The day starts in typical Seattle fashion - grey, cloudy, and drizzly. I guess it wouldn't be right if I had days of atypical spring Seattle weather. I am told, however, that summer in Seattle is exactly like my first three days - sunny and perfect almost every day.
I pack up my bag in preparation for tomorrow. I leave rather early in the morning tomorrow, so getting packed would take some time. I want to be ready ahead of time.
Emily calls, and we meet at the front of the hotel. Our destination: breakfast at Voula's Offshore Cafe. Once featured on Food Network's Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives, this place is positively amazing. When you arrive, you write your name and the number of those in your party on the clipboard by the door. Then, you wait. But Voula's doesn't want you to wait without something to do, so they leave a giant dispenser of their phenomenal coffee outside. Grab a mug from the covered container, use the creamer and sugar, or just take it black. It really is some good coffee, and it tastes even better in the cool, drizzly morning air.
We are moved up on the list, thanks to an impatient little bugger, who couldn't wait and ran a few errands. We take two stools at the counter. While this would not normally be my ideal seating arrangement, it gives the two of us a wonderful view of the diner atmosphere and the mass cooking going on behind the counter. Three guys do it all, and they are something to behold. They work like machines, frying hash browns, making massive omelets, cooking their famous smoked pork, and flipping pancakes. You have to see it for yourself.
I make a complete pig of myself. I order two pancakes, a side of hash browns, and a side of their smoked pork. OMFG! It's way too much food. Three massive plates full of food that I don't think I can possibly finish, but somehow, I manage to scarf down everything except a couple pieces of the pork. Something has to be sacrificed. Emily orders a Pinata Benedict. It's Eggs Benedict with smoked pork added and a chipotle hollandaise sauce. It's pretty freaking spectacular. She gets an extra cup of the hollandaise on the side, so I use some on my pork. Trust me, it's the only way to eat the pork.
Emily and I have both talked about our weirdo magnets and how they sometimes work overtime. Today is no exception. A droogy little thing with a dirty worn-out white beanie and some unwashed clothes sits down next to us. Immediately, she hones in on our conversation. I mean, this girl is literally staring at me and listening as if I'm talking to her. My warning bells go off, but before I can sound the full alarm, she and Emily are chatting it up. One thing I can say about Seattle residents, I have not heard one of them bash their city. I mean, none of them really love the winter and spring rains, but they seem accepting of it, knowing that summer and fall will be pretty spectacular. Residents of The Emerald City can chat it up about Seattle and their love of the city in seconds. It's shocking, but also kind of exciting, too.
Emily doesn't see her as a threat, but I'm on guard the entire time. I'm not sure if it's because she's taking away valuable time with my friend on my last day in Seattle or just because she sets off my creepy weirdo alarm, but I don't allow her to get personal with me. I don't have to work too hard at it. Once she finds out I'm from Indiana, it's like I have the freaking plague or something. She backs off right away.
More than an hour passes inside the restaurant before we have the leg power and the stamina to stand up and leave. We are both so full, it's out of control. If someone would offer me a wheelbarrow right now, I'd take it as an alternative means of getting to the car. Once we waddle back to the car, we are off and running (figuratively, of course). Emily insists that I see the Fremont Troll. Not far from the cafe, we arrive at a road that goes directly under one of two massive and scary bridges. The three Billy Goats Gruff greet us at the bottom of the road. We travel uphilll a bit on a road with room for only one car at a time. At the top of the hill, the troll appears. The sculpture of the troll seemingly rises up from the ground, right below the bridge. His left hand is crushing a car, while his right hand is pressed into the ground. He's a source of amusement for every kid visiting. They are all climbing on him and sitting on his hands, etc. He's totally fun.
A trip to Gasworks Park is next on the agenda. Gasworks is (yep, you guessed it) home to a former gasworks. The abandoned gasworks still sits on the property, fenced off and rusted, but still a site to see. A large hill sits in the center of the small park, and people are walking up and down the paths leading to and from the top. There are those flying kites, playing ball, and just strolling about. The most interesting site is the odd group of people in the parking lot - all of them dressed like old--fashioned golfers or something out of a 1980s prep catalog. They are waiting for school buses to pick them up, and they are doing nothing to steer attention away from them.
We stop back at Emily's house afterwards to digest and relax for a bit. At this point, we're only a few hours away from the big earthquake that's supposed to usher in The Rapture. We decide after a bit to go to Snoqualmie Falls Park. The falls are impressive, but when we arrive, the trail that leads down to the base of the falls is closed off with a sign that says it will be reopening in 2013. We're nothing if not a couple of people with poor timing.
When we get back into the car, I make my secret geek request of Emily. I want to see Nintendo's headquarters in Redmond. I've been a complete Nintendo loyalist for as long as I can remember. Plus, I know that Emily works at the HSBC in Redmond, and I want to see where she works, too. So, off we go, but not before doing something a man would never do - stopping to ask for directions to Redmond from where we are. Thank God I'm not driving.
The gas station attendant sends us on a scenic route through some wooded hills. We arrive at Emily's work just fine. I get to see the inside of the bank (through a gated window of course), but I see her name on the counter next to her station. So cute! We stop in the Starbucks drive-thru and order some lattes. We are sitting in the drive-thru when the clock changes to 6P.M. No earthquake, no people ascending, no sign of Jesus in the sky on a chariot, nothing. What a farce!
Finding Nintendo, however, proves to be even more of a challenge than we imagine. It's like the place is a hidden fortress. The street it's on just never shows up on our drive. !50th Avenue should come after 149th and before 151st. No such luck. We end up near one of the many Microsoft campuses when we decide to Map Quest it on Emily's phone. We follow the directions to the letter, but still no 150th Avenue. WTF? Then, just as we're about to turn around again, we find it. A quiet, unassuming little street, 150th Avenue is all Nintendo. The first building we come to is the Software Technology Corporation - a white, run-down little building that looks like something that will someday be torn down. It's not attractive and not flashy at all. I snap a picture of it, going with the idea that things never look the way you expect. Then, we see it. The corporate offices are ahead on the right. We turn out of the white building down the rest of 150th Avenue and are faced with the basketball courts, the tennis areas, the full size soccer field, the patios, the outdoor seating, and oh yeah, the offices themselves. I can't tell you how disappointed I am by the building, though. No statue of Mario, no fountain, nothing. It's just a large grey structure with a massive parking garage and the playland next door. Still, I can say that I've been here.
Another stop at Emily's house follows, then it's off to the Erotic Art Festival. Now, just a bit of background here, but I asked Emily to do some things that would take me out of my comfort zone. The Erotic Art Festival is just that. It's completely wild and crazy.It's being held in Fremont, not far from where the Troll stands under the bridge. Not sure if that's appropriate or not. Nevertheless, after an ordeal trying to find a parking place and trying to find the place in the driving Seattle night rain, we arrive.
It takes me a long time to throw away my Midwestern sensibilities when I arrive. It's like the wildest costume party I've ever been to - and I'm completely and utterly overdressed for the event - literally. I'm wearing clothes, and so many people are not. There are only a few rules for the festival. You have to be 18 to get in. You cannot show any nipples or genitalia. And you have to bring your inner freak to the forefront.
It's an assault on the Midwestern brain at first. There are people in all kinds of crazy getups. People are dressed like Victorian mask party attendees. Men are in women's apparel. Women are in very little apparel. There are dominatrixes. There are crazy leather junkies. There are fishnets, no nets, and boots that go up to the top of the thigh. There are vamps, gramps, and tramps complete with stamps. I walk around thinking that if The Rapture had truly arrived, this place and everyone in it would have been left behind for sure. The only crosses I see are tattooed on arms and asses, and the only rosary beads present are part of leashes that are being used to drag around submissives.
After making a quick potty stop (we were hunting for a parking space for a really long time), we explore the art. This festival is certainly not for the feint of heart. There are chicks, dicks, and sticks. There are sculptures, paintings, mixed media, even living art (like the woman we keep thinking is a mannequin until she moves). There is art on every wall, and most of it is really good. It's moving, thought-provoking, and fun. There are bars everywhere and "Confession Stands" in several areas serving up naughty desserts and snacks. In the main auditorium, they are performing a pseudo-Moulin Rouge-type musical, complete with dancing, acrobatics, and infectious beats. There's also a food artist who is applying thin slices of fruits and vegetables to his nude models. There are tables set up to watch the artistry, and also a separate treats area where you can eat the foods that the artist is using. And no, they are not the ones that are on the models!
In the back area, there's an amazing colored mural of images of men and women, all nude, with their confessions written on their bodies. It's my favorite piece of art all night. Well, other than the two pop culture pieces - one of Spy vs Spy having sex and one entitled "The Raging Fan" with a naked man standing in a room full of Star Wars memorabilia wearing a Storm Trooper mask. At the far back, there are some interactive areas. A peep show area called The Lusty Lady is set up for women to try their hand at being a peep show dancer. There's also a naughty Victorian era setting where you can pay to have your picture taken in any number of scandalous ways. And finally, there's the small area where you can have yourself tied up - not to the point of immobility, but just enough to feel a little risque. Emily has it done.
I find myself taking pictures like crazy of all of the people in costume. It's all so "out of my comfort zone." After several hours, though, I find myself just getting used to it all. Of course, once I think I've seen it all, here comes a guy in a powdered wig in leather boots, a gothic coat with tails, and assless pants. Or better yet, here's the 300 lb. girl with her boobs sagging to her waistline, wearing only a boob-less boustier and daisy pasties to cover her nipples. Or how about the couple in their 60s buying his and hers towel holders for the bathroom - a penis for hers and a clamping vagina for his - and then looking for the perfect nude photos to line their bathroom walls.
