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Published: September 18th 2006
Sign of the Hammer
That's my sweet Manowar tattooSince my last entry was about saying goodbye to the State of Washington (sort of), I figure this entry should be about saying goodbye to the City of Seattle. It will consist of two parts:
The First Part: In which I relate the events and happenings of the week, to the best of my ability.
The Second Part: In which I attempt to explain and give some meaning to these events.
The First Part
Tuesday After returning from east of the mountains and writing about it in this journal, I spent the rest of the afternoon taking care of business paperwork and banking and that sort of boring crap.
My boring crap quota was soon satisfied for the day, so I headed off to El Corazon for the Five Good Reasons, Furious Styles, Marginal Way "Skate or D.I.Y." show. One of these bands is based out of Orange County, the other two out of Seattle, and I've got longtime buddies in all of them. The show was like a reunion, and I managed to score a couple free drinks while also staying relatively sober and saying goodbye to a lot of good friends and
Warhammer 40,000
The armies of geekdom amassed acquaintances.
I wasn't feeling too hot, though, and I wasn't much for conversation or festivity. I spent most of the night hovering broodily, content--I guess--to just be close to so many of the people I care about, and to see them happy. Afterwards, Damian (one of the El C security team) and I headed to a bar called the Cha Cha, which was much the same. People I know frequent the bar and I usually like the vibe, but this night I didn't.
First chance I got, I headed to Casa Del Rock to sit on the couch with Tonulus, Greek God of Weed, the King of Bong (King Bong), and Benny, the Kid Who Got Beat-Up at the Beach. I got a little sentimental, and I got to missing people, and I called Chris Lane (of Five Good Reasons, up from Cali for the night and headed back way too soon). Chris said there was a little party going on in Burien, so I headed there.
The party was very little, but I was overjoyed to see my friend Mike, his girl Ashley, our buddy Harris, and my old friend Chrissie Good. Chrissie, I guess, was
Berzerker!
Cameras can make anything look cool. planning a party for Saturday and she wanted to share it with me as a her-birthday/my-going-away kind of thing. I hated the idea, but figured I'd play along. Chrissie's great.
After all those folks left, it dwindled down to a party of me, the guys who lived there and I didn't know, my friends from the band, and one really rad girl whose name I have forgotten. We spent a few hours talking and me and the rad girl vibed on just about everything. We also made a couple trips to McDonald's and had a lot of things in common and good conversation and stuff. But, around 3:30 or 4 in the morning, I decided to leave and I decided not to ask her for her number because I don't have the time in-country to do anything with it anyway. So I left.
Me and Terry of the Bloodclots had a Warhammer 40,000 game scheduled for the next day, so I went to Ole's to get my gaming stuff. This was a terrible idea, since at 4am, Ole was definitley asleep and I wasn't going to want to drive all the way back to Burien until the next
Raaawwwrrr!
We're crushing oranges. day. Well, whatever, that's what I did and I slept on the couch.
Wednesday So, I live a vibrant life, and it leaves me with a lot of stories to tell. Most of my stories involve meat and weights and chicks and rogue-ish pursuits and thuggery and exploration and trouble-making and entertaining, but that doesn't mean that some of my stories can't involve pretending to be the general of an army of evil, futuristic super-soldiers and mutants... does it?
Wednesday was supposed to be nerd day. I went to Terry's house at about 11, ready for a good 7 or 8 hours of Warhammer 40,000 (a tabletop battle game set in the dark future of the 4st millenium: serious geek shit), and after that I would head back into the city for the Dragonforce concert (an extreme power metal band with an international line-up, based out of England: more serious geek shit).
At least Terry and I lived up to the promise, spending a full day with chips, salsa, cheese dip, half-cooked pizza, beef sticks, 2-liters of pop, dice, rulebooks, and evil little painted scale-miniature warriors. His girlfriend Tiffany "Shimmers" showed up about halfway through
Front Side
My "last night out" t-shirt. the day and--shocked by our nerdiness--spent the rest of the time laughing or trying to keep distracted with sewing and stuff.
