The following is taken from a conversation between two English gentlemen, recently relocated to the Northwest, temporarily back on the South Coast of England.

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The mountains--there's a reason to love the Northwest. Except for when those two explode occasionally.

Pretentious Seattle musos. That's one very good reason to hate the Northwest. Especially duplicitous band members who enter into correspondence with Stranger music critics, give permission for their words to be used, suddenly change their minds because they've been threatened (with dismissal?) by their bandmates--bam! there's the letter threatening a lawyer!--and later have the temerity to complain because the correspondence wasn't run in its original form. (Eh?) Are you listening, Joe "Bass" Skyward (and Sunny Day Real Estate)?

What I loved best about being in Olympia was that it wasn't windy. Wet, yes. Windy, no. I hate the wind. It's my least favorite kind of weather, ever. Except for massive hailstones. I hate the wind. It can just make you feel like giving up and going home again.

Fucking young Northwest tossers who've heard one early '80s "new wave" record and decide they should base their career around it. That's what I hate about Seattle. It's bad enough so many people venerate the Pixies when they themselves ran out of steam after two albums. It's bad enough people think of Lauryn Hill as "hiphop" when all she is is a more acceptable Joan Armatrading (ask yr mom)--hiphop with none of the edge or anger or brilliance that often characterizes the genre. It's bad enough people can't distinguish between Haysie Fantaysie and Bow Wow Wow. But when a bunch of local hipsters are fawning all over some new band simply 'cause the singer jumps around like a stilted prat on steroids and his backing band once sneaked into their elder brother's record collection and discovered the first Gang of Four album (which stunk, incidentally) then... fuck! I despair. I just fucking despair. Are you listening, Sub Pop (and the Rapture)?

I like the cheap drinks on Fourth Ave. But even there, when the drinks are so cheap, no one ever bought me one--except for my girlfriend. Don't mention her name, she might not like it... you and me, mate, we're far too fucking protective. Since day one. It's a failing in our natures. We can't get rid of it.

Fucking wankpots who still believe that grunge is a vibrant musical form (that is grunge as the Stone Temple Plagiarists and "In Chains" wrote it, not kick-ass mod Mudhoney grunge). Fucking wankpots who like to dress up like they're on a Halloween outing to Pioneer Square. And the hipsters still fall for it! Fuck! I totally fucking despair of this fucking city sometimes. Simply 'cause you have a loud wah-wah pedal and an incomplete set of Stones records doesn't mean you have any right to inflict your godawful rock sensibilities on us. Are you listening, the Makers (and Sub Pop again)?

A prostitute just arrived at the house across the road. See her? The man's drinking a cup of tea. He won't let her in. Oh... now he will. What's that you're doing? STAND AWAY FROM THE WINDOW!

And something else I hate about this area. Elliott Smith....

Don't put Elliott in! He's not that bad. All right, he's miserable, but he's not one of those miserable people who makes you feel miserable with him, he's one of those miserable people who makes you feel better off through his misery. You don't think you have his problems... even if you do have his problems. Elliott has totally enhanced the Northwest for me. He's romanticized it, much like Gary Oldman has South London. Also, I like the way I'm gradually growing to look like him.

Fuck Elliott. He is ridiculously over-venerated up here. I appreciate that's not his fault, but even so.... When he walked into the Sea Wolf after his recent Breakroom show, the whole place stopped talking--at the Sea Wolf! His voice is okay, but not exactly expressive, his newest album lacks in vision, his dress sense is abysmal. You know what? If I want to feel depressed and lonely, I'll go and stand outside in the rain. There's enough of it out here.

I love the rain! The Northwest rain! I love to dance in a T-shirt and underpants in the car park outside the Thekla on Justin's Soul Nite--that's one of my favorite memories of Oly. Ninety-three days without a break! Gertcha!

You're sick.

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