and I’m about to go out of my effing gourd.



Don’t even begin to wonder what I’m doing here. Trust me, if I were to tell you, you’d stop reading immediately. The point is, I’m here. And the bigger point is, as I’m walking down the street only halfway considering the merits of gun ownership and fully considering the merits of sterilization, I spot Tacoma’s oldest tavern, The Spar, and just about fall down and kiss the sidewalk.



Inside the Spar, I take a deep breath and already feel better. Gone is the Old Tacoma Saloon, where lawlessness ruled in the early 1900s. Today, The Spar is restored with cool wood floors and a beautiful back bar. It’s a friendly joint, and the staff seem to love their jobs. The beer aroma is faint, but it’s definitely there. This isn’t my imagination. I’m home.



Joining me this afternoon are just the sort of people I like — people sitting all by themselves on a sunny Sunday afternoon, drinking beer, staring off vacantly and looking generally disappointed with the human race. Sure, there are a few couples chatting idly and sipping suds. But these people are cool, too. They’re in here drinking. They’re not outside in muscle shirts and thongs over leotards. And chances are if any children result from the inevitable clumsy-but-still-fun lovemaking that will take place when they go home, the kids will grow up to be adults who will likewise refrain from buttholic behavior. It’s nice in here.



My food arrives in the form of a bunch of turkey topped with provolone cheese, tomatoes and some other stuff. It appears that I’ve chosen well. I tell the waitress to keep the Guinness flowing freely. She smiles and says she’ll do just that. Yes,



I’m home. Home free. — Brad Allen



[The Spar, 2121 N. 30th St., Old Town Tacoma, 253.627.8215]