Besides the obvious, family, friends, etc, here are a few other things I’m thankful for this Thanksgiving.

Happy Thanksgiving, all!!!

When I left the Seahawks game Sunday I was upset.  We had lost yet again, painfully.  I’m a selfish person, no doubt, and it could be argued that I have my priorities way out of whack.  Sunday absolutely reassured me of these poor qualities.  I’m not referring to my self-loathing and pouting over a football game, but the fact that I was so self-absorbed after the game that I didn’t even notice that among all the street musicians I passed outside the stadium on the walk to the car, the sound of the Tuba Man’s tuba was nowhere to be heard.

Tuba Man had died, by the hands of puck ass thugs, over the weekend, and I didn’t even notice.  For those that have never been to sporting or culture event in Seattle, ever, and may not know who I’m talking about, you can find an article here about Edward “Tuba Man” McMichael and his senseless murder.

Back when I worked at KUBE, the radio station promo team would set up a tent outside of Key Arena for every home Sonics game, 90% of the time I was there working the tent.  Our tent was set up right smack next to Tuba Man.  Over the course of the season I had the opportunity to spend hours talking with Tuba Man and listening to his music. 

He had this unmistakable deep voice, and spoke slowly, but with a rhythm and musical sing-song tone.  I never heard a negative word come out of the man’s mouth.  If a local sports team was in a slump he would tell you, “Oh well.  Nobody has ever lost them all, a win is coming.”  I can only aspire to have such a positive outlook on things.
 
The man was a breathing encyclopedia of Seattle sports, able to tell stories, give stats, name players, etc. from just about any Seattle sporting event from the past 40-plus years.  And the most amazing thing about it was he experienced almost all of it from outside.  He told me he hardly ever went inside for any of the games.  It wasn't that he didn't have chances too, or couldn't afford it.  People offered him free tickets a lot, but he seemed to always turn them down.  He just enjoyed it outside, where he would listen to the game on his radio, the way he preferred to experience the game.  (I’ve since read in the comments sections of the different newspaper articles people telling stories of seeing Tuba Man in games, so apparently he didn’t always turn down tickets.  But during that Sonics season I spent next to him, I never saw him go inside a game.)

While Tuba Man appreciated, and accepted, your tips, that is not why he played.  He played for the people, and more than anything it was those that would simply stop and listen for a few moments that made him happiest.

The shit head dirty fucks that committed this crime probably didn’t realize it at the time, but they did not just become criminals with murder now on their records.  They have also made an enemy out of an entire population base, and they will get what’s coming to them.

The Mariners, Huskies, and Seahawks will win again one day.  The NBA could return to Seattle in the future.  However, Tuba Man will not be heard in front of any of their stadiums or arenas again.  And that is why this is the saddest time in the history of Seattle sports.



Be sure to check out the following links for Tuba Man stories and memories by people who write much better than me. I also encourage you to read the comments too, if you don’t tear up a tiny bit, you are to macho for your own good.
Violence takes iconic Tuba Man
Tuba Man was a grin set to music
Tuba Man was our beloved busker
*UPDATE* - A public memorial has been scheduled for Wed. 11/12.  Click the link for details.
Public memorial set for Tuba Man

Ever roam around The Rock with a solid buzz going?  I have.
 
Saturday kicked off with early afternoon drinks at the Wharf, and by early afternoon I actually mean morning, the 10am beer always tastes sweet.  Oddly, neither Dave nor Miller felt like a 10am beer was a good idea, and they elected to go get milkshakes, or some other pussy drink.  After pounding my first beer I figured I better go try to catch up with them, but first I ordered another beer.  I discovered that if you just up and leave the bar with your beer in hand and take it with you while walking around Fisherman's Wharf, nobody seems to care.  Good to know.
 
Around 1:30 we hit Alcatraz.  Being a bit drunk, I ended up getting lost during the audio tour due to me following some hot chick around rather following what the guy in my headphones was saying, or where Dave and Miller were going.  I soon found myself outside of the main cell block with nobody around anywhere, and the guy in my headphones telling me if I was to turn to my right I would see the cell that housed “The Birdman of Alcatraz.”  Of course the only thing to my right was a 30 foot cliff with crashing waves bellow.  I eventually made my way back to the crowds and found my friends; sadly I never saw the hot chick again.
 
On the boat for the trip back I decided that the 12 minute ride was too long to go without a drink, luckily they sell beer on the Alcatraz boat.  After ordering my beer the lady in front of me asks, "Getting an early start on your night?"  "Oh no, an early start was the beers I was drinking around 10:30 this morning."  I replied.  "Fuck."  She said with a mixed emotion of shock and disgust.
 
Following The Rock it was off to Jillian’s to watch the UFC pay-per-view, after what could only be described as the scariest taxi ride of all f’n time.  (At one point another car came within inches of broad siding us at 30+mph, and would of hit us directly where I was sitting, certainly killing me.  The cab drivers reaction to that was, “I wish that bitch would have hit me, I could use the fucking money.”  I was drunk enough to tip him still.) 

