Last Tuesday I fill the canteen, grabbed new scribe Helen Layton and made my way to Seafarer Sports Bar & Grill...

7:30pm.: The joint is decorated in a style interior designers would recognize as Early Ground Round, with a mix of promotional beer signs, nautical antiques, and kitschy curiousities. "Old Union People Never Die, They Just Go To Hall" and a thousand other union-orinated bumper stickers hold the walls together. Helen and I straddled the barstools and wait to become conversation pieces for the union guys leaning against the bar.

7:32:Yukie, a diminuative Asian barmaid, informed us the cook decide not to show and the menu was very limited: cheeseburger,cheeseburger,cheeseburger, no Swiss. Agains her warning that they are huge, we decide to order our own burgers. I grabbed a Rainier draft and watched the Mariners rip someone a new one, again. The bar area is painted blue-collar comfort. Kicking back with a beer and strangers doesn't feel odd after a few once-overs.

7:34: A 20 something asks for another shot of whisky and rejoins his two roommates - mom and dad. They scored the table 5 feet away from the big screen.

7:45: I look to replace Rick Rizzs voice with tunes from the wall mounted juke. I always look for Motor City Madman Ted Nugent's "Stranghold" or Peter Frampton's talk-box-orgy "Do You Feel Like We Do," just because these 4:20 jams pack more bang for the buck... and they tend to annoy the hell out of anyone who doesn't quite apprieciate my sense of musical irony. No such luck, just Hawaiian hits, Lee Greenwood, '70s album rock and local blues.

7:50 Good lord, it's the incredible Mayor McCheese! Spring has sprung and so has my belt after plowing through half of the massive burger. It's twice as big as anything I've seen at Red Robin.

8:00: I can hear Malcolm Clark and the boys jamming in the back room. Seafarer recently invaded next-door adding a small stage in the corner and two pool tables. The drunk bump trail to the azure blue room, titled the "Boulder Room," passes by the ugly stepchild old game room- it's like a living room without a television.

8:20: The turnout for Malcolm Clark's Tuesday night blues jam was light, but that was understandable given that people were enjoying the mysterious fireball in the sky. We climb another bar stool, and plant our elbows on a long counter stretching before the stage.
The Seafarers is a diamond in the rough as far as music goes, but is slowly growing with the support of local musicians like Mike Coucoules, Bob Walsh, The Schmngy Boys and the others that join maestro Clark at the Tuesday night open mics. Tony manages the club and has been around the blues scene for quite afew years hiring bands at different clubs he has managed/owned.
The guys delivered a low cost, high yield of blues with Latin and jazz touches here and there.Clark signals the solos with gentle nods respecting all talent. He usually makes the set list on the fly.

8:40: "They call it stormy Monday, but Tuesday's just as bad." In general, Singers tend to get "no respect" as jamsessions unless they are well known. Unless it is a real strain, they try o learn tunes in their common "Real Book" keys. But bongo man Lester sang Holiday's sweet patootie "Stormy Monday" anyway, and the gang played with it, chasing the blackest of moods from the meanest junkyard dog. It worked well.

9:00 Clark called the ball and belted out "Gunslinger Jim" off his CD, Stories for the Blue.

9:10: I grabbed the next day's lunch and dinner (my leftover burger) and hit a drunk bump on the way out.