The Pinto Pony. It was one of the quirkiest shops in what I now consider "Old Seattle". The Seattle of the King Dome, The Doghouse, Lincoln's Toe Truck and the ferry terminal when the clock was indoors. That old downtown still had the cyclops down below 1st, still had a Belltown that catered to artists and loft dwellers, Ballard was still a old Scandavavian neighborhood and Fremont sweet and funky and not a dotcom darling. Old Seattle. Not to say that I am a native or that I'm pining away for some mythical olden days, but you have to admit that a lot has changed since 1990.
Ruby Montana now own's and operates a very kitchy and cool motel down in Palm Springs. The Pinto Pony was a kitchy and cool home accessory store back in the day, even though she might not approve of those terms. Urban Outfitting? Retro Wackiness? Cowboy Cool? It was filled with Western bric a brac, funky furniture, wild accessories that every apartment in the city needed in order to be part of the northern bastion of hip. I remember seeing a line of t-shirts when I peeked in and prowled years ago, dragging my newborn along in a sling. Very fun, way out of my OC league. But a new league I longed to be in.
Instead of having the mavens of cool tell me what to buy, I did the time honored thing and went at it slow and easy and according to my own terms. I found arty folks to befriend and bought their wares, I hunted down strangeness in second hands, and so, in the end, bought and hung and mounted at my leisure. But thanks, anyway, Ruby. Your store and taste were an inspiration.
So, fast forward to 2005. I was combing the t-shirt racks at the local Goodwill. .99 cents a tee, not a bad price for a man who had not yet discovered the fine art of using an apron in the kitchen and who felt each and every tee in the collection was okay to paint in. I was moving at a frenetic pace, as I was on my lunch hour, when what should I fall upon by a vintage Ruby Montana Pinto Pony t-shirt! Wowzers! Good find. Interesting art, nice airbruch effect. Great shape, no rips or tears or stains.
But when I saw it, I knew right away it wasn't for me. See, I was hung up on this Colorado gal and it looked fitting. Western themed. Ruby riding a Jackalope, a Mrs Potato Head vacuuming. And, above all, in a size that just might fit.
So, I put it away for a few weeks, thinking, okay, birthdays or whatever come along. The Gala came along, and after that, well, as they say, it was history.
That shirt, washed and cleaned, made for a nice transition from the black cocktail dress she wore that night. Well, that tee and a pair of Levi's. We weren't anywhere near a place that would have allowed just one article of clothing. Besides, we had acey ducey to play, bananas to flambee, and a couch to test out. She had to get home, Cinderella style, before midnight but when she left that night that shirt left with her.
I woke up this morning thinking about that gal, that shirt and the why's and who's of it all. Why did we start trading that shirt back and forth? Who came up with that idea? I suppose, in the end she did, because she sent that shirt back to me washed and dipped in an eau de dryer sheet cologne. I strapped on that shirt one night and went into work the next day looking as if I had spent the night wrestling with bears and wild cats both. I was haggard and worn, with deep, dark circles under my eyes. It was that shirt. I know it sounds crazy, but once I put in on it issued forth an outrageous scent all night long that was mighty powerful, and if I dare say, slightly erotic. I wasn't her that I was smelling, it was the dryer sheets. Wow. And I'll leave it at that, for the sake of all the family viewers out there.
That shirt went back and forth for months. Washed here, body scent there. She finally stopped using dryer sheets, not only for the sake of that shirt but for her family, too. Changed everything and I'm sure put that shirt and her reasoning under the microscope of deep scrutiny.
That shirt left my house a couple years ago. Was it a victim of The Big Purge? I never found out. I know that it could have ended up, along with other unknown items, in the Big Box Bound for the Great Second Hand in the sky. Or the one here in town. I haven't found it yet. And if I do, dollars to donuts, I bet it'll smell like dryer sheets all over again.
Your WHMB
Ruby Montana now own's and operates a very kitchy and cool motel down in Palm Springs. The Pinto Pony was a kitchy and cool home accessory store back in the day, even though she might not approve of those terms. Urban Outfitting? Retro Wackiness? Cowboy Cool? It was filled with Western bric a brac, funky furniture, wild accessories that every apartment in the city needed in order to be part of the northern bastion of hip. I remember seeing a line of t-shirts when I peeked in and prowled years ago, dragging my newborn along in a sling. Very fun, way out of my OC league. But a new league I longed to be in.
Instead of having the mavens of cool tell me what to buy, I did the time honored thing and went at it slow and easy and according to my own terms. I found arty folks to befriend and bought their wares, I hunted down strangeness in second hands, and so, in the end, bought and hung and mounted at my leisure. But thanks, anyway, Ruby. Your store and taste were an inspiration.
So, fast forward to 2005. I was combing the t-shirt racks at the local Goodwill. .99 cents a tee, not a bad price for a man who had not yet discovered the fine art of using an apron in the kitchen and who felt each and every tee in the collection was okay to paint in. I was moving at a frenetic pace, as I was on my lunch hour, when what should I fall upon by a vintage Ruby Montana Pinto Pony t-shirt! Wowzers! Good find. Interesting art, nice airbruch effect. Great shape, no rips or tears or stains.
But when I saw it, I knew right away it wasn't for me. See, I was hung up on this Colorado gal and it looked fitting. Western themed. Ruby riding a Jackalope, a Mrs Potato Head vacuuming. And, above all, in a size that just might fit.
So, I put it away for a few weeks, thinking, okay, birthdays or whatever come along. The Gala came along, and after that, well, as they say, it was history.
That shirt, washed and cleaned, made for a nice transition from the black cocktail dress she wore that night. Well, that tee and a pair of Levi's. We weren't anywhere near a place that would have allowed just one article of clothing. Besides, we had acey ducey to play, bananas to flambee, and a couch to test out. She had to get home, Cinderella style, before midnight but when she left that night that shirt left with her.
I woke up this morning thinking about that gal, that shirt and the why's and who's of it all. Why did we start trading that shirt back and forth? Who came up with that idea? I suppose, in the end she did, because she sent that shirt back to me washed and dipped in an eau de dryer sheet cologne. I strapped on that shirt one night and went into work the next day looking as if I had spent the night wrestling with bears and wild cats both. I was haggard and worn, with deep, dark circles under my eyes. It was that shirt. I know it sounds crazy, but once I put in on it issued forth an outrageous scent all night long that was mighty powerful, and if I dare say, slightly erotic. I wasn't her that I was smelling, it was the dryer sheets. Wow. And I'll leave it at that, for the sake of all the family viewers out there.
That shirt went back and forth for months. Washed here, body scent there. She finally stopped using dryer sheets, not only for the sake of that shirt but for her family, too. Changed everything and I'm sure put that shirt and her reasoning under the microscope of deep scrutiny.
That shirt left my house a couple years ago. Was it a victim of The Big Purge? I never found out. I know that it could have ended up, along with other unknown items, in the Big Box Bound for the Great Second Hand in the sky. Or the one here in town. I haven't found it yet. And if I do, dollars to donuts, I bet it'll smell like dryer sheets all over again.
Your WHMB
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