Bar Exam

Fourteen guys dressed as Abe Lincoln walk into a bar. Actually, four
of them are women. (“We’re Babe Lincolns,” says the one wearing a short
skirt with her coat and tie, stovepipe hat, and fake-fur chin
strap. Another has fashioned a beard out of wraparound strands of her
own hair.) And actually, they walk into at least a half-dozen bars.
These Abes have celebrated their birthday for the last quarter-score
years with a drunken spree; this February 12, they’re 200 years
old.

For the first time, in dedication to the proposition of visiting the
maximum number of drinking establishments, the Abes have a big
white van. (Designated driver: the skirted Babe.) One thing is
immediately apparent upon catching up with the presidential party
(several stops into the evening) at the Zig Zag Cafe: Blondes are drawn
inexorably, squealingly, to the Abes.
“ThatisSOcuteIcan’tevenhandleit!” screams one. “HANDLE IT!”
booms back a baritone Abe. One of the Abes theorizes that blondes are
accustomed to getting all of the attention, hence they find the Abes
threatening. They are compelled to get in on the Abe action:
“They always want to wear the hat—they’ll take it right off your
head every time.”

At Alibi Room, a blonde confuses the Lincolns with some sort of work
program in which young men, possibly German, travel around the
world and, apparently, dress like the 16th president of the United
States. (Two Lincolns listen, immensely patient.) At the Can Can, a
number of Lincolns do the cancan, backlit in lurid red, on the stage.
After a brief snowball fight utilizing leftover ice from the
Pike Place Market fish-throwers, it’s off to Capitol Hill.

Fourteen Lincolns walk into the Crescent, and the entire place
applauds. At Moe Bar, a measure of dignity has been lost; more than
one Abe causes the demise of glassware. On the street, a black man:
“Can I get a picture with you guys? Because if it weren’t for you,
I’d still be a slave!“

Like everyone, the last-call crowd at the Cha Cha loves the
Lincolns. For some reason, they end up bottlenecked near the
bathroom; blondes push in for photos. “What’s that poking my
back?!” one says. “We got hard Lincoln logs all up in here!”
Emancipation is called for.

A rumored group of Darwins—same birthday—never
materializes. Another woman (nonblonde) engages a few Abes in debate.
“Abraham Lincoln didn’t really believe that black people were above
white people,” she says, swaying. “I mean, equal.” “We may have done
certain things that were politically expedient,” an Abe replies.
“We did the best we could.” She does not appear to hear at all,
continuing: “But that’s cool, because you guys look hot as
Lincolns!” And she kisses each one on the cheek.

bethany@thestranger.com