To say I'm having a good time would be an understatement. I'm flabbergasted, amazed, and entertained all at the same time. Fetishes and hangups of every kind are represented in the large studio/auditorium. There's nothing off limits, and there's not a person in attendance who is shy or unassuming in their choice of clothing. By the time I walk out the door, I'm starting to wonder how much a Gothic coat with tails would run me and where on Earth I could ever wear it. As for the assless pants, I will leave those up to people who actually have one worth showing off, and let me tell you, there were only a few who did at the Erotic Arts Festival.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Day Three/Part Two - 5/20/11
I venture through Pike's Market - alone this time. I wander down every nook and cranny, every stairwell and every alley. I return to the Honey Stix table to buy some for home. The giant variety pack for $4 is perfect. I buy two packs, then return five minutes later to buy four individual stix for myself. My dentist is so going to hate me when he sees the large amount of enamel that's been worn off of my teeth from biting open those stix. They're like Pixie Stix, but hard plastic. Not good for the teeth.
As I pass the fish counters, I actually see the guys toss fish through the air, back and forth. I know that I promised my niece that I would catch one for her, but the smell is so obnoxious and rancid to my nose that I cannot fathom the idea. I take the stairs to the basement to see what's down there. There are lots of shops to explore - most of them are not food-related. The comic book shop is like a mecca for a nerd/geek like me.
They sell comic books, posters, keychains, calendars, graphic novels, books, collectibles - you name it. They even sell movie and television scripts, including a Star Wars script for something called The Fall of the Republic. I have no idea what that is, but I'm thinking it's the Star Wars movie that those kids at the Battlestar Gallactica exhibit thought no one had seen yet. I find myself overwhelmed by the extravagant wall of bobble heads for eveything from The Wizard of Oz to Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
After nearly an hour, I decide to leave the store. There's so much more to explore, and the two lesbian nerds are starting to get on my last nerve. I mean, I know I'm a geek, but these two b*tches are some kind of crazy. They're complaining to the store owner that there's not enough Star Trek merchandise in the store and talking about some lesbian-themed comic book series that is sorely lacking from his myriad of shelves.
I leave the store and wander down a hallway that leads to a rather sparsely-populated area with an unstable-looking metal staircase. The only seemingly-permanent resident is a guy playing a violin in the weirdest way possible. I walk past him, and for some odd reason, I think about Brian. At that exact moment, the guy breaks into a melody that I used as background music for Brian's funeral photo show. It is so eerie. I feel that queesy feeling in my stomach, drop a couple bucks in his open violin case, and leave the area.
Down the opposite hallway, I find a store that sells Victorian era erotic art reproductions. It's right next to a vaudeville-type "Biggest Shoes in the World" viewing wall. I just don't know how this shop can stay in business, but it's full of people. There are a bunch of used book vendors and even a candy store run by a 60 year old woman who crawls on the floor with the kids who enter. I am even tempted to have my palm/tarot reading done, but there's a waiting list, and I don't want it that badly.
After my eerie run-in with the violinist, I decide to head to St. James Cathedral. It's quite a trek, but it's my patron saint and the major chuch of the Seattle diocese. I have to check it out. Something keeps telling me to do it. After the most exhausting uphill walk, I make it to the church, full of sweat and with leg cramps like nobody's business. I take a moment to say a few prayers for both my brother and Doug Anderson, who had lost his battle with cancer earlier that morning. I light two candles in the coolest little alcove of the church. I kneel down to pray, when suddenly, a bell rings. It echoes through the cathedral, and a priest and an assortment of altar people appear from the back of the church.
I am suddenly trapped in the church for an unscheduled Friday 5:30 P.M. mass. I am amidst a crowd of homeless men and the most penitent-looking mother f*ers in all of Seattle. I am convinced that if whips were avialable, they would be flagellating themselves right there in the congregation. Seeing as though I will be out of Seattle on a wild adventure outside of the city tomorrow, I decide to attend mass, the quickest mass I've ever attended - 25 minutes, maybe less than that. It's amazingly brief and over before I know it.
After mass, I walk back to the hotel to prep myself for my evening with Emily. Oh, the fun she has planned - my first official Cabaret show EVER. We have dinner at Julia's on Broadway and purchase tickets to the show. Eating there before the show entitles you to special VIP-style seating, but we quickly discover how un-VIP-like we are when fifty or more other people have the special seating privileges.It's kind of a farce, but whatever.
OK, so I've seen drag shows before - mostly shows in South Bend, and most shows with very little overall flair. They're fun and entertaining, but nothing comes close to the Cabaret show at Julia's. Le Faux, the name of the show, is fully choreographed and rehearsed ad nauseum. There's acrobatics, pyrotechnics, and a whole lot more. It's referred to as the #1 Celebrity Impersonator Show in the Northwest. Not much of a title, but Julia's does an amazing job of setting a scene and taking you into a different place. The theatre is right inside the bar/restaurant. The stage is not super large, which gives it an intimacy and a Parisien burlesque atmosphere.
We are entertained for a full two hours by female impersonators, singing (or rather lip-syncing) to such famous gay icons like Cher, Lady Gaga, Liza Minnelli, Pink, Britney Spears, etc. The host of the show is a man whose show personna is Mama Tits. Yes, you read that right. Mama Tits is a 6'5" hulk of a man with the biggest sailor mouth I've ever heard.
Emily has us sit near the aisle with me sitting right on the aisle. It's a complete ploy. Several times through the night, I am assaulted by performers. Lady Gaga shoots me with her bubble gum, then whacks me in the face with her dress of plastic bubbles. Liza Minnelli comes out into the audience during her performance of Cabaret, stands next to me, leaps into the air, and lands smack in my lap. She lands only inches away from the spot on my lap that would have had me curled up in the fetal position on the floor crying like a baby. I take a moment to thank the Lord for small favors.
The Lady Gaga impersonator ends the show with a pretty amazing version of Bad Romance. A standing ovation from the crowd brings the show to a close on a high note. Actually, though, the two 60-something ladies and the 60-something man sticking dollar bills down Gaga's onesie is the highlight of the show for me. It always amazes me to see the variety of people at drag shows. The stragest attendee at the show, by far, is pale brown poodle, wearing a pink tutu and barrettes. Her owner even pays to have the poodle's picture taken with the cast after the show. So strange.
In Seattle, last call at bars is 1:30A.M. Bars close at 2 A.M. Emily and I stick around after the show and have a few more drinks and talk with the performers. We have several conversations and meet a lot of the employees. One of the most interesting employees is James, the "Is He or Isn't He" waiter. He talks to Emily and I off and on over the course of the last two hours, as if he's our new best friend. Emily and I feel like Will and Grace in that one episode where the new neighbor moves in. Neither of us can tell which one of us he's hitting on more. We end up wondering which of us should be more flattered.
As I pass the fish counters, I actually see the guys toss fish through the air, back and forth. I know that I promised my niece that I would catch one for her, but the smell is so obnoxious and rancid to my nose that I cannot fathom the idea. I take the stairs to the basement to see what's down there. There are lots of shops to explore - most of them are not food-related. The comic book shop is like a mecca for a nerd/geek like me.
They sell comic books, posters, keychains, calendars, graphic novels, books, collectibles - you name it. They even sell movie and television scripts, including a Star Wars script for something called The Fall of the Republic. I have no idea what that is, but I'm thinking it's the Star Wars movie that those kids at the Battlestar Gallactica exhibit thought no one had seen yet. I find myself overwhelmed by the extravagant wall of bobble heads for eveything from The Wizard of Oz to Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
After nearly an hour, I decide to leave the store. There's so much more to explore, and the two lesbian nerds are starting to get on my last nerve. I mean, I know I'm a geek, but these two b*tches are some kind of crazy. They're complaining to the store owner that there's not enough Star Trek merchandise in the store and talking about some lesbian-themed comic book series that is sorely lacking from his myriad of shelves.
I leave the store and wander down a hallway that leads to a rather sparsely-populated area with an unstable-looking metal staircase. The only seemingly-permanent resident is a guy playing a violin in the weirdest way possible. I walk past him, and for some odd reason, I think about Brian. At that exact moment, the guy breaks into a melody that I used as background music for Brian's funeral photo show. It is so eerie. I feel that queesy feeling in my stomach, drop a couple bucks in his open violin case, and leave the area.
Down the opposite hallway, I find a store that sells Victorian era erotic art reproductions. It's right next to a vaudeville-type "Biggest Shoes in the World" viewing wall. I just don't know how this shop can stay in business, but it's full of people. There are a bunch of used book vendors and even a candy store run by a 60 year old woman who crawls on the floor with the kids who enter. I am even tempted to have my palm/tarot reading done, but there's a waiting list, and I don't want it that badly.
After my eerie run-in with the violinist, I decide to head to St. James Cathedral. It's quite a trek, but it's my patron saint and the major chuch of the Seattle diocese. I have to check it out. Something keeps telling me to do it. After the most exhausting uphill walk, I make it to the church, full of sweat and with leg cramps like nobody's business. I take a moment to say a few prayers for both my brother and Doug Anderson, who had lost his battle with cancer earlier that morning. I light two candles in the coolest little alcove of the church. I kneel down to pray, when suddenly, a bell rings. It echoes through the cathedral, and a priest and an assortment of altar people appear from the back of the church.
I am suddenly trapped in the church for an unscheduled Friday 5:30 P.M. mass. I am amidst a crowd of homeless men and the most penitent-looking mother f*ers in all of Seattle. I am convinced that if whips were avialable, they would be flagellating themselves right there in the congregation. Seeing as though I will be out of Seattle on a wild adventure outside of the city tomorrow, I decide to attend mass, the quickest mass I've ever attended - 25 minutes, maybe less than that. It's amazingly brief and over before I know it.
After mass, I walk back to the hotel to prep myself for my evening with Emily. Oh, the fun she has planned - my first official Cabaret show EVER. We have dinner at Julia's on Broadway and purchase tickets to the show. Eating there before the show entitles you to special VIP-style seating, but we quickly discover how un-VIP-like we are when fifty or more other people have the special seating privileges.It's kind of a farce, but whatever.
OK, so I've seen drag shows before - mostly shows in South Bend, and most shows with very little overall flair. They're fun and entertaining, but nothing comes close to the Cabaret show at Julia's. Le Faux, the name of the show, is fully choreographed and rehearsed ad nauseum. There's acrobatics, pyrotechnics, and a whole lot more. It's referred to as the #1 Celebrity Impersonator Show in the Northwest. Not much of a title, but Julia's does an amazing job of setting a scene and taking you into a different place. The theatre is right inside the bar/restaurant. The stage is not super large, which gives it an intimacy and a Parisien burlesque atmosphere.
