All The Single Ladies Should Eat Garlic Tater Tots

I've never blogged after having two beers before.  But tonight I was exposed to an entirely new form of socialization, of community if you will... even a new way to meet eligible, cute, "normal" men.  The two beers were at a local sports bar that specializes in simultaneously screening at least four different sports games at any given moment.  I used to think that sports had seasons, but judging by the fact that we saw baseball, basketball, hockey and football all in the same night, clearly the concept of "season" is obsolete.

At first, I was concerned that I might get bored watching hockey, eating fattening food and having the suspicion that I was playing second fiddle to a bunch of large men in uniform hitting each other.  However, I soon found myself embracing this new way of "going out".

The first advantage was definitely the food.  For eleven dollars, we had two pulled pork sliders, four bbq wings, fried calamari, and the coup de gras, garlic tater tots.  Yes, that is what I said.  Garlic. Tater. Tots.  This goes beyond just delicious - it is practically poetic. Bars have great tater tots.  Sports games have great garlic fries.  So of course a sports bar should have... garlic tater tots!

The second advantage was what I immediately texted my single friends - go to a sports bar to meet cute and normal men in their natural habitat.  After eavesdropping on a few neighboring conversations, "Yeah, Jeff, why are you still single? Great play, Kings!" I realized that this is an untapped market.  Men you meet in traditional bars and clubs are generally only good for up to thirty minutes of small talk and maybe a free drink.  No one should go to the Bal Mar looking to meet their future husband because that will be one very disappointing night.  There might be some overlap between the sports bar and Bal Mar crowds, but after looking around, there are many more, how shall I say, wholesome men at the sports bar who wouldn't normally go the Bal Mar.  Hence, the untapped market of men who are still normal, social creatures but wouldn't normally go to clubs looking for women.  And I have a suspicion that you don't really need to know anything about sports in order to fit in in a sports bar - there are plenty of people who would be glad to explain it to you. 

The final advantage can apply to anyone who goes to a sports bar.  It's a very social place.  Your first impression might be that this is an anti-social activity: sitting in silence, not looking at each other, eyes glued on the game.  However, the social mores are much more complex and meaningful than they first appear.  Occasional comments about the game can lead to a real conversation.  People share a common goal in cheering on their team, so it's community building.  That couple at the neighboring table might start out as strangers, but after watching your favorite hockey team get beat (in what must surely be a fluke caused by not wearing your lucky sweater) you start to feel a definite bond.  Perhaps most importantly, pressure to make small talk is non-existent.  If a lull falls over the conversation, it just means you go back to the game until something else comment-worthy arises.  The best part is that if you're a non-sporting person, you get to learn a lot about sports from sporting groups eager to share.  You might find out that it's actually worth learning:  a lot of strategy and thought has gone into things like rules, names, and scoring.  If you're not buying any of this, then just remember that the beer is cheap and plentiful, no one is paying attention to how many you've had, and garlic fries are one hybrid that actually improves on its original parts.

The Princess's Urban Escape - by Annie

Annie wrote her own entry this week - enjoy!

Unlike the location of my sleeping, eating, walking, and playing preferences (pretty much anywhere will do for my favorite activities), I have high standards about where I like to poop.  Ideally, it will be on a lush rectangle of grass approximately five by at least thirty feet, occurring between the sidewalk and the road, after five to seven minutes of intensive walking and sniffing.

This is why I love Ballard.  Green grass bordered by sidewalks, trees and parked transport devices as far as the eye can see.  Every day, I get to take my pick of whom to honor with my poop.  Usually it doesn't have quite the intended effect because Mom always picks up my poop in a pastel-colored bag and carries it home.  Now, I like stinky stuff (who doesn't?) and I do consider myself The Princess, but I still cannot understand why she does this.  Is she going to roll in it later?  

However, if one minute detail of the "outside" environment changes, suddenly all the joy goes out of pooping.  When there was cold white frozen stuff (great for frolicking, not so great for sniffing), for instance, I only pooped once a day, and even then only because Mom got so stressed out when I seemed to be protesting.
 
Worse than the cold white frozen stuff, the greatest pooping challenge for me was the weekend we spent in a condo in Belltown.  I love condos and I love new experiences (as long as they don't involve any gardening tools or skateparks), but when we got out of the metal transport device, I started panting out of anxiety.  Not only was there no grass between the sidewalk and the parked transport devices, but the miniscule patches of dirt surrounding the pathetic trees had metal grating over them, which is something these paws never touch.  I hoped we wouldn't be staying too long, because pooping was going to impossible.  On the other hand, all the homeless guys did look like a great opportunity for barking. 

Why, Belltown, why?

I fell asleep fast my first night downtown, but I woke up about 2am needing to poop and get some attention.  Panicked at the thought of not having my five-by-thirty-foot patch of grass, I started whining.    After Mom finally took me outside, to my disappointment, the situation was just as I had suspected.  "Outside" was still covered in cement, barely acceptable for number one, let alone number two!  Add that to strange men within one hundred feet in the dark, and it was time for true panic to set in.  If you didn't think a princess could growl and pee simultaneously, you would have been proven wrong at this moment. 

After a few more hours of sleep, I really needed to eat.  Maybe by now Belltown had gotten its act together and grown some grass?   Mom wasn't necessarily thrilled and seem to grumble a lot on the way down the elevator and out the front door, but none of that mattered, as it seemed that there was still no grass!  And it was breakfast time!  Which means that it was poop time because poop always comes first to make room for breakfast!  What to do, what to do.  Apparently, there was no other option than to bark at everything that moved, which is quite a lot at 6:30am on Friday morning in Belltown.  Now I've shown you, Belltown!  Next time I come out here, you better grow some grass. 

You might think at this point that Mom would take pity on me and drive back home ASAP, but instead we just went back inside for breakfast as if everything was normal.  It wasn't normal.  I mean, I was starving so I ate, but I was starting to hold a serious grudge against Belltown.

Finally, I pulled out the big guns.  After breakfast, I started jumping and whining, a sure sign that I needed food or a poop.  "You win, Belltown," I thought, suddenly certain that pooping would happen wherever it could and I wouldn't feel guilty about pooping inappropriately because Belltown deserved it.  As soon as we were outside and at least a block away from the condo building, I squatted in the middle of the sidewalk and thought, "Take this, Belltown!  Maybe next time you'll think twice about not having any cool, soft, green grass when The Princess comes to town." Now, let's go buy me an antler, Mom. 

I own you, Seattle Center