Ugh. Putting on tour weight. I’m eating fish and tofu, avoiding snacks, drinking wine instead of beer, but the fact remains we spend the majority of the day sitting in a van. I wish my blossoming boobs could satiate my sex-starved groin grumblings, but it doesn’t work that way. I hope Seattle likes fat horny drummers.
Grants Pass, Oregon likes fat horny cavemen. They put a mighty one atop their visitors center that, according to its placard, likes to prank around with pretty women. This is what I will look like by the time we hit Missouri.
Oregon’s drive was quite breathtaking, thanks to Jim’s competitive racing style of mountain driving. We admired the cedars, redwoods, and conifers in record time. In Salem we grabbed a Mexican lunch because why not? Jim & I crashed hard while Nicole handled the serene trek into the Evergreen State.
I suggested a stop in Olympia for coffee, as I’ve always wanted to see the home of K Records, Sleater-Kinney, and legendary US soccer goalkeeper Kasey Keller. I had heard about the city’s twee culture of cardigans, malt shops, and platonic handjobs. To my disappointment, the coffee shop I yelped was atop a strip mall. Nobody wore a sweater and no one played any instruments amateurishly. But the barista guy did wear eyeliner. So it wasn’t a total loss.
Seattle’s space age skyline greeted us like the Jetson’s maid Rosey. If we have time we’re going to visit the 1966 World’s Fair. In the Lower Queen Anne neighborhood our gracious host Jimbo greeted us, opening up his Murphy Bedded pad to our tired/mud-buzzed heads. Out of nowhere, he treated us to fabulous suds and pub grub at McMenamins, then picked up an assortment of red wine from the corner store. The evening ended as it had begun, with spirited conversation and hearty laughter with our consummate host Jimbo. Seattle was like a Jesus to us.