Wednesday, June 22, 2011

99 Bosses. Half Ass Monkey Boy.

Does it smell like pot in here?

When I stepped off the elevator at the Egypt, I was hit by the scent of Arcata. If you don't know what that means, why are you reading this? Are you secretly hoping I might still turn out to be the swimsuit model with the same name which is why the search term you used to find me was "marisa miller sitting toilet"? You are a creepy pervert.

What I mean is that I smelled weed. Not the kind I was used to getting on the corner of 9th and Union that you spend an hour picking stems out of. Pine trees and skunk spray. That's what heaven smells like. It was a strong enough odor that I wanted to linger, wallowing in the waft I had missed so much, but didn't want to seem like a total tard in front of Kris. I already wore enough chambray to make me questionable. Hey. Gap Rebirth. Whatever. The girls here were rocking Courtney. I didn't know who Courtney was, so I rocked Melissa Etheridge. I had a lot to learn about being straight in Seattle.

Kris proceeded down the hall and the smell grew stronger with every step. She stopped at the very last apartment and knocked. The door was opened by a pointy-bearded boy in a wool hat. Inside were three or four fellers in various homage to Bilbo Baggins.  Basketball was on the TV. And oh. There was also a cloud of pot smoke the size of the Icelandic volcano choking up the room.

Mama's home.
Introductions are in the form of Kris pointing out who's who. "That's Sean Clay. He lives off girls" is the one that will forever stand out in my mind and it is to him that I dedicate this blog post.
Then Kris asks if I wanted a bong hit. Does a bear drive a bicycle in the woods on Christmas?

If you are a chef and a connoisseur of the cannabis, the difference between, say, a crisp, clean Snowcap and schwag is the difference between CAFO burger and Wagyu rib-eye, the miles that separate Toll-House from Callebaut.  I would happily and easily trade sex for the rest of my life for a greenhouse full of Jack Herer . Sorry. Just keepin' it real.

One long-haired shiftless boy leads to another and next thing you know, I'm agreeing to jobs at the bakery! jobs for all my new friends! Except the two residents of the apt. who had their own gig growing the weed I was smoking. In one of those houses you've read about. With a hundred pot plants. Working for the Lord I say.

I stumbled back to the hill and, like Dorothy, woke up to the Emerald City.

Sunday, June 12, 2011

99 Bosses. Temple of the (hot)Dog. Part One

Best thing about living in Seattle in 1992?
Living in Seattle in 1992.
Like Hammer said before Eddie Vedder did a stage dive all over his lame pants: CAN'T TOUCH THIS.
Come on.
What's better than Nirvana 6 feet away and the bulge in Chris Cornell's leather pants THISCLOSEUP?
More inspiring than a rebirth of food that starts with freshly harvested oysters and ends with an herbal elixir picked moments before at the Herbfarm?

In 1992, however, I knew not.

I went all-in that October leaving LA and I crawled right back into my hermit shell as soon as I parked my Celica on 28th Ave. E.

Time after work was spent trying to get my bearings straight. It's hard as nuts to figure out how to navigate a city bisected by lakes, drawbridges and one-way streets. Nothing was flat and there were mountains and water on all sides so my habit of finding the geographical landmarks to determine my general direction was pretty much kerflunkled.

Having never lived anywhere but California. I couldn't believe the lack of trash, both paper and Euro. LA was teeming with Armani-clad wanna-bees. These people were dressed like HOBBITS for Jesus sake. Long-johns, pointy-toed Doc Martens, flannels and sheep-lined corduroy. All varieties of goatee and the boys all had longer hair than the girls.  I was kind of skeeved out to be honest. I like my shizz a little tighter than that.
Marky Mark? Seems showered. These boys looked like if you showed them soap they'd melt all Wicked Witch-style. Up close, it turns out, they smell like Aveda Curessence. All that hair is a lot of maintenance.

After 3 months as pantry girl, Joan promotes me to manager of the bakery and I go apeshit.

Giddy with power, I embark on a hiring spree of miscreants, who, now that I know better, must have all crawled in from the Off-Ramp for their 11 o'clock interviews. I should have known that maybe their grooming would reflect their inability to take anything seriously, least of all their paychecks. This is a crack in the bong of the 24 year-old Seattle male. If you want that money for weed and Heineken son, you need a job. THAT YOU GO TO. EVERY DAY LIKE.
First on the list, Miss Kristin Rock-ass. A pretty Goth with a wicked sense of humor who had recently transplanted from the Bay Area. Cali in da' house. I felt better already.
Late every day but overlooked since she is the only one who gets my cultural references and need to get a good burrito in this city. This was a long time before Taco del Mar and the only Mexican was a weird place in the market where the carnitas was all wet.  Taco Time doesn't count so shut it.

I find out that the reason for Kris's tardiness is that she's taking two buses to get to work so I give her a ride home one day.

The Egypt, in it's heyday, is a super-nice condo bldg. in Wallingford. Long before Belltown started sucking Regentrify's shiny new pecker, there were few luxury apts. in Seattle. Luxury meaning covered parking and an elevator to get all your shit up to the third floor when you moved in with that guy you met at the Vomit on Tuesday night.

Let me break in here and tell the eleven of you who haven't heard the news that I am a pot-head.
Before you form any smarmy, uneducated opinions as to MY intelligence let me remind you that most of you drink your weight in wine, vodka or Diet Coke every week.
Go 'head Sally, keep sucking down that poison you're so fond of. You'll never lose that gut no matter how many spin classes you take. You will start to get puffy, blotchy skin. Let's not talk about your liver.

I decided long ago that a plant that I can grow out of the ground beats the Jesus out of any mystery medicine the government or China may or may not be trying to kill you with. And yes, grapes are a plant, but setting up a vineyard is cost-prohibitive to an extent and there's still the whole swollen organ factor.

With no ganja hook-up in my new hometown, the 8 long months pre-Rockas were spent drinking Hefeweizen loaded with lemon and playing dominoes with my roommates. On the weekends I went mushroom hunting outside Everett trying to find a reasonable substitute for my preferred vice, never imagining that the biggest cash crop in Western Washington isn't really apples after all.

Now. Let's go upstairs and meet the boyfriend, shall we?