We are entertained for a full two hours by female impersonators, singing (or rather lip-syncing) to such famous gay icons like Cher, Lady Gaga, Liza Minnelli, Pink, Britney Spears, etc. The host of the show is a man whose show personna is Mama Tits. Yes, you read that right. Mama Tits is a 6'5" hulk of a man with the biggest sailor mouth I've ever heard.
Emily has us sit near the aisle with me sitting right on the aisle. It's a complete ploy. Several times through the night, I am assaulted by performers. Lady Gaga shoots me with her bubble gum, then whacks me in the face with her dress of plastic bubbles. Liza Minnelli comes out into the audience during her performance of Cabaret, stands next to me, leaps into the air, and lands smack in my lap. She lands only inches away from the spot on my lap that would have had me curled up in the fetal position on the floor crying like a baby. I take a moment to thank the Lord for small favors.
The Lady Gaga impersonator ends the show with a pretty amazing version of Bad Romance. A standing ovation from the crowd brings the show to a close on a high note. Actually, though, the two 60-something ladies and the 60-something man sticking dollar bills down Gaga's onesie is the highlight of the show for me. It always amazes me to see the variety of people at drag shows. The stragest attendee at the show, by far, is pale brown poodle, wearing a pink tutu and barrettes. Her owner even pays to have the poodle's picture taken with the cast after the show. So strange.
In Seattle, last call at bars is 1:30A.M. Bars close at 2 A.M. Emily and I stick around after the show and have a few more drinks and talk with the performers. We have several conversations and meet a lot of the employees. One of the most interesting employees is James, the "Is He or Isn't He" waiter. He talks to Emily and I off and on over the course of the last two hours, as if he's our new best friend. Emily and I feel like Will and Grace in that one episode where the new neighbor moves in. Neither of us can tell which one of us he's hitting on more. We end up wondering which of us should be more flattered.
Friday, May 20, 2011
Day Three/ Part One - 5/20/11
So, I start my day at 11A.M. I think for a moment that I'm missing out on something, but then realize that this is my bloody vacation and I'll wake up whenever the hell I damn well please. I figure that I love sleep, I never get enough of it, so I'm going to get some while I'm in a state of not having a care in the world. That's a state I'm not in very often.
After a great deal of research and web surfing, I decide to spend my day exploring downtown. The heart of the city is less than five blocks from my hotel, so it's perfect. I don't know what it is about being in the heart of a large city, but every time I'm in one, I feel like Marlo Thomas in the opening sequence of That Girl. I feel like wearing a big poofy hat, pulling it off, and spinning in circles by some large flowing fountain. I could totally do it, and if I had the chance to do it anywhere, Seattle would be the place. If this city had a motto, it would be, "Do What You Want."
I've only been here two and half days so far, but I'd like to share some observations I've made. First off, this is definitely a pedestrian city. Seattle is a very "green" city, promoting all forms of environmentally-friendly habits and activities. Walking and cycling are the most prevalent forms of transportation. That's not to say that people don't drive - they totally do, but the city is rather compact (or it seems as if everything worth seeing or doing is within walking distance of everything else).
Plus, pedestrians rule! If you're a driver, you always yield to the pedestrian. If you're coming out of a parking lot or turning a corner and there's a pedestrian walking in front of you, you don't speed up and try to go around him. You stop. You let the pedestrian cross, then you may proceed. Of course, as a pedestrian, that doesn't mean you can jaywalk, cross against the light, or do whatever the heck you want. Au contraire, mon ami! As a pedestrian, you live by the rules. If you don't, you die.
The people of Seattle walk everywhere, and in keeping with their "Laissez-Faire" attitude, they walk in their own little worlds. I think that explains why street names and intersections are not only listed on the standard street signs, but also embedded in brass into the pavement at their feet. In fact, everywhere I roam in downtown, floor numbers, street names, even retail establishments are listed in stone or metal on the pavement or ground. It's rather difficult to get lost in downtown.
Here's another observation, Seattle is a dog city! Everybody who is anybody has a freaking dog or two or three. They're all on leashes, they're incredibly well-behaved and friendly, and they rarely, if ever, bark. In addition, your dog can go anywhere you do - into stores, into dry cleaners, into restaurants...anywhere. And if your dog can't go in, the establishment has a hitching post for your dog's leash outside, along with a doggy water bowl and food bowl. It's crazy! In fact, while out driving with Emily yesterday, we saw a couple take their dog into the Teriyaki restaurant on the corner with them. I know that sounds like a bad "Asians eat dog" joke, but I swear it's not. Or at least, I don't think it is - we didn't stick around long enough to see if they came out with an empty leash and handful of cash.
Now, let's talk cost of living! I mean, seriously. It's expensive as hell to live here. Prices for everything are high, except gas - it's the same price here as in South Bend. WTF is up with that? Anyway, while shopping today in Seattle's version of Watertower Place (called Pacific Place), I just about had a hundred different bowel accidents while looking at price tags. $250.00 for a pair of designer jeans - and every pair of jeans is a designer pair. Even their Levi's have designer-looking labels. Housing prices here are outrageous. To have even a sliver of lawn jacks the price of the house up by several hundred thousand dollars. The houses near Emily's neighborhood range from $1 million to double-digit millions in price. That's why so many houses are broken into apartments and why so many people live in apartments. No one can afford a house. Hell, even rent is crazy. Average monthly rent costs range from $1,250 to $3,000 a month. I know that with cost of living comes an increase in pay and higher average salaries, but still...I have gulped more times than I can count when I hear the figures.
And let's talk jeans for a minute, since I'm on the subject. I don't get the jeans in this town. Skinny jeans are everywhere, and I mean everywhere. Sure, you can totally get your thighs and calves in shape just walking up the many hills in the city daily, but why accent your spindly little legs? I guess having been 6'3" for so long and having giraffe-like legs, I'm more than self-conscious of them and have spent my life trying to cover them and not draw attention to their freakishly-long nature. Here, in Seattle, if you're not wearing skinny jeans, it's a rarity. Skinny jeans are so absolutely popular that there are now jeans in the stores here called Matchstick Jeans. I've never seen those in the Midwest. I'm sure they probably exist, but this city has provided me with my first exposure to them. Who knew skinny could get skinnier? I half-expected each pair to come with a designer crowbar to get them off of you at the end of the day. No such luck. You're on your own to pry them off.
In my case, of course, I'm looking at all of this through Midwestern eyes. Seattle residents just don't care about what people are wearing. It's like Emily said on my first day here, "If you're working it, you're fine." But here's my realization - "Even if you're not working it, you're fine." Not more than an hour ago, I saw a guy who totally dressed like Captain Jack Sparrow. He was eating Clam Chowder on the sixth floor of the mall, complete with long, unwashed hair, cotton bandana, and silky sashes hanging from his belt. I thought for sure because he was only a few store fronts away from AMC Theatres, he was promoting the new Pirates movie, but I honestly don't think he was. I tried to go back to find him and take a snapshot, but he was gone. Imagine my disappointment.
That's it for random observations for now. I'm headed back out into the city to explore some more. I'm headed back to Pike's Market for a little shopping there, too. I know tonight is going to be wild and crazy, if Emily has her way. :) I need to walk off some calories in order to not become a super fat heifer after this trip. Daryn - out.
After a great deal of research and web surfing, I decide to spend my day exploring downtown. The heart of the city is less than five blocks from my hotel, so it's perfect. I don't know what it is about being in the heart of a large city, but every time I'm in one, I feel like Marlo Thomas in the opening sequence of That Girl. I feel like wearing a big poofy hat, pulling it off, and spinning in circles by some large flowing fountain. I could totally do it, and if I had the chance to do it anywhere, Seattle would be the place. If this city had a motto, it would be, "Do What You Want."
I've only been here two and half days so far, but I'd like to share some observations I've made. First off, this is definitely a pedestrian city. Seattle is a very "green" city, promoting all forms of environmentally-friendly habits and activities. Walking and cycling are the most prevalent forms of transportation. That's not to say that people don't drive - they totally do, but the city is rather compact (or it seems as if everything worth seeing or doing is within walking distance of everything else).
Plus, pedestrians rule! If you're a driver, you always yield to the pedestrian. If you're coming out of a parking lot or turning a corner and there's a pedestrian walking in front of you, you don't speed up and try to go around him. You stop. You let the pedestrian cross, then you may proceed. Of course, as a pedestrian, that doesn't mean you can jaywalk, cross against the light, or do whatever the heck you want. Au contraire, mon ami! As a pedestrian, you live by the rules. If you don't, you die.
The people of Seattle walk everywhere, and in keeping with their "Laissez-Faire" attitude, they walk in their own little worlds. I think that explains why street names and intersections are not only listed on the standard street signs, but also embedded in brass into the pavement at their feet. In fact, everywhere I roam in downtown, floor numbers, street names, even retail establishments are listed in stone or metal on the pavement or ground. It's rather difficult to get lost in downtown.
Here's another observation, Seattle is a dog city! Everybody who is anybody has a freaking dog or two or three. They're all on leashes, they're incredibly well-behaved and friendly, and they rarely, if ever, bark. In addition, your dog can go anywhere you do - into stores, into dry cleaners, into restaurants...anywhere. And if your dog can't go in, the establishment has a hitching post for your dog's leash outside, along with a doggy water bowl and food bowl. It's crazy! In fact, while out driving with Emily yesterday, we saw a couple take their dog into the Teriyaki restaurant on the corner with them. I know that sounds like a bad "Asians eat dog" joke, but I swear it's not. Or at least, I don't think it is - we didn't stick around long enough to see if they came out with an empty leash and handful of cash.
