I moved to Seattle in 1991. Four months pregnant, it was late November. Damp and cold, that patented Pacific Northwest spitty rain all over the place, we drove our crappy green ‘70s machine (the muffler fell off on Snoqualmie Pass) east on I-90, then north on I-5. The first time you drive into Seattle, the city suddenly looms up above you, sparkling and deceptively imposing. The way the Convention Center drips with vines, the peekaboo views of water, the ridiculous Needle and the funny little hills covered with neighborhoods, the nook-and-cranniness of them—it really does look like Oz. I was unabashedly moved. A West Coast city! Music, art, hipsters, hippies and queers. The Sound, the lakes, the mountains in every direction; I’d never seen anything so green. I fell directly into love.
Do you hate it here? Does the attitude bother you, the shocking snideness of the most random of counter monkeys? What about that weird, squeamish way that people here avoid friendship at all costs, promising calls or email and then disappearing into the night? Do the skinny pants people enrage you? You know, the ones with the vintage sneaks and shiny belts, itty bitty retro t-shirts and that universal hipster haircut circa 1983? How about the crunchy ones? White people with dreads (har har)—drum circles, hemp underpants, proud vegan since 2003, etc. Really chap your ass, do they? The arts scene; using the word “redundant” is just being kind. Incestuous, derivative, undeservedly elitist and stale; yes, yes, yes and yes.
And the music scene, let's don't start. You can’t swing a dead cat in this goddamned town without hitting a rock star (or someone who’s fucking one). If musical ego were helium, Ballard on a Saturday night would lift off directly into the firmament, Capitol Hill in its wake. I’ll bet the ruler-cut bangs and clunky black glasses combo just about gives you an aneurysm, yeah? Though maybe it’s the sternly healthy hiking/biking/protein bar freaks who make you feel all barfy inside. They’re here for the geography, you know.
And who doesn’t loathe yuppies (they do still call them yuppies, yes?). The image of all these tiny women with ironed hair and their bloated male counterparts pushing $1,200 strollers must haunt your dreams. And these are the people who brunch with the people who golf with the people who make the rules in this town, such as they are. No posters, no all-ages shows, no clubs that might draw black crowds. No dancing, no stripping, no sitting, spitting or shitting on the sidewalk. No napping, no reclining, no resting of your weary bones in a public space (unless you’re an office worker on your lunch). No public drunkenness (unless you’re a white kid from the Eastside visiting Pioneer Square or Belltown; then, you know, whatever. Just be careful howling all night and humping like cats up against the Dumpsters; they’re quite dirty). No buildings over seven feet tall. No building, period, unless you’re Paul Allen or a maker of condominiums.
Unwanted stadiums, yes; clean, private restrooms for the homeless, good Christ no. What would they do in there all day? This city is lousy with homeless: “will work for” this, “need help” with that. It’s a human obstacle course driving downtown; if those dudes at the lights with the cardboard signs had something interesting to offer, say strawberry candy or a blended margarita, I’d be more apt to throw a little coin their way. Even a short soliloquy or some decent human beat-boxing would loosen up the old wallet. No such luck. You know what? Let’s move them all to White Center; they’ll hardly notice the difference.
Then, of course, there’s the traffic. And the dark. And the rain (though annually less, yes, than Pittsburgh. Shit you not). The parking, or lack thereof. The comedy of errors that is the King County Department of Transportation; “I have a brilliant idea, Frank. Let’s start this massive bridge repair on a Monday morning. How does 8am sound?” You know, in St. Louis, the DOT works on the highways at night.
We bellyache because we care. Because deep down, this place does us just right, baby, and we wouldn’t trade it for the world. Unless, of course, Vancouver calls.
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