Approximately a hundred us-years ago, we went to play apocalyptic mini golf at a place called Smash Putt. It was a mechanical arty installation in an abandoned garage warehouse on the lower realms of the part of twelfth avenue that still clings to Capitol Hill. Inside, there was a bar and nine holes of golf. It was extremely loud and crowded and terriffically fun. The holes involved jets of air, ferris wheels, closing holes, foosball obstacles, perilous Indiana Jones-like crossings, power saws, an air gun (goggles required), a catapult, spinning fans, a honking motor scooter, and, at the end, a drill that pierced your golf ball. When we arrived, despite having tickets, we were told that getting a tee time would be impossible. Undaunted by the screaming angry man in the doorway who had tired of waiting (without a "reservation"), we decided to at least take a look and get a drink. Miraculously, while sitting happily at a booth we lucked into a spot on the course and galavanted madly from green to green, delighting in the ingenuity and most definitely not keeping score.
Even though we were there for several hours and only a couple of adult beverages, I left feeling massively and happily off the rails. We continued the madness by dropping in at Pony, where I'm sure that we played a spirited game of air hockey with plenty of cheating.
The next day, was this tiny music festival called Expo 86. It took place in a cramped art gallery and a cluttered junk store. After some time at a steamy Summit Pub, we dashed across the rainy street to look at a hand drawn map of the incestuousness of Seattle's music community. A bit later, armed with a large can of cheap beer (that fell into a puddle, making it all the more authentic and sad), we returned and found a spot on the small rug in the back room to listen to Mount Eerie play songs about geese, wind, mountains, and the usual nature magic that I continue to find so compellingly endearing. Next door, at the Anne Bonny, John Atkins (of 764-HERO) sat in a chair in the middle of the room and we all crowded around him in the spaces between the folding chairs and vintage artifacts. Every time someone needed to enter or exit, the whole room had to slightly reconfigure, but this never really upset the quiet concert.
Finally, in anticipation of a trip to Canada, we took some time after brunch to venture "into the city" to have a look at hats. H & M proved a useful outlet, where I was able to secure a Siberian-appropriate faux fur head-warmer and a wolf-faced sweater. We celebrated our finds with a feel-good movie about a rock and roll radio station on a boat defying the will of British bureacrats (Pirate Radio) and walked back up the hill for a cozy dinner at Oddfellows that was marred slightly by the unexpected presence of dairy in a dish and some subsequent questions about the check and negotiation strategies. However, bolstered by the warmth of my new hat, I still picked up an ice cream cone for my walk home.