Now, let's talk cost of living! I mean, seriously. It's expensive as hell to live here. Prices for everything are high, except gas - it's the same price here as in South Bend. WTF is up with that? Anyway, while shopping today in Seattle's version of Watertower Place (called Pacific Place), I just about had a hundred different bowel accidents while looking at price tags. $250.00 for a pair of designer jeans - and every pair of jeans is a designer pair. Even their Levi's have designer-looking labels. Housing prices here are outrageous. To have even a sliver of lawn jacks the price of the house up by several hundred thousand dollars. The houses near Emily's neighborhood range from $1 million to double-digit millions in price. That's why so many houses are broken into apartments and why so many people live in apartments. No one can afford a house. Hell, even rent is crazy. Average monthly rent costs range from $1,250 to $3,000 a month. I know that with cost of living comes an increase in pay and higher average salaries, but still...I have gulped more times than I can count when I hear the figures.
And let's talk jeans for a minute, since I'm on the subject. I don't get the jeans in this town. Skinny jeans are everywhere, and I mean everywhere. Sure, you can totally get your thighs and calves in shape just walking up the many hills in the city daily, but why accent your spindly little legs? I guess having been 6'3" for so long and having giraffe-like legs, I'm more than self-conscious of them and have spent my life trying to cover them and not draw attention to their freakishly-long nature. Here, in Seattle, if you're not wearing skinny jeans, it's a rarity. Skinny jeans are so absolutely popular that there are now jeans in the stores here called Matchstick Jeans. I've never seen those in the Midwest. I'm sure they probably exist, but this city has provided me with my first exposure to them. Who knew skinny could get skinnier? I half-expected each pair to come with a designer crowbar to get them off of you at the end of the day. No such luck. You're on your own to pry them off.
In my case, of course, I'm looking at all of this through Midwestern eyes. Seattle residents just don't care about what people are wearing. It's like Emily said on my first day here, "If you're working it, you're fine." But here's my realization - "Even if you're not working it, you're fine." Not more than an hour ago, I saw a guy who totally dressed like Captain Jack Sparrow. He was eating Clam Chowder on the sixth floor of the mall, complete with long, unwashed hair, cotton bandana, and silky sashes hanging from his belt. I thought for sure because he was only a few store fronts away from AMC Theatres, he was promoting the new Pirates movie, but I honestly don't think he was. I tried to go back to find him and take a snapshot, but he was gone. Imagine my disappointment.
That's it for random observations for now. I'm headed back out into the city to explore some more. I'm headed back to Pike's Market for a little shopping there, too. I know tonight is going to be wild and crazy, if Emily has her way. :) I need to walk off some calories in order to not become a super fat heifer after this trip. Daryn - out.
Day Two/Part Two - 5/19/11
So, after a call from Emily, I spend a little time at the Starbucks before playing the role of the corner hooker. It turns out that this particular Starbucks is known as the Gaybucks. It's supposedly a huge gay hookup joint, and the first Starbucks in the country to serve beer and wine. I can honestly say that I am more than a little disappointed to not get hit on, smiled at, or flirted with in any way. Must be all the sweat I had collected on the walk to get here.
Gaybucks or not, this place is amazing. It's the largest Starbucks I've ever been to, with a bar, a fireplace, an amazing array of seating, plus the balcony that stretches around half of the building. For those cold Seattle nights, there's even an outdoor fireplace/firepit for the patrons. Wish we had one of these in South Bend.
There's a guy sitting across from me on the balcony who's gone so gay, he's twisted all the way over to looking and acting like a lesbian. I didn't know that was possible, but he's total proof. I would totally try to take his picture, but I don't want him to get the wrong idea, and if I tell him I'm doing it for science, I'm sure he won't understand.
The threesome sitting next to me just arrived a few minutes ago. The solitary guy and one of the girls know each other, but the guy insists that he's never met the other girl nor does he know her name. She's getting increasingly pissed at him, insisting that they've met each other four or five times now. She's currently listing facts about him and his life to which he's continuing to deny knowing her, that she only knows those things through the other girl. They are no longer talking to one another anymore. The girl is downing her beer really quickly.
I pack up and head back outside through the building. I stand on the corner, feeling like a street walker waiting for a John. My John happens to be Emily, who arrives very quickly. We head out to a pizza place on the shores of Lake Washington.
The Independent Pizzeria is a quaint little place, seemingly run by former droogs. They all look like they stepped out of the Nirvana/Punk music exhibit from earlier today. They're all amazingly nice and super friendly. The place has only about six tables, plus a couch. The menu is simple - pizza, salad, antipasto, beer, wine, and soft drinks. Best of all, they have root beer on tap. Oh yeah, baby!
Like the true heifers we are, Emily and I scarf down one pizza each, plus a giant salad each, and two mugs of ice cream. The pizzas were so good, and despite feeling full and fat, I just kept eating until mine was all gone. I even ate one of Emily's pieces. The root beer was delicious and all of the drinks were served in canning jars. BTW - the Salted Caramel ice cream they served us is fan-bloody-tastic.
After dinner, we walk along the shore of the lake for a bit, then take a driving tour of Capitol Hill, Emily's neighborhood. If I lived in Seattle, this is the neighborhood for me - no question. Artsy, small shops line the streets, people of every color, creed, and orientation walk the streets, and the smell in the air is a combination of tolerance, acceptance, and fine food. Emily shows me some of the highlights of the area, including a bar we'll visit tomorrow and an ice cream shop called Molly Moo's that is never without a line that extends down the street.
We decide to spend the rest of the evening at Emily's pad. Her sister and brother-in-law are great people - so nice and so friendly. Emily's sister, Amanda, does a birth chart for me. I discover a lot of things about myself - things I've always known, but that I never had vocalized before. There are a lot of planet names and astrology signs being tossed around - Cancer Moon, Venus Virgo, Virgo Ascending, etc.
The cat sensed that a reading was going on and that I was a Leo. He sat in my lap the whole time. I did not touch him or allow him near my face, so I was fine (in terms of allergies). Felines - we stick together. Unfortunately, I'm allergic to my own sign.
It's after 1 A.M. now. I need to sleep. I also need to make some plans for tomorrow. Whatever is a solitary male tourist from the Midwest to do alone in Seattle on a gorgeous sunny day in the 70s? I'm sure I'll think of something. :)
Gaybucks or not, this place is amazing. It's the largest Starbucks I've ever been to, with a bar, a fireplace, an amazing array of seating, plus the balcony that stretches around half of the building. For those cold Seattle nights, there's even an outdoor fireplace/firepit for the patrons. Wish we had one of these in South Bend.
There's a guy sitting across from me on the balcony who's gone so gay, he's twisted all the way over to looking and acting like a lesbian. I didn't know that was possible, but he's total proof. I would totally try to take his picture, but I don't want him to get the wrong idea, and if I tell him I'm doing it for science, I'm sure he won't understand.
The threesome sitting next to me just arrived a few minutes ago. The solitary guy and one of the girls know each other, but the guy insists that he's never met the other girl nor does he know her name. She's getting increasingly pissed at him, insisting that they've met each other four or five times now. She's currently listing facts about him and his life to which he's continuing to deny knowing her, that she only knows those things through the other girl. They are no longer talking to one another anymore. The girl is downing her beer really quickly.
I pack up and head back outside through the building. I stand on the corner, feeling like a street walker waiting for a John. My John happens to be Emily, who arrives very quickly. We head out to a pizza place on the shores of Lake Washington.
The Independent Pizzeria is a quaint little place, seemingly run by former droogs. They all look like they stepped out of the Nirvana/Punk music exhibit from earlier today. They're all amazingly nice and super friendly. The place has only about six tables, plus a couch. The menu is simple - pizza, salad, antipasto, beer, wine, and soft drinks. Best of all, they have root beer on tap. Oh yeah, baby!
Like the true heifers we are, Emily and I scarf down one pizza each, plus a giant salad each, and two mugs of ice cream. The pizzas were so good, and despite feeling full and fat, I just kept eating until mine was all gone. I even ate one of Emily's pieces. The root beer was delicious and all of the drinks were served in canning jars. BTW - the Salted Caramel ice cream they served us is fan-bloody-tastic.
After dinner, we walk along the shore of the lake for a bit, then take a driving tour of Capitol Hill, Emily's neighborhood. If I lived in Seattle, this is the neighborhood for me - no question. Artsy, small shops line the streets, people of every color, creed, and orientation walk the streets, and the smell in the air is a combination of tolerance, acceptance, and fine food. Emily shows me some of the highlights of the area, including a bar we'll visit tomorrow and an ice cream shop called Molly Moo's that is never without a line that extends down the street.
We decide to spend the rest of the evening at Emily's pad. Her sister and brother-in-law are great people - so nice and so friendly. Emily's sister, Amanda, does a birth chart for me. I discover a lot of things about myself - things I've always known, but that I never had vocalized before. There are a lot of planet names and astrology signs being tossed around - Cancer Moon, Venus Virgo, Virgo Ascending, etc.
The cat sensed that a reading was going on and that I was a Leo. He sat in my lap the whole time. I did not touch him or allow him near my face, so I was fine (in terms of allergies). Felines - we stick together. Unfortunately, I'm allergic to my own sign.
It's after 1 A.M. now. I need to sleep. I also need to make some plans for tomorrow. Whatever is a solitary male tourist from the Midwest to do alone in Seattle on a gorgeous sunny day in the 70s? I'm sure I'll think of something. :)
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Day Two/ Part One - 5/19/11
So, after being awake yesterday for more than 24 hours, I was thoroughly exhausted. I think I even nodded off while peeing before I went to bed. You know it's bad when you pee in a state of semi-consciousness - the stream is out of control...literally.
I went to bed shortly after 4A.M. And of course, when my head hit the pillow, I could not fall asleep. What's up with that? I lay in bed for quite a while before finally dozing off. A series of loud voices in the room next door kept me awake for a while, too. My room faces out to Denny Street, so I couldn't figure out if the voices were from inside the hotel, outside the hotel, or from a haunted plane of existence. They eventually stopped, so it was all good.
I set the alarm for 10am, but don't rouse myself from bed until almost 12noon. I was tired. Give me a break! It takes me about an hour to motivate myself, but once I do, I'm good to go.
