The bartender began shaking her butt to AC/DC. I always get uncomfortable when a female bartender lets loose like that in front of a bar full of men. I figure it lowers my own odds.

At this point I was determined to find some connection between Douglass and Ireland, other than the obvious penchant for Thin Lizzy. As I got even closer to the painting, though, I realized (crikey!) not only was the painting not Dinah Shore, but it also wasn't Frederick Douglass. It was some white dude. Probably some famous Irish white dude whom I should know. He looked like the keyboardist for Van Morrison or something.

I reached into my pocket to buy another drink, but I had no money. I thought for sure I had arrived with a 20. Bollix. The bartender was looking over her shoulder at a group of young guys, a coquettish grin on her face. If I left now I could catch "open lines" on "Coast to Coast AM," where truckers, lonely hearts, and loser writer chicks call in with their Bell memories. I made my exit just before 10.

"Meter maids!" I yelled, backing out of my spot and almost hitting a pedestrian. What can I say? My perception was a little off.

THE DOGS BOLLIX. 408 Clement St. 752-1452.

Katy.StClair@sfweekly.com

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