Historic Seattle Spaghetti Factory to close after 41 years. Struggle to find happiness in joyless, soulless city to become infinitely more challenging.

Seattle, WA.

Listen to me. Get up out of your chair… right now.

Take a stroll down to Seattle’s historic waterfront.

Stand at the cross section of Myrtle Edwards Park, Belltown and the piers. Lean over, close your eyes, and put your ear to the ground.

If you linger, if only for a moment, and truly listen… and I mean TRULY listen… you can still hear it.

History.

Can you hear it?

The sounds of sleep-starved bakers working before the sun wakes… pulling out the doughy, artisanal labors of their love… fresh from the oven… one loaf at a time… with all of the care of an obstetrician-gynecologist gently delivering their first baby into this cold, cruel world.

The low rumble of a team of Italian trained Michelin-rated chefs purposefully huddled around a softly-simmering pan of tomato sauce… arguing over the perfect amount of oregano to bring out the tangy overtones of the local Skagit Valley-grown Roma tomatoes.

The hustle and bustle of a highly-trained and hyper customer-focused wait staff… busily preparing for the mad, late dinner rush of young, hip urban professionals and food critics praying their long-awaited reservation made months in advance was properly catalogued and ready for their patronage.

The high-pitched swirl of a crack team of sommeliers tasting the evening’s selections, hurriedly scribbling down their tasting notes, bursting with desire to pair every flavor with the perfect, triumphant twist.

History.

History indeed.

And not just any history… Seattle history.

The kind of history that takes one look at regular history, kicks it in the teeth, and makes it pee its pathetic, history pants.

……………………………………………………………………….

HAHAHAHAHA.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHA.

PAAAAAAAA HAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

Nope. None of that is true.

Sorry, Seattle. You blew it.

You don’t get any more army noodles with Food Services of America (oops…I mean “mizithra”) cheese piled on top.

No more bag-o-salads with Thousand Island.

No more family dinners in the giant trolley served by some pimple-faced son of some douchebag software developer who moved here from Columbus 15 years ago.

No more crying kids with spumoni splattered across their stupid baby faces.

You’re just going to have to take junior to McDonalds… just like everyone else.

Good luck.

PS – Now go home and wash the Rainier and hipster jizz off of your ear, you dum dum.