Ring-A-Ding-Ding

Yesterday I photographed the same boring building, twice. This took me 8 hours because I had already left the location before realizing I made a mistake. The building was in a southern “suburb” if you can call it that. Every inch of this state seems to be populated by boot wearing, touchy-feely eco-guys that hit the NO button on the ATM when it asks if they want a receipt – that would be a waste of paper. Even the suburbs, usually a consumer wasteland, are lush and friendly.

In an attempt to salvage some part of the day as being my own on the way back to the city, I drove Hwy 450 North to Hwy 90 around and across Lake Washington. Hwy 90 crosses half of Lake Washington then cruises through Mercer Island, packed with beautiful homes, then, when you least expect it, cuts through a hill of evergreens and launches out over the other half of the lake. 90 turns into a lichen, tree-covered tunnel once it reaches Seattle and just before you dip under, the words, “Seattle, Portal to the Pacific” can be seen just above, carved in cement that looks like granite.

Needing a haircut and a tan, but not knowing where to go, I headed to Capital Hill because where there are gays there will certainly be hairdressers, tanning beds and a gym. The employees at Ultimate Tan are the usual tanning attendants - brown to the point of orange and if they aren’t smoking and on the phone when you walk in, they will be when you walk out.

Just like Chicago, not much is going on in downtown Seattle. When I drove away from Capital Hill, the party was just getting started and the spiky kids with their messenger bags were hopping onto curves and leaning on poles, making plans for later. Back downtown, I wished that I had stayed on Capital Hill, but too tired to go back, I decided to eat in the hotel again.

An old coot at the bar was lagging on about “movement. And then there’s Darrel Jackson. And they have home-field advantage. You know, I don’t know much about football but I’ve been saying for a year that Seattle was going to the Superbowl.”

And as odds would have it, I ended my day in the Warwick Hotel bar next to Seattle’s very own football clairvoyant.

Ring-a-ding-ding.