I venture out of the hotel and down towards the Space Needle, which is conveniently located only a few blocks from the Hyatt. I decide to start my day at the EMP - Museum of Music, Sci-Fi, and Pop Culture. The key exhibits are a Jimi Hendrix exhibit, a tribute to Nirvana and the Punk Music movement, and a Battlestar Galactica collection.
The Jimi Hendrix thing is interesting, but anyone who knows me knows that guitar-based music is not my "thing." Still, I explore the exhibit thoroughly. I can appreciate any type of music. I move from there to the Guitar Gallery, whose entrance is right next to a 35 foot cyclone made from over 600 guitars. Upon entering the gallery, I'm presented with the worst of concepts - I'm in the museum with a gaggle of school children!
Now, I'm not a complete grinch, and I get the fact that kids are the key to our future, that education and knowledge is power, that most museums are designed for our next generations, but God help me in the face of this situation! Everywhere I go, there are kids! Every one of them is intrigued by the museum, but only in a half-hearted, "I'm doing this because I have to" kind of way. It's enough to make me want to yank one of the guitars out of the display cases and beat myself in the head...or better yet - them.
Nevertheless, I persevere. I move on to the Artists in Their Own Words room. It's a room full of computer monitors, headphones, and billions of shiny, lighted buttons to press. There are dozens of stations to visit, each one with multiple options to hear artists, musicians, and celebrities talk about various hurdles and obstacles that they had to overcome. There's even a room where you can sit down and record your own personal music story.
I almost do it. Almost. It's only when I see the room full of giggly girls laying on the floor, chewing gum, and linked together like a really raunchy low-budget soft-porn film that I head in the opposite direction. I do take the time to listen to and watch the many personal stories from museum visitors on the monitor on the other side of the room. They are thoroughly entertaining, and I feel myself actually wishing I could sit down and listen to/watch them all. I especially like the story from the 70 year old woman who speaks about having to repeat two years of college after 1964 due to her obsession with The Beatles. She's a hip old granny who obviously has a whole slew of cool stories to tell.
Not far from the Personal Stories room is a tiny alcove sectioned off by a beaded curtain. Inside, there's a television showing an old Spanish man teaching a young adolescent boy how to play guitar like the legends. It's really interesting, but I can't stay to watch. Another teen girl soft-porn film is being prepped in that alcove, each girl drooling over the teenage boy on the TV. Disgusting!
I proceed to the Nirvana/Punk exhibit, seriously thinking that I won't find many teens inside, as the whole grunge/punk movement was way before their time. Not true. They're everywhere! I'm convinced that they've actually multiplied while inside the building. Thankfully, I find a Zune on the wall and blare Minor Threat, Skinny Puppy, and The Dead Kennedys for a while just to purge some of my irritation. It works! Thank God for a little "Holiday in Cambodia."
This exhibit really takes me back to the good ole days at Nite Lites, listening to Nocturne Night Flight on Friday nights in my room after midnight, enjoying the music on a mix tape Karen made for me way back when. Hell, it was all more than 20 years ago. I'm so old. The multitude of oblivious teenagers start to irritate me again, so I return to the Zune one last time to listen to the Pixies. "Where is My Mind?" seems like a fitting song, and it is.
I finally head upstairs to the Sound Lab. This place is cool. Pick a rock instrument, stand at the station, and learn how to play a few chords or a familiar melody. I enjoy the hell out of this place. I only get irritated a couple of times, and only when the kids at the stations are not really using them properly, but simply taking up space.
I play the keyboard along with Alanis Morrisette's "Thank You," learn how to use a mixing board to mix The Eurythmics' "Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)," and play the guitar with the Kingsmen. I even do a little Karaoke in the Vocals lab, singing along with Sarah McLachlan's "I Will Remember You" and Nirvana's "Smells Like Teen Spirit." I learn very quickly that I can't reach Sarah's high notes and I can't scream with Nirvana. Screech like a howler monkey, yes, but scream - definitely not.
There's even a recording studio within the museum, complete with every instrument and a mixing station, but you have to pay for it, and you also have to have musical talent. I have the money, but not the musical talent, so I pass.
Not surprisingly, there's not a single giggly teenage girl in the Battlestar Galactica exhibit. Not a one! It's glorious. Of course, I'm a huge sci-fi geek, but I never watched Battlestar Galactica a day in my life, so the exhibit is lost on me. I still walk through, appreciating the many life-size models, props, costumes, and interactive stations along the way. I especially appreciate the young boys running around looking for R2D2 in the ships and talking about how they don't remember the Storm Troopers being made of silver and being so shiny. One of the kids plays the know-it-all, and convinces them that the props are all from a movie they haven't seen. It's endlessly entertaining.
I head down to the lower level, stopping back in the Artists in Their Own Words room. I listen to Gloria Gaynor tell the story of how "I Will Survive" came to be and how she came to appreciate Disco fashion. I resist the urge to burst into song when the original version of the tune comes on the headphones. I don't think the rest of the museum's patrons would appreciate it, especially after my screeching experience with Nirvana one floor up.
With no food or drink in me (the Cafe is closed), I decide to leave the museum and head to a huge Starbucks quite a distance away. I have no idea how far I walk, but it takes at least an hour to get there. I could simply go to the Starbucks by the hotel or the one down the street or the one three blocks away or the one on the corner of the major intersection around the corner, but I have my heart set on this one. It has a balcony, it's set in a quiet neighborhood, and full of some very interesting characters. I love that stuff!
The Midwestern fat ass that I have become suffers miserably in the warm sun, climbing up steep, almost 90 degree hills, praying for my heart to hold out. The hills seem to have no end, and I wonder if I'll ever reach the top. The top? What a fool I am to think it ends. The hills level off to give me a false sense of security, only to pick up again, less than a block away. In the end, because I'm a complete noob in town, I overshoot my goal and end up several blocks away. I stop and allow the cool breeze to dry the sweat pouring from my brow, neck and forehead. I'm so out of shape.
Text directions from Emily point me back in the right direction. Thankfully, I get to walk downhill. I find the Starbucks shining in the springtime sunshine like a mecca or oasis in the desert. I'm a sweaty mess when I enter, which I'm sure is totally attractive. I get a bottle of water and a Frappuccino, then head out to the balcony to sit in the sun. It's thoroughly beautiful, but a Frappuccino only stays icy for three and a half minutes in the warm Seattle sun. FYI.
I'm doing a lot of outlining for yet another reboot of HeroTale. Some things are changing, but nothing that undermines my original vision. I refuse to compromise everything I've envisioned. Screw that!
Now, I'm writing this blog entry and waiting for Emily to get done with work, pick me up, and take me out on the town. Tonight's plan - pizza on the beach. Everything sounds good right now. Can't wait! More later.
I went to bed shortly after 4A.M. And of course, when my head hit the pillow, I could not fall asleep. What's up with that? I lay in bed for quite a while before finally dozing off. A series of loud voices in the room next door kept me awake for a while, too. My room faces out to Denny Street, so I couldn't figure out if the voices were from inside the hotel, outside the hotel, or from a haunted plane of existence. They eventually stopped, so it was all good.
I set the alarm for 10am, but don't rouse myself from bed until almost 12noon. I was tired. Give me a break! It takes me about an hour to motivate myself, but once I do, I'm good to go.
I venture out of the hotel and down towards the Space Needle, which is conveniently located only a few blocks from the Hyatt. I decide to start my day at the EMP - Museum of Music, Sci-Fi, and Pop Culture. The key exhibits are a Jimi Hendrix exhibit, a tribute to Nirvana and the Punk Music movement, and a Battlestar Galactica collection.
The Jimi Hendrix thing is interesting, but anyone who knows me knows that guitar-based music is not my "thing." Still, I explore the exhibit thoroughly. I can appreciate any type of music. I move from there to the Guitar Gallery, whose entrance is right next to a 35 foot cyclone made from over 600 guitars. Upon entering the gallery, I'm presented with the worst of concepts - I'm in the museum with a gaggle of school children!
Now, I'm not a complete grinch, and I get the fact that kids are the key to our future, that education and knowledge is power, that most museums are designed for our next generations, but God help me in the face of this situation! Everywhere I go, there are kids! Every one of them is intrigued by the museum, but only in a half-hearted, "I'm doing this because I have to" kind of way. It's enough to make me want to yank one of the guitars out of the display cases and beat myself in the head...or better yet - them.
Nevertheless, I persevere. I move on to the Artists in Their Own Words room. It's a room full of computer monitors, headphones, and billions of shiny, lighted buttons to press. There are dozens of stations to visit, each one with multiple options to hear artists, musicians, and celebrities talk about various hurdles and obstacles that they had to overcome. There's even a room where you can sit down and record your own personal music story.
I almost do it. Almost. It's only when I see the room full of giggly girls laying on the floor, chewing gum, and linked together like a really raunchy low-budget soft-porn film that I head in the opposite direction. I do take the time to listen to and watch the many personal stories from museum visitors on the monitor on the other side of the room. They are thoroughly entertaining, and I feel myself actually wishing I could sit down and listen to/watch them all. I especially like the story from the 70 year old woman who speaks about having to repeat two years of college after 1964 due to her obsession with The Beatles. She's a hip old granny who obviously has a whole slew of cool stories to tell.
Not far from the Personal Stories room is a tiny alcove sectioned off by a beaded curtain. Inside, there's a television showing an old Spanish man teaching a young adolescent boy how to play guitar like the legends. It's really interesting, but I can't stay to watch. Another teen girl soft-porn film is being prepped in that alcove, each girl drooling over the teenage boy on the TV. Disgusting!
I proceed to the Nirvana/Punk exhibit, seriously thinking that I won't find many teens inside, as the whole grunge/punk movement was way before their time. Not true. They're everywhere! I'm convinced that they've actually multiplied while inside the building. Thankfully, I find a Zune on the wall and blare Minor Threat, Skinny Puppy, and The Dead Kennedys for a while just to purge some of my irritation. It works! Thank God for a little "Holiday in Cambodia."
This exhibit really takes me back to the good ole days at Nite Lites, listening to Nocturne Night Flight on Friday nights in my room after midnight, enjoying the music on a mix tape Karen made for me way back when. Hell, it was all more than 20 years ago. I'm so old. The multitude of oblivious teenagers start to irritate me again, so I return to the Zune one last time to listen to the Pixies. "Where is My Mind?" seems like a fitting song, and it is.
