I'm reminded by the utter lack of noise in the middle of the day and the cool of the basement how much I don't miss the heat, the noise, and the drunks who populated the area I used to live in.

Don't get me wrong, I loved the Fremont area. There's something about that section of Seattle that made me extremely happy that I lived there. The rent was cheap, comparatively speaking, the parking was off-street and significantly enough for my two vehicles, and I could pretty much count on going outside, walking four blocks, and hitting a really good pub for music and drinks at any time of the day or early evening. It was a comfortable place from the hours of 4AM to 8PM most days.

After that, the annoying drunks began to invade.

Oh, god, the annoying drunks. See, Fremont, and where I lived in Fremont, has been recently re-termed "Pioneer Square North". Really great bars, including The Dubliner, Norm's, Nectar, Brouwer's, and my personal favorite, the George and Dragon, meant that lesser bars like the Ballroom, The Triangle, and the mass meat-market Red Door filled to the brim with residents of the East Side immediately after work who plunged headfirst into the brine of cheap well drinks and alcohol, and didn't stop until they were hanging over the side of a car. Sometimes, that car would be MY car, and usually that's when I got miffed.

It wasn't uncommon to hear a fight breaking out in the parking lot when the bars closed, because let's face it, young men who are dumb enough to drink to the point where they decide they can take on the world are dumb enough to start fights in public spaces. The Seattle Police response time was nearly always ten minutes too late, so the only recourse residents had was playing neighborhood watch.

One example involved a drunk guy whistling sharply as he walked up and down the road, until finally I walked out and said, "Shut the hell up! It's 3AM." His response, "Dude, it's FREEEMONT. Chill out, hippie."

Of course, he was drunk, and in general hippies don't chase down the whistlers, then give the whistler a stumble, and in a no-uncertain terms voice remind them that while people who wear tie-dye shirts MIGHT look like hippies, sometimes they carry big sticks and are more than happy to use said stick to ensure silence. Watching a cocksure 21-year old drunken idiot swallow his tongue, and while losing control of certain bladder functions, promise to leave, may not be a pleasurable experience, but I didn't hear any more whistles that night.

There was the Human Sprinkler - the guy who whipped it out and began peeing in the middle of the sidewalk but whose friends startled him into spinning around.

Drunk Girls Who "Hide" while peeing - unfortunately, your butts are visible to all, honey.

Mr. "I'm just gonna sit here with the car idling to sober up"? Yeah. Don't. Call a cab. Because if you don't, we'll call the cops.

"My Ride is SOOOO PIMPED" bassthumpers out in the parking lot? Don't be shocked if those nice rims have flat tires in the morning from screws in them.

See, it wasn't that any of these things actually HAPPENED, but the problem with a mixed-use neighborhood catering to an upscale nightlife means, simply, that the nightlife goes with it. The small pub down the street within walking distance of my place never thumps; never has fights, never has to have the cops called because two women are clawing at each other over their ex-boyfriends.

And since I've been living ninety blocks north of Fremont, the biggest issue I've had was with the neighbor's kids playing baseball with tennis balls near my car, which really, on the grand scheme of things, ain't so bad. I know where they live.

But in many respects I feel almost isolated up here. My roommate and I tend to be relatively quiet folks when we're both at home, and even T's place, situated above a fairly busy street, has a park where the sounds of basketball players drift in.

Here, there's none of that, and the thumps or bumps that I can hear some days are all the more startling for their infrequencies.

And the only annoying drunk I've recently had to deal with up here was me, but that was a simple case of overindulgence in very cold Czech lager after a long day in the sun - and a cool, quiet basement with enough insulation to soundproof a cauterwauling opera initiate cures many of those small issues.

I think I'm lucky in that I don't have to worry much. It is indeed a nice feeling to stand and watch the purpling over the mountains without having to worry about pulling your car into the driveway so some drunk jerk won't mistake it for his own, or hear the loud siren beeping of the tow truck as it hauls away yet another sleek black Acura, parked illegally while its owner goes off to play Entitlement In Fremont for the night.

Yep, I've done the urban nightlife living, and while I do like the feeling of being able to walk to whatever I like, not having to step over drunken collegiate girls sobbing into the shoulders of their girlfriends while drunken guys leer at their exposed whale-tails stabbing northward from low-slung jeans a good ten feet away is a refreshing change. Sure, I can't walk to PCC or a good Thai place, but then again, I don't have to avoid the Human Pee Sprinkler to do it.