It was really just a regular night at the bar. The Comet Tavern in Seattle – aka “fort living room”. It was just the place where we always gathered. The Comet has no pretension at all – you sit and drink at large picnic type tables with everyone else. At the time, it was our living room. Everyone knew everyone, and if you didn’t, well, soon enough you would.

I’m a fan of bar culture, and at that time, in 1993, we were turning bar culture into a very enlightened pursuit. Bands returning from successful tours came straight to the Comet. Poets and artists flocked there to talk and discuss and get loud – make absurd plans to take over the world with passion.

We were young, talented, fierce and we owned Seattle at that time. I swear I still have good legs because I walked all over Seattle with verve, with sass, with a sense of safety.

On the night in question, well, it was just another night at the Comet. I don’t know how to describe it – anyone could have walked in and been made to feel comfortable. Sober people liked the Comet, but probably shuffled out a bit earlier than those of us who wanted to play, dance, discuss., argue… 

And on July 6^th, 1993 we were a very happy bunch of poets and musicians and dreamers. Our friend, Mia Zapata, had just come back to town after a successful tour and her band, The Gits, had been feted by bigwigs in the music industry. A record contract was on the table.

How high can you be when the world is so open to you? The Comet is a tavern – no hard alcohol – so pitchers of beer demanded camaraderie. And that night was exceptional. 

Or maybe I remember it that way because it’s convenient. 

July 7^th 1993. I woke up to a phone call. “Mia is dead.” My first instinct was to go to the Comet. Instead, I ran to my friend’s house – and I don’t run – to absorb this news.

Mia Zapata, lead singer of the Gits, was raped and murdered. I won’t gloss over it – she was brutally raped and strangled with the cord of her own sweatshirt – the sweatshirt that said “The Gits”.

It seemed impossible. The night before we were all young and happy. It was common, when the Comet closed, to go get more beer and continue the party well into the wee hours – we worked jobs that didn’t require us to be fresh faced at 8 a.m. How could we be brilliant without the night and stars to guide us?

I had jumped in a van with a few friends, drove to the grocery store just to get more beer and wine, and then brought them home to my  house. We were asking each other “Where’s Mia?” If we see her we’ll pick her up and shove her in the van. She needs to be with us.

But we didn’t see her, and we went to my house and played Johnny Cash albums and danced and drank and laughed.  We were swaying and singing "Darling Companion", laughing and waltzing, in love with youth and inebriation.

Mia was upset that night – I noticed it, to an extent, but sometimes you think beer and friends is the solution. She left the Comet and went to talk to a friend. We were probably looking for her at that point, in our own silly way. She was sad – due to a break-up – but also really thrilled at where The Gits were going. She was drunk. Nobody denies that.

Mia left the apartment and started walking…home? Who knows. She was abducted and forced into a van, raped and murdered and left several blocks away, in a more seedy part of town – dumped, but yet her body was found in a sort of crucifixion pose. Her body was found by a prostitute named Charity.

It took ten years to find out who killed Mia Zapata. Her killer was found through DNA – because he bit her several times and left his saliva on her body.

But, for ten years, we all suspected each other – and the party was over.

This is Part I: I hope to tell this story from a different perspective in Part II. 

Thanks, always, for reading.