RIP Catwalk Club
When I was in high school all my coolest, dark-edged, drinking-aged friends partied at the Catwalk Club on weekends. When I turned 21, the place had Windexed its image a bit and lost some of its bloodstains, but the club was still a good place to dance in Pioneer Square (even the best place to dance in the city) away from meatheads and cheerleaders and thugs. The music was always dark and loud and patronsfetishists, cyber-punks, industrial goths, naughty girl-elves, gender-benders, duct-taped nightmare boys, friendly dancing fiendsdressed way up to get past the strict bouncer at the door.
The same owner opened a cute Mediterranean kitchen (172) on street level in 2001 and I washed my hands of khaki dust from my corporate job with spicy puttanesca lunches.
The last time I went to the Catwalk a guns-drawn standoff blocked my way to the entrance, and my beloved basement had morphed into unfamiliar with to-bright lights and cheap, ’70s pop-disco decorations dangling from the walls. Now it looks like the Heavens Nightclub is set to open in its place.
Ye olde Seagoths, delivering mail now, leading book clubs, cheering for your kids’ soccer moves: Pause and mourn what once was our heathen paradise… and make way for this new set of sinning imps.
What, pray tell, is "khaki dust", and why did you get it on you at work?