We got to Jillian’s about an hour and a half before the fights were to start and we got our pick of any seat we wanted.  The fights were being shown in the main dining/bar area with three 200+ inch projection screens against the back wall behind the bar.  We scored a booth on the opposite wall that was horse shoe shaped, giving all three of us unobstructed views of the event.  Now while the seats were grand, the management at the place was not.  Being there so early we wanted to go to another area of the bar to watch some college football until fight time but the assholes running the joint refused to hold our table if we did that.  It didn’t seem to matter that we had paid $20 each to get in and started a tab tied to the table.  So, in disgust with the place I knocked my almost full beer down spilling it all over our table and the floor.  Now Dave and Miller would say that I was just being a clumsy drunk, and it wasn’t on propose, but I like my version better.

When the fights finished it was decided, not sure by whom (it was me), that we should visit the historic Mitchell Brothers O’Farrell Theatre (Wiki page here, Google it if you want to find the official NSFW page).  O’Farrell Theatre has been around since the late sixties, and is one of the first places to ever offer lap dances.  Today the club is advertised as a multi-room adult fun house.  You have the normal stage show in one room, another room is pitch black and you are given flashlights to shine on the girls while they perform on each other, there is a peep show type room, only there is no wall or window, just a thin see through curtain so the girls can interact with you, and couple other areas as well.

However, the multi-room concept is not as cool as it sounds.  I assumed that you go in, pay your cover ($40 by the way), and you can just jump from room to room.  Unfortunately the main stage show is the only place with non-stop action.  Every once in awhile a couple girls will go to another room, but you then have to pay extra to go participate.

All that being said, the girls there were all smoking hot, and aggressive as hell.  I was in there less than two minutes before some dancer pinned me to the wall, pressed her tits all up on me, and offered me a lap dance.  Caught off-guard I was still able to keep my cool, and turn her down, but I had barely caught my breath before a different girl was up in my grill making a similar offer, only this girl was kind enough to give my package a quick little squeeze.  I liked her.  I asked what a dance cost, and was told $60.  Used to the $20 jobs in Seattle and the $4 steak strip clubs in Portland, I was hit with some sticker shock and politely turned her down as well.

After a little while, as I started to get used to the place, I rationalized that I was there, I was on vacation, and it would just be stupid to not get one dance.  I get taken back to the lap dance area by my stripper of choice.  You have to pay upfront, and she tells me its $60, but for an extra $20 she’ll take her top off and touch me.  Wait, so the $60 lap is just pure bull shit?  If you want a true lap dance, and not just sit there watching a cute girl dance in front of you like you are the creepy guy at the dance club, it’s actually $80.  Well, I only had like $65 cash on me, so I just gave her the $60 and got a pouty look on my face.  But then, she takes her top off anyway and starts giving me one of the better lap dances I’ve ever had.  About a minute into it, well past the point of no return, she jams my face in-between her breasts and tells me, “I took my top off anyway, I’m sure one of your friends has $20 they can give you.”

What kind of shit is that?  The stripper just pigeonholed me into having to hit my boys up for skank cash.  Whatever happened to the days of the good natured, honest, exotic dancer?

Just when I figured things couldn’t get any sleazier, the song ends and the stripper tells me she wants to take me upstairs where she can get “really fucking nasty” and “play with my hard cock.”  Now, I like a girl to whisper sweet nothings in my ear as much as the next guy, but I just paid $80 for a lap dance, I can only imagine what going upstairs would cost.  Oh yeah, and I’m happily married.

I took the walk of shame to the ATM with the stripper on my side (I wasn’t really going to make my friends pay for my disgrace), paid her the rest of her money, and quickly found the others.  I tell them my story, and they both agree with me that this place is ridiculous and that we should really just get out of there without delay.

20 minutes later as we are watching the stage show, Dave gets up for what I assumed was the restroom.  He never came back.  Knowing I was probably only minutes away from breaking and buying another dance, I made the call that we truly had to leave, now.

We start looking for Dave and I see he’s succumbed and is getting a dance of his own.  I understood.  I left anyway.

Leaving Dave, Miller and I got a cab back towards the Wharf, and found a cool little blues bar with a rocking live band.  Dave joined us there shortly after, and the three of us drank and drank, hoping the gin would wash away the filth from our time spent at the legendary O’Farrell Theatre.

A quick stop at In and Out Burger after the bar closed resulted in Dave spending 45 minutes in our bathroom back at our hotel.  Having to piss and not being able to hold it any longer I ended up just pissing out of our hotel window.  It never dawned on me that I could have just gone to Miller’s room right next door.

Sunday was the whole reason behind our trip, the Seahawks-49ner’s game.  The game was a lot of fun, especially being that Hawks won, something we aren’t getting to see them do very often this season.  Candlestick Park is a complete and total shithole, the absolute armpit of the NFL.  And because of that, I don’t think I’ll be returning for another 49ner’s game for a long time, at least not until they build something new.

On the other hand, I will absolutely return to San Francisco as often as I possibly can.  However, I promise to not return to the O’Farrell Theatre.

(Yes, my fingers were crossed when I typed that.)

