• www.tacotimenw.com
• The end of Time.

As Capitol Hill Seattle Blog reported yesterday: Our neighborhood Taco Time is closing. Taco Time, while not actually good good, holds a special place in many Pacific Northwest natives' hearts—it's like a better version of school-lunch tacos. I went to Taco Bell exactly once, and never again, because Taco Time kicks Taco Bell's behind. And while Rancho Bravo is even closer in the two-block radius, certain people at The Stranger cheat on it, sneaking over to Taco Time for lunch every month or three.

Goodbye, Capitol Hill Taco Time. You will be missed.

• Cheers!

The SECB ended up at the War Room last night, where it bought Mike McGinn* a Guinness and then drank a quantity of whiskey. On mornings like this, the SECB recalls, what is very best is a plate of eggs and a milkshake. But where to go (without, of course, leaving the two-block radius)? Charlie's sounds a little weird. Glo's—does Glo's have milkshakes? Maybe it will have to be a coursed meal, with milkshake at Bluebird, then omelet at Cafe Presse. That is really suboptimal. The SECB has a new initiative for Mr. Eyman: Initiative All Restaurants Have Milkshakes. Vote yes.

*Knock on wood!

• E.S.

There's currently a large police response near 11th and Pike for a traffic stop involving a car that fits the description of the car used in Saturday's murder of officer Timothy Brenton. A Stranger intern saw the driver of the car (a beat-up Chevy Monza) being ordered out of his vehicle by multiple officers with guns drawn. They made him put his hands above his head, walk backward away from the car, and kneel in the roadway—after which he stood behind a police cruiser, handcuffed, as officers inspected the grill of his Chevy.

• E.S.

I've personally never seen more cops out and about on capital hill than I did tonight Fri 10/23... and this is just walking from 12th and pike to pike and broadway. First I witnessed two white male butch (aggressive) cops harassing a group of gay black men outside of qfc... stepping them aside and asking for IDs... then on my way back to 12th... cops harassing people in the parking lot behind havana... and this is all in a matter of ten minutes... WTF!!!

...be related to this?

(Taken with a shitty cell phone camera over the weekend. There's another photo—another sign, same message—after the jump.)

(A brief search on YouTube for that Police Academy scene involving Mahoney, a Honey Bucket, and a stadium full of people has turned up empty—anyone?)

But then the cops showed up with three fire extinguishers and totally extinguished that motherfucker.

Then the fire department showed up to cool down the smoldering pole* and a local crazy woman who is known for loudly calling people "jackasses" ran up to the firemen and kept calling them jackasses and telling them to go fuck themselves, proving yet again that it is a fine, glorious thing to be a public servant. Nobody from The Stranger was injured in the Great Pole Fire of 2009. The end.

*That's what she said.

• The Big One: I love you.

Friends, it is a bit windy out, and the sky grows cloudy. The leaves are turning. Today is the day to visit your favorite tree. I stopped under the tree that I love more than all other trees this morning—an entire universe exists under its canopy. It is the Big One.

The Big One

The tree's trunk stands between the root-cracked sidewalk and seed-covered streets. Its leaves fall on the rooftops of parked cars. When you open the car door, branches reach into your vehicle and coarsely brush your face. They are curious; they are feeling things out.

The other day, under the branches of this massive tree—at the corner of East John Street and 11th Avenue—a rather handsome young man approached me. He was walking a white bicycle; he was looking at me with mild curiosity. He said: "Enjoying the tree? Isn't it wonderful? I live over there and see it every day, and I still can't get enough of it." He was as in love with this tree as I am. I asked if he knew its type. "It's an alderwood and probably 150 years old. I can't be sure of that number." I asked if he was an arborist. "Me? No," he said adjusting his helmet, his face brightening, his eyes somewhat dreamy, and a branch dipping toward his back. "I'm a natural scientist, so I do have some idea about plants. But I'm not an arborist." I thanked him for the good information, and he said it was a pleasure to share it.

