Sunday, September 14, 2014

Your Sunday Squirrel

I might finally be getting the hang of this iPhone-thing.  True, the peanut and his front paws are a blur, but overall, it's OK.  I took it yesterday as I was walking back from Lake Union and found myself sans camera.  The only problem with taking photos with the iPhone is that no matter how good they are, they won't ever make it onto the calendar.  The shape is all wrong and even after cropping, it's not sharp enough when you enlarge it.  I mean, this guy is fairly in focus at this size, but totally not when you take him up a size or two.  I think I'll stick with the silver box and its incompetent focus-bot for my squirrel portraiture.  Every so often it takes a real nice picture.  

So Long, Sigs

For years, at the corner of 3rd & Lenora, you'd find Sig's Barbershop.  I went there for around 10 years.  Each time, I'd emerge with a pretty terrible haircut.  The place was run by Sig and his partner, Thor.  Both of them were well over 80 and not entirely unracist.  Sig had a certificate that he would proudly show off to anyone who walked in.  It was a commendation for having voted in every single election for the past 65 years.  Despite his voting record, it would take him forever to give you an awful haircut.  His hands shook, he would get distracted and he'd forget what you wanted.  He also refused to give women and most non-Asian minorities haircuts.  First, Thor passed away (he was pushing 90), then Sig went (probably past 90), but the shop continued.  I have little doubt that they were still not very good.  I had moved on by then.  But now, they've closed up altogether.  I have no idea what would suit that spot besides a barbershop.  Perhaps a tiny, awful diner; I have no idea.  Maybe it will be like Brasa and just sit vacant forever.  Anyhow, so long, Sig's and later incarnations.  You gave me the worst haircuts of my entire life.    

The Case Against Taggers

I like the Popsicle.  It's a very accessible piece of pop art, if you will.  It is so popular that the landscapers for the Darth Vader Building had to redesign the area around it because everybody wants to have their picture fake-licking and hopefully not real-licking it.  You'd think that by now all taggers would know the rules, the first and foremost is: don't tag artwork.  This douchebag probably missed that day at Tagger Academy.  Sure, I would rather that taggers didn't exist at all, because, I mean, it's just visual noise with no redeeming value.  In the past, there have been exactly two guys in and around Beltown who have risen above the amateurish realm of territorial pissing: one painted crude skulls, the other large eyes.  Both have long been out of commission.  So now we're stuck with douches like this; someone thinks that scrawling his initials on something of value and esteem transfers said qualities to him. (I'm assuming it's a guy, because most douche taggers are.)  Either that, or he's done this solely to brag about it.  "Hey dude, I tagged the Popsicle!" Yeah, it's a pretty empty boast, because who cares?  Well, hopefully it will be gone by now, eradicated and consigned to oblivion as should this douche.  What an idiot.     

Sunday, September 7, 2014

Your Sunday Squirrel

This guy was pretty odd.  And very hungry.  When I ran into him, he was perched in this same spot, hanging out and just being a squirrel.  I gave him a few peanuts and he kept returning to his perch.  I think he wanted to keep an eye on me.  Anyhow, he was pleasant enough for a while, then he completely freaked out, ran up the tree, then un-freaked out, came back down and had more peanuts.  Well, I guess with squirrels one should expect at least a little squirrelly behavior.

Sunday, August 31, 2014

Your Sunday Squirrel

I saw zero squirrels this week.  This fellow's from a while back.  He's a rodent of mystery, all cloaked in semi-shadow and all.  I went to Denny Park yesterday morning, but it was raining really hard and no squirrel with any sense would be caught in such weather.  Unfortunately I was and I got fairly soaked.  The good news is that September has always been a fine month for squirrels at the park.  They're generally out a lot and friendly.  I figure that I have enough photos for next year's squirrel calendar, but I can always use a few more.

News Non-Flash!

OK, I've always said that I'm slow on the uptake.  I have a good excuse for that recently, because I was recording.  (Incidentally, the album is very good.)  Well, that's over now and I'm able to reacquaint myself with this lousy neighborhood. Last Wednesday I'd been writing music all the livelong day, so I decided to take a stroll.  You may or may not recall that it was super-hot.  No matter, I ventured out.  Imagine my surprise when I passed the Frontier Room and saw that it was closed.
What will we tell the children?  Wow, that place has been around for longer than I've lived here.  Of course, the Frontier Room of recent memory was quite a bit different from the one in the nineties.  You know, it was the one with the really super-rude bartendress.  For some reason, she became the principal attraction.  I didn't go there very often, but when I did, I never had any problems with her at all.  She would, however, just go off on some random slob who didn't order fast enough.  And along with the Nite Lite, Gibson's and My Susie's Oriental Lounge, it was a true dive.  In case you're keeping score, the Nite Lite is the sole survivor.

