Monday, September 04, 2006

New Genes on the Industrial Block

If an evolutionary geneticist were studying the adaptation habits of Mister E. and myself right now, he might conclude that we are healthily carving our way into a sustainable niche here in Seattle. …And, that we might just have the survival techniques necessary to keep up with these dog-nibbles-dog North-westerners.

Or…, that we might just be harmless and artistically kooky enough to Olympic-style curl our way under the radars of potential predators looking to go Darwinian on our Southern Californian rumps…

After all, we’re not doing too poorly thus far in our new habitat.

As my previous deodorant-application post attests, we’ve managed to master the bus systems. (…though, I still aspire to one day hone the social grace and deftness necessary to shave my legs in between public transport transfers…)

Also, I’ve secured a nice little, hermit crab shell-earning position in the heart of the trendy homosexual district. No…, it’s not as glamorous as you might think; it doesn’t involve flaunting my stylish cargo pants-parading butchness or testing the durability of genetically-engorged cucumbers… Instead, I teach ex-pat adults to speak with the inarticulate fluency and grammatical apathy required for visa-holders to seamlessly sew their embroidered presence into the patchwork of this country.

And, as if all that weren’t enough to support our evolutionary muscle in this new place…:

we’ve also managed to finger paint our own flavorful prints on the local ecosystem’s pallet by wandering around town in pajama bottoms to the unexpected shock of native observers (one resident even went so far as to drop his jaw – though I thought a more flattering tribute would have been to drop his drawers - and compliment us on our “superb urban trendiness”)

But, perhaps, the thing that lends the most convincing evidentiary credence to our remarkable survival fitness claim, is that we finally have a hobbit hole to call our very own… or, at least…, to call our landlord’s very own loan…

It sits atop a little hill in the once-bohemian-art-center-turned-tourist-destination, overlooking the Washington ship canal, wind-bopping sailboats and a very large refinery of sorts.

To be honest, I’m not sure that it’s a refinery at all. It looks suspiciously like a cement factory. Or a whale blubber warehouse. Or a senior-citizen-exploiting knitting sweatshop…

The building reads “Marine Industries,” and I find myself just too imaginatively intrigued by its mystique to spoil the fun by looking its purpose up on the ww-web.

Something about the hideous rectangular monstrosity makes me want to sing the Tom Wait’s song: “What is he building in there?” and spend my three-day weekend coming up with possible mundane atrocities they might be committing inside its beige perimeter…

… a warehouse filled with kelp, rounded sea glass and three-eye-sporting, tentacled anemones with Nostradamic inclinations…?

… a hydroponic, chlorophyll-producing, thermal saline energy-converter manned by octopi with reading glasses and non-accredited PhD’s…?

… a post-it notes-manufacturing farmhouse built on the buried remains of a yet-unsponsored prophet’s scrolls…?

In any case…, I like to think of our industrial neighbor as playing an integral sushi roll in our success in this new city meal. A creative muse, if you will... A humble enforcer of the potency of our socially adaptive double helix health... An angled metaphorical ass-nudger with nucleotide chains of butt-kicking vigor…

And, if nothing else…, the mound of gravel in its parking lot is perfect for midnight pajama parties, deodorant-applying barbeques and bus schedule-swapping soirees…

7 comments:

dingobear said...

Congratulations to you and Mr. E on moving to the Center of the Universe - you two kids have come so far - I'm so proud! Sounds like a pretty trendy place to work and call home. But I don't think you can say you've actually lived Fremont until you've toilet-papered the statue of Lenin ... so go ahead, what are you waiting for? :)

Cap'n Rich said...

So you are in Seattle! I've never been there. Keep an eye on that refinery. If ever a place sounded suspicious, this is it. I never saw an octipus wearing glasses but it only stands to reason, wot with all the polluted saltwater going about.

What's an 'ex-pat adult'? An adult that used to be patted but longer is? Do tell.

As always, urine :)

Frustrated Writer said...

oooo, the potential for evil doings inside the warehouse makes my creative juices absolutely droolish... Glad life is getting a sense of surreal normality to it for you. love the picture you painted with words!

Dunzo said...

Did you know peeing your pants is an inherited genetic trait? Yeah, it runs in your genes!!! LOL

Frustrated Writer said...

so i keep coming back to your blog, salivating because I've been anticipating another literary jewel that your readers can relish but alas... disappointed again. Sigh.

-c said...

dingobear- thanks! I have the TP-ing of Lenin in mind.. what type of paper would you recommend?

cap'n rich- to my great disappointment, I learned that the refinery is actually a boat-building factory. I'm sure they are still up to no good, though. And... "Ex-pat" means you are free to pat their X's, if they'll let you.

frustrated- yeah, surrealistic absurdity is returning! Keep on using words the way you do, and we'll all have plenty of inspiration!
And, sorry, I haven't been posting lately... working like a mad, underpaid educator... trying to come back, though!

dunzo- You said "pee"... and "pants"! I don't wanna get in trouble but... he hee!

dingobear said...

Definitely Charmin, -c. For some reason, the editor seems to be a big fan of Charmin.