So there we were driving The Hill searching for a parking spot on a Friday night (which is an adventure in itself), trying to decide what Ultra-Poser bar to grace. Stopping only to gaze upon the fabulous array of androgenous pedestrians, S & M garb, and fella on beautiful fella PDAs. Finally landing in a $12/hour carpark which triples as a crack den and a Blockbuster Video parking lot, we decide to hit up a swank little gallery around the corner that serves up spirits and Emo Art on a nightly basis. So far the night was going exactly as I expected it would.
I should mention that my issues with The Hill are three fold:
1) If I wanted to spend my time literally surrounded by hipster/emo/tortured/vegan/musician/artist/Starbuck's hating/vintage/cutters I would just enroll in art school again. That is not to say that there are not some hipster/emo/tortured/vegan/musician/artist/Starbuck's hating/vintage/cutters that I don't L-O-V-E and adore as if we were marinated in the same dressing. However, I find the majority of them to be insufferable. And in most cases, happy people disguised as miserable ones as a means to stay trendy.
2) I love me some vintage. I also love me some washing machine. Just because you buy and wear something that has been loved by another, DOES NOT mean it shouldn't be washed. I assure you, Capitol Hill, it will still be kooky and vintage after a cup full of Tide and an aggitation cycle.
3) (And probably the REAL reason I'm not fond of The Hill) I don't fit in. I stick out like a sore, stilletto wearing, liquid eyelinered, designer jeaned, COACH bagged, Audi TT rollin, thumb.
But I digress, in we walk to said gallery. We purchase our drinks, we gawk at the art. (Current exhibit: "GlitterPorn"). And there it was...the last thing I thought I'd see... what made my jaw drop to the Converse All-Star covered floor... was that this neighborhood, and particularly this bar has been overthrown by Douche Rockets! Thirty-something frat boys decked out in their standard issue uniform: blue collared shirts, Seven For All Mankind jeans, and Michael Kors loafers, weaving in and out of the crowds like it was a Sigma Phi Epsilon ant farm. When the FRENCH did this happen?!?!?!
In the city of Seattle, as in most major cities, there are very clearly defined territories... The Hill is for The Hipsters, Pioneer Square is for The Collegiates, Downtown is for The Yuppies, and Belltown is for The Douche Rockets. This migration upsets the entire balance of my cities predictability! What once was a safe haven of self-indulgent manic depressives and struggling artits where I was guaranteed a night free of amatuer pick-up lines and starched collars, has turned into a poser breeding ground. So now my issues with the hill are four fold...
Regardless of the upset in natural order, we ended up having a great time. We laughed, we mocked, we drank, we danced, and my girl Mama Kat even got herself an invitation to 3rd base disguised as a conversation with Penn Badgley's Belltown doppelganger and his motley crew of wingmen.
GO DIRTY 30!