Podunk Meets Paradise

Musings from Central Idaho

Archive for the tag “Boise”

Mistaken Identity

The Iron Chef and I recently put another notch in our collective gluttony belts. I have a new job with the U.S. Forest Service, thank you very much, and I was sent to Bend, Oregon for a workshop. I invited the Chef a) because I’m an awesome wife, and b) Bend is the beer playground of the world.  bend-oregon-beer-map-07

We managed to tag on a little weekend beercation, coming home through Hood River. So I’m not saying that visiting 10 breweries in Bend and 2 wineries outside of Hood River impaired my faculties, but something inspired me to jettison my purse at the first brewery we stopped at in Hood River.

For the record, I’m not sorry. The beers we tasted at the Logsdon Barrel House & Taproom were worth exchanging your firstborn for, much less a silly old purse with a net worth of my half empty Curiously Strong Ginger Mints.

When I realized my mistake, the nice people at Logsdon cheerfully agreed to mail my purse to Podunk. Problem solved.

Except that I had offered to take Odd Number to Boise for a hockey tournament. In a previous post, I reported on the City of Trees’ new hipster elitism. I even presented a certain unnamed establishment with the Too Big For Your Britches Jackwagon Award of 2015. I found the 2016 winner.

After watching 2 hockey games, I talked an unlikely fellow hockeymom into going to a nearby wine bar for a little nip.

bodovino-boise-id-3

The hostess asked for our IDs, which caused us both to giggle like school girls.

I explained that in a fever of approval for the Logsdon Barrel House & Taproom, I had recently jettisoned my purse. And then I showed her that I had crow’s feet that could legally vote and drink. The hostess moved back as I moved in. And then she called for the manager.

The manager tried to help me understand that Idaho state law requires me to show ID, and does not allow carbon dating or 90s trivia contests to be used as a substitute, as I was suggesting. And then, he turned me away.

The state of the world, and of the union, is in a fairly F*#@!d up state right now. Meanwhile, as surrounding states have legalized pot, Boise’s hipster elite are valiantly protecting civilization from fair-to-middle aged hockey moms sipping a glass of merlot. Congratulations, society, you’ve been protected.

 

Podunk Fails Elitist Hipster Test

It’s been a big urban spring for Podunk. I wrote recently about cruising around Seattle, a bona fide urban American city. Just last week, I popped into Boise, a usually friendly urbural sort of place. It was, coincidentally, my birthday. A few friends and I set out to explore some of the obvious goodness Boise had to offer fun loving young women of fine reputation.

Because I am on a wicked quest for sponsorship, I can’t name names, but let’s just say one fairly new establishment earned the Too Big For Your Britches Jackwagon Award of 2015. In Boise. Go figure. Perfectly behaved, Pippi, Asskickingboots, and I entered the BBQ joint (yep, as in Bar-Bee-Cue) and found a roomful of hipsters playing trivia. Sensing that pseudo-Jeopardy would run its course sooner or later and hearing the bar made a mean cocktail, we accepted a Standing Room Only status, even though it was quite clearly my birthday. That is until an elfin Jackwagon headwaiter informed us that company policy forbid them to serve drinks to standing people.

hipsterdudesThis is where urban deviates quite significantly from rural experience. If the rural West quit serving beverages to customers standing in bars, the whole economy would double collapse in a way that would make 2007 seem like a blue light special. Ever the diplomat, I offered my driver’s license as proof of my actual birthday to the elfin Jackwagon. He shook his wee head, not even bothering to offer me a pinata filled with hard candy.

Pippi noted that this was not just a case of severe urban-rural divide, or bad manners, but pointed to a distinct hipster elitism. “How did he know I wasn’t a hipster?” I wondered aloud, with the secret knowledge that my fashion statements sometimes skip a generation and creep into what’s-old-is-new-again.

Pippi has good manners and didn’t answer, her birthday gift to me.

Guest Post — Alabama Shakes, a Professional Review by Jackie the Journalist

Guest Post -- Alabama Shakes, a Professional Review by Jackie the Journalist

Hello Podunk Meets Paradise readers!

I’m just an Oregonian visiting the big Capital City for a very special 30th birthday. Due to a few unforseen circumstances I’ve been elected to recount last night’s events, at least from my point of view.

Before getting started I will divulge that I am sort of a professional, spending my days churning out food and music articles for local and national publications. This means I can string a sentence together good enough to convince a few poor schmucks to pay me a few pennies. It’s good work, if you can get it.

But where was I…. oh yes, the Alabama Shakes show at The Knit (That’s what they call it in Reno, anyway). After being slightly lubricated thanks to the liberal pours at Bardonay, we rolled up to the Will Call window at The Knit. One free drink ticket later, and we’re in.

I can’t say enough about the opening bands. To be honest, those were the moments the whole evening seemed ahead of us. Vodka had yet to tighten her fist around my brain and the shots of Fireball had yet to hit my belly. But as time wore on, and yet another band took the stage that was not Alabama Shakes, I found my drink cup empty and my mind a bit tired.

I steeled my eyes toward the bar and attempted to get a drink. Fortunately (or unfortunately) a middle aged gentleman had seen the shiny beads dangling from my neck and decided to make me an offer I couldn’t refuse.

“What do you want for those beads?” he yelled in my direction.

Mardis Gras rules ruling, its nips or nothing, so he unbuttoned and showed me the goods, one nipple at a time.

Liberated of my beads, I also implored him for a drink. One free Grey Goose soda later, I turned back toward the stage just in time to see the Shakes FINALLY take the stage. It was nearing 11:30. Lady vodka tightened her grip.

The low growl of Miss Shakes got a bee in my bonnet and my toes a tapping. I may or may not have annoyed the non-dancing nerds surrounding me, but I was having fun. Sure, I had to take a few dance breaks on a large out-of-the-way sofa in the back, but I looked at it as an opportunity to meet new friends.

What happened next is a blur of grooving, swaying, and the realization that this party needed to move on, and fast. Before I knew it we were being squired home amidst cries for hot dogs, which went unnoticed.

Pancakes, eggs, sausage, and champagne were on the menu at the house. Nothing like a 2 am impromptu breakfast feast. You only turn 30 once.

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