It has been a geologic era or two since I could be counted on to join colleagues for an after-work trek to what used to be called a watering hole.

Nothing about such gatherings works for me these days. And though there are co-workers whose company I enjoy, I guess I don't really miss these outings. Not enough to change my sacred schedule anyway.

But I recently learned that there used to be a hotel in downtown Spokane called the Sillman. The lounge there was called the Monkey Room.

I love that. At the Monkey Room, the cocktails menu included offerings such as the Waikiki Volcano and the Missionary's Downfall. 

Since this discovery, I have been fantasizing about what it might have been like to dive into a little Tiki kitsch culture just a few blocks away from the newspaper building. I fully suspect the actual place left much to be desired. (Someone commenting on a previous blog post about the Sillman recalled there being a lot of police calls to the Monkey Room.) Still, it has been fun imagining referring to it with co-workers.

"Shall we repair to the Monkey Room in about 20 minutes?"

Or "Who's up for a debriefing at the Room of Monkeys?"

Or maybe we wouldn't need to say even that much. Perhaps you could declare a plan with two words.

"Monkey Room?"

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