I hate Internet jukeboxes. Yes, you can call up virtually every song—but that’s the whole problem. When you’re hammered, the only two songs you can remember are “Mr. Brownstone” and “Amie” (anyone know an Amy who actually spells her name that way?) by the Pure Prairie League. Those are great songs, but they’re not the only great songs. And when I’m drinking, I want a menu of great songs that’s acres removed from cyberspace. Enter Golden City‘s jukebox, dominated by Southern rock and an obscure Grateful Dead album I’d never seen before (I can’t remember its name—give you one guess as to why). Golden City is in Ballard, which isn’t to be confused with the Golden City in the International District. That Golden City is more of a restaurant, whereas the restaurant at the Ballard Golden City is simply a front for the lounge. Therein, on the wall, is painted what can best be described as a maritime slave mural. This transcends political incorrectness, although where said transcendence ends up landing depends on how easily you offend. It’s the sort of lounge where murder-for-hire plots should be hatched, where the embers of adultery are stoked, where you can hide from the world, where everybody doesn’t know your name. Such places come in handy sometimes.