"Virtue is its own reward. Because it has to be."

It's been a tough off-season to be a Seattle Mariners fan. But misery is often the muse for genius, New adventures and old stories:

TALE THE SECOND: THE TALE OF DOM PERIGNON (BORROWED)
Wandering the streets and trails of Okinawa with a camera and notebook is harder work than you might estimate. There’s always more going on than I have time, energy or expertise to catalog. After these days, there are the nights.

Usually my preference is local establishments catering to locals. One night, though, I happened upon an expatriate bar, that hallmark of literary excellence. The Lost Generation had theirs, Stein and Hemingway. With luck, I thought, this spot might serve as my Cafe de Medecis, Max’s Kansas City or even my Rick’s.

Better yet, the place has an international feel. The owner’s from the Phillipines and speaks three languages, the staff friendly, the clientele a hodgepodge of American military, Aussie wanderers, university professors. On a given night you can be talking about Baudrillard or buying drinks for a couple of young men headed for Iraq. Or both, and sometimes with the same people.

When I came here, I brought a case of Pinot Gris from Oregon, my home state. These would serve as gifts for people I met who helped with the book. Lively conversation and the occasional piece of information certainly assist, so the bar owner qualifies. It was her birthday on Wednesday, so I thought I’d swing by and drop a bottle off.

Giving liquor to someone that owns a bar is kind of like giving Dave Cameron advice about prospect analysis, but hey, it’s what I had. It’s the gesture that counts, right?

After I finished karate, I stepped into the low blue light expecting no one to be around. It was 10 p.m. on a Wednesday, hardly prime watering hole time. Yet there were the bar owner and staff with their families, having a small private party. I hadn’t expected anything but to drop off the wine and chalk up my good deed for the day.

They’d just opened two bottles of Dom Perignon, one 1997 and one 1999. Would I like to stay and sample them, since I’d never had such vintage?

Virtue is its own reward. Dom Perignon is nice, too.

And it only gets better when the devil, evil Rick Rizz, shows up. Mariners baseball, after a very brief fluorescence has settled back into their decades old ruts of losing, incompetence and overall misery. Perhaps it's just the manifestation of Seattle's long drizzly gray winters, but USS Mariner is great.