in continuing with the theme of “dive-as-fuck“, i came upon shorty’s and it’s trophy room on a whim. what “whim” you ask? well, frankly i don’t remember, but i do know that it wasn’t something wonted because the only thing i hate more than clowns is belltown, which i try to stay away from as much as possible. however, i found out about the trophy room cocktail lounge within shorty’s (a bar within a bar, what??) and had to see this recursion for myself. i envisioned something like that scene from alien (no, not the sigourney weaver panty scene) where the baby alien chestbursts from one of the crew members. nevertheless, i proceeded with caution and pushed my way past the crust punks and pinball fanatics to the alternate universe/back bar of the trophy room. it just happened to be booked for a private party that night (bartender’s birthday), but jawn was kind enough to help out a couple of parched belles and oblige us a drink at the bar. as the cocktail thursday crew grew, i didn’t want to overstay our welcome and proceeded to shepherd the villagers to other pastures (aka shorty’s). one thing to note of this emigration: the wonderland of spirits offered at the trophy room is not mirrored at the bar of shorty’s [read: there is no fernet up front]. desperate times called for desperate measures, and i ended up trafficking the sacred elixir between bars. i imagine marco polo experienced something similar while traversing the silk road, and perhaps he put it best when he wrote, “i have not told half of what I saw.” in other words, you’ve just got to see it to believe it.