The game was great and my vastly inferior force won out of testament to my superior generalship. Then I had to pack up quick, stop by Davey's house for a shower, and head to the show.
My buddy Marky Mark and his lady were there to meet me at the Showbox. The club was packed with Warped Tour kids and Ozzfest wierdos, but it seemed pretty absent of the true metal crowd that usually attends for Power Metal bands. A little weary, but eager to purge the taste of geekdom from my throat, we all set in on some beers and shots right away. It pretty much went that way all night.
The opening bands were not metal at all. They were some bad indie rocker noise band and some awful hardcore band. So, I wandered the club looking for more of my friends, finding them, and then having us buy one another drinks. At one point, I ended up out front of the club with my guys, watching the security guards try to drag some
Back Side
Decorated by friends and others. poor fool away. The dude was an utter jackass and he kept coming back and trying to start shit with the bystanders in the crowd. So, I figured I'd heckle him. When that got him angry and in my face, I asked the security team's permission before dealing him a little fist-justice. Like I said, I'd been drinking, and most of my punches missed. I laughed alot, put on a good show, got my hair pulled, and eventually let the pros handle him their way.
Back in the show, it was time to smile and drink and get ready for the headliners. I was getting text-messaged by a stripper friend of mine who lived a couple blocks away, and I had a cute goth chick buying me drinks. We danced and vibed and she held her body against me for awhile, but when she went to the bathroom I said "screw it" and decided to get rowdy.
The mosh pit was primitive and full of oversized milk-fed teens with acne and a lot of rage. I saw a couple buddies there, gave them friendly headbutts and commenced to get gnarly. An hour or two of serious head banging,
For Ian
In our eyes you're immortal, in our hearts you live forever. hair shaking, windmilling, floorpunching, circle-pitting, and lyric-shouting followed. At the end, I was fired up, shirtless, and thorougly wasted. So, I said my goodbyes, grabbed a pack of condoms, and headed to the stripper's house.
We listend to Zeppelin, did some naked painting, and all that you might expect to follow that kind of thing. I slept a couple hours in her bed, not sure quite where I was, and before you know it it was Thursday.
Thursday I woke up in a tangle of sweaty sheets and nightmare, whereabouts unknown. I put the pieces together pretty quick and wandered into the art studio to find my girl still painting. She gave me some cold pizza and awkward conversation and I headed out the door to get my truck before it got towed.
Hurrying from block to block, I ran up on my Toyota (and home on wheels) just in time to see the tow truck pull up. I jumped in and started the motor and to-hell-with-that-guy, he wasn't gonna get my ride behind any fence in any yard up off Aurora...
I drove back home to Davey's house in the gray morning of
Right Hand
With my right hand I harm myself... everybody else's workday. Yuck. I had two hours to nap before zipping back into the city to spend the rest of the day with my buddy Doug. Though I'd been looking forward to it all week, I dreaded it now. This was also when I remembered the awful, techno-sounding keyboard solos that Dragonforce had played the night before and decided that this most definitely made them "False Metal".
Doug is an autistic boy--about 19 years old now--that I've known since he was in the 2nd grade. When I was 20-or-so, I had a job with DSHS as Doug's Respite Care and Medicaid Personal Care Worker (he's technically Asperger's--or "high-functioning autistic"--so it wasn't a very difficult job). This mostly meant that we hung out together and watched movies, allowing his mom to run errands and tend to his similarly-afflicted baby brother William. Now, Doug is like a human supercomputer of movie trivia: titles, years, directors, writers, stars, influences, similar films, etc. We really connect around the subject, but I've always tried to open his world up to more than just movies. As his respite care worker, I taught Doug how to teach himself about different things, how to exercise, how
Left Hand
With my left I try to fix what I've done. to try new foods, and I mostly tried to get him to be more self-sufficient. In the years since, we have stayed friends and movie-watching buddies--and I've tried to continue giving him the same quality of mentorship. Thursday was my last day to spend with Doug before heading out on my trip, and it was a tough one.
