My friend Lora recently opened for the Beastie Boys in Las Vegas. It seems there was a last-minute semi-secret show there, at a maybe 2,000 capacity venue and on a Monday no less. The opening act, if you will, was karoake and Lora got up the gumption to sing a Joan Jett and the Blackhearts song. She was wearing an early-’80s Beasties t-shirt that says “Get off my dick” on the back.

There was also a recent convocation of the League of Intoxicated Gentlemen, this time in the Ballard orbit. All I can really say publicly is that there was a secret ceremony and afterwards we were wearing fezzes. (“The secret to wearing a fez is maintaining an air of utter dignity.”) During our second stop at the Ballard Smoke Shop, I had an unexpectedly intense conversion with a drunk elemental, one of those pickled shamans you find occasionally in real working class bars. He asked piercing questions. Things entered a different orbit. Of course, this was after the repeated visits from boisterous pirates while drinking whiskey at Hattie’s Hat, so I suppose that might have tipped me if I’d paid attention.