Our restless souls have gotten the best of us once again and we have said goodbye to our hosts at Electric Pen. Mixing it up with everyone was inspiring. Working as an art director on projects with new designers was an unexpected jolt to our own work. But all things must end. We count the whole crew as new friends, except for James, that guy’s messed up.

So, farewell, friends – I’m sure we’ll bump into each other in the creative wilds of Seattle. When we do, we look forward to comparing photos and war stories over a few pints of mead. A toast to you, and we’re off … but where to?

For a Gypsy, two months is a lifetime – like seven days to a housefly. It’s time to shed the exoskeleton and load up the caravan … and, uh, waste a bunch of our “expense” funds on gasoline. (Have you seen the price of that stuff lately?) Second thought: a long trip across town may not be the best – maybe a shorter distance this time – we’ll work our way across Seattle like little ripples from skipping rocks.

Then – BAM! – like a force of nature we found an ad in this thing called Craigslist. Or, rather, someone in Justin’s crew found the ad. Anyway, someone was looking for officemates. Have you seen that thing Craigslist? Amazing! You can find almost anything there! We’ll totally use that again – what a find. But there’s more: The office was a small design firm called Pixelube, .7 miles from where we’ve been hanging. That’s p-o-i-n-t s-e-v-e-n miles straight to the waters of Lake Union. Not only is it downhill, we won’t even have to crank up the caravan – we could just coast it there. More money for brewed drinks! Just as Zunehilda the palm reader said it would, the chips are falling into place.

So we called up Vincent Dean, the proprietor of our fine new haunt and arranged a look-see. We coasted .7 miles, and soon realized that the waters edge was at .69 miles. Pixelube is housed at the end of a dock in a marina. It is an old pump-house for boats, not simply on the water’s edge, but ON the water, Jesus-like. This place is magical. Wait. Spiritual. (Sorry Jesus.) Anyway, thanks to Vince, this place is our new temporary home.

Gypsies aren’t far from Pirates right? Yo-ho-ho and grog-induced sea shanties for pirates are pretty-much the seafaring versions of the gypsy‘s bonfires, squeeze–boxes, and drunken revelry under the moon. Neither have too much issue acquiring bounty or bootie, and neither pay much mind to the status quo. Kindred souls, I say – travelers, lovers of life, and grabbers of whatever needs to be grabbed. For the foreseeable future we are pirate gypsies. We probably always were – we just didn’t know it.

Now we need a Bathysphere, but that’s a story for next time.