The happiest place on earth

My favorite part about traveling to the northwest is that I get to visit the greatest bar on the west coast. Beer. Pinball. Hot dogs. Who knew perfection could be so simple? And yet, only one place has mastered the trifecta: Shorty’s Coney Island in Seattle. It holds the answers to all of life’s problems (the entirety of life’s problems being hunger, boredom, and sobriety).

Each and every spring, I’m filled with the insuppressible urge to migrate north and spend a few euphoric hours at Shorty’s. I wish I could go more often, but I know then it would be less poignant. If I lived in Seattle, I’d probably go there every day for a week, then never go there again. I’m sure it’s better this way.

This past weekend, I indulged in Monster Bash and Medieval Madness, which I believe have all but vanished from the bay area. Playing these antiquated pins, I was instilled with a great peace of mind. The machines spoke to me. They said, “Aaron, don’t worry about your bass guitar. You must move on. If you continue to cling to the past, it will destroy your future.” Then I freed the Mummy, and he said, “That sarcophagus sucked!” Tell me about it.