I specifically went out and bought a spatula to avoid this very predicament.
And as a result of our spatula deficiency (or, more accurately, of Elizabeth either hiding, stealing, or destroying my recently purchased spatula collection) I’ve gotten myself a wicked knuckle burn.
[Editor’s Note: So the thing about this post is that it’s kind of not really about anything and it ends sort of abruptly. Which is what it is, but I just wanted to let my readership know that I’m not blind to the aesthetic/literary failings of this post.]
So, it’s closing on 1am and I just finished attempting to flip an omelet with what appears to be an undersized meat cleaver. Tonight, after mock trial ended, I met up with my friend Kathy and her boyfriend John at a bar/venue called the Tractor, in Ballard, to see Bobby Bare Jr. play. And upon leaving said venue after said show, and after saying goodbye to my friends, I was possessed by this desperate, all-consuming need for omelets and beer.
I’m not one for cravings, generally. Not only do I not get cravings, but generally I can’t even think of anything I particularly want to eat; tortellini or enchiladas or grilled salmon-it’s all the same to the clam. But, for whatever reason, tonight my need for an omelet (and beer) was so great that despite an increasingly pressing desire for the gents room vying for my attention, I drove straight from the Tractor to Fred Meyer, and from Fred Meyer to Safeway (it was after 11) for omelet fixings before returning to the homestead.
Sadly, the omelet didn’t live up to my expectations-my fault, I’m pretty sure. I decided to grill up some of these apple chicken sausages to put in it, rather than the roast beef I had in the fridge, which seemed like a great idea at the time but for whatever reason didn’t work out too well.
The beer, however, is terrific.
So look-the Tractor. I’ve been to this venue a handful of times, perhaps most memorably with bugboy3001 and my old roommate Rick to see the Mountain Goats last year sometime, and generally I’d say it ranks high for hipness, or at least for that quality which one might more accurately describe as hipsterosity: The ability to attract and retain, like water, hipsters. It’s that kind of place.
First of all, it’s in Ballard. Among neighborhoods in Seattle, Ballard is one of the least changed by the past decade. Did y’all see Singles, back in the day? Well, in, what, 1992-a year or two before Soundgarden released Badmotorfinger--Seattle pretty much looked the way it does in the movie. The last decade, with Seattle’s massive population growth, tech-boom (and subsequent crash) and influx of young out-of-state 30 somethings desperate for condos and cosmopolitans Belltown, which used to be the place people went to buy crack, is now door-to-door trendy restaurants and clubs under (of course) condos. This is maybe not a bad thing. And Fremont, which used to be this weirdly quirky artist-hippy neighborhood with outdoor cinemas and weekend swap meets, known to the national movie viewing population by its statues of people waiting for the interurban, Lenin, and a gigantic troll under the Aurora bridge, similarly became door-to-door trendy shopping spots, sushi restaurants, and nightclubs under office space (definitely a bad thing).
Ballard largely bucked this trend, and received no influx of capital and no urban revitalization. While it’s true that Ballard’s days are numbered-it’s one terminus of Seattle’s proposed extended monorail line-for the time being it’s still this weirdish neighborhood where the hipsters can still feign authenticity by rubbing elbows with local Norwegian dock workers and tugboat captains.
Secondly, it’s just that kind of place-kind of grubby and Spartan but real wood with microbrews (and Pabst) on tap. And what with the way small venues bite it in Seattle (with great frequency) the hipsters don’t have too many choices.
So whenever I go to the Tractor (which is admittedly pretty infrequently), I’m always on the lookout for what’s new in the world of hipster chic. Only this time, the hipsters didn’t show. Or, at least, largely didn’t show-sure, fat guy with goatee was there, and so was goth-but-can’t-commit girl (you know her-the bleached blonde one with black tips?) and stoned-asshole-who-wants-to-sell-you-his-book-of-photography (I’ll try to get back to him), but all told hipster turnout at the Tractor was remarkably low, and there were approximately zero hipster-chicks to swoon over.
Which kills me, because every time I’m at some venue like the Tractor I’m always on the lookout for my perfect hipster Goddess, upon whom I will fixate for all of the opening act and probably a substantial part of the headliner. Hipster Goddess is almost always in attendance. She’s the petite brunette with the pointy nose, hipster glasses and bob cut. When I’m really lucky she’s wearing contacts and has a pixie cut, which is hot as hell. She frequently wears an orange striped sweater, and often (be still my beating heart) with a collared shirt on underneath, sometimes with French cuffs. And then slacks or jeans or cords or something and hipster shoes. Oh, my hipster Goddess, where were you tonight? You never disappoint-you’re always at every show I go to, no matter the city, or the band, or the time of year.
Instead tonight we were stuck behind these chain-smoking, bleached-blonde, moderately overweight girls in wifebeaters with (I swear to God) corsages pinned to them and who howled like banshees at the first chord of every song, and Harvey.
I just want to interject here that Pacifico with omletes is really good, Pacifico with toast and jam is much less good, and Pacifico with Klondike bars isn’t very good at all.
Harvey was already sitting at the table when I showed up-he had apparently asked to join Kathy and John earlier that evening and seemed too be insisting rather vehemently that John both examine and praise his book of photography. We never exactly determined what the drug cocktail he was on consisted of, but I can only hope it had significant mind altering properties, ‘cause if it didn’t Harvey is in trouble.
Harvey’s photographs were black and white numbers consisting of naked ladies (and occasionally men) in various public places, especially at city landmarks. The book was divided series of photographs in the various cities. (I saw Seattle, WA, and maybe one from Madison, WI.) The work was clearly meant to be artistic rather than titlating, but as far as I can tell whatever thought went into these pictures never got past “People like looking at pictures of places they like, and people like looking at pictures of naked ladies-if I put ‘em together I bet I can sell a book!” It was the kind of artistic work that at least to me was so trite and banal that I preferred to feign interest in the folk-singing-harmonica-playing opening act rather than look at and be forced to praise the photographs; Let’s face it-that’s really saying something when the photos are of naked ladies.
But so Harvey would just never leave to peddle his book to someone else, and in his drunken-stoned-coked-up-and-belligerent way would insist on breaking into conversation at our table with things like the following:
Him: Hey-hey you-
Me: What, me?
Him: Yeah, you-hey, you’re sittin’ there, you gotta smell my book.
Me: You want me to smell your book?
Him: Yeah man, you gotta’ smell this book.
Me: Um…
Him [to Kathy]: You smelled my book, right? How’d it smell?
Kathy [who had been compelled to smell the book approximately 30 seconds before]: Er…it smelled good.
Him [to me]: C’mon, you gotta smell the book.
Me: [smells book]
Him: So, what’d it smell like?
Me: It smells like leather.
Him: Whoa, man, it’s bound with leather-that’s a leather cover, man. You’re like, really smart.
Me: Well, I know what leather smells like.
Yeah, so interjections like that-for 3 hours.
I fucking hate Harvey.
[Editor’s Note: So the thing about this post is that it’s kind of not really about anything and it ends sort of abruptly. Which is what it is, but I just wanted to let my readership know that I’m not blind to the aesthetic/literary failings of this post.]
So, it’s closing on 1am and I just finished attempting to flip an omelet with what appears to be an undersized meat cleaver. Tonight, after mock trial ended, I met up with my friend Kathy and her boyfriend John at a bar/venue called the Tractor, in Ballard, to see Bobby Bare Jr. play. And upon leaving said venue after said show, and after saying goodbye to my friends, I was possessed by this desperate, all-consuming need for omelets and beer.
I’m not one for cravings, generally. Not only do I not get cravings, but generally I can’t even think of anything I particularly want to eat; tortellini or enchiladas or grilled salmon-it’s all the same to the clam. But, for whatever reason, tonight my need for an omelet (and beer) was so great that despite an increasingly pressing desire for the gents room vying for my attention, I drove straight from the Tractor to Fred Meyer, and from Fred Meyer to Safeway (it was after 11) for omelet fixings before returning to the homestead.
Sadly, the omelet didn’t live up to my expectations-my fault, I’m pretty sure. I decided to grill up some of these apple chicken sausages to put in it, rather than the roast beef I had in the fridge, which seemed like a great idea at the time but for whatever reason didn’t work out too well.
The beer, however, is terrific.
So look-the Tractor. I’ve been to this venue a handful of times, perhaps most memorably with bugboy3001 and my old roommate Rick to see the Mountain Goats last year sometime, and generally I’d say it ranks high for hipness, or at least for that quality which one might more accurately describe as hipsterosity: The ability to attract and retain, like water, hipsters. It’s that kind of place.
