Place: Monkey Pub (5305 Roosevelt Way NE)

Time: 7 pm

The Monkey Pub is a pleasant anomaly in the U-District: a frat-boy-free zone with the laid-back vibe that only comes after 12 years in business and the steady loyalty of neighborhood regulars. At this early hour on a Saturday night, most patrons are chatting over pints and directing their gazes toward smoke-dusted televisions broadcasting game two of the World Series, while the rest are engaged in the bar's weekly pool tournament, including one bawdy broad in a T-shirt that reads "Where the hell is Helena?" While Camper Van Beethoven plays quietly on lo-fi speakers overhead, a bespectacled, mildly remorseful customer approaches the bar, sheepishly apologizing for his behavior the night before. "I was sort of a mess last night, wasn't I?" he asks, ordering up what is presumably his first beer of the day. Nodding gently and cracking an uncomfortable half-smile, the pretty bartender (who has been affectionately awarded an assortment of testimonials to her customer service, scribbled on cocktail coasters and tacked to the wall), returns to check on us. After pouring a fresh Guinness for my photographer, she points to a glass case on a back wall, a shrine to D. J. Dimas, a former employee who was responsible for booking live bands at the bar in the late '90s, as well as programming the stellar jukebox. Sadly, Dimas died suddenly from leukemia a few years ago, shortly after marrying our bartender, Megan. The jukebox still contains some of Dimas' selections. "You want some Monkey bucks?" asks Megan, sliding a couple of loose dollars over to us. It's a little courtesy I've seen at other blue-collar pubs, but one that seems particularly poignant under the circumstances. "We've always gotten a lot of good feedback about our jukebox," she says proudly. HANNAH LEVIN

Every week the name of a club, a day of the week, and a time are pulled at random from a dirty sock. Hannah Levin reports back on what she finds at that date, place, and time.