Who's Your Alibi? 

Mine's Jim. Though it seems like everyone knows where "The Alibi" is, it always surprises me how few people have actually been inside the building. Rumor has it the witching hour in the south Broadway Avenue bar is 7 in the a.m., when it's packed to the gills with Micron night shifters. The late crowd, however, is about as unpredictable as the winning lotto numbers. A Tuesday may find you at the biggest party north of Federal Way, while Friday is a complete bust.

My weeknight visit with a group of wayward night owls started ordinarily enough. Order. ID. Drinks. Pay. And then the bartender, who must have sensed what's become my waning faith in bar keepers, began his personal revolution to reassure me that my beef is only with the rookies, who are often so engrossed in playing cool they forget to have a personality. Throwing a five spot on the bar top, he declared a change of music courtesy of whoever had the best taste in music. My self-nomination was quickly endorsed by the apathy of those around me, so I hit the juke with 23 songs of my choice. Yee-haw. Upon my return but without request, the bartender handed over single green olives on toothpicks as humble offerings, and then somehow, a friend and I became the reluctant conversational partners of three very nice, but very intoxicated lads. With just under a dozen people in the bar--most of whom had come in with me--the bar felt like a low-key party in my living room with the coolest cat tender pouring drinks. And despite the slightly unwanted attention from the lads, being the only two women in the bar did have its bennies--from the "Bullshit Corner" near the back, a stag regular sent over two bunches of red carnations.

Jim's Alibi, 2710 Broadway Ave., 342-9220

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