Did I mention?:
The comedian maintained his hammered-condition with straight shots of vodka. He repeated jokes and accepted requests from the audience, many of whom seemed to know all his material already. He made a passing remark about Vicodin, so a college kid walked purposefully up to the stage and handed him a prescription bottle. The comedian perked up as he squinted at the label. He opened the container spilling pills on the floor and crouched down to collect them. But he liked it better down on the floor. He gave up searching for Vicodins and laid on his back for the rest of the show, still delivering his lines.
The tourist asked directions from a woman reclining and enjoying her book: “Darlin’?” [no response] “Hey Darling?” [she looks up, gestures “me?”] “Which way is Pioneer Square?”
The businessman walked with another businessman, gesturing broadly: “I cashed in my 401k.”
I went bar-hopping in North Bend with Ingrid and her sister. First I unwittingly won a game of electronic darts at The Sure Shot. Next we went up the street to The Shanty. There was hollering coming from inside. We were careful not to swing the door to widely, that would’ve hit the end of a poised pool-cue – the table was right next to the door. A friendly drunk offered the girls drinks and his company within thirty seconds of our stepping inside. Drunks in the back got giddy after recognizing the first few notes of each song coming from the jukebox. They sang along, one using a mock-falsetto voice. The bathrooms were barren and filthy. We bought pull-tabs. Ingrid told a somewhat risqué story, talking louder than she realized; and two strangers gathered behind her to listen. At least one drunk marked us as outsiders – when we left he heckled us inarticulately.
Also: The bliss. The anxiety.