8 Ounces and Stout Onion Rings

Finally a worthy cheeseburger on Broadway!

I refer to the brand new 8 Oz Burger on Broadway and Union.

I am a cheeseburger man, through and through. I loveeeeee love love love a good cheeseburger. Nothing like it. Dope cheese, good veggies, awesome beef.

And perhaps the most important thing, or one of the most important things, is the onion rings. Stout battered onion rings. Shit yeah.

I cannot respect a burger place unless they take the whole damn thing seriously. Because, frankly, even if I love your burger, I'm not going to love your joint unless you got some dope fries or onion rings for me. And some places really get lazy with their onion rings (I'm callin' you out, Lil Woody's). Don't give me your damn frozen onion rings! TAKE THIS SERIOUSLY, SON!

How dare you charge me $6 for a basket of these!:

We've all had onion rings like these. We can all taste their mediocrity as we look at this photo. Don't go there, son. Back off, bro. Don't do this to me!

And thank goodness, 8 oz. burger takes its onion rings seriously.

God bless America.

God bless 8 oz. burger.

I hope to eat there again soon. Especially because Oprah called their short rib grilled cheese one of here favorite things of 2011. I hope to try it soon!

Because I had just about had it with all of this Blue Moon, Lil Woody's, Deluxe bologna.

I NEED GOURMET BURGERS IN MY LIFE!

A bit spendy. But worth it.

Just the Skin Thanks

Sometimes I just want the good stuff. Sometimes I just want that part that you know everyone is just trying to get to anyways. Shit doesn't always come together. Life isn't all entrees. Not everything ends up a nice whole pizza pie. Nope. Sometimes you hold the pizza up and let gravity make that cheese mudslide all the way down to your greased up paper plate. And then you ball up all that gooey cheesation till it resembles a collection of old gum. Then you just pop that cheese hunk right in there and feel it breathe. Your mouth overflowing with cheese. Teeth frantically working to slice it into smaller ribbons so you don't choke to death on an adam's apple cheese wad. Yep. Sometimes you just want the cheese. Throw the red smeared pizza dough away. Other times you just want that KFC chicken skin. Whole flags of it, all sewn together, looking like an edible map of some brown and crunchy land.

Friend and fellow blogger, Riley, brought over some lovely lovely pastries yesterday. Two perfectly paired red velvet slutcakes. They were all plump and dark, all dressed up for the dance. Topped, no smothered, in a cream cheese frosting. Asking for it. Riley and I tagteamed one of them. Cake and cream and all. But really, the both of us kinda just wanted to go down on them. Go for the cream. You know. Menace over top of them. Face looking down on that gorgeously detailed evening gown. Just looming, resembling a giant about to put his teensy-humans captives in a bottle with a horsefly.

Just wanted to swoop down. Mouth humongous. Eat all that cream cheese up. Leave them slutcakes bald for the prom.

Sometimes you just want the cream, the cheese, or the skin. But you're too ashamed to own up to such a filthy appetite. So you eat the whole thing. All the parts. And you pretend it's your entree. A balanced meal.

Rush Hour 7

I don't have alot of time! I am frantically working! I am healthy again! I am the renewer! I am the guy you can talk to about what the hell happened to all that food you ate! Where the fuck it ended up! Everyone here is! Happy 2012! Let's not die!

Sometimes I think that things that go into me are getting lodged. They are taking up space in my throat pipe. It's like they go down a slide, through a hole, through a hole in the roof, into my stomach house. But as soon as they get going down the slide, they put their hands and feet against the tunneled walls of the slide. They stop. Or so I think. They wedge themselves somewhere in the beginning of my throat. Well then they set up lodgings there. Like it's a loft bed at the top of my stomach house. NO GOOD. I think there is a chunk of potato chip in that lofty throat space right now. I can try to ease it by pouring water down the slide. Try to break it up. Chunkify it, until it all tumbles down to the slippery hardwood floor of the stomach house. This jalapeno chip chunk has got to go!

But maybe I am just plain wrong. Maybe it did end up at the bottom, but as it went down the slide it sort of scratched and clawed its way down. Leaving this lingering bruising and scratching. A reminder of the chunk that got away. Enough of a reminder to feel like it's the actual thing. Who knows. I am going to wash whatever it is down some more. These here food chunks shouldn't be hanging out in my throat space! Nor should they be leaving painful reminders of their journey through said space. BACK TO WORK

 

That Funky Monkey

Ok ok. Let me admit several things. RIGHT OFF THE BAT.


