When THE SMOKING BAN was passed last year, I was secretly glad.  No obnoxious drunk friends accidentally burning me or my clothes.  No smoke in the eyes. No longer would the first person finished at dinner light up and ruin the rest of our appetites. No more clothes smelling like an ashtray after being out all night. (I don't smoke in my house at all, and I swear you can smell my clothes from the other room.)  Gross!

I hate other people smoking around me, too, but I EXPECT TO BE ALLOWED TO SMOKE ANYWHERE I want to. You know, non-smoker friend's cars as I grab a ride home at the end of the night or on the way to a completely unnecessary after party. I only smoke rarely, and by rarely I mean every time I drink. There are people who don't even know I smoke until I run into them cocktail in hand at this lounge or the other.

Overcrowded places where 90 percent of the people smoke are the worst. Take The Cha Cha Lounge in Seattle for instance.  The hazy red lighting is magnified by all the smoke and gives the place a surreal quality. Punked out Robert Smith types drinking liquor punch with speared oranges and cherries and ashing all over the bar, dizzy drunk Chrissy Hines types in the corner talking loudly about nothing and meaning every word as they wave their arms through the air with, you guessed it, lit cigarettes in hand.

I have been these people at one point or another in my life and occasionally, very occasionally, I still resemble them on nights that deserve to be forgotten or deeply buried.

My point?  I have none. My name is Ginger. I keep my long cigarettes in an antique case, and I am a cigarette snob.

Thursday, Feb. 3

There is something decadent about getting a massage in the middle of the day.  Like when you used to skip class back in high school and go home, and it was soooo quiet and still and nothing was better than the vodka you swiped from your parents' stash. Come on now, it wasn't just me.  Returning to the present, TURNING POINT MASSAGE on Sixth Avenue is divine.  KATE BENDER, who I have mentioned more than once, is a smashing massage therapist. I have been going to her since 2000 (we should be married by now, it's been that long).  I slipped into the Boneyard for a little dinner and caught acoustic singer/songwriter MATT COUGHLIN performing an amazing opening set for LEROY BELL. I wasn't the only one who thought so either. The audience GAVE MATT A STANDING OVATION.  Watch for him at Fender's the end of March and just watch him in general. Matt is going places big time.

Friday, Feb. 4

JIMO went to Seattle to EL CORAZON (the old Graceland) to catch CLUTCH and their groovy and fuzzy interpretation of hard rock.  I seethed with envy when he told me he was going.  You see, last year when they came we cherished comp tickets, but I was sick as hell and Jimo went with a work buddy instead (damn them both). So this year I was crazy excited. Then I found out Clutch was on the same weekend as my trip to the wineries in Port Angeles (damn the wineries).  I think it goes without saying that I did not see Clutch (damn Clutch) AGAIN! Jimo smugly told me how great they were AGAIN and how he hung with KEN OF FALL WITH GRACE and JAY OF THE BLACK HALOS (presently recording with Jack Endino). Damn it, Jim (I'm only a doctor).  That reminds me, WILLIAM SHATNER released a CD recently, and it's getting airplay on KEXP. Call up and request it. The DJs will love you. Here's something funny, too. On a Web site geared toward 10 to15-year-olds, there's a Clutch article at www.kidzworld.com.  Kids for Clutch ... nice.