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how drunks see Seattle

Well holy shit, my friends. I’m sitting in a rad little Mexican restaurant/bar in Brooklyn, New York called Pollitos III (little chickens three?) (Myrtle Ave. & Ryerson St.). When I couldn’t find a friend-recommended cafe, I stopped into a bright corner coffee shop called The Connecticut Muffin and ordered a big ass latte and a cheese scone. I handed over my plastic all excited for my first coffee of the day at 3:30 p.m., and guy says cash only, but there’s an ATM. I start to thinking how I spent all my cash bar hopping yesterday and how I only brought my credit card and no debit card.

I tried that ATM, one across the street, one down the street (I guess credit card has a different PIN # from debit card), tried two stores for cash back, one soul food restaurant (thumbs down to a $10 minimum), before I stopped in this here place which I had eyeballed on my first power walk down Myrtle. This place is a little steep for my budget ($7-10/meal, $5/beer, $4.50/sangria), but my vegetarian sope (a thick hand-slapped corn tortilla topped with bean/cheese/pico de gallo) was delicious. Veggie tacos looked like the best deal – larger than average, completely full and $2.50 each. The food is authentic, the music makes me shake my behind in my chair and my server is cute. They also accept credit cards, so it was meant to be.

Now I have a fancy goblet full of potent sangria and a chance to catch y’all up on my continental crossing. My second night in Sea-town, I caught up with my Mexico schoolmate, Ms. J. Jinka and meet her Phil and his brother. They brought me to Jillian’s (near the intersection of Westlake and Nickerson). Taiko worked there before heading to Spain, and I had avoided it because I imagined folks crammed asses to elbows, thrusting crotches at one another, beverages exploding like roman candles.

Apparently they reserve that mania for the weekends, because Monday night the only real crotch thrusting and drink spilling was when I celebrated a particularly successful pool cheat. Drinks were too ‘spensive for my broke ass ($7-9 for mid-range tequila shots, $3.75 for a pint of Bud Light), but praise allah for friends with steady incomes. The sweeeetest part of the deal? On Mondays, $5 gets you a hot pink carnival bracelet and entitles you to UNLIMITED ARCADE GAMES!! I was racing cars, racing snowmobiles, racing on waterskis, shooting hoops, killing terrorists with a pistol, killing more terrorists with a machine gun, practicing my drumming…it was bitching.

Tuesday I headed across town to the casa de Ms. Bierhaus. We took a couple of harsh tequila shots chased by grape Juicy Juice and PBR and made the 15-minute walk to the High Dive in Freemont. Friends in the band Smoking Bill were playing a show that night. Across the street from the venue, I realized I had grabbed most of the essentials (credit card, lip gloss, gum) but not my identification. I tried to play it off at the door, but door dude was having none of it, and sent us trudging right back up the hill. A car started honking at an intersection, and we got a surreal ride in a brand new car purchased by some friend o’ Bierhaus. We also lost a pack of smokes, took three more shots as I grabbed my ID, and made it back in time for two songs.

I liked the High Dive. There is a big stage and dancefloor, and the PBR is $2/pint. The barkeep had wicked fluffy chops and was very friendly and responsive. The crowd was chill and pretty hipster-free. The show became a meeting place for the Moscow to Seattle transplant crowd, and it was good to catch up with a lot of old friends and acquaintances. At some point in the early morn, we made the stumble home and were fast asleep by 3 a.m. with our clocks set for 6:45 to get me to the airport.

No. I did not sleep though my flight, if that’s what you expected of me. I got up, contemplated the benefits of never drinking again…ever, and we were SeaTac bound. Perhaps I should have budgeted more than 1.5 hours between apartment departure and flight departure. Perhaps I shouldn’t have placed so much navigation faith in the two of us with a combined BAC of a Bukowski-Yeltsin crimefighting duo. It was a tense trip, and we got to the loading dock thirty minutes before fly time. But I shot through the airport and was in my seat with a delicious Qdoba tater and egg quesadilla creation (screw $5 airplane meals) with at least two minutes to spare.

And that my friends is how you ruin a pair of underpants. Next up: why check the forecasted weather before packing? I’ll tell you when my balls unfreeze.