Spontaneously in Seattle (Part 2)

After Saturday's chance encounter with culinary arts blogger Carina Ziegler, I added Issaquah's Tiger Mountain to my Sunday itinerary. I was committed to checking out Snoqualmie Falls for Emilio's sake, but since Issaquah was on the way (and, admittedly, I kind of wanted to check it out anyhow), I rallied around 9:30 a.m. and headed east on I-90 with hope of making it to both. I did, and I was not prepared for what awaited me.


The Tiger Mountain hike was unreal.







In a secret garden, enchanted magical forest sort of way. (THANK YOU, CARINA!)

Surely, if only I'd ingested the slightest amount of hallucinogens, secrets of the ancient forest would have spilled forth from the woods.

I think these characters, in particular, would have had a lot to share:













Unfortunately, I only had a granola bar, and my id did not burst forth from my messenger bag.

Drugs would have been redundant, though, at the top of the mountain, where the scene was effectively psychedelic. Submerged in cloud, the summit was silent save for eerie, other-worldly birdsong, the soft patter of rain, and the squelch of my shoes in the mud.

The trail at the summit.




View from the top: Cloudy, with a chance of trees.


Oh -- the mud.

For some reason, I thought my Chucks would suffice:

Duh.


And the only thing worse than climbing up a muddy mountain in Chucks? Climbing down a muddy mountain in Chucks.



Gnarly!


I hastened my descent after the fall, begging a group of lovely ladies for some band-aids along the way ("We don't have any, sorry," they replied. "Which is pretty pathetic for three doctors and a nurse.")

But I did stop to befriend a snail:

Out of the woods, my first order of business was tending to my wounds, so I stopped at a Shell and bought some band-aids from Dave, who suggested I check out the Rollin' Log Tavern across the street. Note taken.

But first: food.

I walked my bandaged hands over to the Issaquah Brewhouse and ordered the Kobe Blue Balls sandwich, a blue-cheese stuffed Kobe meatball sandwich on a marina-smothered hoagie bun. With potato chips and a pickle spear. Ohhh, it was Epic.

I met a man at the bar named G, a cuddly tattooed fellow who had just initiated a divorce from his wife of 5 years. He confessed that I was the first person he'd told; better to start with me, a total stranger, than with family and friends. We bonded over the difficulties of ending long term relationships over some Rogue Dead Guy Ale (very tasty).

Time for Snoqualmie Falls, another 20 minutes east of Issaquah. The falls were truly awe-inspiring:










My recommenders had warned that the Falls would be crowded, but they neglected to mention that it's also the site of a power plant (!)

Glorious nature.

Tranquil countryside.



Machinery aside, I did manage to capture this tender moment:


How. Adorable.

There were no discernable trails at Snoqualmie Falls, save for a super jam-packed .5 mile hike to the river. (Which made me all the more grateful for Carina's stellar recommendation.)






Frustrated, I asked the cashier at the gift shop if she knew of any good hikes nearby, and she gave me four slips of paper with cryptic directions to surrounding trailheads. I settled on Twin Falls, off I-90 exit 34.

Bingo.

Tiger Mountain had plenty of tranquil forest, but no fresh water. Snoqualmie Falls had plenty of fresh water, but no tranquil forest.

Twin Falls, though, was just right.

And I finally had that moment I was looking for.

Some pictures:

Water source.

Bottom half of the falls.

Top half of the falls.

Another friendly slug.

Prophesy.

The sun was setting by the time I left Twin Falls, and I was wet, muddy, stinky, and still bleeding from my morning tumble. So what to do? Why, head back to Issaquah for a beer at the Rollin' Log Tavern.

I enjoyed a Rogue American Amber and a basket of transcendently greasy fish and chips at the Rollin' Log, where I was tended to by a lovely mother-daughter team (Dixie and Heather, respectively).