I finally head upstairs to the Sound Lab. This place is cool. Pick a rock instrument, stand at the station, and learn how to play a few chords or a familiar melody. I enjoy the hell out of this place. I only get irritated a couple of times, and only when the kids at the stations are not really using them properly, but simply taking up space.
I play the keyboard along with Alanis Morrisette's "Thank You," learn how to use a mixing board to mix The Eurythmics' "Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)," and play the guitar with the Kingsmen. I even do a little Karaoke in the Vocals lab, singing along with Sarah McLachlan's "I Will Remember You" and Nirvana's "Smells Like Teen Spirit." I learn very quickly that I can't reach Sarah's high notes and I can't scream with Nirvana. Screech like a howler monkey, yes, but scream - definitely not.
There's even a recording studio within the museum, complete with every instrument and a mixing station, but you have to pay for it, and you also have to have musical talent. I have the money, but not the musical talent, so I pass.
Not surprisingly, there's not a single giggly teenage girl in the Battlestar Galactica exhibit. Not a one! It's glorious. Of course, I'm a huge sci-fi geek, but I never watched Battlestar Galactica a day in my life, so the exhibit is lost on me. I still walk through, appreciating the many life-size models, props, costumes, and interactive stations along the way. I especially appreciate the young boys running around looking for R2D2 in the ships and talking about how they don't remember the Storm Troopers being made of silver and being so shiny. One of the kids plays the know-it-all, and convinces them that the props are all from a movie they haven't seen. It's endlessly entertaining.
I head down to the lower level, stopping back in the Artists in Their Own Words room. I listen to Gloria Gaynor tell the story of how "I Will Survive" came to be and how she came to appreciate Disco fashion. I resist the urge to burst into song when the original version of the tune comes on the headphones. I don't think the rest of the museum's patrons would appreciate it, especially after my screeching experience with Nirvana one floor up.
With no food or drink in me (the Cafe is closed), I decide to leave the museum and head to a huge Starbucks quite a distance away. I have no idea how far I walk, but it takes at least an hour to get there. I could simply go to the Starbucks by the hotel or the one down the street or the one three blocks away or the one on the corner of the major intersection around the corner, but I have my heart set on this one. It has a balcony, it's set in a quiet neighborhood, and full of some very interesting characters. I love that stuff!
The Midwestern fat ass that I have become suffers miserably in the warm sun, climbing up steep, almost 90 degree hills, praying for my heart to hold out. The hills seem to have no end, and I wonder if I'll ever reach the top. The top? What a fool I am to think it ends. The hills level off to give me a false sense of security, only to pick up again, less than a block away. In the end, because I'm a complete noob in town, I overshoot my goal and end up several blocks away. I stop and allow the cool breeze to dry the sweat pouring from my brow, neck and forehead. I'm so out of shape.
Text directions from Emily point me back in the right direction. Thankfully, I get to walk downhill. I find the Starbucks shining in the springtime sunshine like a mecca or oasis in the desert. I'm a sweaty mess when I enter, which I'm sure is totally attractive. I get a bottle of water and a Frappuccino, then head out to the balcony to sit in the sun. It's thoroughly beautiful, but a Frappuccino only stays icy for three and a half minutes in the warm Seattle sun. FYI.
I'm doing a lot of outlining for yet another reboot of HeroTale. Some things are changing, but nothing that undermines my original vision. I refuse to compromise everything I've envisioned. Screw that!
Now, I'm writing this blog entry and waiting for Emily to get done with work, pick me up, and take me out on the town. Tonight's plan - pizza on the beach. Everything sounds good right now. Can't wait! More later.
Day One/Part Two - May 18, 2011
The plane lands without incident at Seattle/Tacoma Airport. We land twenty minutes early, which means that when we arrive at the gate to deplane, there's no walkway. Nobody is expecting us that early, so we are forced to sit in the plane for more than half an hour while someone comes with a walkway/ramp. Best of all, when someone does arrive, she tells us that we all took her by surprise arriving early and that we aren't really assigned a baggage claim spot yet. We are told to look at carousels 3,4, or 5 when we finally deplane.
I find my suitcase spinning around to the other side of the carousel when I arrive at carousel #4. I chase it down, too impatient to wait for it to come around again. I get my luggage and soon after, I'm greeted by Emily. She looks fabulous and she's all smiles when we do the big solid "I'm so glad you're/I'm here hug."
The weather outside is phenomenal. Mid to high 60s, full sunshine, and a light wind. The sky is nearly clear, aside from a few wispy Cirrus clouds.
Our first stop in Seattle is Pike's Market. FUN! This public market features fresh fruits and vegetables, fish, flowers, trinkets, handmade art, etc. It's totally cool. We stop at Piroshky Piroshky where we buy a large sampling of Piroshky - Russian pastries of many different shapes and flavors. We sample Blueberry Cream Cheese, Apple Cinnamon, Spinach Egg and Cheese, Ham and Cheese, and Sausage. The Ham and Cheese is a letdown, as is the Sausage. Both are difficult to eat.
We then stop at the original Starbucks - the very first one. There's a line - d'uh. Of course, once you filter out the gawkers and the Asians taking photos, you can place your order mighty fast. Two iced beverages later, we park ourselves on a little stoop across the street and proceed to eat the remaining Piroshky. We eat them all. The Blueberry Cream Cheese one is the clear winner. Delicious!
From our place on the stoop, we spy two small Asian children (cute as can be) chasing after pigeons on the street. Encouraged by their parents, they are clearing the streets of the disease bags with wings. They're hilarious.
We make a stop at one of the fish counters. I await the legendary fish throwing event. It never happens. I do, however, sample some Smoked Salmon, which is to die for, FYI. The guy handing out the fish to us has creepy eyes and stares at us with a Soylent Green look in his eyes. So, we leave, but not before playing with the live clams on display. Touch the ones sticking out of their shells and they instantly retract back inside for safety. They're creepy.
More wandering through the market results in the purchase of Honey Sticks at one of the tables. Green Apple, Watermelon, Raspberry, Pink Lemonade, and Banana-flavored sticks cost us a total of $1.25.
A diversion down the stairs takes us to the wrong hallway, but leads to the infamous wall of gum. Chewing gum of every size, shape, and color has replaced the brick of the buildings. I pose for an icky photo opp, then we head for downtown.
We walk up a hill that would have tested the patience of the Israelites. My calves still hurt from it. After the monumental climb, we visit Nordstrom Rack, where Emily likes to buy her clothes and shoes. We look at some items, then leave for Emily's sister's house in the nearby Capitol Hill area.
I get to meet the Seattle members of Em's family, including her nephew, who's a complete pistol and cuter than any kid should be.
With no time to lose, we head back into the city to take a trip to the top of the Space Needle. $32 later, we are standing on the Observation Deck of Seattle's '62 World's Fair attraction. It's only about 520 stories high, but it really provides you with an amazing view of the city. We both took a slew of photos, then sat inside the bar/cafe area, people watching and talking.
We even have the unique pleasure of meeting Tim, the current record holder for most trips to the top of the Needle. There's no missing him really. He's wearing a large nametag that says "Current Record Holder - Tim" followed by his record number. Today is his 87th trip to the Observation Deck. He informs us that he is attempting to get to 365. I guess everyone needs a goal.
We really get our money's worth at the top, staying there for well over an hour. We even get to watch a group of Asians break all the rules in an attempt to get the perfect photo. Each of the ladies weighed less than 90lbs, but it's an ill-advised move to sit on the outside railing. Fortunately, they survive.
After the Needle, Emily drops me off at my hotel to check in. The Hyatt Place is quite the posh little hotel. My room is like a mini-palace, especially since it's just me staying. I spend some time admiring the amenities, then iron some clothes for our dinner date.
We eat at a restaurant called St. Cloud's in Madrona. Small, intimate place - reminds me of the restaurants in Quebec City. We sit in the bar, where I end up consuming way too many drinks. Gage, the 5'3" bartender, makes my Rum and Cokes with Dark Rum. So good!
You know what else is good? Our meals. Emily is currently dating the restaurant's head chef, but has yet to sample his cuisine. She has the Filet Mignon and I have the Parmesan-Crusted Pork Tenderloin. The meals are so good, I am now contemplating dating her boyfriend. :)
I am now back in my hotel room, typing this out. It's 4:55A.M. back in South Bend, but only 1:55A.M. here. Technically, I have been awake for a total of 24 hours now. Unbelievable. No wonder I'm so freaking tired. Good night!
I find my suitcase spinning around to the other side of the carousel when I arrive at carousel #4. I chase it down, too impatient to wait for it to come around again. I get my luggage and soon after, I'm greeted by Emily. She looks fabulous and she's all smiles when we do the big solid "I'm so glad you're/I'm here hug."
The weather outside is phenomenal. Mid to high 60s, full sunshine, and a light wind. The sky is nearly clear, aside from a few wispy Cirrus clouds.
Our first stop in Seattle is Pike's Market. FUN! This public market features fresh fruits and vegetables, fish, flowers, trinkets, handmade art, etc. It's totally cool. We stop at Piroshky Piroshky where we buy a large sampling of Piroshky - Russian pastries of many different shapes and flavors. We sample Blueberry Cream Cheese, Apple Cinnamon, Spinach Egg and Cheese, Ham and Cheese, and Sausage. The Ham and Cheese is a letdown, as is the Sausage. Both are difficult to eat.
We then stop at the original Starbucks - the very first one. There's a line - d'uh. Of course, once you filter out the gawkers and the Asians taking photos, you can place your order mighty fast. Two iced beverages later, we park ourselves on a little stoop across the street and proceed to eat the remaining Piroshky. We eat them all. The Blueberry Cream Cheese one is the clear winner. Delicious!
From our place on the stoop, we spy two small Asian children (cute as can be) chasing after pigeons on the street. Encouraged by their parents, they are clearing the streets of the disease bags with wings. They're hilarious.