I picked him up at his home in Kirkland. Already things were looking rough as he had some difficult OCD moments while dressing himself and getting ready to leave. We made it to the car before too long, though, and had a great conversation about movies while driving into Seattle. Doug was taking me to the Science Fiction Museum, where we could indulge our nerdiness and he could share something he loved with me in an environment that was comfortable and familiar for him.
This was an awesome place, and Doug got to share it with me at his own pace, taking time to find things of interest to him and to stop and think when he needed it. I was actually quite impressed and will probably become a member there if I ever return to Seattle.
Afterwards, we walked over to the Five Point Cafe for lunch and continued to Zanadu comics to poke through the books. I taught him how to ride the King County Metro bus, and we met back up with his mom and brother under the shadow of the Space Needle. On any day, Doug's inclination is to talk movie facts, but throughout this day I encouraged him to stop and be present in his surroundings. Talk about the beautiful fountain we're walking by, or the funny thing you just overheard that lady say. Talk about what you plan to do tomorrow. Talk about your present and your future, because that way you have to think about it, set your mind to it, and act upon it. This was my last little lesson for Doug, and I hope it got through. I encouraged him to teach himself some new skills, to read some history, to try for his GED, and we said goodbye.
Now, this was all so difficult for me because I care a lot about Doug and I care a lot about his life. I've been a mentor and friend to him for years, never feeling like I could quite give him all the help I needed. This day, which was particularly difficult to him, was also the day that we both had to come to terms with not seeing one another for at least a year. It was tough.
The next stop was my buddy Ole's house (known as the "S.S. Bro Dangler"and the current home base for the "Legitimate Bros"), where I watched some great TV, enjoyed some white wine, and talked to girls about sex. I decided it was time to leave when the wine-fueled talk had degraded into little barbs, veiled insults, and shock-tales.
Reports came in that the Cha Cha was practically crawling with my friends that night, so I made it my next destination. Rumors were true: the place was full of old friends, new friends, beach friends, and their friends. First thing I did was buy an armful of 40 ouncers and start giving them out to people.
We drank and laughed and were pretty damn merry, until the bullshit started. I guess one of the guys there had been beaten up a few days earlier by someone from FSU. The FSU guys are all my friends and the other guy was there with a girl I know from the beach and from art shows. So, when the whispering and dirty looks and gossip and threats started circulating around the bar, I was a little less than amused. I did my rounds, advising the loud mouths to "make friends, make enemies, or make tracks" (always good advice), but nobody was really listening. Eventually, the bar staff started taking drinks and kicking people out, the biggest whiners left, and the hotheads started an argument outside.
After my own drink got dumped, I snatched my card from behind the bar and refused to pay. I stormed out, thinking they were lucky I didn't tear their bar down. Outside was a spat in full swing: face-tattooed dude sticking his grill in the mug of some molester-mustachioed goon. I guess the goon had been watching and listening to all the tensions inside and it got him in a fiesty mood, so the first thing he did on leaving was try to start a fight with an 18-year-old kid walking by. Unlucky for him, the kid was my friend Harris, and I was also feeling fiesty. I punched him in the face and laughed and punched him some more and he got scared and stumbled and I made fun of his facial hair and did him again and he ran off around the corner. The boys followed, but since my heart wasn't in it, I went the other way.
I was in no shape to drive, so I went to Neil of Steel's house, tried to make-out with my friend Jenny and slept on the couch.
Friday You know you're partying too much when two mornings in a row you have to drag yourself out of some strange house at 7am to keep your car from getting towed. Disaster averted again, I headed down to Davey's for my mid-morning nap.
The afternoon was actually quite productive. I registered my trip with the state department, took care of some invoicing and bookkeeping, sent some travel-related emails out to new and old friends, etc, etc. This was actually the first day in weeks where I cooked a good breakfast and had myself a workout. But, by evening, I felt it high time to party.