When Shell station Dave had recommended the place earlier in the day, he said the Rollin' Log Tavern was " pretty much as good as it gets." I have to concur. The place is the holiest of dives: a nice arcade selection (bowling, Golden Tee, off-road racing), two pool tables, darts, a shuffle board, loud TVs, fried food, a hot nut bar, free popcorn, chewing gum and pork rinds and single-serving aspirin for sale behind the bar. Hospitable, close-knit, local clientele. I was tired, really tired, and I knew I should've gotten back on the road after the first beer. But I couldn't leave. In fact, I sort of wanted to die there.

Dixie recommended the Hefewiezen, and after Heather gave me a free sample, I relented, and stayed for one last beer and a conversation with Issaquah native Sharon and LA-bred Dave. I promised I'd look them up the next time I was in Issaquah (Soon, I hope. It's truly a gorgeous place).

Relunctantly, I walked back to the Sebring, passing another great looking bar along the way (H&H saloon, where several folks were singing along to one patron's acoustic rendition of a country-western song), and headed north for the final stop of the trip: Walgreen's, to replace a toothbrush I'd managed to knock into the Holiday Inn toilet (yup).

Outside the pharmacy, I was apologetically approached by a young man who had just gotten out of the emergency room for a kidney infection and "didn't want to be a bum," but just needed five more dollars to get his meds. So I bought the toothbrush, and gave him 5 of my $20 cash-back. He hugged me, and assured, "you've got great karma coming to you."

I hope so, and if it's true, I'd like to pass it along to Emilio, Debbie, the novelty store guys, Rachel and Eric, Denny, Carina and Sean, Shell Station Dave, G, Dixie and Heather, and Sharon and Dave for their help in shaping an extraordinary Memorial Day adventure. GOD BLESS YOU, CITIZENS OF AMERICA!

Spontaneously in Seattle (Part 1)

As 2008 unraveled and I imagined what lay ahead, I forsaw myself spending Memorial Day weekend in the Pacific Northwest. Unfortunately, as May approached, a vacation didn't seem to be in the proverbial cards. Until my employer's tech team announced plans to"to upgrade the network" and give our Internet-less staff Friday off. And Wells Fargo blessed my Visa with 2% APR till 2009. And Priceline hooked it up, hard style. So, two days before the holiday weekend, I booked a vacation package to Seattle.

Out of respect for this auspicious turn of events, I decided to leave the particulars of my journey up to chance and let the recommendations of strangers guide what I'd eat, drink, see and do over the weekend.

After checking into the Seatac Holiday Inn, I began my journey at Sharp's Roaster & Alehouse, a Chotchkie's-esque BBQ joint with a fine selection of draft beer and a gigantic, cocktail-emblazoned carnival wheel, spun by the bartenders every half hour to determine the drink special for the next 30 minutes. I sat at the bar between Debbie, a real estate agent from San Juan Island, and Emilio, a cruise ship staffer from Seattle, who recommended -- over hot, gooey cornbread, barbeque chicken and Mac & Jack's African Amber -- that I start Saturday off at the Pike Place Market and head out to Snoqualmie Falls on Sunday.

Several others had recommended Pike Place Market (Carrie's screenwriter friend, Anthony Bourdain) so I decided to make it my first stop in the city. But first, I had to fulfill a childhood dream: a visit to the location of Kurt Cobain's final moments.

Saturday morning was gorgeous, and the lady working the Avis counter just happened to hook me up with a Chrysler Sebring Convertible:


Chryst!

So I got dressed in the most obnoxiously alt rock outfit I could muster-





-and set out to Viretta Park, off of Lake Washington Boulevard, with the convertible top down and Modest Mouse on the stereo.


I found the house:





And the park:





And one of several memorial benchs:










Of course, I had to add a note of my own:






And smoke a parliament next to the tree.




Egregious badassery.


Apparently, the house has been purchased and occupied by somebody else because every now and then I'd see some shirtless dude or bikini-topped babe bounce into view above the gate as if on a trampoline. Oh -- and for a good ten minutes or so, somebody was screaming, murderously. Nice.

