In the wake of John McCain saying that "the fundamentals of our economy are still strong" and all the world pointing out that Herbert Hoover said nearly the same thing on Black Thursday in 1929, Bar Exam went to Seattle's own Hooverville-the-bar this week. Found all around Hooverville-the-bar (which has $10 pitchers of Rainier and free peanuts): evidence of Seattle's burgeoning homeless problem (which is looking to have increased a lot more than 15 percent over the last few months). The shabby camper-encampment under the West Seattle Bridge seemed especially sad until I came across the shelter for men 50 and older.

Now we've got our own official non-bar Hooverville: Nickelsville. Here's a little more in the P-I. The homeless living in the pink tents in South Seattle are being evicted by the city at 5 p.m. today. More from Nickelsville after the jump.

Before the rumor mill starts going bananas, I just want to give you all a heads up and let you know that Eli Anderson has been hired as the Talent Buyer for the club, and Roy Atizado has been hired as Director of Live Entertainment.

To read the entire press release, go to Line Out.

Some notes from a friend who is actually excited about Talk Like a Pirate Day:

On this special day I recommend Angostura rum: It has a particularly smokey flavor, an acquired taste, not unlike the smell of sieged and burning frigates. Anti-pirates might choose Goslings, choice of the British Navy.

Note: Pirate hooks are available at corner store across from Walgreens on 15th! $2.99, a steal!

Here is a fairly amusing quiz that will determine your pirate name. Best question:

Buckle your swash often?

1. I am quite the buckler-of-swashes.

2. I have no need of swashes, buckled or un-.

3. That sounds dirty.

My results:

My pirate name is:

Black Jenny Read

Like anyone confronted with the harshness of robbery on the high seas, you can be pessimistic at times. Even through many pirates have a reputation for not being the brightest souls on earth, you defy the sterotypes. You've got taste and education. Arr!

Get your own pirate name from piratequiz.com.
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(And thank you, chipper door lady. I never thought I'd be able to sneak past you. But when I said "Kiley," you helpfully offered: "David?" I smoked a cigar in your honor.)

Inside, delegates, politicos, and their wives drank beer (the favorite: Corona), cocktails, and gallons of expensive cognac and single-malt scotch. Wine was anathema.

Pretty young women in black party dresses circulated with boxes of cigars (from Rocky Patel—which, according to a young cigar-smoker in the obligatory red tie, gets some of its tobacco from Cuba). Veal meatballs, sliced filet mignon, and shrimp glistened in the dim light.

The bar, Solera, was four stories of short haircuts, smugness, and misinformation: about the protests that day ("their stated objective was to kill a cop"), about the significance of the Palin-baby story ("only liberal bloggers are writing about it"), about their own attractiveness ("last night, every 18–25 year-old-girl in Minneapolis was here; it was one step short of a rave").

Weirdly, there were Republican Stranger fans in the house—Shane Osborn, state treasurer of Nebraska and his wife Teri, who lived for awhile on Bainbridge Island, got all effusive and happy about it: "I Saw U!" Teri squealed. "I just love good satire," Shane added. "You have to be able to have a sense of humor about things."

Osborn (a former Navy pilot, briefly imprisoned in China after his plane had a mid-air collision with a Chinese plane) was the gentlest soul at the party. "You really ought to visit Omaha sometime," he said. "I think you'll be pleasantly surprised."

Less gentle: One slightly slurry delegate from Alabama who, during a conversation with me about the South, said, "It's like I always tell my daughters: if you see a nigger driving a limo, he isn't necessarily a drug dealer—he might be a chauffeur! And that's progress." (He then launched into a paean for his black taekwondo instructor. "He's my master," the delegate grinned. "Isn't that funny?")

Ryan, Bryan, and Tony, three ebullient young gentlemen at a back table on the cigar-smoking deck, complained about Kofi Annan ("he flies in the UN flag above the US flag") and Al Franken. The triumvirate work for Norm Coleman, who is running against Franken for Senate. "Franken seems like an asshole," one of them said.

I asked whether Palin was going to become the Tom Eagleton of the 2008 race. They blinked.

"You know, Eagleton," I said. "The guy who didn't tell McGovern about his shock therapy." They blinked some more.

"I'll have another cocktail and then maybe two beers and then let's roll," a man at a nearby table said to his friend. "Hey, you seen Crawford?"

"I think he's in the bathroom," the friend said. "Probably hugging the toilet."

He looked at me and shouted, "THEY WOULDN'T READ ME MY CARMEN MIRANDA RIGHTS!"

I love a man who can really commit to a pun.

The Lamborghini that sits precariously perched above what was once a tacky Crockett-and-Tubbs-themed club could soon have a new owner.

According to a post on Craigslist, the club's space is up for lease.

Prime Capitol Hill location! Beautifully built out slab granite bar; private ADA compliant bathroom; kitchen equipment in place, elevator, parking on site. 4,000 Square Feet net rentable. Asking $32.00 p.s.f. annual rent including CAM.

The ad does not indicate whether the new buyer will inherit Club Lagoon's rooftop Lamborghini or fur-lined speedboat.

What else does Capitol Hill need these days? Another club?

Maybe the Castle Adult Megastore will expand upwards. Bethany Jean Clement reports that the bathrooms have great peep-show potential.

Photo by Brappy via Flickr

Marcus Charles—current owner of the Juju Lounge, and formerly involved with Neumos and Spitfire, among other venues—has applied for a new liquor license for the Crocodile Cafe, which closed in December.

More coming.

It looks like last week's just-this-once, just-for-pride big gay installment of STUDIO, the weekly disco night at Havana, was such a success that the boys behind STUDIO have decided to make the switch permanently.

STUDIO at Havana has a regular following of devoted Disco, Italo, Cosmic and Mustache Groove fans. Every Wednesday night punks, bike messengers and skaters join Disco Enthusiasts and crowd onto Havana's small dance floor to move and sweat while STUDIO's resident DJs—American Athlete and H.M.A.—spin vintage vinyl along with guests.

STUDIO is Seattle’s only real disco night and STUDIO is STRAIGHT. Mostly. But tonight the boys behind the night are hosting a very special Gay-ass Disco Night to mark Gay Pride Week. Sponsored by the Stranger with give-aways from Boy Butter Lube.

I'm posting this under Nightlife and Conflict of Interest because I happen to be sleeping with one of the guys that will be DJing tonight. Go and see if you can guess which.

See you at 6. Don't forget quarters.
UPDATE: Shorty's is cash-only.