All trees aspire to bigness. Bigness is their gaudium—the characteristic pleasure of a particular form of life. Chenjerai Hove writes: "I used to watch cattle chewing lazily under the shade of the musuma trees, chewing as if to show me that I was not able to enjoy what they enjoyed." When we see a big tree, we see this enjoyment, this gaudium. Little trees do not have this effect; their lives are small and stupid. The lure of big trees is that they are heavy with life and are deep in thought.

Five more of the sexiest trees in Seattle lionized by Mr. Mudede over here.

What is it? A shrine? An offering to the bus stop gods? A vague 9/11 memorial? Art?

My grandmother raised Angus cattle east of the mountains, outside Sunnyside. We often went over on weekends. We mended fence, and we took the cattle from pretty pastures out to prettier sagebrush and back in the ancient International Harvester truck, which I learned how to drive at a very young age. When we branded—heating the branding iron to red-hot over a fire in the corral, guiding the cattle through a labyrinth of fences with more yells than whipping, squeezing them tight one at a time in the metal-barred chute—my job was to clip off the fur on their sides in a square so my dad or brother could apply the iron. It smelled pretty bad, and the cow would bellow mightily, its eyes rolling back in its head. Then, released, it would forget instantly, walking away calm and docile.

Clement's review of Shoofly Pie Co. was featured in last year's Best Food Writing anthology, which means she has been one of the best food writers in America for TWO YEARS RUNNING. Congratulations to Ms. Clement for her twofer, and yay for all us peons who get to read her work for free on a daily basis.

In a very, very close race, Christopher's beard was voted the best beard by Slog readers. He won with 47% of the votes.

"I don't typically like guys with beards, but Frizzelle, call me sometime," said commenter Lacking Creativity.

Grant came in second with a respectable 46%.

As always, these polls are legally binding.

Tavern Law—in the Trace Loft building at 12th and Madison on Capitol Hill, brought to you by the gentlemen of the massively popular Spur Gastropub in Belltown—opens very, very soon, and people who love good cocktails are very, very excited. Look for anything with cranberry—chef Brian McCracken's family owns a cranberry farm, and barkeep David Nelson knows what to do with carefully sourced ingredients. In terms of food, McCracken and co-chef Dana Tough will be making classics like oysters Rockefeller, the fabled Monte Cristo, clams casino, and more. Tick tock.

Photos of last night's preview from from Trace Lofts.

Tonight from 7 to 11 p.m., Seattle's new all-star mobile-barbecue-vendor will be at 15th Avenue and Pine. What style of barbecue does Gert's serve?

"Seattle-style!" [Rodney] Jones proclaims. "Everybody says, 'I got Memphis-style, I got Texas-style.' We're from here, we're proud of being from here, and our barbecue is from here. Some like the dry rubs; we like the wet marinade. We never boil the meat—that's blasphemy. We assume people have a few good teeth or good dentures to chew the food."

Read all about it over here. Gert's don't-misses: the extremely excellent pulled pork sliders, the smoky-sweet ribs, the kind of terrifyingly addictive green bean casserole.

For your future reference, here's Gert's on Twitter.

Photo by Kelly O is of Walter and Donnell Jackson—proprietors, along with Jones—with a photograph of Gert. She could really cook.

Well said, Mr. Crust-punk-whose-favorite-book-is-probably-Fight-Club. Well said, indeed.

Here we have the sidewalk outside of the Comet. On the right, you get a glimpse of what color the sidewalk should be. On the left you see what color most of the sidewalk is. It's covered in dirt and gum and beer and hot dog juice and probably a little puke. It smells bad and it looks disgusting. Oh how I wish it would rain.

Croque Campagnard = bread, mustard, salami, tomato, cheese, openface, bubbly, crispy on edges. Cornichons.

Let's never fight again, Croque Campagnard.

Update: HERE is a more appetizing picture.