Moe's Mo'roc'n

Back in the 90's there was a club on Capitol Hill in Seattle called Moe's Moroc'n. I briefly served as Chef there, until my cat died, I broke up with my girlfriend and decided to travel around for six months. I wound up in Brooklyn, but that's another story.
Moe's was partially owned by at least one member of REM, though I'll be damned if I can remember which one. I'd signed on as an 8 dollar an hour cook, hired by a little fat guy with bleached hair named Pat. The Chef at the time was Michael Anderson, ex-husband of Linda, of "Linda's" fame.
Though she was a successful club owner and he was a 23,500 a year Chef, he had to pay 400 a month in child support.
(If you are divorcing, don't ever think you don't need a lawyer.)
Michael was one of the finest Chefs I ever had the pleasure of working under. Despite his lack of knowledge regarding divorce law, he amassed a huge repertoire of recipes in his brain, all of which he was capable of disseminating to a mixed crowd in the most efficient style. He could turn a junkie dishwasher into a pantry chef in about eight days. Our menu focused on spicy foods, boasting the world's largest collection of hot sauces. Inventory day was a bitch, lemme tell ya.
My favorite waiter was a 6' 3" drag queen named Venus. A very non-passable yet exquisitely glamorous Native American, she was always Johnny-on-the-spot with my morning Bloody Mary's.
I'd be blearily pounding out chicken breasts and there'd be the clack of high heels followed by the sound of a heavy pint glass hitting the counter. My salvation, an icy glass of vodka, dripping with condensation, tinged with just enough tomato juice and Tabasco to turn it pink, with a sculpture of pickled vegetables balanced on a heavily salted rim.
"You just holler when you need a refill, dear."
Then she'd sashay off to the first table of a Saturday morning, usually some sorority sisters dragging their homophobic fraternity studs in to be mocked in high fashion by Venus. While they were ordering, I'd drink my breakfast, then roast a fat bowl in the walk-in. By the time I was high enough, there would be 5 tickets waiting, with people piling up at the door. Time to shine. The rest of the morning would blur by, as I flipped omelets, dunked homefries and chatted with the patrons at the counter while downing Bloody Mary after Bloody Mary. While many customers actually were rock stars, only a few would act like it. Naturally, these were the ones that had to take up cherished counter space. The local music talent would sprawl their shit across three stools, then casually hold court for three hours as fans swirled around them. I feel I showed remarkable restraint, only once "bumping" coffee into a certain drummer's lap. At 3PM, the night shift would step in and I would take full advantage of the unlimited bar tab that was part of my salary. It took the management only a few days to recognize the foolishness of that perk. Whiskey, top shelf and lots of it was the way to unwind. Followed by a spleef of titanic proportions in the VIP booth while that night's band did a short set for their sound check. Then a race down the hills of downtown Seattle to the Georgetown flats on my beloved StumpJumper mountain bike. That I'm still alive today is due simply to dumb luck and the ability to take horrific impacts with the kind of zen relaxation only the truly inebriated can aspire to. Though "healthy" was not a word I would ever choose to describe the lifestyle choices of my twenties, "memorable" was a lot more fun.