I am writing two posts in a row about mouths. I don't care. I have no patience for collaborators. I must write about my mouth.


Second, I'm drinking as I write this. 


The second point is what needs addressing here. What am I drinking?

The answer lies in this song: 

BRASS MONKEY! BWAMP BWAMP! THAT FUNKY MONKEY!


Unfortunately, however, I am not drinking a true ass brass monkey. Which wikipedia defines as: "a 40-ounce bottle of malt liquor that has been consumed to the top of the label and then filled with orange juice."


Oh!


No!


My heart!

For what I have is not malt liquor but merely PBR!

WHY CHRISTMAS GODS! Why did you let someone buy me a 40 of PBR and not Colt 45 or something of the like?


Oh well.


Do you like orange juice? I do. Quite a bit, actually. 


Funniest thing, bro. If you mix orange juice with shitty beer it tastes awesome. Bubbly, beery, orangey, pulpy goodness.


Shouldn't I be writing about my Christmas dinner or something? Talking to you about roast beef and Yorkshire pudding? Probably. Because that is what I ate on Christmas and it was shitting good.

Thats right, babies.


Nothing matters to me in these post Christmas daze.


I eat what I want. I write what and when I want.


I drank that funky monkey because I couldn't help myself.


I'm simply the best.

My Mouth Was Two Bells Tavern

Tell me. Where do I find the best burger in Seattle?

I want to know.

For I love cheeseburger. I love cheeseburger bad.

Today I went to the Two Bells Tavern. I like this place. I like it a lot.


My mind was heavy and my legs ached from an intense morning of plastic glove wearing and donut slinging. I was ready to clear my head and to wipe that ridiculous donut induced smile off my face:

So what did I want to do in order to return to a state of normalcy? I ate a big ass cheeseburger. What was the quality of said burger? What was on it? What were its shining features? 

Lets start with the meat. .5 Oz of ground beef. Cooked medium.

The cheese? A bleu cheese black pepper mix.

The bread? Toasted sourdough baguette.

The toppings? Lettuce, red onions, and bacon (which I requested be added, with deep approval from the bartender). (I ate the tomato with salt on its own).

The side? An order of potato salad (which had little bits of eggs and pickles in it!).

The result? Holy shit relax-ass-ation in a dope bar after a long morning of work.

Can you imagine plowing into this burger after more than an hour of working a donut shop with a line to the door?:

I don't have to imagine it because I did it. This is my life. Jealous?

I'm jealous of past me. So I can't imagine why you wouldn't be jealous of me right now.

Oh.

What was that? Another question for me?

A logical question arises from the above description? I was at a tavern you say? If I was at a tavern I must have had a beverage? Was there a beverage?

You are very observant. 'An astute observation', as my coworkers used to love to say. Don't you know you sound sophisticated if you say 'that is a very astute observation, so and so'.

I confess. I drank two beers with my cheeseburger. What beers, you ask?

First, I had the Big Time Scarlet Fire IPA. Not the most memorable IPA I've ever had. Because I think that IPAs can be complex. They do have qualities beyond that bitter hoppiness. But I liked it. The bartender recommended it. A delightful man.

Then I had a beer I've had before. The Maritime brewery's seasonal: The Jolly Roger Christmas Ale. A strong beer. One I liked much better in tap than in a bottle. 

Overall the meal was awesome. Totally awesome. Awesome burger. Great beers.

Such a great way for me to relax after a weekend of working early in an intense space.

Other than the burger, the potato salad, and the beer, was there anything else in my mouth?

There were words and spaces in my mouth. This is the time when I'm tempted to ramble into philosophical musings. To tell you about a video I watched about dasein, about being the there, being the situation. About the way that in that bar I felt like the entire room was in me and of me. I was that situation.

I was that burger.

Hungrier Than Thou

Ryan casts REVIVE (but will it last?)

Hi, hey, hello. I just polished off the second half of a tube of cold falafel made in Dreamland. I ate half of it yesterday and half of it today. Two nights ago, I ate an entire falafel and in the morning I rocked back and forth on the toilet like a sinking cruise ship, tossing out turds like fat cat passengers who thought death on the high seas wasn't really a thing.