After paying my respects, I drove west through downtown and meandered toward Pike Place Market. I emerged from the parking garage into an indoor boardwalk full of boutiques hawking antiques, jewelery, art, vitamins, and assorted novelties. The sight of slime lured me into one of the novelty shops, and I wandered in to find a twenty-something stoner and a bearded old hippie lounging idly behind the counter. Clearly these two knew where to drink.

I asked, and they suggested, without hesitation, Nite Lite on Second and Stewart ("Opens at 3:30. $1 PBR's, 4 finger beers"), as well as the Whiskey Bar ("but I don't know if you have enough tattoos") and the Pike Pub and Brewery ("if you like fancy beer").

I noted their recommendations, thanked them and left, and proceeded down the boardwalk to a Palm and Tarot Card Reader. Unfortunately, she had already left for the day. So I continued onward through the market, shuffling my way through the thick crowd past gorgeous displays of fresh seafood, flowers, jams, chocolates, soap, jewelry and art. I bought a $6 mermaid sculpture made of ash from the 1980 Mt. St. Helens eruption (it came with an informative card about the volcano; I couldn't resist).

The smell of fried seafood was overwhelming and, at that late afternoon hour, irresistable, so I stopped by Emmett Watson's Oyster Bar for a Hale Mongoose I.P.A. and a basket of fried oysters & chips. It was one of the best meals I've ever had. The oysters were so scrumptiously succulent the taste of them will follow me to the grave.

Next: the Pike Pub, where I had the pleasure of meeting Burbank residents Rachel and Eric over a sampler of the Pub's finest (recommended: Double and Tripel Ale. Not recommended: everything else). We chatted about Belgian beer, midwestern work ethics and the myth of the Bridezilla (Rachel's a wedding photographer: check her out), and Rachel recommended some spots worth visiting back in LA (Masa for bread pudding, Lucky Baldwin's for Belgian brews.)

After the pub, I called Jimmy whilst lounging on the pier, observing this totem pole:






I then headed to the Bourdain-approved Piroshky Piroshky for a decidedly unnecessary but nevertheless delicious apple cinnamon pastry. Mmm.

After dessert, I went on a quest to find a marquee I'd spotted while looking for a place to park the Sebring:






(No further comment necessary.)

Conveniently, this was near the Nite Lite, and so the evening began.

The Nite Lite's decor alone warrants a stellar recommendation: faux-rock walls adorned with lime green and birds-egg blue vinyl headboards, glittery green foil under the glass bar, fake icicles on the top shelf, $1 PBR special before 7 p.m.




It was large, quirky and sleazy.

But there was nobody in there. So I moved on to the Whiskey Bar.

The Whiskey Bar was a nice little hang for the "discerning biker" (clean and tidy rockabilly chic). But hands down, the best thing about the Whiskey Bar was Denny, a 63 yr old Tulsa-born oil refinery salesman (who didn't look a day over 50), who schooled me on Canadian Club Reserve and coke, the perils of New Orleans, and life, love and new beginnings. During the early days of his sales career, Denny had traveled through and fallen in love with Seattle and resolved to move there if he ever needed a place to start over. Unfortunately, that time came in the 90's when his beloved wife, a singer, passed away. We shared several tall whiskey and cokes together, and then, after revealing that he had arrived by motorcycle, Denny abruptly left. It was probably for the best. At that point, I was ready to climb on back and ride off with him into the sunset. Instead, I moved north, to Five Point Cafe.

Outside the bar is a lovely view of the Space Needle:

Inside the bar is cheap beer, a great jukebox, and colorful clientele. Around the time I realized the top shelf was adorned with softcore porno polariods, a robust tattooed woman in a pink tank top sat down to my right and ordered an Adios Motherfucker. She asked me if there were any tattoo parlors around and I apologized, "I don't know, I'm not from around here." She then pointed to a name tattooed on her back and explained, "I've got to get this name changed to Reyes."

"You might want to wipe that out altogether," I retorted.

"Huh. Hadn't thought about that."

