“Give me as much fucking chicken as you possibly can…without charging me extra.”
– what my friend Andy’s former roommate apparently says when he orders at Chipotle
This entry was written by , posted on February 8, 2009 at 10:00 pm, filed under Capitol Hill, Uncategorized and tagged chicken, Chipotle, sudoku. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink.
How awesome is being an intern for The Stranger? Put it this way: yesterday I made two trips to Tacos Guaymas. And I had pizza for lunch.
That’s right, folks, it’s officially started. No more Where’s Wetzler? the travel blog (though I never really went anywhere, unless you count Bainbridge). Say hello instead to Where’s Wetzler?: Chronicles of an Unpaid Intern. I know most of you wake up in the mornings with what feels like a boll weevil gnawing into your inner ear but is actually just the same inner dialogue you’ve been having over and over. “Jesus,” you say, “What the hell would it be like to be an unpaid intern for The Stranger? I mean seriously, what the hell would it be like?” So here I am to put you all at ease. Wetzler the good Samaritan. And we’re off:
Yesterday was my first day on the job and only my third time ever in the The Stranger building and every time I’ve gone in I’ve gotten the feeling that the receptionist thinks I’m vaguely homeless. Yesterday was no different. I showed up wearing corduroy pants, an old “St. Olaf” t-shirt, a hooded sweatshirt, and one running shoe. I hadn’t shaved in a few days and I also hadn’t showered. They say you’re supposed to dress for the job you want, not the job you have. So what job does that mean I want. Vagrant? I guess you can’t really blame the guy.
Anyway, upon seeing me he started to reach for something behind the desk. I leaned over the counter to see what it was and saw a flashing button clearly marked “Security.” I tried to diffuse the situation.
“Hi, I’m Mark. I’m the new intern,” I said, smiling to show I had a full set of teeth.
Ahh, homeless people tell the funniest lies, he thought. “Have a seat, Mark. Someone will be with you in a bit.”
I sat down and looked at the posters on the walls—covers from old issues—and eventually the guy who hired me showed up and whisked me past the receptionist, hand still next to the intercom, and into bowels of the newspaper. We walked past cubicles and conference rooms and offices and watercoolers and vending machines and copy machines and fax machines. Then we scaled stairs and made our way into the brains of the operation: the top floor. There were the head honchos, all whirring away at their desks: the head of design sitting behind a computer monitor the size of a cookie sheet; a sophisticated woman in black leather boots that looked me up and down the way someone does before saying the words, “You’re despicable,” but then cordially welcomed me to the office.
Alright, I thought. The new intern. Making the rounds. Getting acquainted.
We walked back downstairs past the advertising department, down a long, narrow hallway and more stairs before bursting out onto the floor below. The writing floor.
Yes! I thought. This is where the magic happens! Creative juices flowing so thick they need to hire a special woman certified in handling cerebral cortex fluid just to get the floors mopped each day! This is where I’m supposed to be! I’ll be pumping out feature articles in no time!
Thirty minutes later I was on my way to Tacos Guaymas, getting lunch for some of the very people I had just met. Chicken and pork “super burritos” with little containers of salsa on the side.
I’ll get to the feature articles in the afternoon, I said to myself.
When I got back, though, things were in disarray. Apparently a woman had received a beef burrito in error (”She wanted veggie. She goes in there every day. They’re supposed to know this”) and Could I go back? So off I went again, on my second trip to Tacos Guaymas, this time to haggle with the poor lady at the counter over a sorry-looking beef burrito in a plastic bag that I now held in my hand. Oh, and could I get a bottle of Diet Coke, too?
Whatever, though, I thought, It’s good to get out of the office (I’d been there for an hour and a half) and besides, this is probably what they do with all interns on their first day. It’s probably just some sort of ritualistic hazing process. By the end of the day we’ll all be standing around the water cooler wearing party hats and drinking mimosas and slapping each other on the back.
“Oh my God, we got you good!” they’ll say. “Yeah you did, you fuckers,” I’ll say, letting out a hearty guffaw.
