in its funkiness and cheap housing and coffeeshops advertising socialist clubs and five record stores on one block and cats hiding underneath porches and dueling selfserve pet washing facilities and sweet college girls with replacements cds in their bookshelves,

but the kids tell me that Tacoma isn’t a college town its just super diverse, home of more African Americans than any other city in Washington and as I type to you from the jack in the box on 6th street I count one two three sistas and one two white girls, so maybe the census is correct.

last night I was taken to karaoke at Bill’s teapot or something like that. it’s a teapot looking place on the edge of town nestled in the industrial area usually home to strip clubs and meth labs, and maybe those establishments were there too but all I know was I was in the only place I would probably ever karaoke.

the stage was up high and legend has it that when Nirvana played there the owner threw kurdt off the stage because of the horrible music. which is ironic because im not sure if youre familiar with most people who sing karaoke, but Tacoma, at least last night, was not the home of the most talented upncomers.

except for my date, miss jana pants, who wore a short black skirt, festive red tights, and a homemade stenciled tshirt that said something about capitalists do it better or something.

you could write anywhere you wanted on the seats or the tables or the walls or the floor and as per usual I scribbled isla vista 93117 because that’s how you should represent.

pretty much everyone sang all the wrong songs except for ms pants, who started with London Calling, and later serenaded us with Rebel Rebel and I Want You To Want Me.

the host of the evening was a long haired dude who sat on a chair and advised the sparse crowd that if we didn’t see the song we wanted in the huge three ring binder that we should write it down anyways cuz he probably had it and knew exactly where it was.

then he busted with the 80s classic novelty hit Pac-Man Fever, which I sang along with because im a thousand years old and know everything.

jana and I drank pitchers of flat tire ale and sneaked sips of rum from her flask and she convinced me to take the stage which I did and entertained the crowd with a stirring version of eric cartman’s come sail away. I don’t think id ever karoked before and I hope never to do it again, but I was happy while I was there because they had it set up where you could barely hear yourself. thank God.

this morning we ate at a local breakfast place where I supped on country biscuits and gravy with bacon and eggs and now im prepared to snap some photos for you of this kickass village in the shadows of mt rainier and then speed through seattle on my way to vancity.

there were questions of a Buzznet meetup in Vancouver and last night I was up for it but I drank so much last night I might just soak in the hottub tonight and visit with one or two people and call it a night. I love the road but drinking without dinner is hard on a man who’s pushing 113.

but before I leave seattle I hope to take a peek at kurt kobain’s final home which I believe was in Lake Washington, and as soon as I get some free wi-fi I will see how many seconds the interweb delivers me the address.

although I love fish, I think I will pass on the famous fish market, and even though I love guitars and jimi Hendrix my inclination is to avoid the guitar statue and the rock museum. however if the real world house was open to the public I would definitely pass by the home where the black dude bitch slapped the chick with lyme disease.

that’s how sick I am.

I heart you all.