First stop was Jarret and Adam's (aka Casa Del Rock), which is actually really lame now that they have an illegal cable hook-up. We watched some Viva La Bam garbage and got up the energy to hit the bars. A short bus-ride brought us to Kincora, where there were plenty of friends waiting to buy us rounds. Brian, the DJ that night, played a set of songs just for me, letting me pick out my favorite cuts from Iron Maiden, Judas Priest, and others. Meghan and Tammy and I planned what we were gonna do when we met up in Eastern Europe next spring. And I got everyone to write or draw something on my sweet "last night out" t-shirt.
At some point in the night, I ended up in my old friend Soto's cab with some girls, but was dragged out by my man Damian to go hit the bars. He and Meghan and I got into this all V.I.P. techno party that was going on for Decibel Festival. I hate techno and we didn't stay long, but it's really the only place I remember being that night. We hit a lot of spots, bought each other a lot of beer, and ended up after hours at a place called Egg Room.
Egg Room is a shady after hours club run by friends. It's divey and it's sketchy, but I like to go there because people buy me drinks and I run into a lot of friendly faces. This night was no exception, but I'm sure there was at least one unfriendly face in there. At some point, I followed him out of the club, decided to show him who's boss, and he didn't come out so well.
At some other point, they tried to kick me out of the club, and at some other point I passed out in the hallway.
Saturday I woke up at 8am, still asleep in the door-guy's chair at the front of Egg Room. There was no one else to be found. I walked out to the street bewildered and--wondering at what might have happened the night before--caught a bus to where my truck was parked. This morning I was actually not under threat of towing, so I climbed in the back and went to sleep.
1:30pm, I wake up in the back of my truck smelling of beer and I remember the party Chrissie had invited me to share. It would be starting pretty soon, and since I was a guest of honor I figured I should probably show (and I could get a shower).
I went up the hill to her parents' mansion and found it just like it was when we were younger: fancy, comfortable, clean, and abandoned to Chrissie's well-deserved trust.
We snacked, we played party games, somebody grilled for a bit. Somehow I spent 9 hours there, most of it sharing stories with a couple old friends. This really might have been the most fun I had all week: hanging with some people I'd just met and some I'd known for years, all of us geeks, all of us into similar music, all of us excellent conversationalists.
The best stories were about the old days. There were memories shared from the glory days of 1999-2001, the days when our generation of young kids were really uniting Seattle's punk rock and hardcore scene. We were talking about all the great old shows and parties and the people we used to see everyday and the trouble we all got in and all the fun we had. We reminisced about the death of our good friend Ian and about the ruptures that started appearing in our scene shortly after. This got us into talks about all the bad times, division, social politics, and ugliness that followed. That meant a lot of somewhat-fun stories of fights and brawls. It meant I needed to talk about the reasons I left Seattle the first time. It also meant taking a long look at what was going on in the Seattle scene today.
It's not cool. That's unanimous. It's a lot of people who used to be good friends talking shit about one another, getting each other banned from places, and starting fights. Some people have actually been pretty hurt by this. Some have been slandered, some have been pranked, others have been arrested. No fun, and it's part of the reason I have to leave again.
Once stuff got heavy, we looked around and realized it was already ten o'clock. There was a room full of people playing poker, us talkers in the dining room, and that's about it. I decided to hit the road and leave the gamblers to their game.
A lot of stuff was going on, all over town, it was Saturday night of course. But, I didn't really feel like having a Saturday. I met Ole (one of my oldest friends) at his work in Fremont. We went to the grocery store and ate dinner, talked about girls and about drama and about the old days and the scene and all that. Then he decided he didn't really feel like going out either. So, we went to the Bro Dangler and watched a "Rome" DVD and fell asleep on the couch.
Sunday Well, that's today, isn't it?