She told me about Mr. Reyes, and what an asshole he was, and asked me about my notebook.
She said she wrote in her journal sometimes, after her weekly meetings. She had been addicted to crack, and was celebrating her second clean month.

We talked for quite awhile and she told me her name; regrettably, I cannot remember it, and I failed to record it, having tucked away my notebook out of respect for our conversation. I tried to convince her that she didn't need Mr. Reyes, she didn't need anyone, except for "what's in here" (Mel pounds her chest), and "you've got it. You've got that fire in you. I can see it."

I hope she believed me. After she left, a couple walked in and took her place at the bar: lovely, sweet Carina (a fellow blogger) and her friend Sean.

Carina graciously shared a Djarum with me, and I mentioned my plan to visit Snoqualmie Falls. She recommended Issaquah's Tiger Mountain instead. And so begins day two...

Lost Roses

Dear Jasmine B., 

I have your roses. 

I found them on my doorstep when I got home from work tonight. Bill sent them. He apparently cares very strongly for you because they're arranged in a classy glass vase and accented with mosses, orchids and other flowers I cannot identify without a field guide.  Oh - and they're from  Mark's Garden. This shit ain't cheap. 

So if you want 'em, come and get 'em. But if you and Bill are on the outs and you're just going to put them in rubbing alcohol or something, I will gladly keep them.

Yours truly, 

ML

Long Live the Chicago Dog

The search for the best Chicago-style hot dog in LA was on my "To Do" list for 2008, but it turns out that Losanjealous' Kid Danger has already done my work for me.

Check it out.



Now I can get to those guitar lessons.

Oh Make Me Over

I learned a few interesting facts at the Clinique counter last night:

1. Oily skin is a sign of dehydration.

Apparently, water neutralizes oil and leaves skin healthy and blemish-free!

2. When applying concealer below your eyes, use your ring finger.

The ring finger applies the least pressure to the skin, so there's less risk of popping blood vessels.

3. Wiggling mascara onto lashes creates a natural curl.

"And will avoid that boxy shape you get from eyelash curlers," says the makeup artist. WTF is an eyelash curler?

4. The Clinique staff is psychic.

"Did you get a new job?"

Am I that predictable?

5. You don't tip the makeup artist.

Though you are expected to tip on top of a $180 haircut, or a $140 massage, you apparently do not tip the woman who spends one hour applying makeup to half your face, another 30 minutes watching you try to do what she's done to the other half, and another 15 minutes correcting your failures.

GBD's Exclusive 25th Birthday Bonanza

Both of my roommates turned 25 last weekend, and I was faced with the challenge of making two VIPs in my life feel very special, instead of that-much-closer-to-30.

It was a daunting task, but a task accomplished by delighting them with the most exclusive clubs in Los Angeles!

Because what eases the transition into your late 20s better than partying in places inaccessible to the general public?

So, without further ado . . .

Les Deux

After watching a herd of paparazzi sprint toward its general direction, I expected the worst from Les Deux, but it turned out to be quite enjoyable.

It wasn't a stuffy, minimalistic dance club like I'd expected but a small, Victorian house with one large first-floor lounge, a roomy second-floor VIP balcony, and a large cobblestone courtyard lined with chocolate-leather booths. The DJ spun a nice mix of Top 40 and 80s dance music underneath a projection of Baz Luhrmann's Romeo and Juliet.

The atmosphere was relaxed and chill, and the bartender gave us two-for-one Patron shots. After all, how can you resist these faces:


Les Douche.

We talked our way up to the VIP room, which was occupied by a group of disability insurance salesmen from Boston and a couple of Marines. One of the Marines was the PR Director for the Marine Corp - the person responsible for convincing journalists to come to Iraq and write about all of the good and reprehensible things going on there. She was revealing all sorts of fascinating things about Iraq that I was trying very hard to retain but promptly forgot a few moments (and sips of vodka soda) later. I think she described Iraq as "four times worse than Tijuana" but that, of course, sounded absurd in the morning. At any rate, after admitting, "we never should have gone in there in the first place, but since we did . . ." she shifted to more Les Deux-appropriate topics such as her childhood aspirations (acting) and the brand of my dress (Free People). She was a fascinating person, and I wish I was sober enough to remember our conversation (yay, America). Her male companion gave me a flashing Pentagon keychain.

