Cheeseburgers, Bars, and My Nemesis in Georgetown

We got cheeseburgers from Jules Maes tonight. On my walk to the place, I saw yet another bar had opened up on Airport Way. It wasn’t crowded and the patrons looked to be the usual Georgetown suspects; people like I see when I hang out at All-City or the Square Knot or 9 LB. Still, I thought, “how many bars can Georgetown support before turning into the southern annex of the Pioneer Square douche nozzle crowd?” There looked to be business casual folk enjoying happy hour in another place I passed. It may be starting, yet I hope with its collection of bar scenes, Georgetown can remain a plurality. After all, historically speaking, it’s only fitting that Georgetown has thriving bars.  

 I’ve been in love with the neighborhood since shortly after I moved here and did some historical and architectural research. I’ve watched Airport Way become gradually less boarded-up over the years. At this point, it’s largely a continuous chain on bars, eateries, and various-stuff-stores stretching from Vale St at one end and Stellar Pizza & Georgetown Liquor at the other end. The thing about places like this is that they seldom come to an equilibrium. Development to an extreme degree, always follows and displaces everything, replacing it with high end greed that prices people out. I’m reminded of Vancouver’s Del Mar Hotel, whose facade features the phrase: 

  UNLIMITED GROWTH INCREASES THE DIVIDE  

 Fortunately, Georgetown remains nicely isolated, nestled in between the freeway, train tracks, Boeing Field, and the Duwamish. And there is a lot of industrial area buffering it from anything. It’s fine that new people come in and things change gradually over time. It’s been great to see more builders and artists renting space in the old brewery and other spots.  I’d hate to see the long-thriving Art Attack, Super 8 Film Festival, and cool smaller things go under. In short, I’d hate to see Georgetown turn into Fremont. 


 

 On my walk back, I saw a familiar-colored Jeep combined with a familiar-colored hard top. I checked the plate. Sure enough, it was my Jeep Nemesis, Mitch Pileggi (not his real name, obvs; he just looks like a poor stand in for the real Mr. Pileggi, for whom I have the highest regard). Mitch works in Fremont, somewhere near me–I have my suspicions on exactly where.  

 He once got a parking warning ticket and stuck it on my windshield, thinking I wouldn’t notice the different plate number. For this sneaky, unJeepsmanlike behavior, he has earned a place on my list of nemeses. I can only wonder whether Mitch has ever given a righteous Jeep Wave. Anyway, I cleared the matter up by talking to the parking enforcement officer. As a result, she and I have gotten to be on congenial speaking terms. She complimented my purse the other day as she drove by in her three-wheeler. 

 As I was walking past, I saw Mitch emerge from the behind his Jeep. I gave him a good look but he didn’t recognize me at all. The advantage remains mine! Mitch was wearing a perfectly respectable black polo shirt and business casual beige pants. I was afraid he’d come to Georgetown to blandify it in earnest while having post-work happy hour. But he looked confused, instead, perhaps a little lost. He walked in the other direction. When I got in my car, I slowly rolled by him to see where he was going. He disappeared into the Vespa repair shop.

It figures that My Jeep Nemesis Mitch Pileggi would pop up just as I was thinking about the potential downfall and displacement of Georgetown.  

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