Editor’s Note: Despite my name being at the top of this post, I didn’t write it. This one is courtesy of Hollis Wong-Wear, but seeing as she’s stuck in an airport somewhere and currently writing by phone, I took the liberty of posting it for her. So please, picture her and not me sitting at the bar and sipping cocktails between the two burly locals. Trust me: That’s a much prettier picture…JSThe Watering Hole: The 9 LB Hammer, 6009 Airport Way South, Georgetown.The Atmosphere: The 9 Lb Hammer is an enormous, barn-like tavern that serves as the Cheers for the blue-collar artists/eccentrics of Georgetown–the closest thing Seattle’s got to Bohemia. It sits on the same block as Georgetown Records and Fantagraphics, on the main strip of Airport Way. Drafty, dark, and littered with peanut shells, “the Hammer” actualizes the fiercely unpretentious, industrial roots of the neighborhood with a lot of room for raucousness to ensue. There is shuffleboard, a small stand to buy tamales (the chicken mole for $3.50 was particularly good), and, among various notable wall adornments, a velvet painting of the Last Supper that hangs next to the pool table. Pool is free, and so are the peanuts.The Barkeep: There are many things Darcie has a lot of — moxie, verve, spunk, feistiness — but fundamentally, she is a more petite Ani DiFranco who could lay down the proverbial nine pound hammer if things get out of line. Originally from East Long Island, she cites her reason for moving to Seattle as, “What? I don’t know… On the lam. Why else do people move to the Northwest?” She has been tending bar at the Hammer for more than four years, lives in Tukwila, has aqua-marine and purple hair, and seriously could kick your ass. For real.The Drink: “Well, it’s a shot!” Darcie exclaims when I deliver the First Call challenge. She manages to serve half a dozen beers in between when she starts preparing my drink and when it’s poured in front of me, so I perch myself at the bar, sandwiched between men who look so at home it’s like they lease out their respective bar stools. I receive a couple of curious looks; conversations tone themselves down a bit. In an effort to be sociable, I ask the two overalled men to my left, “What’s the best day to come here?””Depends on who I’m talking to,” one replies.”Oh, stop being such a paranoid hippie,” says Darcie. She has arrived with my drink. “It’s called the Dara. Named after a woman who used to live in Georgetown. She moved away but she’s still very dear to this place. She used to get this shot, muddled lime and roses with Hornitos. I add pineapple.”The Verdict: The drink is smooth and sweet, and although I’d probably get a more characteristic taste of the Hammer with a pint of Olympia or any one of the Georgetown Brewery beers on tap, the Dara speaks more to how cherished the regulars here are. Darcie emphatically explains ‘hood loyalty: “Everyone is welcome here. We’ve got your guys in button downs, the metal worker chicks, the straightlaced, the freaks… Come as you are. But if you step out of line, or trash on the neighborhood, we’re gonna run you out.”As I jot notes, the men sitting on either side of me begin their own running commentary.”She’s just sitting there, sipping on her yellow drink and writing,” says one.”Well yeah, she’s a writer,” says another.”If she wants to write about the Hammer then she has to be a regular. At least for a night,” the first declares.”Well, then she wouldn’t remember anything, would she?”The experiential purist finishes his PBR and steps outside for a cigarette, and Darcie swoops in to clear it. “Don’t listen to a thing that guy says,” she tells me. “Who gets a PBR tall can here? I hate PBR. I’ve been asking Scott [the owner] to stop ordering them for years.”