For the last couple hours I've been sitting at Davey's computer typing this blog. I spent most of the day watching "Rome". But, there was one incredibly interesting thing that happened today, and that was when we watched the crackhouse burn down.
I was lying on the couch in the living room of the Bro Dangler house when Ben (that's his name, but everyone calls him Beej) came running in, all excited. He shouted at me and banged on Eric's door (aka Ace) and told us, "You guys, come outside. One of the crack houses down the street is burning down!"
We went out there in a hurry. Beej seemed pretty excited, he's straight edge and he hates the fact that there are so many slummy, drug-filled houses in his neighborhood. But, as we walked down a 65th St. choked with fire trucks, police, and lookers-on, we couldn't stay pleased.
Smoke was rising from somewhere around the block on whatever avenue it was that Pies & Pints sits on the corner of. Getting closer, we splashed through flooded streets, passed dozens of firefighters in full gear, and people, so many different people. Some were yuppy families and nicer couples and old folks, kind of elated at seeing one of the Ravenna neighborhoods many beaten-down old crackhouses finally go up in flames. I saw people laughing and smiling and having fun conversation: many remembering the time last year when police stormed another house on the same block and pulled out a nefarious old-school klansmen and neo-nazi, wanted by the FBI for burning down a church or conspiring to assasinate MLK or something, way back in the 60s.
But then there were the others. The people who'd obviously lived there, or lived next door. I saw women crying, I saw a man in his bathrobe and no shoes on. I saw those who must have been regulars at the house, drug users, sad for their friends and for their gathering place. I saw others with no connection to the place, just somber over the fact that this was their neighborhood that this was happening in, their neighborhood that would get the bad press and the extra attention, their neighborhood that they were being called out to help reform or to verbally defend. And then I started thinking of the danger the firemen were in.
We came around the corner and we saw the house, huge, orange flames billowing out. This was the same house that me and Ole passed two nights before. A woman was walking past us, an older man distantly trailing. She turned to him as we passed her and shouted, "Hurry up! I wanna shoot me some fucking dope." This was the house they went into. So it was a drug house. It was a decaying, un-maintained, condemable house full of degenerates and crime. For a lot of people it was a victory that the place burned down, that negative attention would come to the slumlord that owned it and 12 others like it in the neighborhood. But to me it was still sad.
I was sad for the people that had to be displaced by this; no matter who they were, they didn't deserve for others to feel pleasure at their homelessness. I was sad for any children or dependents that had been living there. I was sad and frightened for the firemen and the horror they had to walk into on a Sunday morning. And I was sad for the yuppies, ironically pitted against their neighbors in very ugly ways in such a beautiful place and such an enlightened era. I felt sad for the passers-by who stopped and watched and thought this was a show and couldn't really tell the difference if they knew there was one anyway. And mostly I was sad for the old man in the bathrobe without his shoes: a guy who life had probably shit on since day one, who never quite got the hang of making good decisions because he never saw anyone else making them, and who's bad decisions and circumstances had finally led him to here--living in a dopehouse that was now burning down in front of his eyes.
And that's the track my thoughts stayed on today: sad, thinking about circumstances and actions and their consequences and reverberations.
The Second Part
Army of the Immortals I moved to Seattle for the first time in the year 2000. I'd been coming to shows and parties down here for 3 years, making friends, sharing simple pleasures, and enjoying one another's successes in one way or another (!). After graduating from Sedro-Woolley High School in June of 2000, I traveled around the east coast of the U.S. on my own for awhile. I saw a lot in those months, I met a lot of people, and I learned a lot about myself. When I came back home, it wasn't long before that part of me that had thrived on the road was burning me up inside, begging for more.
So I moved to Seattle, into a little place with a couple friends that I knew from the punk rock and hardcore scene here. We had a great time for a couple of years. I made a lot of friends, friends who shared my simple pleasures: music, moshing, talking, spending time with pretty girls, throwing wild parties. We all bonded in those days and saw eye to eye and we had quite a large circle. Many began to succeed at what they did, putting out popular records, creating well-appreciated art, holding memorable shows. We all fed off of each others successes, and we seemed to be having an even better time.