And then we’ll all leave the office and head to a chic Capitol Hill bar where we’ll sit and act decadent and tell stories using words like “ephemeral” and pretend we don’t notice all the people in the booths next to us leaning across their tables and whispering to their friends, “Hey, isnt that…? Wait, isnt that…?” even though we fucking love it. And then one of them will finally get the courage to approach our table and say, “Hey, aren’t you—?”
And the the managing editor will grab my arm and look at me as if to say, Don’t worry, I’ll handle this, and I’ll shoot her back a look that says Oh my god–thank you! and she’ll say to the girl, “Honey, Mark’s had a really long day. Maybe another time?” And the girl will head back to her table, brows raised: “Oh my God, it was him” and we’ll look at each other like, Seriously? and then someone will tell a joke about how Andy Warhol used snort coke off a vanity mirror and we’ll all laugh hysterically and forget what even just happened.
ASDFJAKDJASDAAASDFJAAA
I’m jolted out of my daydream. My boss is asking me if I can go stand down by where the writers work and cut myself in front of them to see if the pain and rawness of it all will provide some kind of inspiration. “Alright,” I say, getting up from my swivel chair.
I guess the feature articles will have to wait ’til tomorrow.
-Wetzler
Next on Where’s Wetzler?
Why I Don’t Have a Cell Phone: An Essay
This entry was written by , posted on January 7, 2009 at 2:17 am, filed under Capitol Hill and tagged feature articles, super burrito, tacos guaymas, writers, writers' block. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink.
Though a bit late, Neil Cameron’s recent submission has won the Wetzlerville 2009 “Post a Comment From the Most Exotic Location Possible” Contest Extravaganza. Apparently he’s in Scotland right now drinking “7 different types of single malt whiskey” and probably watching Rob Roy on DVD and playing with a sword. Merry Christmas Neil, you are a man among boys. We in America (’Merca) salute you.
-Wetzler
p.s. I’m not joking when I say that Nancy was semi lit last night. I’ve never heard anyone play “Away in a Manger” with such gusto.
This entry was written by , posted on December 25, 2008 at 10:08 pm, filed under Capitol Hill, Central America, Chipotle, Ravenna, Song of the Day, Uncategorized, master cleanse, the boot and tagged wetzlerville 2009. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink.
Last year I took a bike trip from Seattle to Vancouver by myself. On the first night I slept in a field next to a church. On the second day I rode over a hundred miles. It is one of my favorite memories from last summer.
A Wetzler brimming with confidence and expectation gets a late 3:00pm start from near U-Village.
Base camp is set up in a field near a Methodist church in Arlington. Highlights from day one: coasting through the lush forests of Skagit Valley on silent bike trails; drinking a Guinness before bed. Sixty-something miles down.
The morning after sleeping like a baby in the field.
Base camp with supplies.
The haggard face of radness (morning after sleeping in the field).
Lunch on day two before tackling the breathtaking hills of Chuckanut drive.
Mile X of over one hundred on day two. Blazing hot August day. Crossed Canadian customs on bike. Awesome.ww
This entry was written by , posted on December 24, 2008 at 4:54 pm, filed under Capitol Hill, Chipotle, Ravenna, Uncategorized and tagged bike ride, bike trip, chuckanut drive, cycling, haggard, rhododendron cafe, seattle vancouver party. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink.
This guy knows what’s up.
Today on Where’s Wetzler? we’re going to try a little experiment. It’s called: “Who can post a comment from the most exotic location?” This experiment was inspired by Champ Walston, a Where’s Wetzler? reader who posted a comment the other day all the way from Germany (unless it was just one of my friends messing with me). Champ, you’re a…nevermind, you’re probably sick of hearing that one.
