Friday, November 13, 2009

As Advertised

The promise was that at least a couple people would be offended, and it was probably more than that, although I’ll bet fewer of those on the bike ride and more of those who worked at the joint, especially when people started hula-hooping.

The Hooter’s Casino itself is strangely wholesome; pretty much the most erotic thing going was Derrick getting down with his hot wings—(right up there on the offensive scale, too)—and since their gambling features only cards, no dice, I was happy to just drink beer and puzzle out American foreign policy with the Major and the evil librarian.

Above all, I was delighted to have caught up with the ride after last week’s failed search and frankly, surprised that I actually knew the way there, over the bridge and along the Duwamish trail to south South Park. I had almost given up when it became apparent that here in the 21st century, nobody answers their phones, they just ring back—which doesn’t really work when you’re calling from one of those drug dealer-proof pay phones in Pioneer Square that blocks you from speaking on incoming calls so that you just stand there holding the receiver helplessly while the person on the other end goes, “Hello? Hello? Anyone there?”

And it would have been particularly offensive to have missed out on the first return visit of the season to the hidden hobo fire pit—which I never could have found on my own—where Joeball fell from the trees and tore a big old rotten tooth of a post from the ground and burned the hell out of it.

Once again, lack of beer eventually impelled us from the site, just in the nick of time to keep open the kitchen at the Orient Express restaurant, where we were installed in our very own Blue Velvet-inspired private karaoke room.

The place was so perfectly creepy, I could only stay for two songs.

No offense.


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