And then, in August of 2001, my friend Ian Muldoon Anderson died: victim of a drunk driver's accident. Ian wasn't really the heart of the scene--though a lot of people said that at the time--but him dying was just like breaking the scene's heart. All the fun and unity and simplicity and success of our Seattle scene seemed to dry up and drift away that fall and winter. It may have been the recession, or post-9/11 trauma. Somewhere in my mind, I embodied all the good times and pleasure and caring for one another in little Ian, and I figured that with him gone, it was gone too.
And in the wake of that loss, I--along with a few others--became very violent.
Fighting the World I had always been violent. Ever since I was a little boy I'd fought. I bloodied more noses in the 2nd grade than anyone I knew, and I spent more time in the principal's office that year--and the next and all the way through 8th grade--than I thought possible without deserving expulsion. But, I was a nice kid, and one of the more endearing in my school, and possibly the smartest. Despite also being one of the biggest trouble-makers, I managed to always make things better. Somehow, this planted the notion in my head that no matter what I did, I could always get away with it.
You think I would have learned the falsity of this after being kicked out in the first hour of the last day of school (a 3-hour half day) in both 7th and 8th grades, and after being arrested and sent through juvenile diversion as a freshman after my first high school fight. But no, I just got better at what I was doing. I learned to pick my battles a little better, to do my fighting in places where I could get away with it. Instead of brawling bullies in the high school cafeteria, I started picking fights with neo-nazis at local punk rock shows every weekend. The shows in Seattle were bigger, with even more enemies, and I was even less likely to get caught. So, I started taking my rage out there on a regular basis as a Sophomore and Junior. My Senior year brought the fighting back home again, with numerous brawls at football games. I was actually arrested again, this time with my brass knuckles, and had to do another round of community service and ineffectual anger management classes.
By the time I moved to Seattle, I actually had quite a reputation for fisticuffs. I wasn't known for winning too many fights, but I was definitely known for starting a lot of them, and big ones. Now, living in the city, on Frat Row, older, and with more enemies, the ante was upped.
I had more opportunities to fight people and more fighting companions, and I saw the people I'd fought more often. Through that first, "good" year of living in the city, my fights were usually external to the scene, and they didn't get back to me in bad ways. The worst that ever happened was being banned from a frat or spending a night in jail here-and-there before the charges were dropped. But, after Ian's death and 9/11 and all that, I--like many others--started to turn my rage in and to turn it up.
My crew and I got involved in a running beef with another crew of guys. This was all skinhead business, with other cliques and gangs and independents sometimes sticking their noses in as well. The end effect was a whole run of brawls and escalations. I started having to carry at least two weapons wherever I went. My friends also started bringing t-ball bats, brass knuckles, and the sort. After enough of this, we formed a solid little crew of dependable ass-beaters. We were great fun at parties, but the moment things turned ugly, we turned even uglier.
Since this was my clique now, and we were all trouble, ugly situations just seemed to follow us around. One fight between me and a Frat Boy (over a girl neither of us knew, in fact), ended with a bone in my hand shattered, his face shredded by glass, and both of us in the hospital. And it just got worse.
I started bringing my trouble to shows and to the parties my friends were throwing. Pretty soon I didn't have quite so many friends. I was marching into a pretty jungle forest of life-changing violence and the friends I still had were marching right along with me. Those of us who thought much about it thought we were reacting to Ian's death and to the changing times and to the changes in our scene. But, it wasn't like I didn't know what was happening. I have never wholly been a victim. I was agonizing over the things we did everyday, and I was trying to teach the kids I tutored how not to solve their problems the way I did on the weekends. When four guns were pulled on me within a month and a half, I decided I was done.
I moved back in with my parents and cut of most of my ties to the city. I said goodbye to Seattle, still firmly pinning the responsibility for these things on other people and on a place.