Like I said, those days are long gone.  The Frontier Room changed owners and lost some of its filthy magic.  And now it's closed.  Well, things change.  I'm sure something's going to go in there, but it most likely won't be an updated version of the Frontier Room.  

Sunday, August 24, 2014

Whisky Bar No More - At Least for a While...

We all want to be recognized and treated well.  Even in this age of conspicuous consumption, we still want things to have value. Most of us want to hang out in familiar places where people are friendly and the surroundings are comfortable, etc.  For the past few months, I’ve been attempting to do that at the bar across the street.  I’m now done trying.  

First off, where else but in Belltown or possibly lower Queen Anne or Ballard can you have a bar directly across the street from where you live?  Sounds pretty sweet, does it not?  So yes, I’m well aware that there are tons of rewarding drinking options just one block away.  But I’ve never felt all that comfortable in any of those places unless I’m there with at least one other person.  People go to bars, I have surmised, in order not to drink alone, even if they are alone.  If I go alone, I generally end up feeling like I’d be more entertained drinking cheap red wine at home and watching The Simpsons.  I was hoping to find a place where I didn’t feel that way.  

Let me say that the Whisky Bar has a top-notch selection of all grades of booze (except maybe for wine, but that’s OK; I have that at home) and its owners are very, very nice and friendly people.  I don’t drink whisky (or even whiskey), but I was quite enchanted with their rotating roster of beers.  Many are quite delicious.  Once the keg runs dry, they replace it with something else.  It’s like a great adventure in beer-land.  I’ve never had this opportunity before.  I looked forward to exploring the landscape.  As I said, I’ve just been drinking cheap red wine at home in general.  So I started going there late Sunday nights during the spring.  I’d have two pints, look out across the street at my building as the quiet zen descended on the neighborhood and let my mind wander.  The place was usually nearly empty, although for some reason the music was at Saturday night levels.  That was a bit of a hinderance to mind-wandering zen-ness, but hardly a deal-breaker.  The only other issue was cost.  Everything there is expensive.  Six bucks-plus a pint is pricy.  Most other places are far less, as you may know.  Plus, they charge you tax, so your six-dollar pint comes out to nearly seven.  There’s something not kosher about that.  If the tap list says six bucks, that’s what I expect to pay.  Build in your liquor tax and make that the price.  I understand that rents are higher in Belltown.  I witnessed their renovation from post-sushi restaurant to wood-paneled pub.  It was slow, painstaking and lasted for months.  I’m sure they’ll be paying that down for years.  I truly want to support them.  But their prices verge on the exorbitant, even for Belltown.          

In June and July, I stopped drinking at home.  That’s right, I gave the cheap red wine a rest.  So I started going over there for happy hour once a week in addition to the Sunday nights.  The beer was still excellent and I was still very much intrigued by their rotating selection.  But funny thing, even as I showed up more frequently, I was generally greeted as a stranger.  Each and every visit, it was like I was there for the first time.  The only person who seemed the least bit glad to see me was the jovial owner on the few occasions he was there in the evening.  Now, much of the staff seemed to really know the inventory well, especially the hard liquor.  They could discuss hints-of and notes-of and implications and production, location, climate and so forth.  That’s all very well and good if you’re into it, you’ve got a wad of cash and you’re looking for prime booze.  They can tell you all you want to know about anything they serve.  They’re just not that sociable otherwise.  

Earlier this month when I was recording, we would knock off for the day at nine or ten.  I’d get back to Belltown, tired but still keyed-up.  I mean, I was super-excited by what we’d accomplished on any given day.  The best way for me to reflect on this was to have a beer across the street.  So I started going nightly for one or two pints.  Since I was spending thousands on recording, the cost of pricy pints finally wasn’t the least concern.  Again, showing up each night earned me little more than a curt nod.  As a native Seattleite, I’m naturally suspicious of overly-friendly people, but I’m also fairly keenly aware of overly-unfriendly people, too.  I was definitely getting an overly-unfriendly vibe from much of the staff.  On the rare occasion that one of the bar-guys guessed at what I was having (I’d been drinking it all week, as it was super-delicious), he guessed wrong.  This was all well and good.  The weather was nice and the recording was shaping up into something very special.  I was feeling really good about everything and an increasingly-unwelcoming bar across the street wasn’t going to change that.  It wasn’t till the end of the week that something strange happened and it got me to thinking.  It was just at the end of happy hour, the place was clearing out and a bunch of staff were having smokes on the sidewalk.  Ah, I remember smoking.  I did it for years and I miss it.  On the other hand, I can breathe freely and sing on my own projects now.  In conclusion, life is a compromise.  But I digress.  Anyhow, I go to leave and I’m stepping past them.  Suddenly, they all go silent and look uncomfortable.  I’m probably very wrong about this, but I could have sworn they were openly mocking me.  It's so much sweeter when your target doesn't march out when you're doing it, but that's what I'm supposing was going down.  Maybe I’m just being paranoid, but there was something very weird going on there that required them to stop their conversation dead in its tracks.  If it’s true, why the hostility?  I’m just there to pay a lot for beer.  And honestly, it’s just beer.  I want to enjoy it in a nice place and not ruffle anybody’s feathers simply by showing up.      