After we left, we bought two of the best bacon-wrapped hot dogs EVAH! I think they were actually bacon-wrapped spicy sausages, not hot dogs, which brought the experience to a whole new level. The sausages were wrapped in toasty, grease-soaked buns and topped with veritable mounds of onions, peppers, mustard and ketchup. As Sarah and I devoured them under a nearby awning, men kept approaching us and asking us where we were from. No one believed us when we said "LA." (Dunno why, I mean, wtf, right?)

The Magic Castle

On Friday night, Sarah and I got all dolled up and went to The Magic Castle, the private members-only magician's club on Franklin and Hollywood.

It was just as awesome as you might imagine. I won't spoil the mystery for you, but let me just say that the place has five bars full of aging magicians eager to perform tricks and buy drinks for pretty ladies.

We weren't allowed to take pictures, so think of a Hogwarts full of strange uncles.


Club 33

I thought Disneyland's Club 33 was a nightclub. It's not. It's a very expensive French restaurant with antique furniture, crimson walls and gold-embroidered drapes. It's like eating inside of a Louis Vutton bag. Seth and I got the five course Prix Fixe menu - quite tasty. The toilets are rather peculiar:


"I've got the guts to die. What I want to know is, have you got the guts to live?"

Once inside, you travel to the dining area via elevator:



Pretty cool, huh?

Pirates of the Caribbean is even better after five glasses of wine.

But do not go on the Finding Nemo submarines until you've completely sobered up.

(Or ever, if you're afraid of being submerged in water, like I am.)


**

Now, you might be wondering how you can befriend someone like me; someone who has the know-how to get you into these wonderfully exclusive Southern Californian establishments.

(Lots and lots of cash.)

No, seriously, the truth is that I owe it all to Sarah, Becky and Barb G. Thanks, ladies.

This is Why I Drink Starbucks

According to Energy Fiend, there's so much caffeine in Starbucks coffee that it would only take 27 Grande cups of it to kill you.

Comparatively, it would take 71 cans of Full Throttle to kill you.

Or 296 cans of Coke Zero.

Hmmm.

Vegas: A Retrospective

I've returned from Las Vegas.



Barely.

About 10 miles past the abandoned waterpark, my alternator conked out and I had to be towed to Barstow.

Luckily, the mechanic there was open late and kind enough to fix me up. But we still didn't make it in time for Rock the Bells.

Bollocks.

Regardless, as this concluded my fifth trip to Vegas in the past year, I thought it appropriate to do a little Best-Of as reference for the less-seasoned.

Best way to spend the day

First, head over to the Forum Shops at Caesars Palace. There's something for everybody -- from $500 corsets at Agent Provocateur to Pete Rose at Field of Dreams. But my favorite will always be FAO Schwartz. I'm a sucker for giant stuffed animals.


Christy meets Octopus.

After you've had your fill, make your way over to the Mirage for Siegfried and Roy's Secret Garden and Dolphin Habitat.



Sure, you have to pay $15 to get in, but once you're there, you can chill by the dolphin pool and drink $7 32 oz. Sin City Amber Lagers. It's the best deal in town. And they've got a baby dolphin, too!

Just watch out for Montecore.

Best novelty drink

The BeatleJuice at the Mirage's Beatles-inspired Revolution Lounge is a slightly sweet and very strong blueberry martini that is actually worth the $12.

Best novelty diner

Dine among Klingons at Quark's Bar and Restaurant at Star Trek: The Experience in the Las Vegas Hilton. Actors dress up as Star Trek characters and roam the restaurant while you eat; if you order a salad, they may even harass you for being a leaf-eating Earthling. I recommend a Hamborger and giant cauldron of smoking mixed drink (thanks, dry ice!)