Courage I came back to Seattle, of course, after a year or so. And I came back to the scene after Christina and I broke up. And I found all of the simple fun and great friendship that I had remembered. And I found the trouble again as well.
One fight landed me on two years probation. Others didn't cause quite as much stir but had to be equally as foolish. Social Nic was violent Nic again (and still placing the blame on others for the most part): right up to this week, when--you'll remember reading above--I got in some pretty meaningless fights three nights in a row.
But there's no one else to blame now, there really isn't. It's not like I have nothing bright to look forward to. It's not like I have no accomplishments to rest on. I've been afraid of the future and I've been letting my base emotions guide me, I've been drinking and fucking and fighting. What we all know is that I need to grow up and learn some real self control. It's time to say goodbye again.
Just like the good times that I love and remember and spent so much time this week recreating or reminiscing about were not merely the product of place and time, so too are the bad times not merely a result of external forces. They were the result of people and attitudes and the stuff inside of ME. It's that power inside of me, and that understanding of people, and that awareness of their emotions, that is going to be the key to finding and creating any long-term happiness and peace.
And that's really the whole point of my trip. That's why it is important. This trip is about getting in touch with myself, more than anything. Developing personal control; learning what makes other people work; actually listening to the inner voice of emotional intelligence: these are my travel goals.
Anyway, here are the lyrics of a song that I thought appropriate:
Some want to think hope is lost.
See me stand alone.
I can't do what others may want,
then I'll have no home.
So for now wave good-bye,
and leave your hands held high.
Hear this song of courage,
long into the night.
So for now wave good-bye,
leave your hands held high.
Hear this song of courage,
long into the night.
And the wind will bear my cry
to all who hope to fly.
Hear this song of courage,
ride into the night.
Battles are fought by those
with the courage to believe.
They are won by those who find a heart,
find a heart to share.
This heart that fills the soul will point
the way to victory.
If there's a fight,
then I'll be there.
I'll be there.
So for now wave good-bye,
leave your hands held high.
Hear this song of courage
long into the night.
And the wind will bear my cry
to all who hope to fly.
Lift your wings up high my friend,
fearless to the end.
So for now wave good-bye,
leave your hands held high.
Hear this song of courage,
long into the night. Helpful Links For more information on the characters and places in today's story, please visit the following links:
http://www.elcorazonseattle.com/
http://www.myspace.com/furiousstyles206
http://www.myspace.com/fivegoodreasons
http://marginalwayskatepark.org/
http://www.seattleweekly.com/music/0520/050518_music_clubpick.php
http://www.mcdonalds.com/
http://www.myspace.com/thebloodclots
http://us.games-workshop.com/games/40K/default.htm
http://www.modelmayhem.com/member.php?id=45948
http://www.dragonforce.com/
http://www.sfhomeworld.org/
http://www.nwsource.com/ae/scr/edb_vd.cfm?ven=16883&s=st
http://www.zanaducomics.com/
http://www.legitimatebros.com/
http://seattletimes.nwsource.com/html/localnews/2002848946_fsu07m.html
http://www.myspace.com/neilofsteel
http://www.bamargera.com/
http://www.seattleweekly.com/music/0530/050727_music_clubpick.php
http://www.decibelfestival.com/2006/
http://www.thestranger.com/seattle/Content?oid=31372
http://www.thestranger.com/seattle/Content?oid=8452
http://www.hbo.com/rome/
http://www.piesandpints.com/
http://www.king5.com/localnews/stories/NW_091706WABravenna_fireSW.1cd4ade1.html
http://www.swsd.k12.wa.us/SWSD/HighSchool/SWHS.htm
http://www.manowar.com/
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Itinerant Meghan
Meghan
I'm glad I had the chance to hang out with you before you embark on your journey, although it's too bad we were both too drunk to have any meaningful conversation. I'll be keeping tabs on you though and living vicariously through your adventures. Take care you nutty bastard.