I realized what that weirdness was right away and decided to give it a few days to air out.  I dunno, maybe these guys were having a rough day or something.  The next time I went there, the reception was really frosty.  I guess even the curtly nodding familiarity I had with this place had bred contempt.  And then it occurred to me: this bar doesn’t need me.  As such, it also doesn’t want me.  They want strangers, not regulars.  For all the times that I went there, I never saw the same patrons twice.  People would drift in and drift out, all different, all the time.  That is the nature of the business, I suppose.  It doesn’t depend on me showing up however many nights a week, so I won’t.  Strangers don’t think twice about the high cost.  They drink, pay and leave, never to return.  They require little maintenance outside of elementary recognition and some rudimentary advice.  The staff’s knowledge of the inventory seems a worthy substitute for sociability, as well.  True, I’m solitary, but not unpleasant.  I can be friendly and talkative, if the situation presents itself.  It never really did.  You know, I realize that it’s important to support local businesses, but this is one that doesn’t want me to support it.  And I wouldn’t mind the high prices if they seemed worth it.  I really, honestly want to believe that I’ve gotten the wrong impression through a series of misunderstandings.  But I also believe that going there more would only garner more hatred from the staff.  So what's the point?     

I tried again this evening and the service was terrible.  I had to wait half an hour to pay.  Seriously, there were all of six people in there and they couldn’t even notice that I was done and wanted to leave.  That’s part of the job, right?  I’m sorry, but I’ve made it a point to never beg, request or beseech anyone to take my money.  I’m done with this place for the next few months.  It’s just not worth it.  I’m done.  I would recommend that you do the same.  I've tried for a long time, so now I say to you:  don't go to the Whisky Bar.  Don't go.  
    
I’ll tell you something, in the fall and winter, I used to go to the Five Point every week for their excellent happy hour burger special.  Each time I went in, the staff was always friendly and efficient.  They knew who I was and they knew what I wanted.  Things were never weird like this.  I really miss that.  I think I’ll start going back there.  It’s not about people fawning over me or anything.  I just have no desire to go to a place where it doesn’t matter whether I’m there or not.  Life’s too short for that nonsense.  Service matters.  Seriously, when I’m in a place like the Whisky Bar, paying a premium for poor service, drinking cheap red wine at home is infinitely preferable.   

Your Sunday Squirrel

Here is last week's squirrel, also in the dappled sunlight.  It's a really nice shot if you fail to notice that it's kind of blurry.  Thanks for not noticing that!  And thank you, focus-bot, for failing to capture a sharp shot of a stationary squirrel in adequate light.  Oh well, it's still pretty dramatic.

I Went to the Beer Fest and All I Got Was...

...slightly drunk.
Imagine a place where you pay $30, they give you a teeny glass and 10 tickets and then let you in.  It's hot, totally crowded and so many people have terrible tattoos.  Welcome to Beer Fest 2014!  You take your tickets around, stand in a long line and get your teeny glass (4 oz.) filled with the beer of your choice.  One of these can set you back as many as four tickets.  I stuck to the 1- and 2-ticket beers.  Everybody was there with everybody else, and people seemed really super into it.  Luckily, my first beer was nearly 11% ABV, so things weren't completely unpleasant.  But it was hot.  I couldn't do much about that.  Except sweat.  Which I did.    
They had a band.  These guys played surf and rockabilly.  They weren't bad at all, but they only mentioned their name once and I didn't catch it, because I forgot to eat lunch and all previous beers were hitting me at that exact moment.  I was quite the cheap date.
So yes, people everywhere.  Somewhere along the line, I lost my last ticket.  That of course was a tragedy.  I had enough presence of mind to get some poutine (a poutine?) from a truck called Skillet.  It was fantastic.  I feel like I'm still carrying it around with me.  Anyhow, with my tickets gone and the poutine settling into a permanent lump in my stomach, I walked back to Belltown.  I've always wondered what a beer festival is like.  Now I know, so I don't have to ever go back.