We make a stop at one of the fish counters. I await the legendary fish throwing event. It never happens. I do, however, sample some Smoked Salmon, which is to die for, FYI. The guy handing out the fish to us has creepy eyes and stares at us with a Soylent Green look in his eyes. So, we leave, but not before playing with the live clams on display. Touch the ones sticking out of their shells and they instantly retract back inside for safety. They're creepy.
More wandering through the market results in the purchase of Honey Sticks at one of the tables. Green Apple, Watermelon, Raspberry, Pink Lemonade, and Banana-flavored sticks cost us a total of $1.25.
A diversion down the stairs takes us to the wrong hallway, but leads to the infamous wall of gum. Chewing gum of every size, shape, and color has replaced the brick of the buildings. I pose for an icky photo opp, then we head for downtown.
We walk up a hill that would have tested the patience of the Israelites. My calves still hurt from it. After the monumental climb, we visit Nordstrom Rack, where Emily likes to buy her clothes and shoes. We look at some items, then leave for Emily's sister's house in the nearby Capitol Hill area.
I get to meet the Seattle members of Em's family, including her nephew, who's a complete pistol and cuter than any kid should be.
With no time to lose, we head back into the city to take a trip to the top of the Space Needle. $32 later, we are standing on the Observation Deck of Seattle's '62 World's Fair attraction. It's only about 520 stories high, but it really provides you with an amazing view of the city. We both took a slew of photos, then sat inside the bar/cafe area, people watching and talking.
We even have the unique pleasure of meeting Tim, the current record holder for most trips to the top of the Needle. There's no missing him really. He's wearing a large nametag that says "Current Record Holder - Tim" followed by his record number. Today is his 87th trip to the Observation Deck. He informs us that he is attempting to get to 365. I guess everyone needs a goal.
We really get our money's worth at the top, staying there for well over an hour. We even get to watch a group of Asians break all the rules in an attempt to get the perfect photo. Each of the ladies weighed less than 90lbs, but it's an ill-advised move to sit on the outside railing. Fortunately, they survive.
After the Needle, Emily drops me off at my hotel to check in. The Hyatt Place is quite the posh little hotel. My room is like a mini-palace, especially since it's just me staying. I spend some time admiring the amenities, then iron some clothes for our dinner date.
We eat at a restaurant called St. Cloud's in Madrona. Small, intimate place - reminds me of the restaurants in Quebec City. We sit in the bar, where I end up consuming way too many drinks. Gage, the 5'3" bartender, makes my Rum and Cokes with Dark Rum. So good!
You know what else is good? Our meals. Emily is currently dating the restaurant's head chef, but has yet to sample his cuisine. She has the Filet Mignon and I have the Parmesan-Crusted Pork Tenderloin. The meals are so good, I am now contemplating dating her boyfriend. :)
I am now back in my hotel room, typing this out. It's 4:55A.M. back in South Bend, but only 1:55A.M. here. Technically, I have been awake for a total of 24 hours now. Unbelievable. No wonder I'm so freaking tired. Good night!
Day One/Part One - May 18, 2011
4:30 A.M. Besides the billions of birds outside my window, who the hell is up at this hour…willingly? After three Snooze button hits, I drag myself out of bed. I get dressed, make my bed, brush my teeth, and make myself presentable – not in that order. I’m easily distracted, don’t forget.
Once the toiletries are used for morning preparations, I pack them in the suitcase. Hmmm… I can shut this thing without much effort. Must not be well-packed. I think I need more. A ten minute diversion results in an additional shirt and pair of shoes. I have no idea what I’m doing in the next few days – might as well be prepared for anything, right?
I manage to get the 7,000 lb. suitcase up the stairs and out the door without waking anyone in the house. I’m impressed with myself. No time to pat myself on the back, though. I shove the suitcase in the trunk of the CR-V and head for the airport.
I make one minor detour. I stop at the cemetery to visit Brian’s grave. I haven’t been to visit since the headstone debacle was resolved last week. It’s dark, quiet, and still at 10 minutes after 5 in the morning. I talk to Brian briefly. I assume he has some pull in heaven, so I ask for some guidance and a watchful eye on the trip. He was not that great with electronics, so I avoid asking him to keep an eye on the plane.
At the airport, I park the CR-V one spot away from a lone Lexus. I contemplate being that asshole who parks next to the expensive car when there are fifty other spaces available, but decide against it. My CR-V has too many dents and scratches already.
Inside the airport, I’m greeted by the scowl of a Delta Airlines counter agent. When I approach the counter to check my bag, she immediately points to the computer terminal. Like the true automaton she is, she barely says a word. Of course, her face says it all. Imagine the irritation on her face when I tell her that I checked in online the night before, and that I simply need to check my bag. Apparently, most Delta passengers are not this efficient.
Surprisingly, the South Bend Airport TSA agents don’t target me as a potential agent of Al Quaeda. I knew I was safe when the Iraqi-looking man in the priest collar made it through. I’m confident that his outfit was on sale at Fun FX this week. I’m more or less bewildered by the amount of clothing accessories I have to remove before even attempting to pass through the body scanner. The TSA agent uses about five plastic bins to accommodate my shoes, belt, money clip, cell phone, coat, etc. It takes about five minutes to get my stuff back. I get dressed again and make my way to the Concourse.
The Concourse is strangely different than I remember it. It’s huge and now has a coffee shop inside. I approach the counter for coffee. The woman behind the counter looks really upset that she has to cease her morning daydreams to help me. She does eventually smile and wish me a good day, but only after I put my change in the cracked plastic cup marked “TIPS.”
When I sit down to wait, I pull out a crossword puzzle to pass the time. I sit in an area with no one sitting nearby. I mean, it’s almost 6:00A.M. – I don’t feel like being nice and friendly quite yet. Of course, like the true weirdo magnet that I am, I attract the elderly woman with the OCD issue. She continuously checks her boarding pass, expecting the words and information to change. It doesn’t. She also has a problem sitting still – she gets up at least five times in ten minutes to look at the trash can, the boarding area, the plug in the corner, and so many other amazingly intriguing items of interest. She narrowly misses knocking over my coffee twice, as she practically circles my chair.
I decide to make my escape, in the guise of having to pee. I don’t really have to, but I can’t stand the woman’s presence much longer. She has been flipping through the lousy South Bend coupon book she picked up in the entryway. She’s one of those ladies who licks her finger, then turns the page. I cannot stand that. I can actually hear her lick her finger, like she’s stroking sandpaper with her tongue.
The bathroom in the Councourse is as far from the waiting area as possible. If you have vision issues, they’re easy to find. Simply follow the outrageously loud and disgusting sounds of toilets flushing and hand dryers blowing. A blind person could find them with little problem.
Upon the return from my fake trip to the bathroom, I find the odd OCD woman standing in the coffee shop, staring blankly at the merchandise for sale. She looks overwhelmed. Frankly, the selection is not large enough to cause that type of reaction, but what are you gonna do?
I sit down and wait to board, keeping a watchful eye on the phony priest sitting several rows away. I swear he's reading a Bible with the Koran hidden inside.
The puddle jumper used to transport us to Minneapolis is not exceptional in any way. I'm a bit scared at first when I see the crew arrive in the Concourse, walk past the gate, then double back laughing when they realize they’ve missed their gate. I’m not 100% sure what flight they thought they were manning since our gate is the only one open in the area.
On board the plane, everything is fine. The Iraqi mock priest is really reading the Bible when I pass him in the aisle on the way to my seat. Not sure if he's just doing it for show, but I have to take him at face value (or maybe I just want to). I don’t want to imagine anything differently. Besides, if he has Jihadi-type intentions for this tiny plane, he's not going to make much of an impact.
The sole stewardess on the plan is either new or is such a veteran that she doesn’t care about her job anymore. When the time comes for the safety instructions to be read, she reads directly from a sheet of paper – completely deadpan. She even reads the part that says, “Welcome aboard Flight 4753 to Minneapolis. My name is Elizabeth.” Thank God she had that written down, right?
I sit next to a guy whose only source of entertainment for the 45 minute trip is a book by Arnold Palmer, giving tips on the game of golf and doing its best to apply those tips to life situations. I sneak a peak over his shoulder a couple of times. I don’t blame him for falling asleep four different times during the flight. Even the pictures in the book are boring.
Once we land in Minneapolis, I have the wonderful opportunity to find my next gate. I land at B5 and my next flight leaves from Gate F14. Honestly, why is it that wherever I go, my connecting flight leaves from the gate that is the furthest away from where I land? And nine times out of ten, it’s the gate at the farthest end of the airport terminal.
Inside the Minneapolis Airport, I make several fun observations. Outside one of the restaurants, a guy in a business suit, wearing his Borg implant (a Bluetooth earpiece) looks and sounds like a man with Turret’s. He randomly laughs, shouts something, or talks loudly as people pass by. It's funny to watch the people all say, “I’m sorry” or “Excuse me.” Like the automaton at the Delta counter, he just points to the device in his ear, as if that's a universal answer. I can tell you, old blue hairs have no clue what the thing in his ear is.
I also have the chance to follow an airport employee pushing a large Rubbermaid cart of ice around the terminal for a short time. Everything about him screams, “This is not my life!” There's no language barrier of any kind with him. Even the Japanese tourists know he's miserable. I keep waiting for some of them to pull out their cameras and take pictures, but alas, he's not that interesting.
When I sit down at Gate F14 to wait for boarding to begin, my weirdo magnet activates without any warning. The Asian kid sitting several rows away stands up, gathers his belongings, and comes to sit next to me. And I mean, right next to me, elbow to elbow, completely invading my personal bubble. Then, to top it all off, he pulls the acoustic guitar from the case on the floor and starts strumming. No lie! I don’t know if he thinks the place needs some livening up or he's hallucinating that he's in a NYC subway station. Either way, it's completely random and par for the course for any trip I take.
To top that, the older gentleman behind me continuously tells people that the seats next to him are being saved for the rest of his group. Later, after shooing away four different people, he admits to the old lady across from him that he's traveling alone and prefers it that way.
