"Everything tastes better stolen..." /OR/ Tracks on the Blood: My Seattle Adventure, Part the First
Eighty bucks ain't much for 6 days in a city you ain't been to before. Granted, my own damn fault. Yeah, you really need the John Cale NY in the 1960s reissues now? Don't judge, punk. I needs what I needs, and yr financial advice is mos def not on that list.
So, keeping up my lifestyle of choice meant I had a ready excuse to not buy into Milwaukee International Airport's $7.00 beer 'n a shot special like my good friend Mr. Chaffe. I name him this for the simple reason that he chaps my damn ass, and I knew that the tight quarters we were facing down would lead to tension. I prepared to grit my teeth and bear it. My nose went deeper into The System of the World, book 3 of the Baroque Cycle, by Neal Stephenson, available in paperback like NOW.
Following our flight I went off to find the two things I had budgeted for: cheap food and cheaper beer. The first was found when, deciding that any movement towards the piers would result in a corresponding increase in price, I walked the other way until a sex toy shop came into view. Knowing that you can't buy a low-quality dildo fabricated of porous material without downing cheap fries, I scouted the area and sure enough the Hurricane Diner was located. And sure enough, the fries were salty, the grilled cheese toasted, and the Pabst somehow even more watered down then here in Wisco. Truly, no place like home and all that crap.
After putting my food down it was time for something to fill up on. I was thinking a 40 oz of whatevs would keep it on the cheap cheap, but the gas station had none. Always up for the local quality micros, I opted for a sixer of Rainier tallboys ($5) and hoofed it back to our 4 star accomodations to let 'er rip.
Ah, Rainier... you were nothing special, but somehow your white and red can came to embody the pirate-rock lifestyle it seemed so many of Seattle's fine rocker-denizens inhabited. This, at least, was my damn impression. You were inexpensive and I could drink I bunch of you. You got me drunk. I appreciate that. However, I noticed on the second night that you tasted much better warm than cold. This perplexes me to no end; were you darker or more robust I could see this as valid. As it is, you were drool-light, generally necessitating great coldness to get past the gatekeepers. But whatever those mysterious notes that came out after warming, whatever secret ingredient hidden like pirate treasure on the beach to be uncovered by burrowing crabs or dying mammals seeking shelter from the sun... thank you. You showed me that mystery still exists on this planet.
Sunday was a user meeting relating to the conference I was in attendance for, and as such of little relatable interest. I did get a free trip to Safeco Field where I got to ponder my complicated relationship with baseball: I know it's around, and way more popular than I'll ever be, but I can't bring myself to really think about it as a valid entity. Still, baseball showed me the best baseball-themed time I'll likely ever have due to the neverending free franks and Red Hook. And getting to watch akward chemists bat at tee'd up balls or try their fastball? Well, okay, not too entertaining. But it wasn't them... it was me. And baseball. Complicated relationships are like that.
Another night of drinking took place, augmented by all booze being free and all food being free also. Conferences, apparently, rule. So I ate and drank and was blissfully ignorant of the horrid fate that awaited me in the morning, which you must now wait with bated breath for me to relay 'cause I'm gonna go eat falafel now. WAIT, BITCH.
So, keeping up my lifestyle of choice meant I had a ready excuse to not buy into Milwaukee International Airport's $7.00 beer 'n a shot special like my good friend Mr. Chaffe. I name him this for the simple reason that he chaps my damn ass, and I knew that the tight quarters we were facing down would lead to tension. I prepared to grit my teeth and bear it. My nose went deeper into The System of the World, book 3 of the Baroque Cycle, by Neal Stephenson, available in paperback like NOW.
Following our flight I went off to find the two things I had budgeted for: cheap food and cheaper beer. The first was found when, deciding that any movement towards the piers would result in a corresponding increase in price, I walked the other way until a sex toy shop came into view. Knowing that you can't buy a low-quality dildo fabricated of porous material without downing cheap fries, I scouted the area and sure enough the Hurricane Diner was located. And sure enough, the fries were salty, the grilled cheese toasted, and the Pabst somehow even more watered down then here in Wisco. Truly, no place like home and all that crap.
After putting my food down it was time for something to fill up on. I was thinking a 40 oz of whatevs would keep it on the cheap cheap, but the gas station had none. Always up for the local quality micros, I opted for a sixer of Rainier tallboys ($5) and hoofed it back to our 4 star accomodations to let 'er rip.
Ah, Rainier... you were nothing special, but somehow your white and red can came to embody the pirate-rock lifestyle it seemed so many of Seattle's fine rocker-denizens inhabited. This, at least, was my damn impression. You were inexpensive and I could drink I bunch of you. You got me drunk. I appreciate that. However, I noticed on the second night that you tasted much better warm than cold. This perplexes me to no end; were you darker or more robust I could see this as valid. As it is, you were drool-light, generally necessitating great coldness to get past the gatekeepers. But whatever those mysterious notes that came out after warming, whatever secret ingredient hidden like pirate treasure on the beach to be uncovered by burrowing crabs or dying mammals seeking shelter from the sun... thank you. You showed me that mystery still exists on this planet.
Sunday was a user meeting relating to the conference I was in attendance for, and as such of little relatable interest. I did get a free trip to Safeco Field where I got to ponder my complicated relationship with baseball: I know it's around, and way more popular than I'll ever be, but I can't bring myself to really think about it as a valid entity. Still, baseball showed me the best baseball-themed time I'll likely ever have due to the neverending free franks and Red Hook. And getting to watch akward chemists bat at tee'd up balls or try their fastball? Well, okay, not too entertaining. But it wasn't them... it was me. And baseball. Complicated relationships are like that.
Another night of drinking took place, augmented by all booze being free and all food being free also. Conferences, apparently, rule. So I ate and drank and was blissfully ignorant of the horrid fate that awaited me in the morning, which you must now wait with bated breath for me to relay 'cause I'm gonna go eat falafel now. WAIT, BITCH.
posted by Quincy Hoist at 4:05 PM
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