In this neighborhood I’ll never run out of things to do. It’s the perfect mix of ritzy hippie to allow an artist like me to occupy the basement units. I’ve developed a 6th sense for dives because at least twice I’ve walked by a place on my way somewhere, stopped, turned around and gone into the place. Both have been excellent. The Mecca, mentioned earlier, and now the Streamline Tavern. Continue reading Lower Queen Anne
Category Archives: Quick Thoughts
Tinder
I met a great person over the weekend. He’s a nice guy that I really enjoy and he seems to like me a whole bunch in return. So I figure this is the perfect time to try out Tinder. Just like not going to the supermarket hungry, I don’t want to try out the most effective hookup app of all time when I’m desperate and lonely. It’s much easier to spot sketchy people when your self-esteem is recently boosted. It’s probably why getting job offers always seem to come in clumps too. Continue reading Tinder
Mecca
I almost walked by. The bar on Google maps I was heading for was closed for repairs so I just started strolling. Checked out the block with Safeway and a yoga studio on it. Took another turn and saw the sign for The Mecca. Given the name and prevalence of Asian cuisine in the area I almost dismissed but something made me turn. The door has two martini glasses crossed behind a high ball glass. Yeah, that’s my jam.
The all-day breakfast was a pleasant surprise also. This could be my everyday joint if the food tastes good. I’m already drinking an Irish coffee that warms me to the soul. The waitress/bartender is the perfect type of don’t-give-a-fuck nice person that gets to you when she gets to you. A patient smile and tired eyes are the only thing she’ll show the customer. I’m at the worn Formica bar running the length of a shotgun diner. There’s burn scars from coffee pots and miscellaneous scratches and dents that only comes from years of consistent use. Most of the people trickling in are disappearing into a room left of the door. I spotted a pinball machine in that direction that warrants further inspection.
Oddly, this breakfast diner qualifies as a dive bar also. It’s not pretentious or overdone. I would guess they keep the same chill vibe no matter what time of the week and then weekends are jam-packed with yuppies looking for hangover cures. The place I originally started toward is labeled a dive on Google but the fact it’s listed there has me inherently suspicious of its qualifications. This place is hidden in plain sight on a busy street near a tourism hub and only lucky looky-lous and those guided by locals get to experience this blast from the past.
So far the food is good. I know this is a place I’ll come again. If for no other reason, they serve a $6 waffle.
Downtown Walking
Tomorrow I will get up early and go for a long walk downtown. First, I’ll hit the Metro Transit office where I should be able to get a discounted rechargeable bus card. Until I’m employed all bus rides should only cost me $1.50 instead of the usual $2.50-$3.00. From there it’s only about six blocks north to the Social Security office. Hopefully they will be able to help me with my name change/health insurance paperwork.
If all of that works out I can take the weekend to find something fun to do. There’s pretty weather predicted for Sunday so hopefully I’ll find a park or something to enjoy. I’m also considering a bus ride to Ballard. I wouldn’t mind having a beer at Cafe Mox again. Starting Monday, I’m a writer. Whatever that means.
To My Door
Today I ordered my first Amazon Pantry box, $50 in cat supplies and 3 cheap plastic trash cans.
I’m walking to QFC in a few minutes to apply for an ORCA LIFT card, the poor person’s bus pass. This afternoon a kind citizen has offered to give me a tour of the bus system.
I’m desperately trying to find my optimism during this time of constant change. Order new things on the internet usually helps but none of that gets delivered until next week.
I should really consider ordering sheets for my bed. That would probably help quite a bit.
Sitting Pretty
Today I have constructed a desk and chair. Simple tasks that changed the entire landscape of my home. For the first time in over a year I’m sitting at a desk typing on a keyboard. A posture that’s the bane of office workers across American translates into a coveted work space for me. This is the desk where I will be a writer.
But first, I must assemble my bed frame. If I don’t give my cat something to hide under soon she might die of exposure. Such is the way with cats.