Cloudless skies, blue water, sun out, and 80-degree weather, where can one find a vacation like that in late October?  LA?  Hawaii?  Mexico?  How about San Francisco?  When we first planned this extended weekend trip to the Bay Area to follow the Seahawks down to take on the 49ner’s, I assumed and accepted that the weather would be not much different than Seattle.  Maybe it’s because both cities are so much alike, both on the water, both known for their high-tech industries, famous for seafood, high cost of living, I just naturally assumed the weather would be the same too.

Boy was I wrong.  It was fantastic down there, shorts and t-shirts weather, and I’m telling you the beer just test better when the sun is out.  Oh, did I mention that we drank some beer?

Dave and Miller joined me on the trip, Vinnie B. was supposed to come as well, but he canceled at the last second.  I think he got crabs, VD, or something, either way, fuck him.

We headed down Friday afternoon, getting to the airport with plenty of time for a few pre-flight cocktails, and by few I mean four or five, a mixture of bloody mary's, Captain & Cokes, beers, and shots.  Another Crown & Coke on the plane and before you knew it we were landing in Oakland.  I love flying the drunken skies.

After getting ourselves across the bay to San Fran, checked into the hotel, our bellies feed with dinner and more beer, we made our way to Fisherman’s Wharf to bar hop some of the touristy joints around there.
 
Outside of the Hard Rock on the Wharf there is a large Maker’s Mark vending machine.  The machine was three times the size of a normal canned soda machine, but it looked just the same, a spot to put in your money, six or seven buttons to select from, and an opening at the bottom to retrieve your product.  Instead of a Coke can there was a giant picture of a 5th of Maker’s Mark on the front, and all the selection buttons were for Maker’s Mark.  We were impressed by this fantastic machine, but we were also impatient and there were a lot of people around it talking to the security guard, who we assumed was there to check ID’s before you buy.  So, we skipped it for the time being and just went right into the Hard Rock.

After bar hopping between the Hard Rock and some other touristy joints around the Wharf, on the advice of the bartender at Bubba Gump’s we ended up at this tiny dive bar off some side street a few blocks away.  Very cool joint, small and dingy, it could probably hold 30 people max.  Counting us there were maybe 20 people in there, all locals, and all seemed to know better than to play Brittney Spears, Nickelback, or equivalent on the jukebox.  Of the little lighting there was, most of it was a red tone.  I suppose that makes sense, while I couldn’t tell you the name of the joint to save my life, I do know it at least had the word “red” in it.
 
After enjoying a couple strong drinks I started chatting up a couple chicks at the table next to ours.  Turned out one of them was celebrating a birthday.  Naturally we did shots with them.  Being the gentleman that I am, I let the birthday girl call it, which never goes well.  Grand Marnier, straight up, was the drink of choice for the b-day gal.  Who does that?  That shit is straight up is disgusting.  Fuck her.
 
Things were going well with the ladies, just drinking and laughing, and then Dave decided to speak up more.  The one guy of our group that is single and actually had something to gain past just drinking and chatting decided that his best play would be to make fun of one of the girls.  We had found out the birthday girl was originally from Texas, and so Dave, being from Alaska, starts razzing her about Alaska being a bigger state than Texas.  Now making fun of somebody’s state is normally not a big deal, except when that state is Texas.  If I know anything about Texas it’s that the state is full of steers and queers, and Texans get really fucking defensive about their home state.
 
Of course the conversation then turned into the girl talking shit about Sara Palin, and Dave getting defensive about that.  Dave is not the smooth one of the group.  Fuck him.
 
While Dave and the Texan lady were arguing moose fucking vs. longhorn banging, Miller decided to sneak out early and head back to the hotel.  He gave some lame excuse about how he actually had to get up early and login to work for a few hours.  Fuck him.

After we closed out the bar Dave and I started our own trek back to the hotel, after only making it about a block and a half Dave decided that the sidewalk was an appropriate place to take a piss.  Not in an alley way, behind a dumpster, but right there at the curb of the sidewalk of a main city street.

I was standing just a few feet in front of him, waiting, and watching up the road.  I noticed at the stop light at the next block was a cop car waiting at the red light, which suddenly turned green.  I hollered to Dave to let him know a cop was coming our way, to which he responded, “Seriously?”  Well, there was no time for me to confirm, as the cop slows down next to us and shines this spot light right on me.  I immediately just start walking up the road, away from Dave as the cop then turns the light on to him.  As the cop passes us, he flips a bitch in the next intersection and comes back our way; I immediately start practicing holding my butt cheeks tightly together in preparation for my time in a San Francisco jail.  Luckily Dave was able to put his junk away right before he go shined on, so the cop didn’t see anything, and just passed us by after giving us the second dirty look.

After a walking a few more blocks we realized that we had no idea where our hotel was.  Finding ourselves in front of an Ihop we decided it would be best to go in and eat and try to get our bearings back.  The food, or course, was god awful and unnecessary, but resting seemed to help, as after we ate we re-took to the streets and somehow found our way back to the hotel shortly after.

As I passed out drunk that night I felt relieved that I avoided a trip to the slammer.  Of course tomorrow was another day, and a day that I would not avoid going to prison.  In fact, it was planned in advance.

Part II coming on Monday…