changes afoot on the Ave…

Two things:

One (1). Der All-American ist kaput.



Everybody’s (hello echoree!) favorite frat bar on the Main Ave seems to be no more. Today I saw part of the windowed facade busted open wider than a sorority-Girls Gone Wild cheap, flimsy, aquired-from-Target top. Several of the large window panes were removed, as was the front door while a gaggle of manly men — who looked, curiously, like post-baccalaureate frat boys — moved fixtures, televisions, and music equipment into a van out front. The reservoir of pheromones, collected behind the doors through years of bad pick-up lines, pelvic-grinding, and the sweet musky drippings of horny greeks, was finally enuncumbered and could be seen metaphysically spilling out onto the sidewalk. Being heavier than air, it oozed close to the ground, bubbling and boiling menacingly no higher than crotch level. As I walked past the building, I could feel the pheromones creeping up my leg for an upskirt glance. At first I felt violated but then felt vindication as what they found up there was likely not what they expected.

Later, I saw a public notice posted in the window. Apparently, Earl’s is moving from its condemned property on the Upper Ave down to the main crossroads of campustown. I hope they put a better facade on their new digs; the All-American’s was pretty uninspired. Although Earl’s is, well, Earl’s it is certainly a slight step up from the All-American — not quite a full step, not even a half-step… but maybe the equivalent of a 2×4 placed flat on the ground for an extra 1 3/4 inch boost.

Two (2). There’s a new hot dog in town.

Over the past few months, the campustown crossroads (45th St. and the Ave) has been adorned by a woman in a hot dog outfit. Apparently, some visiting scholars (lj user=”travisezell” and lj user equals somebody else) pointed out that the hot dog wore the same red shoes that a certain, local, ostensibly down-on-her-luck, Ave citizen wears. I believe I had noticed this myself at some point but never really dwelt much upon it. Kudos to your observational prowess, visiting scholars!

Anyway, she is quite the energetic wiener… hopping around, cracking bad jokes, and making smalltalk with passers-by. At first I thought the hot dog was somehow connected with the nearby Matt’s hot-dogeria but I began to suspect that this frankfurter was an independent contractor with its own agenda. Oddly, I have not been to Matt’s recently. Unlike Chicagoites, Seattletonians pay a premium for genuine hot dogs — one reason I can’t eat there as often as I’d like. It has been on my mental agenda to ask about her affiliation, or lack of. Regardless, the hot dog has been a steadfast and welcome sight on my daily crossings of the intersection. Once, she even graced Trabant’s open mic night with a few jokes.

Today, though, somebody else manned the hot dog suit. This time, it appeared that a man was inside the bun. The dance was of a different style. And his outfit underneath looked very mundane. Perhaps it is a new unemployee of the defunct All-American trying to pick up some spare change? I mean, what’s more American than hot dogs… and unemployement?

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