Here’s another random observation – why is it that if two blue hairs are in the same general vicinity, they are instantly drawn to each other? These two ladies are unbelievable chatty. They talk about everything, as if they're old friends meeting for the first time in years. That's not the case, however. En route to the plane, the one lady is strangely coy about her city and state of origin. Not sure what that is about, but when she won’t disclose the information, the other blue hair moves on and ignores her for the rest of the walk.
Now, I’m sitting on the plane, somewhere near 10,000 feet. There’s actually Wi-Fi on the plane, but it’s $34.95 to use. Astounding! I’ll have to post this part of my trip journal later. I hope to keep this up for the duration of the trip, but who knows. I’m easily distracted, don’t forget.
LMAO. OK, this is priceless! This large woman in the back of the plane is trying to move out of the way of a passenger when she falls backwards into an empty seat, knocking into a frail old man next to her. She yelps loudly and raises her ass from the seat almost immediately, yelling “Ouch! Pull it out! Pull it out!” The frail old man is in a complete state of shock. You can see it in his face. He doesn’t know how to react, but eventually realizes that the seat belt buckle is digging into the crack of her ass and frees her from the pain. Classic!
I’m going to sign off for now. I need to find some Herculean strength to bust open this complimentary bag of six pretzels I receive from the stewardess with the disheveled head of hair. I may need a nap after getting it open. It's sealed that tightly.
And you know what’s worse? As the plane heads for Seattle, I look at my watch and decide to set it for Pacific Time. Oh dear God, it’s 6:30 A.M. again. Time travel is possible after all. Hopefully, this 6:30 A.M. is better than the previous one. Oh no, some guy is going against the rules and using his cell phone on the plane. That bastard is going to be responsible for the plane going down. Ugh!
Once the toiletries are used for morning preparations, I pack them in the suitcase. Hmmm… I can shut this thing without much effort. Must not be well-packed. I think I need more. A ten minute diversion results in an additional shirt and pair of shoes. I have no idea what I’m doing in the next few days – might as well be prepared for anything, right?
I manage to get the 7,000 lb. suitcase up the stairs and out the door without waking anyone in the house. I’m impressed with myself. No time to pat myself on the back, though. I shove the suitcase in the trunk of the CR-V and head for the airport.
I make one minor detour. I stop at the cemetery to visit Brian’s grave. I haven’t been to visit since the headstone debacle was resolved last week. It’s dark, quiet, and still at 10 minutes after 5 in the morning. I talk to Brian briefly. I assume he has some pull in heaven, so I ask for some guidance and a watchful eye on the trip. He was not that great with electronics, so I avoid asking him to keep an eye on the plane.
At the airport, I park the CR-V one spot away from a lone Lexus. I contemplate being that asshole who parks next to the expensive car when there are fifty other spaces available, but decide against it. My CR-V has too many dents and scratches already.
Inside the airport, I’m greeted by the scowl of a Delta Airlines counter agent. When I approach the counter to check my bag, she immediately points to the computer terminal. Like the true automaton she is, she barely says a word. Of course, her face says it all. Imagine the irritation on her face when I tell her that I checked in online the night before, and that I simply need to check my bag. Apparently, most Delta passengers are not this efficient.
Surprisingly, the South Bend Airport TSA agents don’t target me as a potential agent of Al Quaeda. I knew I was safe when the Iraqi-looking man in the priest collar made it through. I’m confident that his outfit was on sale at Fun FX this week. I’m more or less bewildered by the amount of clothing accessories I have to remove before even attempting to pass through the body scanner. The TSA agent uses about five plastic bins to accommodate my shoes, belt, money clip, cell phone, coat, etc. It takes about five minutes to get my stuff back. I get dressed again and make my way to the Concourse.
The Concourse is strangely different than I remember it. It’s huge and now has a coffee shop inside. I approach the counter for coffee. The woman behind the counter looks really upset that she has to cease her morning daydreams to help me. She does eventually smile and wish me a good day, but only after I put my change in the cracked plastic cup marked “TIPS.”
When I sit down to wait, I pull out a crossword puzzle to pass the time. I sit in an area with no one sitting nearby. I mean, it’s almost 6:00A.M. – I don’t feel like being nice and friendly quite yet. Of course, like the true weirdo magnet that I am, I attract the elderly woman with the OCD issue. She continuously checks her boarding pass, expecting the words and information to change. It doesn’t. She also has a problem sitting still – she gets up at least five times in ten minutes to look at the trash can, the boarding area, the plug in the corner, and so many other amazingly intriguing items of interest. She narrowly misses knocking over my coffee twice, as she practically circles my chair.
I decide to make my escape, in the guise of having to pee. I don’t really have to, but I can’t stand the woman’s presence much longer. She has been flipping through the lousy South Bend coupon book she picked up in the entryway. She’s one of those ladies who licks her finger, then turns the page. I cannot stand that. I can actually hear her lick her finger, like she’s stroking sandpaper with her tongue.
The bathroom in the Councourse is as far from the waiting area as possible. If you have vision issues, they’re easy to find. Simply follow the outrageously loud and disgusting sounds of toilets flushing and hand dryers blowing. A blind person could find them with little problem.
Upon the return from my fake trip to the bathroom, I find the odd OCD woman standing in the coffee shop, staring blankly at the merchandise for sale. She looks overwhelmed. Frankly, the selection is not large enough to cause that type of reaction, but what are you gonna do?
I sit down and wait to board, keeping a watchful eye on the phony priest sitting several rows away. I swear he's reading a Bible with the Koran hidden inside.
The puddle jumper used to transport us to Minneapolis is not exceptional in any way. I'm a bit scared at first when I see the crew arrive in the Concourse, walk past the gate, then double back laughing when they realize they’ve missed their gate. I’m not 100% sure what flight they thought they were manning since our gate is the only one open in the area.
On board the plane, everything is fine. The Iraqi mock priest is really reading the Bible when I pass him in the aisle on the way to my seat. Not sure if he's just doing it for show, but I have to take him at face value (or maybe I just want to). I don’t want to imagine anything differently. Besides, if he has Jihadi-type intentions for this tiny plane, he's not going to make much of an impact.
The sole stewardess on the plan is either new or is such a veteran that she doesn’t care about her job anymore. When the time comes for the safety instructions to be read, she reads directly from a sheet of paper – completely deadpan. She even reads the part that says, “Welcome aboard Flight 4753 to Minneapolis. My name is Elizabeth.” Thank God she had that written down, right?
I sit next to a guy whose only source of entertainment for the 45 minute trip is a book by Arnold Palmer, giving tips on the game of golf and doing its best to apply those tips to life situations. I sneak a peak over his shoulder a couple of times. I don’t blame him for falling asleep four different times during the flight. Even the pictures in the book are boring.
Once we land in Minneapolis, I have the wonderful opportunity to find my next gate. I land at B5 and my next flight leaves from Gate F14. Honestly, why is it that wherever I go, my connecting flight leaves from the gate that is the furthest away from where I land? And nine times out of ten, it’s the gate at the farthest end of the airport terminal.
Inside the Minneapolis Airport, I make several fun observations. Outside one of the restaurants, a guy in a business suit, wearing his Borg implant (a Bluetooth earpiece) looks and sounds like a man with Turret’s. He randomly laughs, shouts something, or talks loudly as people pass by. It's funny to watch the people all say, “I’m sorry” or “Excuse me.” Like the automaton at the Delta counter, he just points to the device in his ear, as if that's a universal answer. I can tell you, old blue hairs have no clue what the thing in his ear is.
I also have the chance to follow an airport employee pushing a large Rubbermaid cart of ice around the terminal for a short time. Everything about him screams, “This is not my life!” There's no language barrier of any kind with him. Even the Japanese tourists know he's miserable. I keep waiting for some of them to pull out their cameras and take pictures, but alas, he's not that interesting.
When I sit down at Gate F14 to wait for boarding to begin, my weirdo magnet activates without any warning. The Asian kid sitting several rows away stands up, gathers his belongings, and comes to sit next to me. And I mean, right next to me, elbow to elbow, completely invading my personal bubble. Then, to top it all off, he pulls the acoustic guitar from the case on the floor and starts strumming. No lie! I don’t know if he thinks the place needs some livening up or he's hallucinating that he's in a NYC subway station. Either way, it's completely random and par for the course for any trip I take.
To top that, the older gentleman behind me continuously tells people that the seats next to him are being saved for the rest of his group. Later, after shooing away four different people, he admits to the old lady across from him that he's traveling alone and prefers it that way.
Here’s another random observation – why is it that if two blue hairs are in the same general vicinity, they are instantly drawn to each other? These two ladies are unbelievable chatty. They talk about everything, as if they're old friends meeting for the first time in years. That's not the case, however. En route to the plane, the one lady is strangely coy about her city and state of origin. Not sure what that is about, but when she won’t disclose the information, the other blue hair moves on and ignores her for the rest of the walk.
Now, I’m sitting on the plane, somewhere near 10,000 feet. There’s actually Wi-Fi on the plane, but it’s $34.95 to use. Astounding! I’ll have to post this part of my trip journal later. I hope to keep this up for the duration of the trip, but who knows. I’m easily distracted, don’t forget.
LMAO. OK, this is priceless! This large woman in the back of the plane is trying to move out of the way of a passenger when she falls backwards into an empty seat, knocking into a frail old man next to her. She yelps loudly and raises her ass from the seat almost immediately, yelling “Ouch! Pull it out! Pull it out!” The frail old man is in a complete state of shock. You can see it in his face. He doesn’t know how to react, but eventually realizes that the seat belt buckle is digging into the crack of her ass and frees her from the pain. Classic!
I’m going to sign off for now. I need to find some Herculean strength to bust open this complimentary bag of six pretzels I receive from the stewardess with the disheveled head of hair. I may need a nap after getting it open. It's sealed that tightly.
And you know what’s worse? As the plane heads for Seattle, I look at my watch and decide to set it for Pacific Time. Oh dear God, it’s 6:30 A.M. again. Time travel is possible after all. Hopefully, this 6:30 A.M. is better than the previous one. Oh no, some guy is going against the rules and using his cell phone on the plane. That bastard is going to be responsible for the plane going down. Ugh!
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