Anyway, I realize most of you are in the Seattle area and have to attend those things you’re always talking about, Jawbs (sp?) or whatever, so you can’t exactly fly to Bhutan and post a comment from your laptop on the edge of a cliff. But just because you’re in Seattle and possibly at work doesn’t mean you can’t get creative. Take your laptop into the bathroom. Take it into the mailroom. Post a comment from the bus. Post one while driving across the 520 bridge — I don’t know, like I said: get creative. Bonus points and features in the follow-up blog (with your permission, of course) will be given to those who also send me a picture of themselves submitting said comments (markw32@gmail.com). Also, this whole thing is being held on the honors system, so Barry, don’t post a comment from your basement in Ravenna and try to tell me you’re in Cabo sipping a piña colada next to a scantily-clad coed.
The winner of this contest gets a beer on me (Readers’ note: Winner responsible for transporting Wetzler to and from drinking location if located outside Seattle area).
Post your comments by five o’clock tomorrow for consideration. Good luck!
-Wetzler
This entry was written by , posted on December 23, 2008 at 1:42 pm, filed under Capitol Hill, Central America, Chipotle, Ravenna, Song of the Day, Uncategorized, master cleanse, the boot and tagged barry coed, bhutan, colada, where's wetzler experiment. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink.
My computer is telling me there are two readers on Where’s Wetzler? right now. One of them is me; and this post, mystery second reader, is for you:
This entry was written by , posted on December 21, 2008 at 12:34 am, filed under Capitol Hill, Chipotle, Ravenna, Uncategorized. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink.
It is cold today, and I am worried about the old people. Old people do not do well in extreme weather. They like it one temperature and one temperature only, and that temperature is 76 degrees Fahrenheit. Anything lower and they reach for a sweater and ear muffs, anything higher and they lie sweating in their La-Z-Boys, waiting for death or the “heat wave” to pass or whichever comes first.
Today in Renton a senior citizen will attempt to walk her Scottish terrier and be found two days later huddled for warmth under the bough of a sumac tree. She will have survived by licking water off pine needles and gnawing on pieces of bark. The Scottish terrier will have eaten its own tail. Hey, it could happen. All I’m saying is: take care of your old people.
Yesterday was a monumental day for Where’s Wetzler?, thanks to Christopher Frizzelle at The Stranger, who put up a blog I wrote a few days ago about losing my mind in Capitol Hill. So far this has led to more traffic on Where’s Wetzler? and consequently more Seattleites wondering where the last ten minutes of their lives went. It has also led to me looking up the word “vicissitudes” in the dictionary.
Oh crap, my dad is about to go outside and he’s not even wearing a jacket. Be right back.
-Wetzler
This entry was written by , posted on December 15, 2008 at 1:05 pm, filed under Capitol Hill and tagged cold, renton, scottish terrier, seattle, senior citizens, sumac, the stranger, vicissitudes. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink.
sometimes i feel like a great chef
who has devoted his entire life
to monastic study of the art of cooking
& gathered the finest ingredients
& built the most advanced kitchen
& prepared the most exquisite meal
so perfect, so delicious, so extraordinary
more astounding than any meal ever created
yet each day i stand in my window
& watch ninety-seven percent of the world
walk past my restaurant
into the mcdonald’s
across the street.
-fake steve jobs
from the book “option$”
This entry was written by , posted on December 14, 2008 at 3:04 pm, filed under Capitol Hill, Uncategorized and tagged apple, fake steve jobs, hilarious, mcdonald's, option$. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink.
OK. Here goes. What I am going to do right now is describe to you the night I had last night, because I think it illustrates perfectly the reason why I binge drink. Do not read on if you are the type of person easily swayed by the glorification of sex, drugs and rock ‘n roll, because reading this post may inspire you to go to your nearest liquor store, buy a bottle of Goldschlager, and wake up in a ditch.
The night started off rather innocuously at Darren Berg’s house. Everyone was Snusing which means everyone was having a good time. Despite the fact that Britt’s sausage smelled like a dirty gym sock and Jon’s “guacamole” turned out to be artichoke dip, the appetizers were, as a whole, very appetizing. The beer was also plentiful: A guy named Patrick showed up with a keg of winter ale, and anyone who’s ever had their bellies warmed by a tall glass of the seasonal delight is familiar with the following mantra: Good winter ale equals bad decisions.
