for when it’s no fun in here, being a lion….*

my neighborhood is real ugly.

there’s a pretty rampant drug problem. the whole place smells like pee and swisher sweets. there are bones and crack baggies and broken glass in every gutter and the few planters.

everyone’s always yelling, because everyone else is yelling.

the garbage trucks are overbearing.

but there are a few things that I like about Belltown. And those are these:

1.) The Lava Lounge. It has a stupid name and is moderately intimidating and hip to look at. But on most nights, it’s fairly quiet. There’s indoor, table-top shuffle-board, Ms. PacMan, all-day happy hour on Sundays and a turntable. There’s Elliot Smith, Simon & Garfunkel, and very little lighting. It’s a good spot.

2.) Mama’s. Also on 2nd and Bell, Mama’s is just around the corner and so, so bomb. Also, the servers are usually very friendly and helpful, and there are lots of posters on the wall to keep you updated on local events. I dream of  Mama’s fish tacos.

3.) The 5-Point. What a gem. A true watering hole, in that you can get an adult beverage almost any time. And you can get a big nasty sandwich actually any time, as the place is 24-hours. It is also extremely dark and has been around for quite a while. It’s grimy and prides itself on taking advantage of “drunks and tourists.” All this while set against the lovely background of the corner at 5th and Cedar. Really hope it’s not actually closing.

4.) Olympic Sculpture Park. At the fringe of Belltown on the Waterfront, this is the only place I really like to run in my area. It’s just beside Myrtle Edwards Park, which is a nice expanse of grass with an awesome view of the Sound. There are ridiculous sculptures and a lot of people taking eachothers pictures. And, if you’re caught there just before an electrical storm, your hair will stand on end. Really!

5.) Regrade Dog Park. This is my dog’s favorite thing about the neighborhood. Just a block from where we live, and across the street from possibly the ugliest bar I’ve seen in the Pacific Northwest, the little patch of gravel and sickly trees used to be a pretty well known hotspot for crack dealing and other unsavory activities. Enter the dogs, exit the tweakers. Now, it’s usually populated until a little after dark by quiet old women with AKC-certified “babies” from the nearby high-rises. I think it’s kind of them to let my mutt and I in.

So, there you have it. The good parts of Belltown.

All five of them.

 

*Points if you get the reference.

if you’re voting in Seattle…

Yes to:

Mike McGinn

Dow Constantine

Mike O’Brien

Ref. 71 (because marriage is a civil right, you fuckers)

No to:

Joe Mallahan (giving cell phone minutes to the poor is NOT ENOUGH)

Susan Huchison (could your friend’s drunk mom from Bellvue run the city? No? Neither can this woman.)

Robert (Roger? Forgetable Face Behind Glasses?) Rosencrantz

1033 (can you honestly vote for an Eyman initiative and sleep soundly at night, Seattle? No. You can’t.)

 

Now don’t pull a Mallahan. FUCKING VOTE.

overwhelmed by your mind.

i think you are radiant.

between you and indiana, there’s never been a warmer september.

last call.

Fifteen minutes until bar close.

Tonight, I imagine, my cousin went to the bars, as a patron, legally, for the first time. She’s twenty-one, now.

I still remember her when she was two. I was what, three? Four? She was thin-haired. Frail-armed. Toothless, topless…

…sickeningly ironic that this is how I remember her at nineteen, also.

I helped raise that child. When she was a bratty kid who cut the hair off of her Barbies and always made me be Ken. When she was a skinny gap-mouthed kid who made my sister cry sometimes when we’d all play. When she was the snotty cheerleader with bleached-out hair who left trash in my car, but I still drove her around.

When she had a secret nightlife and not one of us let her mother know. Her mother died thinking that child was still relatively mild-mannered and, in some strange Hanavan-esque way, moral. We did that for her.

And now? Now, if she’d ever bother to reach back to the people who pulled her out of the gutter a million times over, I’m not sure she’d find anything with her groping, grimy, meth-shaken hands but clenched fists.

I don’t know that I’d recognize her. I don’t know that if I did, I could stop myself from slapping that sad tweak-face of hers with my full force.

She deserves it.

Happy birthday, cousin. You may be our trash, but you’re no longer our kind of trash.

i’ve packed a change of clothes and it’s time to move on.

upwardly mobile. moving to seattle in mid-june for the internship i could never have even thought to ask for.

so come visit me in bellingham now.

because it’s really lovely in the spring.

oregon-bound for memorial day weekend/my birthday/loads of explaining of what an NPR member station is.

indi and i are pretty excited.

te amo.

happy mother’s day, mamacita.

you are what you love, and not what loves you back.

it occurred to me today that, although i’m adept at telling pretty lies, sometimes it is necessary to do the unnatural thing and speak the ugly truth.

be prepared to feel poorly after.
and surround yourself with puppies, naps and beer.

i never thought i’d miss a hand so much.

this was a much better easter than the last.

less exhausting, more full of love and acceptance.

more full of family. not mine, but family nonetheless.

and i like your family. a lot.

surrogate families are important to the displaced.

i’ve been gathering them for years.

they’ve recently made their presence known with kind thoughts and welcome gifts since i graduated.

i appreciate each and every one.

and i appreciate you.

and everything about you.

and even though i can’t always have everyone close to me at once,

and frequently have to have those around that i wish were not,

my life is very beautiful.

the sprouts on my lilac tree in the afternoon when i wake up with wine and a smoke,

the sound my typewriter makes when i copy down particularly lovely text messages,

the smell of my tiny dog after he’s been sleeping quite soundly,

the way it feels to wake up in good company,

the sunlight, but moreso, the darkness.

or that time just before the darkness, when it’s still light, but you know that night is encroaching.

sunrises over the church on the next block,

(much as i am growing to dislike the rising sun in general.)

the future.

progress.

blind and blatant and over-used optimism.

the use of lighters.

reading short stories on the porch and drinking porter.

hiding in the corner of the darkest bar in town and drinking porter.

standing in the kitchen in my cartoon underpants drinking porter.

stolen internet.

sewing.

vinyl.

____________________________________

yes, my life is fine.

we’ll comment on the decor and we’ll help the passers-by

dear daddy-

i can’t stop listening to the news.

last night on democracy now, amy goodman said that each day, about eighty (80) people die in america as a result of gun violence.

recently, it seems, more than usual have been officers of the law.

maybe it’s due to rising frustrations, as the middle-class is slowly growing more deeply resentful, or maybe it’s just part of social downturns, but either way, it doesn’t stop that fact that in small towns, in corridors and alleys and on trains and at routine traffic stops, the bullet-proof vest, and the opened squad car door and the return fire of less-lethal ammunition doesn’t prevent flag-draped caskets from piling up.

i don’t want to stand in a row next to dress-blues when they play taps and everyone stands, heads bowed in prayer, but really just in hope that they or someone they know aren’t next.

so like….be careful at work, ok?

-your daughter.

this room is far too small for a pilgrim like you.

A is for another night spent “writing” a scholarly paper that I have no emotional investment in.

B is for beer, bourbon and other forms of booze. The fuel of great ideas.

C is for college, which I’m on the verge of completing. So C is also for Competion.

D is for D Street. This is the story of the road that leads to my house. D is also apparently for the Decemberists.

E is for Emma, who I miss dearly.

F is for feet. Mine are torn apart, as per usual.

G is for the gym, which I only get to use for another week. G is also for ghetto, which i was told I was at work last night.

H is for Horseshoe. Not a bad gig, it turns out. Now a contender for longest-held paid position of my life.

I is for Indiana Sunshine, of course. He is the best compilation of cells that has ever been spontaneously generated at the point of conception. What a brilliant animal.

J is for J.Adam. Because he’s amazing and I’m very happy to know him.

K is for Kaia (and Scarlett gets lumped in here, too.) The only ferrets that I’ve ever thought were worth existence. Mostly because they make Zachary (see letter Z) so happy. And because they’re a little bit cute in that weasel way.

L is for Lettered Streets. What a lovely little neighborhood.

M is for missing my family. i do that a lot.

N is for NPR. It is  impossible to calculate how many times I’ve begun  a sentence with “I was listening to NPR today, and…”

O is for open-ended essay questions, which I can’t wait to put behind me.

P is for PILF. Because we’ve finally got one in the White House.

Q is for quitting smoking, which is for losers.

R is for Ranier. Pronounced “rahn-yay” by the classiest of can-beer drinkers. yum!

S is for stormy weather. A clue that the stocks are down, and the reason why there is a high-pitched squeal piercing through my wooden home at all hours.

T is for theory. Because there’s no quicker way to get me to melt than by opening up a discussion with some Derrida or Foucault.

U is for undergrad, when I learned about theory and, subsequently, what a goober i am for the study of the English language.

V is for the Velvet Underground, which is maybe some of the most inspiring music that has ever been recorded.

W is for Washington and everything I’m getting out of it.

X is for X-tra curricular activities. And by that I just mean KUGS. A stretch? Yes. But KUGS is really perhaps one of the greatest parts of my college experience. So maybe X is for X-perience.

Y is for “Yes, I know I look like Lindsay Lohan. Please, let’s never mention it again.”

Z is for Zachary Warren, because he is my best friend and has officially entered the realm of being a grown-up, and I’m bursting with pride.

Shit. Now i have to go back to bullshitting. But only for a little longer…

xoxo me.