How’s that for a headline? Can’t you just hear the newsiessinging screaming that one? As it turns out, two weekends ago I went to NYC for a Snuggie Pub Crawl (and also met a friend). This weekend, I went to Seattle to visit a friend… and almost went on a Snuggie Pub Crawl!
"Pub Crawl or Bust!" - soon to be printed on the front of my Snuggie
Alas, my travelling compadres on this latest sojourn weren’t too keen on picking up some “Slankets” (as they were referred to on last week’s 30 Rock), and we opted for traditional bar hopping, which was just as well. Albeit Seattle was a tad cooler than New York the week prior (making “blankets with sleeves” more comfy), which is ironic, because NYC is simply ‘cooler.’ No offense, Seattle, but no other city can compete.
SIDENOTE: Whenever I use the word ironic, I’m always afraid I’ll pull an Alanis. Am I alone in regard to this ‘worry?’
BONUS SIDENOTE: I’d say the biggest difference between the East and West Coasts (or at least New York and Seattle) is what follows the prefix hip-… Do you prefer –sters or –pies?
Anywashington, the trip was a great time. To conserve my energy, which is a euphemism for I’m feeling lazy today, here are some pics I took with explanatory captions.
I’m almost as hooked on the snooze bar as I am the booze bar, but as of late, I have not recalled many of my dreams. This morning – a whopper, a flopper, and a doozy.
Do not go Freudian on me.
I was the eldest lad in a family of seafarers. The brood’s Papa was a maritime cop, and he must have had it hard (who wants to have any job that begins with maritime?). Every night it seemed Mama would wait for him to get home to serve dinner, and every night he’d be late (you’d think Mama would have learned). I remember working on a crossword puzzle in a magazine. I also recall the entire decor looking retro 70’s, or maybe it took place in the 70’s. (Hello “Life on Mars.”) Anyway, when Papa would get home, the first thing he’d do was pour a glass of whiskey on the rocks. Then he’d dunk a banana in it. He called it the Cop-a-Cabanana.
Hot chocolate chips!
I don’t drink coffee. As I’ve stated before, my cup of tea is Mountain Dew. In my brain, I must live for Starbucks. For some reason, while in line to get my iced mochachino espressosaurus rex, the announcement was made that Starbucks was being bought out. That this shocked me in the dream shocks me now. The reason for the buyout: too many people that bought their coffee were losing their jobs, and thus poor Starbucks was going down. The purchaser: Mrs. Field’s Cookies. They also bought out Arby’s for who-know-why. My question was, “How could Mrs. Field’s succeed where Starbucks failed?” The answer: No matter what, everyone eats cookies.
No Photoshopping here.
This was by far one of the most disturbing – not in content, but in juxtaposition of content. Stitch (the alien experiment to the left) was boozing it up and chomping down cigars faster than George Burns, Bill Clinton, and Monica Lewinsky put together. (He kind of reminded me of the smoking chimp.) And that’s fine. It’s well within Stitch’s personality. But to note: this dream was in cartoon form, and this is where things spiraled into time for me to wake up. Across the room, Stitch spotted an inflatable doll. He stumbled towards it, placed his head between its legs, and bit. Pop!
Needless to say, I had it enough with the snooze bar.
…We’ll see about the regular bar.
INGREDIENTS: Cajun chicken sandwich, soggy bar fries, and mucho de boozo.