24.5.10 Seattle, WA.

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What in tarnation...?
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Her Maj and I roll into Frazier-town at 5pm on Sunday. She's as frantically enthusiastic about everything as the day she was born; I've got damp knickers, and not in a good way. My new motorcyclin' loons are nowhere near as waterproof as the accompanying literature would have you believe.

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My cheeky little netbook thing (stupid Windows, unfortunately, chosen for price and the inevitability of it getting broken or nicked) allows us to set up a randomly-positioned roadside office downtown. Thieving wireless from the Swedish Health Centre across the road provides the means to locate, book and GPS-erize a reasonably-priced motel. (Days Inn! Hoorah! Usually a good call among the top five or six chains. Motel 6 - cheap but infinitely depressing; Knights Inn - cheap and either horrible or good, depending on when it was refurbished; Econolodge - nice but poky and overpriced; Travelodge - always good, sometimes expensive; and Rodeway - as average as it gets, but usually good value.

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Seattle is a serious microbrew town, so why not take my hand and join me for a stroll down to the Duck Island bar for a cold 'un or three?

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Wailua Wheat: Clearly a lady's beer. Alright, but a bit lacking in PUNCH or indeed BITE, and with an effeminate logo.

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Slane's Irish Red: NOM NOM NOM. Like a sort of pale-ish ale, with a porter-y toast finish (excuse me - I'm so not a beer critic. I like PBR fer Gawd's sake.)
Mudshark Porter: OOH YEAH! As above, but more so. More stouty, more toasty.

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(Meanwhile, the last ever episode of "Lost" is on TV in the bar, and there's a sign on the door saying "Come in, sit down, shut up". Fair enough - I've never seen an episode of "Lost" - imagine the hilarity when I ask the bar lady to give me a 30-second rundown of the last six mystifying years as the titles roll. "RUBBISH!" I yell at 10 minute intervals. "ACCORDING TO THE INTERTUBES IT WAS ALL A DREAM!" I shout with an increasing sense of entitlement as the drama peaks in parallel with my inebriation. Except - quite clearly - I don't.)

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Iron Horse Brewery's Rodeo Pale Ale: - more hops than Kermit on a pogo-stick in a sack-race with Douglas Bader. YUM.
Steamerglide Stout: I was told by the bar lady that it was "thin". Thin stout! Nobody wants that.
Upright 6 Rye Saison: not quite as exciting as it either looks or sounds. I call it "Lost - The Finale".
The Dissident: a "sour ale" from the Deschutes brewery. OMFG. It's not cider, but it tastes like the best cider you ever had, with a triple shot of vitamin C. Not sure I could do a whole pint.

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(I've thought of a new joke which I will now bandy around the "Lost"-rapt congregation [at least an hour into the show]. "Hey everyone! I've *air-quotes* LOST *close air-quotes* interest! Ha ha ha ha ha!"
Another great joke that doesn't seem to fly around here is going "HUH?" really loud at each ad-break. Ah well!)

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Finally, and before I get punched, Russian River Brewery's Pliny The Elder: stiff, bollocks-out beer; tangy, no-nonsense ale. Fuck-off booze for men and women who couldn't give a fart about you or your glass of apathetically post-nouveau weevil puke. It's a slap in the ear with a turgid farmer's penis. OWCH.

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Me, writing this, closing time
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