The first bad decision was to put on Limp Bizkit. It seemed like a good idea at the time: “Hey, let’s put on some music that sounds like an elk bleeding to death and listen to it ironically and look at each other and laugh.” But then without even knowing why people started to feel aggressive, like they wanted to fight people, and the girls started sneaking off to the kitchen to take solo shots of tequila. Pretty soon two bottles of champagne were broken out, people were writing on Chauncey with a permanent marker, and some guy pranced into the room wearing a bowler hat, twirling a cane. It was total chaos.
Luckily we managed to get out of the house alive and even made it on the bus, though the driver understandably chastised me for trying to get on with an open bottle of beer in my hand (I honestly forget I was even carrying it; it was not one of my finer moments). We went to the Baltic Room but left after I accused one of the bouncers of lying to me about the cost of the cover charge and then went to The Chapel where, though hoping to “take it easy” (due in part to my last experience at The Chapel that ended with me waking up with my pants off in a storage room of the downtown Westin [we'll save that story for a different time]), I found myself taking tequila shots with the bouncer and ferrying drinks to tables of complete strangers.
Now this is where things get hazy.
Let’s fast-forward to later in the night when, for some reason, I’m wandering the streets of Capitol Hill by myself. Being drunk in public is never a good idea for me, but being drunk in public and by myself is a liability. Nothing good has ever come of it. So far it has led only to: losing my wallet, taking the bus home barefoot, and waking up on a strange couch in a strange house on 25th Avenue that has a weird, framed Papa John’s Pizza poster on the living room wall. But anyway, if I had had a magic eight ball with me at the moment it would have said: “Outlook not good” or, if it had a setting for it, “Outlook really fucking weird.”
Fast-forward thirty minutes. There’s music. Loud music. I’m in the basement of some weird warehouse/office space multi-use building in Capitol Hill. I am in a small room. I am surrounded by four other dudes, all of whom have instruments. One of them is singing. Screaming, actually. He has a voice like an Iroquois battle cry. The others are playing guitars and one is playing a keyboard. Though I don’t really know how or why, it seems I have become involved in a band rehearsal. I’m kind of tapping on a snare drum to try to fit in, but mostly I’m just standing there wondering who the fuck these guys are and why I’m in a tiny room in the basement of a building in Capitol Hill listening listening to a bunch of people I don’t know play instruments. This went on for at least a half hour and then one by one they all started to leave, until it was just me and the screamer, who was still playing his guitar, still screaming. We didn’t even talk. He played his guitar and sang, and I stood there and watched. And then eventually I left.
And this, I guess, is why I binge drink. I do it because when I binge drink I get myself into situations that are funny to talk about later, even if they often involve public humiliation and/or urinating in my dresser. The problem is: while these things can be kind of entertaining to hear about, they’re not really all that fun for me. Most of the time I just wake up feeling hungover and confused, and usually a little bit poorer. And usually I lose stuff: Last night I lost my driver’s license. So anyway, I’ve decided to put an end to it in the only way I know how, even if it means no more late night jam sessions with hoarse-voiced guitarists: I’m not going to drink for a month. Not a single ounce. Not a single drop. Because when I drink I binge drink, and when I binge drink I hate myself.
And sometimes I wake up in a storage room of the Westin with no pants on.
-Wetzler
This entry was written by , posted on December 13, 2008 at 5:38 pm, filed under Capitol Hill, alcohol and tagged Capitol Hill, chauncey, drugs, goldschlager, limp bizkit, rock 'n roll, seattle, sex, snus, the boot, the chapel, winter ale. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink.
Keep hitting refresh to check out the video below, and also take a second to help me with this dilemma: I’m thinking about putting Where’s Wetzler on Facebook to drum up readership. The only problem: I hate Facebook. Your thoughts?
This entry was written by , posted on December 11, 2008 at 2:49 pm, filed under Capitol Hill, master cleanse, the boot and tagged beyonce, facebook, going public, master cleanse. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink.