Bleachers.....some might think of the excitement of high school football games and the nostalgia of sitting under the Friday night lights while drinking your own mix of whiskey and concession stand cola, but that may just be me being old fashioned. I just recently have created a new association to the term. Bleachers, as I have been blessed enough to become acquainted with, is a scorchingly classy establishment located in the bowels of Seattle's Greenwood neighborhood. How we ended up there was more or less random luck, but indeed it was luck in the most fortunate sense of the word. Our plan for the night was to patron another booming culinary mecca of this neighborhood called Wing Dome for several orders of buffalo wings, but as it turned out a few other people had this same intention....so much so that we found out that we would be number 14 on the list, and it didn't look like the tables were in too much of a hurry to leave considering that it was Monday Night Football on the screens. After a series of multi-processing our options, we decided to go on a dive hunt. This quickly led us to the glory and beauty that is Bleachers. Walking in, the first thing that comes to your attention is the utter lack of attention to anything remotely hygienic or sanitary, but another couple of steps brings to life the true essence of trashy-ness that Bleachers truly encompasses. Legitimate shuffle board tables were probably the most up kept part of the gaming area, which included two slightly off level pool tables that seemed to pay tribute to the first couple of stops on Tom Cruise's rise to glory in the Color of Money. Along the opposing wall were four reasonably nice electronic dart machines, that, to my amazement, all worked. Once we managed to make our way past the other 6 empty tables, we found our home a mere 8 feet from the "piece de resistance" of bleachers. The entertainment wall included four 32" TV's perched at each corner of the 65" big screen in the center. Each TV had a different sporting event on them with the Monday Night game at center stage. The only slightly disconcerting thing was that the top left monitor was screening a couples figure skating competition that not only was no one watching, but the ice dancing seemed to exacerbate the local bar patrons with it's homoerotic connotations. I realized this when I overhead the table of fu-manchu sporting, mullet wearing, large beer gut having gentlemen said,” what the fuck is this gay shit on the top TV?" Everyone seemed to sympathize with their plight, although, oddly enough, the TV channel never changed, which I later credited to the staff’s utter disregard for customer service. But, I digress. The point of this little tale that I wanted to get at was not solely that we had stumbled upon the finest dive bar in Seattle, but that it was really fucking affordable, even for being in the dive bar category. We giggled like three little girls looking at their first playgirl magazine when we heard to our delight that pitchers of micro-brew were $7.50 on Monday nights. Jaws dropped, we quickly took advantage of what had to be an accounting error on the part of our waitress, who quickly following our first pitcher order suggested shots to christen our first Bleachers experience. Bleacher Bombs......oh yes, Bleacher Bombs indeed.