48 plus hours of sobriety is enough. I'm failing the reputation of my homeland if I stay at home too long and it's Friday night, mudderphutter. Had a couple of draaaankz before leaving the mircopad (not to be confused with Mattel's My First Tampon) after some Facebook chatting with one of the homies back home. Made my way across the 41st street walkway 99 overpass thingee and to the bus stop to get down the hill. Yer boy is so broke he paid for the ride with a baby fist full of dimes as I've already used up all my quarters on laundry and other alcohol induced bus metro rides. There is a chick smoking at the bus stop and it seems unusual to smell cigarettes so I know I've been off the Rock awhile. I get off on Market near the Bel Mar and walk to King's Hardware, home of the King of Ballard himself, Mike Mackcrazy. After getting my gray chin carded I got a tallboy Raindog and made my way to the outside bar on this rather moderate night. There is only one stool at the backbar and thankfully nobody named Teresa. BAM! The position is optimal for scoping sugarbooty (my new favorite word, thanks Men's Room Steve for that one) and being outside feels terrific. I swear beer tastes better minus a ceiling and/or roof. The bartender says almost immediately he has a hoodie like mine from Tony's bar in Kodiak. Not unheard of but when asked how he proclaims it was a gift and sadly he's never stepped foot in the place. But his name is Tony. And he knows The King of Ballard AND a couple ex-patriot islanders in the area I know who lurk close by. In five minutes he's parallel to Mel back home. Then he pays for my second beer and I'm ready to write him into my will. Seattle service at its finest. The chickage is improving trifold by every five minutes and I can tell Tony enjoys his position. Bartending has its advantages. Women HAVE TO talk to you to get what they want. Yet he's subtle and doesn't abuse the power that has graced him. A true pro. The girl I saw smoking at the bus stop is cocktail waitressing. The kid working with him dismantles the plastic off a case so fast I'd offer him a crewshare if I had my own vessel. This is the A-Team back here. You want a paragraph break? Ain't getting one. I had a third Vitamin R pintster and continued to fake being cool while honey after honey come up to the bar for drinks. This is absurd. I tip dude best I can and bail to the next bar, The Smokeshop. Along the way there is a group of older mudderphutters heading to the Bel Mar boasting about a bartender named Mandy who they claim is hands down the best in the city. I say "Don't you have to be about 25 to go in there?" as they are all easily double that but they don't f-wording care and in ten years I hope I don't either. They're from Hood River and tell me how bad Full sail Ale sucks and that the OTHER brewery in town of Exit 69 is better. Noted. I dip into the Smokeshop while they wander towards a scene that will reject them like Pat Ewing one-on-one with anyone else named Pat. Darlene is working the bar as I hoped and I name drop my Kodiak connection. She starts glowing like the aurora and I'm tickled so little lights her up. Rainier in a bottle in this place. It reminds me of the Lil Bar on this night with ten times the amount of lovely as one would see there. One stands out and she's strategically placed herself in a don't f-word with me pocket of protection. Nick Fairley and the Suh guy couldn't get to her. I get another prime seating location and watch the mackin' take place around me. It's funny all these kids find a fisherman's bar so pimp to play in but I'm not discouraging all this SUGARBOOTY from hanging out. Sugar. Booty. Alas I know my fate and bail for the Matador which really was my subconscious target all night. They have nachos for five bucks (up from four last year) that rival yer Black & Golds back on the Rock. There is an empty stool at the bar with my name on it and without hesitation order the sloppy pile of chips and nothing else, not even another Raindog. The gals to my port side have wiped out most a of a plate but have hit the wall. Mine come in under ten minutes and I absolutely lay waste ontheirface. The baretender says not once but three times he's impressed I ate them all and even i am a lil shocked I manhandled them so easily. Bill paid I walk out on to Market and to the bus stop and catch the 44 with barely a wait. Along the walk home down the hill I decide to take a wiz although I could have held it. For some reason the night seems incomplete if I don't partake in some public urination of some kind...although I could be making this up Mr. Patriot Act blog reader. 1am and done I decide to recap the short evening and an hour later I'm done. Now I'm sitting here in an Ikea chair alone and still buzzed with the longest paragraph ever assembled. massive as it is I'd trade it for some company I think.
Or more nachos.
Or more nachos.