That is not a statue.

Best bulk booze

Forget the sugared-up yard-long margaritas and get a boot full of mango daquiri at Coyote Ugly. It actually tastes good. You can refill the boot for cheap and for a small fee, you can add a double shot of 151.



Best hotel room

The Venetian. Every standard room has a sunken living room! It was hard to leave.



Worst hotel room

The Tropicana. Stains, hard mattresses, ugh. Cuervo margaritas help.



Most surprisingly enjoyable stay

Hooters Hotel and Casino. Clean rooms in Spring Break decor and poolside chicken wings. It started off as a joke (let's see Morrissey and stay at Hooters! Meat is murder! Bah!) but I gotta say, I'd be happy to stay here again.





Best thing you will ever see in your life

I saw a lot of great shows in the past year - Massive Attack, Bjork, Christina Aguilera, Modest Mouse, Girls Against Boys, Smashing Pumpkins, Sonic Youth, Slint, Morrissey, Amy Winehouse, Jarvis Cocker, El-P, The National, The Decemberists, Andrew Bird. But nothing even came close to Elton John and the Red Piano.



Not only do you get Sir Elton and giant inflatable legs, but you also get an amazing video accompaniment directed by David LaChappelle. A white trash ballet brawl? Set in a trailer park? Inspired by Tennessee Williams? Yes, please. More more more.

Most surprisingly awesome show

The now defunct We Will Rock You, the futuristic rock opera set to the music of Queen at the Paris Hotel and Casino, brought grown men to tears. The performances, sets and costumes were great, and the story instills the viewer with the importance of Rock in a way that School of Rock never could.

Most surprisingly offensive show

I suppose I was drunk, but during the course of LOVE I did a 180 from thinking it was the most amazing thing I'd ever seen to the most exploitative thing I'd ever seen. I left the theater murmuring curses at Paul McCartney under my breath. The Beatles is pure, man!

Most surprising moment during a show

Being pulled up on stage by Penn to throw knives at Teller -- after a Witch Doctor and a shot of Patron (see "Best Meal as of February 2007" below).

Most disappointing show

Folies Bergere at Tropicana. What with this dude MC? What's with the dude dancers? What's with the dude comedian? I paid for tits and feathers. Which comprised only about 7% of the show.

Speaking of that . . .

Most off-the-hook strip club



Scores.

Period.

Worst strip club

Anything all nude, sans liquor. Make sure you know where you are before you drop that cover.

Most Overrated Nightclub

Tryst. Do you like three minutes of Michael Jackson inexplicably mixed with three minutes of Nirvana, transitioned into 45 seconds of Journey? Then this lame-ass DJ is for you.

Best bar to score a Jack and Coke and some old science textbooks

To the right of the Tropicana's Tuscany Italian Cafe, there's a tiny little bar with an even tinier little room with a leather couch, a couple of chairs, a flat screen TV, and two built-in-the-wall bookcases full of your parents' old science textbooks. If you ask the bartender, he'll let you take one home. But hurry fast -- it's getting the bomb in November.


Blinding myself with science.

Best meal as of February 2007

Before it became the Voodoo Steak House and completely changed the menu, the Rio's Voodoo Lounge had not only the tastiest entree in town ("Chicken Some Street in New Orleans") but also the best drink -- a smoking cauldron of "Witch Doctor," ten shots of rum topped with a little plastic ghost.

Best meal as of August 2007

Japonais at the Mirage. Sensual ambiance, solid food.

Best dessert

Banana Cream Pie at Emeril's at the MGM Grand. It's as big as a cat.

Best display item

Christina Aguilera's chaps from the Dirrty Video at the Hard Rock Hotel and Casino.


Maybe it's just me.

Most annoying surcharge

$20 for picking up the "Pleasure Box" off the Caesars Palace amenity tray and laughing at it.

Most triumphant moment

Winning $80 on the Big Six at Treasure Island.