Whiskey in Seattle


Well, I’m here.

And I’ve been walking a lot.  Even when my knee starts to hurt and I can feel the swelling inside, I keep walking.  There’s too much to see and my insatiable thirst for ‘new’ just keeps me going.  I’ve probably walked 10 to 15 miles in the past three days here, and I still know I haven’t seen even a healthy fraction of what there is to see (I’ve not even made the trek to the Space Needle).

Soon, my dwindling funds and lack of a job will start to nag at me and will send my mood into a tailspin (that is, until I inevitably find a job), but for now, I’m still electrified by the vast expanse of unexplored possibilities ahead of me.  Call it my manic mode.

Naturally, the most important aspect of the city for me to explore is the nightlife.  I mean watering holes, not night clubs (though I’ll search those out at some point).  Drinking beer at home is fine for a few days, but I can only go so long without having a refreshing glass of ice-chilled whiskey on a tragedy-stained vinyl stool.

So, last night I went out for a couple hours.  The first place I stopped into was a joint named “The Whiskey Bar.”  Like a moth to a flame.  Semi-swanky, but still fairly laidback, I had two glasses of an Irish whiskey I’d never had before, Kellan.  Do yourself a favor and try some.  Roughly in the same price range as Jameson (at least, they were charging the same price), it’s incredibly smooth and delicious.  I could have drank it all night, but I felt that it was my duty as a new settler to give at least one other bar a visit, so I reluctantly left. 

But I’ll be back Kellan, I’ll be back.

The other bar I stopped into was a recommendation from the new roommate, a place called “Lava Lounge.”  Grungy and dark, this place is a bar for hard rockers and metalheads, presumably, with a “DJ” playing deep cuts from some Scandanavian Black Metal™ group.  But really it was pretty chill.  There were some couples playing shuffleboard in the back and groups of people talking and laughing around tables.  It could have been any other yuppie bar if not for the music and the abundance of full-sleeve tattoos.  That isn’t an insult, just saying that bars are pretty much all the same when it comes to their purpose:  A gathering spot for like-minded drunks to meet or ignore strangers.

I sat at the bar because I’m a writer and that’s what we do.  I switched over to well whiskey, which was fine but a marked decline from my previous drink.

After finishing off my first glass and ordering a second, the gentlemen on the stool next to me started up a conversation.  He was a black guy, and I bring that up only because he made a point of stating that his friends didn’t understand why he hung at a ‘rocker bar’.  For the women, he explained.  He loves the tattoos (I’m in full agreement there).

“I want to take her home and play her some rap,” he said about one particular target.  The “If you know what I mean” was implied.

The dude was cool and we chatted a bit.  When he asked me what I do I told him I’m a writer.  I’ve noticed that over the last year or so, I’ve felt less and less inhibited about saying such.  I am a writer.  I might not be making a living at it, but I don’t think there is anyone out there who has made more of a life commitment to their craft than I have.  The 10 Cities Project is about a lot of things, but when it comes to the basic foundation of it, it’s a writing project first and foremost.

So, I’m a writer.

And for my troubles, my new friend bought me a shot of whiskey.  We parted ways and I walked back down the hill to my apartment.  Overall, a successful night.

And more to come…

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