Cats In the Bag
Flying with two cats is easier than I anticipated. The only real snafu was at the security checkpoint when they informed me the cats would have to come out of their carrier to get through the metal detector. After walking through they wanted me to show them my palms for a specific wand scan that I’ve never seen before. The woman TSA agent took one look in my cats’ eyes and stated “I’m not going near those things.”
She must have mistook their abject terror for a threatening posture. Handing the wand to an old man he then tells me to show him my hands.
“Can I put them back in the bag?”
“Show me your hands first.”
“I can’t do that while holding the cats.”
“Uh, I guess put them down.”
A resounding negation from the three other TSA agents.
We both just looked at each other and I ask again, “Can’t I just put them in the bag?”
The man’s consternation clearly expressed that I was not supposed to access the cat bag until the scan was done. I just looked at him while silently pleading with a little leeway. He finally allowed me to slip them back in the carrier before running that special wand all over my palms. I asked him what that was for and he just said it was because I was holding something when I walked through.
They never scanned the cats themselves. I expected them to at least run a wand over them, I guess. Honestly, a professional terrorist would never hinge the success of an elaborate scheme on a cat. That would be like asking an alcoholic to watch over your whiskey-tasting kit for the weekend. Though letting cats loose in an airport does have a slightly terror-iffic slant to it.
How Much Again?
How do you handle sitting at the bar watching people leave one dollar on a 2-drink order? I feel like there should be an underground signal we use to identify these patrons. Non-tippers are the worst but under-tippers are their own kind of bad. If you don’t know why the convention is a dollar per drink then I’ll tell you this – it’s not generosity. It’s because that person just handed you a drink. Period. It’s the unspoken convenience charge for you getting to drink in public. Because here’s the truth – bars have a right not to serve you. And if it were my bar, I’d tell people who don’t tip my staff not to bother coming in again. I think denying service to bad customers would result in a better class of patronage. If you don’t have the money to tip, don’t go out. It’s that simple.
But this could all be fixed if we utilize my primary plan. Force all American children to work at least 3 months in the service industry at the age of 18. Not only would it create a more polite society but people would start to understand the value of getting food and drinks in a public place where they don’t have to lift a finger to make anything or clean up after anyone. An added benefit is that career servers and bartenders would have an endless source of intern-style proteges to do the things no one likes doing. Clean the bathrooms, take out the trash, do the dishes. You know, all the things your parents do for you as children. Who knows, this could spurn a whole new trend of respecting our elders too. It would certainly prepare more people for adulthood.
Can I run for office on a platform of a mandatory service draft?
I’m Gonna Die
As I traipse around Memphis with no car and very little energy I have one overwhelming thought running through my mind – Why did I do this? All of the things happening in my life sound like good things when you say them out loud.
“I’m moving to Seattle.”
“I visited the Grand Canyon.”
“I’m flying my cats home with me on Tuesday.”
The responses I get are unanimously encouraging because that’s how you react when someone does something massively life-changing. Unfortunately these platitudes are hollow as birthday wishes on Facebook. Most people are just thinly veiling jealous resentment or straight up apathy.
So I smile and let them tell me about their road trip or the time they visited the Canyon. All the while I’m repressing a constant state of panic that no one takes seriously. I spend my time keeping the quiver out of my voice and fighting back tears. I’m fully convinced that this venture is going to kill me. It’s the only logical answer to this much fear. I’m going to die in the pacific northwest.
No matter how great my fortune seems right now the cold hand of terror is gripping my chest. I can sense my own mortality and only the convention of human existence keeps me going. Those who have gone before me continually assure me I’ll be fine. I just ask them to recall the last time they voluntarily abandoned everything familiar to live completely alone with no solid plan for the future. The most common response is a knowing smile and pat on my shoulder.
I’m never gonna survive this life. But I’ll go down swinging.