First of all, it’s in Ballard. Among neighborhoods in Seattle, Ballard is one of the least changed by the past decade. Did y’all see Singles, back in the day? Well, in, what, 1992-a year or two before Soundgarden released Badmotorfinger--Seattle pretty much looked the way it does in the movie. The last decade, with Seattle’s massive population growth, tech-boom (and subsequent crash) and influx of young out-of-state 30 somethings desperate for condos and cosmopolitans Belltown, which used to be the place people went to buy crack, is now door-to-door trendy restaurants and clubs under (of course) condos. This is maybe not a bad thing. And Fremont, which used to be this weirdly quirky artist-hippy neighborhood with outdoor cinemas and weekend swap meets, known to the national movie viewing population by its statues of people waiting for the interurban, Lenin, and a gigantic troll under the Aurora bridge, similarly became door-to-door trendy shopping spots, sushi restaurants, and nightclubs under office space (definitely a bad thing).
Ballard largely bucked this trend, and received no influx of capital and no urban revitalization. While it’s true that Ballard’s days are numbered-it’s one terminus of Seattle’s proposed extended monorail line-for the time being it’s still this weirdish neighborhood where the hipsters can still feign authenticity by rubbing elbows with local Norwegian dock workers and tugboat captains.
Secondly, it’s just that kind of place-kind of grubby and Spartan but real wood with microbrews (and Pabst) on tap. And what with the way small venues bite it in Seattle (with great frequency) the hipsters don’t have too many choices.
So whenever I go to the Tractor (which is admittedly pretty infrequently), I’m always on the lookout for what’s new in the world of hipster chic. Only this time, the hipsters didn’t show. Or, at least, largely didn’t show-sure, fat guy with goatee was there, and so was goth-but-can’t-commit girl (you know her-the bleached blonde one with black tips?) and stoned-asshole-who-wants-to-sell-you-his-book-of-photography (I’ll try to get back to him), but all told hipster turnout at the Tractor was remarkably low, and there were approximately zero hipster-chicks to swoon over.
Which kills me, because every time I’m at some venue like the Tractor I’m always on the lookout for my perfect hipster Goddess, upon whom I will fixate for all of the opening act and probably a substantial part of the headliner. Hipster Goddess is almost always in attendance. She’s the petite brunette with the pointy nose, hipster glasses and bob cut. When I’m really lucky she’s wearing contacts and has a pixie cut, which is hot as hell. She frequently wears an orange striped sweater, and often (be still my beating heart) with a collared shirt on underneath, sometimes with French cuffs. And then slacks or jeans or cords or something and hipster shoes. Oh, my hipster Goddess, where were you tonight? You never disappoint-you’re always at every show I go to, no matter the city, or the band, or the time of year.
Instead tonight we were stuck behind these chain-smoking, bleached-blonde, moderately overweight girls in wifebeaters with (I swear to God) corsages pinned to them and who howled like banshees at the first chord of every song, and Harvey.
I just want to interject here that Pacifico with omletes is really good, Pacifico with toast and jam is much less good, and Pacifico with Klondike bars isn’t very good at all.
Harvey was already sitting at the table when I showed up-he had apparently asked to join Kathy and John earlier that evening and seemed too be insisting rather vehemently that John both examine and praise his book of photography. We never exactly determined what the drug cocktail he was on consisted of, but I can only hope it had significant mind altering properties, ‘cause if it didn’t Harvey is in trouble.
Harvey’s photographs were black and white numbers consisting of naked ladies (and occasionally men) in various public places, especially at city landmarks. The book was divided series of photographs in the various cities. (I saw Seattle, WA, and maybe one from Madison, WI.) The work was clearly meant to be artistic rather than titlating, but as far as I can tell whatever thought went into these pictures never got past “People like looking at pictures of places they like, and people like looking at pictures of naked ladies-if I put ‘em together I bet I can sell a book!” It was the kind of artistic work that at least to me was so trite and banal that I preferred to feign interest in the folk-singing-harmonica-playing opening act rather than look at and be forced to praise the photographs; Let’s face it-that’s really saying something when the photos are of naked ladies.
But so Harvey would just never leave to peddle his book to someone else, and in his drunken-stoned-coked-up-and-belligerent way would insist on breaking into conversation at our table with things like the following:
Him: Hey-hey you-
Me: What, me?
Him: Yeah, you-hey, you’re sittin’ there, you gotta smell my book.
Me: You want me to smell your book?
Him: Yeah man, you gotta’ smell this book.
Me: Um…
Him [to Kathy]: You smelled my book, right? How’d it smell?
Kathy [who had been compelled to smell the book approximately 30 seconds before]: Er…it smelled good.
Him [to me]: C’mon, you gotta smell the book.
Me: [smells book]
Him: So, what’d it smell like?
Me: It smells like leather.
Him: Whoa, man, it’s bound with leather-that’s a leather cover, man. You’re like, really smart.
Me: Well, I know what leather smells like.
Yeah, so interjections like that-for 3 hours.
I fucking hate Harvey.