Stay Away From My Chili

A touring indie-rock band crashed at my place the other night, and it was a sobering reminder of some of the less wonderful and glamorous aspects of being a musician in a world of musicians. My band and I have crashed on many a generous person's floor, and scarfed the last Top Ramen of many an angry roommate over the years, so now that I have a place of my own, I feel a karmic debt to the rock 'n' roll universe that will be years in the repaying. Unfortunately, as is the way with all things, when it comes to my new house, the last thing I want is to have a bunch of stupid bands stinking up the place. I feel like Eddie Murphy in Trading Places: "Who has been putting out their Kools on my floor? Have you people ever heard of coasters?"

I live in the south end of town, down where Tukwila meets Renton and Skyway, and unlike the neighborhoods closer to town, there are absolutely no late-night grocery or food options in my vicinity. When I first left Capitol Hill for the sunny Rainier Valley, I made several after-midnight trips to the local grocery before I figured out that it wasn't just closed for routine maintenance, it was simply closed after midnight. I actually went up and pounded indignantly on the glass at one point, thinking that the employees had locked the doors in order to make hanky-panky on the Charmin pallets in the storeroom, and it was only after I registered the looks of alarm on the stockboys' faces that I realized I could be mistaken for a deranged person. Living on Capitol Hill for so many years, I assumed that everyone shopped for chicken cordon bleu at4 in the morning, and that every grocery store was full of tweaking ravers in blue fur chaps sucking on LED pacifiers. Not so.

But there is one spectacular late-night diner in the south end of town that is not just one of the only places left in Seattle to get weird pink sausage links and blueberry pancakes in the dead of night, it's also a bona fide time capsule of old-Seattle awesomeness that somehow has escaped the relentless, overprecious hipster/ironic kitsch-worship that passes for Generation X/Y culture around here. (Who am I kidding? Kitsch is the only culture Generation X ever had. Besides, I'm writing to you from underneath a pile of Hummel figurines and Keane paintings that are just too cute, so who am I to talk?)

Anyway, I'm referring to Randy's Diner on Marginal Way down at the south end of Boeing Field. Situated in an old Denny's (or perhaps Sambo's) building, Randy's caters to the diverse mix of aerospace engineers, truckers, cops, and Duwamish River weirdos who transit through Seattle's southern fringes. Unlike most late-night diners, Randy's keeps the lights down low. So low, in fact, that most people would drive by thinking it was closed or even abandoned. The mostly unlit "Randy's" sign is either inexplicably or intentionally broken so that it reads "Ranay's," which is what I prefer to call it. I like to imagine that the hostess is named Renee and that they leave the sign that way on purpose. The best part of "Ranay's" is the incredible collection of model airplanes hanging from the ceiling, surely bequeathed from the hundreds of Boeing nerdoids who pack the place for lunch. I'm not too concerned with outing "Ranay's," because it's just a little too far, and frankly a little too disturbing, to be overrun with Ballard hipsters, but now that all the good Denny's are closed (excepting the nightmarish one on Fourth Avenue South) and Sunset Bowl is gone, I wouldn't be surprised to find it picking up. If I see any blue fur chaps in there I'm going to start swinging a 9-iron.