I thought Dreamland existed. The label said the company that made the product was Dreamland in Shoreline, WA. You see, you don't just get to go to Dreamland and get this falafel sandwich with its lovingly snug bevy of vegetables, tahini, and good old fashioned crunch. No. You go to the grocery store and you sift through a display fridge. Grab and go. Grocery store lunch. Save some dough. But Dreamland! Dreamland in Shoreline, WA seemed to be an obtainable place. A factory of moon people and effervescent clouds of wonder that create a falafel product that makes grocery store lunch options palatable, reasonable. This could be a wispy Mecca for me. This Dreamland could hold my attention long enough that I would trek to its headquarters and admire what takes place within its inner most sanctum. No address on the label, so I offered my curious vision up to the Google search engine. Google complied. I found Dreamland, take a look: http://www.seattlegyrohouse.com/

Dreamland Inc as a name meant nothing. It is an offshoot name for the restaurant and grocery's cold food delivery business. Dreamland wasn't real at all. Dreamland was a gyro hut. Now there's nothing wrong with this; I should have seen it coming. My expectations of a land where the energy of dreams were transformed into a medley of falafel and spices and then blanketed in pita were shot. The land that defiantly challenged all others to call themselves the birthplace of dreams did not exist. But there is a fevered vision embedded somewhere in that gyro hut. Perhaps an old woman stands next to the cruelly bright metal of the kitchen, holding a slimy bag of trash that holds gallon upon gallon of yuck. She moves to the backdoor, towards the beaten trail that ends at the dumpsters. Maybe she pauses. Her face flush with the idea of a place that really isn't anywhere: Dreamland. Maybe she cracks a smile. All that falafel of hers getting bought up. Pushed in and out of people she'll never see.

Sometimes I feel like I am in Dreamland. Just for a few seconds. Somewhere I strayed into unknowingly. I feel the vibration of that space, knowing it won't last, that I'll have to go back to recognizing who I am and where I am and what I do, everyday, everywhere. And then blink. That sliver of Dreamland is out of here. I mean fucking gone. There's no preparing for its entrance or departure. Not even any reflection. Something has happened to you outside the grip of your time and logic. It obliterates you, rebuilds you and ignores you. Forget your breathing, your heartbeat. Dreamland isn't an identity crisis. It's an end to identity. Fuck, it's like saying YOU, YOU aren't there at all, YOU never were to begin with; so stop pretending YOU are there at all. YOU are just something blended up with the rest of the breeze. 

I think I made this blog in homage to this Dreamland without knowing it. There are these traces of YOU that we try to remember. The way food tasted, the way we remember something we did or said. The backwards order with which I experienced a day of consumption. And I didn't want to make a logic out of looking back at myself. I wanted to reckon with some of the things that unwittingly go through me. That ignore me. That I ignore. See, there's my immediate memory of me and there's this inherited memory of here, Earth, cultural, political, racial, gradual Earth. The chunks of Earth I fuss around with, the shit I fixate on with the blankness of      a hungry animal. That's me stubbornly patching together a personality. Trying to learn the stuff I think I should learn. Act like I know it and then perform the knowledge in front of the envious. I want to disrupt that process and just roam around. I want to bump into a place that shocks and disturbs the YOU in me. I am composed of such facile quirks and gadgets. Writing about the Dreamland to me is writing about the thing I know nothing about, will continue to know nothing about but will sound aloud all the same.

This tirade isn't it. But I feel an urgency to pull myself apart by going in a lot of directions. Let me put more Dreamland into practice. It's time to create with what whizzes past us, away from us.

   

Bad Produce Choices

Let me just tell you something quickly.

I'm a poor cook, and a poor shopper.

I recently went to the grocery store and I bought a bunch of produce. I wanted to make some burritos. I bought beans, onions, a red pepper, some tomatoes, and an avocado. I did what you do with produce. I felt them, squeezed them, looked at them for blemishes.

Perhaps I was tired. Perhaps I just suck. But god dammit I get home and all my produce sucks. I made bad produce choices!

I open the bag and what do I see?! A tomato that looks just like this!

Lol I'm kidding it didn't look exactly like that. I'm not blind.

But it was a bit too soft. Not quite right.

OH AND THE AVOCADO! DON'T GET ME STARTED ON THIS AVOCADO!

It felt like this in my mouth:

LIKE A BIG GREEN ROCK.

Lol okay I exaggerate once again. But this avocado. Too firm. Too fucking firm. 'It should have some give when you press it, but not too much, then you know its just right'. Sorry, dad, I don't know how to follow that advice. I don't know how to pick out produce!

There is one produce metric, however, that I failed to employ: the smell test.

All I did was look at the produce and touch them. Never did I even think to smell them! Then my friend tells me, 'if you have good produce it should smell like what it should smell like. Even a zucchini,' she says, 'should smell like a zucchini'. OH! The smell test! Why you elude my knowledge?! You would think I looked like this or something:

You would think I'm one of those fools that dones't know how to utilize my sense. But apparently I don't!

Oh well! Better produce choices await!

Watching Me, Watching Food

People are watching us eat. Studying our mouths. Honing in on our food choices. These same people are gonna see the broccoli jammed into your front teeth first. They'll feel that green dot crammed in you before you do. They'll instruct you on where it is, what to do. They're gonna smell that garlic miasma hanging out on your tongue; it doesn't belong to them, so they'll smell it all the more. They'll inform you that you reek of garlic. That your tongue is blue from some candy you absentmindedly crunched up. That there's a river of gravy running down your beard. Eating sure is a spectator spot. Plop a starving person down in front of you to study that steak dinner your eating and, assuming they are physically restrained, they'll recap the best parts of your meal like its a songs of the 70's commercial.

 

I don't like when other people watch me eat. My family is somewhat to blame. My maniacal brother and sister police the mean streets of sloppy eating with the sort of ruthlessness that makes even opening a bag of chips an uneasy affair. Its not the same if everyone is eating. Everyone can sort of turn in to themselves and gobble. It's great fun to pause from some enormous feast, only to find almost everyone hunched over, using these tiny, curved tools, scooping bite after bite into their open/close mouth garages. If you pick someone out of that crowd of feasters and just stare, intimately examine their every motion, their every chew, they'll probably sense your gaze and look up. It's the very look of animalistic ownership, of, "Fuck you want? You have your own to eat. Are you disgusted by my eating? Cut it out. Leave me be." Don't try it. You'll upset the order of eating.

Someone at my work likes to talk to me while I'm eating. They are "working" and I am eating. They prattle on about whatever must be mentioned to me mid meal. And I feel like I am getting hijacked. Like they have stripped my lips away and jammed my ears full of their meaningless words. I don't want to think about their words while I eat. If we were both partaking in meals, coming up for breaths that allowed us to take turns spitting out words, that'd probably work. We'd share pace and understanding. Don't misunderstand me, meals aren't solemn affairs of stuffing face. There is room for some language between bites. But there is a styling to a meal that makes people feel like they are sharing an experience. If you are trying to eat and someone has decided it is high time they carry on to you while you are sealed shut by the hunk of cud in your mouth, well that's just unfair. I am not going to snap at this coworker with a nasty, "Can't you see I'm just trying to eat?". That would disrupt the entirety of their personality. They would hate me forever. No. If I could remove myself from the situation I would but that is not something that really works here. So there I am, hunched over my plate, nodding my head, pushing out the occasional grunt of compliance, as their yapping starts to coat my food, leaving it with the bitter taste of unwanted socialization. I shove all the crap down and do my best to sit there and look like a stupid and hungry animal, punishing them with my crystal clear disinterest. 

The Things That Are ALWAYS In My Mouth, Or, On Beautiful Mouths

What do you think about tongues and teeth and saliva?

The answer is plenty.

I think plenty about them.

The other day I was walking down the street. I was listening to music feeling excited about myself. Then I noticed that my tongue was moving the whole time. Exploring my teeth, feeling around my gums, curling itself, always moving.

They say the tongue is the strongest muscle in the body. Proportionally, or something like that. It moves all the time, it never stops. Well, most of the time. And how strange tongues look. Even stranger, they are a whole complex of muscles in my head! Look!

Oh! The tongue! You wacky bastard. What is it that you do!?!?!

You like my teeth, you say?

I find that my tongue interacts with my teeth a lot. I'm very sensitive to the issue of teeth. I think about them.

Personally, I had a lot of dental incidents in my life. A cyst that caused me to lose some teeth, a fence that caused me to lose even more teeth. I spent a lot of time with dentists, orthodontists, and oral surgeons. Fuck that shit. It gave me a very strong sense of my teeth, what they should look like, what lengths we can go to to make them look a certain way, the money that can be spent on such a project!

I find it especially interesting because of a few historical anecdotes I know about teeth. Our sense of teeth, of course, is highly developed and historically situated. I think this is especially true in America. All this money on braces, retainers, dental work this and that.

We Americans, we love our straight ass teeth.

Interestingly, I heard once that during World War II one of the things that the Germans noticed about Americans was how incredibly straight and white our teeth were.

Love it. By which I mean hate it. Hate the way it gives us unreasonable expectations for our bodies, for our lives, for beauty and attraction.

For fuck's sake. Look at this celebrity:

Look at her fucking teeth. They are so white, so straight.

And you know what?

They are fake. Straight up. All of them. Veneers, son! VENEERS!

Or someone like Kanye West? Do you know about Kanye's teeth? If you don't, you best learn:

THEY ARE FUCKING DIAMONDS! HIS TEETH ARE DIAMONDS!

He literally had his bottom row of teeth replaced with diamonds.

Are you kidding me? Is this really what we want out of our world and our money?

Do you want a wet hole in your head to be filled with porcelain and diamonds?

Apparently we do here in America. The celebrities have spoken, and they want their mouths full of precious substances. To enhance their beauty. To brighten their appearance. To kill my soul.

Amazing. Amazing amazing amazing.

These are just holes filled with saliva, tongues, and teeth. And we spend so much time worrying about them. They are the point at which we use most of our language, where we feed ourselves, where we kiss people. We do so much with our mouths.

We want them to be beautiful.

There is something disturbing about mouths. They are on the cusp of abjection.

A famous example: Spit into a glass and try to drink it. You can't do it. It is disgusting.

Once saliva leaves your body it is no longer a part of you.

But right now my mouth feels good and full of saliva. In fact, it doesn't have enough saliva in it. I'm feeling a bit thirsty. I want my mouth to be wetter!

But once that saliva leaves my body it is no longer me. It is abject, caught in the space between subject and object.

Oh well. I don't want to give so much care to mouths. I still want to brush my teeth, and eat well, and all that. But I don't want to fret over the straightness or whiteness of my teeth. I don't want to worry about diamond bars or porcelain veneers.

I want to mock America's ridiculous oral culture. (lol play on phrase oral culture lol).

WWJDD

Jimmy Dean makes all sorts of things. Eggs and meats, breads and cheeses. Microwave safe stuff.  But Jimmy Ray Dean was a man too. He used to be a singer and an actor. He sure was handsome. Don't muck this country boy up with that deathwish lovin, non-sausage-eatin' James Dean. The dead rebel. Oh no. Jimmy was a man covered in powder and tied up in bandannas, yeah, real pretty like. He got to a ripe old age. And sometime in the twilight of his pretty-boy, Honky Tonk days, his name plumb got on up from that dollboy face of his and plopped itself down on some sausages. I mean it. Jimmy Dean became a sausage empire. A name synonymous with breakfast corndogs, with patty sandwiches, with them refrigerated, not too sweet, not too spicy, tubes of meat.



I knew Dean as a kid. We hung out in the mornings. Me unwrapping the plastic from some frozen hunk of stuff. Me rewrapping the stuff in a paper towel like an impromptu X-mas. Me shoving it in the microwave, plugging in some digits...pacing...opening the door...feeling the radiated heat of the warm blanket of paper towel, that hot and pliable give of a gummy chunk of who knows what sausage. The portion vanishing in fevered seconds, mouth juggling hot bite after hot bite. Yeah. That was breakfast ina pinch. Parents still asleep or gone. We kids, the resourceful freezer divers. JIMMY JIMMY yeah. Y'know, a name like Jimmy sure puts you at ease. You expect a Jimmy that serves you food to poison you? Not me.

Fast forward to a week ago. The house's milk has all dried up. No rote cereal for me. Got to get to work. Got to eat on the way. McDonald's is a frighteningly easy path to go down, once you do, no looking back. Something else. Need something else. QFC, grocery wandering, bound to be options. Need food. Mind unformed. Microwaves at work. Frozen aisle, help me. Answer me! Behind a glass door, the words JIMMY DEAN appear like streaky writing through the fog. Terrifying but can't look away. But but but Jimmy, there's eggs on everything. I'm already squeamish about them. And these eggs either look like circular disks from some twisted future where eggs are used as circular currency, chicken overlords etc, or just the entrails of some horrible chicken pinata sprinkled on some heinous invention not meant for this world like BREAKFAST PIZZA BURRITO PIE EGG SALAD SANDWICH.

