Art Attack

What an amazingly full weekend! Snow and I bummed around at the second Friday artwalk in Belltown, which was really fun. We saw some nice work, I met one of the cutest French bulldogs names Oliver and we nibbled on delicious miniature cupcakes at a very fabulous gallery space.

After a glass of sparkling and another glass of still white wine, we needed a bit of repose and some caffeine. Snow and I sat out on the sidewalk at one of Belltown's few cafes and had iced coffee and iced tea.

So many beautiful men strutted past us. We didn't want to be obvious about directing the other person's attention to a hot piece of man in plain sight, therefore we developed a code phrase.

Snow and I have a love for Star Wars and anything that pokes fun at the original epic film. During the attack on the Death Star scene, one of the the red squadron pilots is referred to as Porkins. The funny thing is, if you pay close attention to the movie, this dude is also pretty fat!

Pork of course has other connotations, such as fucking. So now when we see a hot guy we'd like the other person to check out, we calmly and politely say, "Have you seen Porkins lately?"

After artwalk, my pal Scotty guilted me into having a drink with him as his plans fell through with the guy he first met and slept with the night before.

We met at 611, which has a great bar. Then went across the street to get Scotty a slice or two (of pizza) at Mama's, one of my local faves. While there we ran into Richard and Manny, soon to be my new South Lake Union neighbors.

Scotty and I ended up at Purr, which I generally can't stand. However, I ran into an old friend and colleague I hadn't seen in about four years. We'll call him Jimmy. I had once hired him for a long term contract and then about six months into it placed myself on contract within the same group in a slightly subordinating role. In other words, at one time he reported to me and then I became somewhat subservient to him. It was good seeing him. Jimmy remarked the last time we saw one another was at Manray, which wasn't true.

Methinks he was referring to a time we bumped into one another in line there at the bar. He was a bit more than tipsy and ended up giving me a bit of a smacker on the lips. I didn't mind, but I was partnered at the time and didn't reciprocate. The following Monday at work he made an apology.

Saturday I slept in and then picked up my pal Brent on Beacon Hill for a little brunch in Georgetown. We ate at the Hangar Cafe, which was surprisingly good. They serve crepes and sandwiches as well as they have a full espresso bar. The restaurant itself was a single family home that had been converted. We sat in the front yard, which had been turned into a patio seating area. From there I could almost see my little red house on the hill through the trees ...

Afterward, we returned to Brent's, sat in the sun and had a beer or two until his partner Doug arrived home. We then met up with our friends Matt, Kevin and their new foster child Max out on their boat in Seward Park. Max is great, but he's seven and a total sponge, meaning he hears, remembers and repeats everything you say.

My big oops was when I heard him ask, "Matt, what's a sausage party?" I was having a candid conversation with Kevin about how I would like to join the one in progress several boats away. Hopefully he'll never know anything other than the innocent meaning of these words.

After a couple hours on the lake, Brent, Doug and I ventured back into Georgetown for a bite at Stellar Pizza, which was delicious as always. We then toured through all the open studios, shops and galleries for the neighborhood's Second Saturday Art Attack. Many of the places we ventured into offered beer, wine and light nibbles. I stuck with beer, which I had been drinking since two that afternoon.

My favorite was an a-board sign pointing to a small show inside a very funky storage space which read, "Who Arted?" Cute. Along the way I spoke with several artists. Georgetown seems to attract people who are genuine, kind and sociable. However, there was another group of gays also wandering around the hood. We said hello to them and they completely ignored us. They were fairly homely too.

In Seattle, if a gay man says hello to another, it means he wants action. So is the perception. Either that or people in this town just don't know how to be friendly and talk to one another. Maybe it's a combination of both.

Later that night we found ourselves at the Elite, a pub style bar down the block from my Capitol Hill bachelor pad. We had a drink and then from there went to Purr. At this point I was seriously ready to slip into a coma. I managed to catch a seventh wind when Doug introduced me to his friend and band mate, whom I conversed with for nearly three hours.