I scramble up and down the aisles. Breakfast food, that's all I want. Maybe I should just get fruit and yogurt. Maybe I am throwing away my best years. JIMMY DEAN. The words smashing against my face, like they are banging me against their glass prison, beating a new logic into me. JIMMY DEAN has the answer. Look harder. There. Under the egg futures, there's something. Turkey(!) sausages sandwiched on cinnamon bread...no egg chunks to speak of (JIMMY DEAN taunts me with this mention of Turkey, cackling about petty distinctions between the animals. To JIMMY, all good things return to the sausage from whence they came. Titling animals merely calms his hungry brood of followers). There's only 4 of them and its like $6. But I'm flagging and I need to get to work. I slide my card, do the motions and head to the work microwave. Carrying out my childhood DEAN ritual is easy. The cinnamon juices soggy the paper towels. The sandwich burns all over, its microwaved molecules raging through the sandwich like some divine flame. For four mornings I will eat this same sandwich. I have eaten three of the four. I am delaying the inevitable. I fear that upon eating the fourth, none of you will ever see me again. Let these words then serve as a reminder of the unshakable truth that a man can sing and act, can move about this Earth with grace and beauty, can live and die and still, still be there as a name, as a cardboard box or a breakfast corndog, can be ground up sausage, waiting for you to slip and eat 'em all up. JIMMY DEAN can show you, right in your very gut, the expressway to your own sausage grinder.

Nm

Not much has happened in my mouth today.  I started it with a couple cups of YUBAN (I don't care what they say-- it gets the job done).  With a dash of cinnamon, of course.

Make every day a YUBAN day.

I brought a peanut butter (crunchy) and jelly (raspberry) sandwich (buttermilk bread) and a braeburn apple to work.  So I ate those, and they were pretty good.

But right now RJG is cooking this. Dank.

A Savory Treat

I continue to work at a bakery.

I really like this bakery. I think the staff is delightful. We are all working to overcome the stress of a new staff. A new time in life. New shit going on.

Like my dad said today, like is a period of transition and adjustment.

Like my mother says, 'soon this will be a distant memory'.

All things are in transition.

Soon you will be dead.

But there is one thing at this bakery that I simply cannot resist: the turkey and swiss croissant.

Fuck me.

We all know what a croissant is. Tons of layers of butter and dough, folded over on themselves, made to rise all crispy and crazy! Fuck yeah.

You fold that dough, son. You make all those flaky layers for my enjoyment. Yes. Thanks.

Oh.

What's that? You want to put meat in that shit? You are gonna put a bunch of turkey and delicious cheese inside all these dope ass layers of flaky baked ass butter?

Fuck yeah?

Its gonna look like what?!

LIKE THISIS?!

Fuck yeah.

I really just want to fix the formatting on this page.

But I love savory croissants.

I also love latte art. Then I put that latte art in my mouth.

Sip by sip, stretching and distorting the images I have crafted.

I'm working on a tulip. Which, when done properly, looks like this:

Making a heart is pretty simple. And the tulip is merely a series of hearts stacked on top of one another, with a final line pulled through to connect it all.

What fun I have with latte art.

The American Way.

Here is something you may not have known about Uncle Sam--he started the tastiest sub joint ever in Pittsburgh. Today, I was fortunate enough to indulge in his beautiful sandwich art. The experience at Uncle Sam's is nearly always one of a kind not only because of their artistry with a bun but also the kooked out staff. Take today for example, girl with shaved head and piercing through the middle of face tended to my tummy. Every purchase from this ragin girlie has tested my nerves a little. It never fails though, she sweetly takes down my orders and brings me free fries com sanduiche; she might not be as dangerous as her appearance suggests. I haven't decided yet but dig the service.
So now, I have a heap of deliciously oversalted and crispy fries along with one foot long, "Supreme Italian" sub (kinda like pictured above). Sam has earned himself a seat on top of the world for eating his sub, I'm not there yet, but I've been trying to eat as many as possible in hopes of one day getting there. Sometimes I worry that I finish my order too quickly but, in probably ten to fifteen minutes, I'm out of there and on the SLOW bike ride home.
Afterward, I feel kind of like this:


Happy Halloween Seattle!