Ballard Bullshit

You have to dig into the Ballard political scene to know this bulbous little Hitler. Ballard is his town, and you'd better give up your butt for a good pounding if you want to get any city money. "Ballard is a small town," he told me. "You'd better understand that." You loyal readers can predict my reaction by now can't you? This slippery trough-feeder hides behind his disability. (I'll bet he drinks pure shots of pork grease for breakfast.)

He's legally blind.

But he's also legally corrupt. So why did he threaten your local Crusader???
I had received numerous complaints about "Crudie Rudy," you know the dickhead who blows those leaves up your dresses and male thongs on Market Street every morning. (Rudies' paycheck comes from the Ballard Merchants Association headed by Mary Hurley of Best Regards.) Well I had the audacity to question his alliance with Mary and her little toy-boy Rudie who blows leaves, as well as other items he likes to blow, but who's measuring inches here? Rob and Mary are in the same political bed. Not only do they massage each others' backs, they are in league to corn-hole every resident of Ballard. To thicken the plot a bit, Ms. Hurtful-Hurley is the President of the Ballard District Council, which meets on the second Wednesday of each month, at the new library. (More on this transparent amoeba group in a bit.) Collusion is rampant. You dear readers might be confused already, but this is how these people control you, and spend City money, all by favoritism. To explain:

Milk-tit Mattson is the City's representative to the Ballard District Council. They are the good ole boys and girls who have the power and the Glory of the Second Coming. Under the guise of "community involvement," they are there to screw you. Don't believe me? Just go to one of their meetings. You'll see how a truly modern financial bordello works. If you're willing to play their game, you're in. It's simple, that's how it works. It's been this way since the cavemen offered up their wives to other hunters to acquire a rotting, smelly dinosaur bone. So Blood-leech Rob didn't like it when I showed him a document proving his acceptance and support of the business who supports and pays for our noxious leaf blower. So he decided he could cut my legs off. I guess if you have a disability, you would like to project that to others that don't like your policies.

I promised you some clarification. Here's how the power works. Let's say you have a project you want to get off the ground. Yup, you need some money, and you find out the city has grants that will help you. Well, you live in Ballard, and you find out about the City of Seattle Department of Neighborhoods, which has grants from $250. to $100,000. For real, this money is available. But you have to start somewhere, and the City wants you to step through the hoops, just like a Vegas feather dancer. So they refer you to the Neighborhood District Coordinator, who knows the red tape, inside and out. But you'd better be nice to that person, because he/she makes recommendations to the City about your proposal. You can sink or swim here. There's only 13 of these "coordinators" for the City of Seattle. Are you with me? You piss one of these local sheiks off and you'll be blacklisted. Oh but they would never admit to that.

Our Coordinator is Rob Mattson. He's slick, mouthy, and banks on the slight percentage of advantage because of his "disability." After all, can you really bad-mouth a blind man? What would the neighbors think? So Rob knows his leverage very well. He thrives on ego massage, and knows the City basically cannot do one damn thing to curb his power base. I know this, I called his superiors about his threat. So if you want grant money, get ready to smell the brown when you pull your nose out of his ass. Except for me that is.

As mentioned, Rob is the City's representative to the Ballard District Council. Well who the Hell are these yay-hoos? The Council is a quasi-government organization. They are not paid by the City, but have various, powerful input mechanisms that really work. Any business or even "group" can be a member, if you are accepted that is. I have read their By-Laws and they are about as clear as puke in a vinegar bath. So, if you want a grant, it is best to be affiliated, in one way or another, with the Council, where King Rob sits. Are you seeing this yet? Mary Hurley is the current President of the Council, and if you want to see Evil incarnate, go to a meeting. Her persona is absolutely angelic, but her deeds are black. She's a modern day Goth in designer clothes. She is a siren whose melodic song lures you into her spidery maze, and then she calls her political and business troops in to squash you. She's ruined the Ballard Seafood Festival (unless you're an insider) with her regulatory fervor. (Sue me Mary, I've got a whole lotta other stuff on you: does the word 'dyspraxia' mean anything to you? Would the State be interested in your BMA's nefarious deeds over the years?)

So the two powers that rule Ballard (excluding Beth, et al, over at the Chamber of Commerce, which will be the subject of a future issue), are Profligate Rob and Dominatrix Mary, (I would have used the term "Strap-on" but that term has been heisted by a member of the Ballard Insurgents to describe one particularly vindictive female police officer.) I'm almost thankful that the immense financial Dukes who are behind the various condo projects are independent of these two. They, the Money barons, have bigger financial assets, and bigger power, but for the rest of us pee-ons, we have to live with the pettiness.

So if you're wanting a grant, or if you're a hot dog vendor who needs help navigating Parks and Rec, or if you need any other sort of "insider" know-how, the City wants you to go through King Rob. His phone number is (206) 684.4060. If you want to protect the herons that nest nearby, and you don't know what agency to contact, just call Guillotine Rob. If you're really fearful about Emergency Preparedness in the advent of an earthquake or a terrorist attack, call Savior Rob, after all, he is God, and certainly, we must all bow to divinity. . .

Oh, I almost forgot, do you know what my immediate answer to Rob was when he told me he'd cut my legs off at the knees? "I've got a lot of prosthetics," I said. . . . . .


Discrimination at
QFC
(and you know what the "F" stands for)
Profiling is Alive in Well in Ballard!

Weasels come in many forms. I just hate it when they happen to be hominids, masquerading as sentient, homo sapiens. Well let's just name some names here and let the chips fall where they may.

Allan is the Store Manager. Jim is the Assistant Store Manager. I hope you're impressed. Jim is also a slippery profiler that obviously is not affected by Federal Law that even reigns in cops for doing that. So what on Earth happened that pissed me off, in my never ending fight for the common man?

I park my bike outside, walk in, and pause to take my hat and gloves off. A man had just bought a sandwich and a coffee, and simply wanted to put cream and sugar in his brew. Pretty simple so far huh? Well there was a fancy thousand dollar bike absolutely blocking access to the condiments, and the man looked around for the owner, couldn't find him, and proceeded to gently move the bike out of the way. The owner of the bike, dressed in hundred dollar lycra tights, rushed over. "Hey, what'ya doing?" he asked. "I just wanted to dress up my coffee," the shopper replied. Pretty innocent so far. Well, I finished shopping, and I walk out the same North door I came in, and the same shopper (His name is Zack) looked at me, and with total exasperation, said, "I don't believe what just happened to me."

Let's take a little closer look. If you were to look at Zack that evening, you would have seen a man in jeans and old jacket, covered in mud, slightly unshaven, with steel tipped boots that had gone through Hell. Well he's obviously a transient right? And "His filthiness" moved someone's fancy-ass bike. Well we can't have vermin touching the porous cleanliness of a Gen-X man, right? And then, Heaven forbid, this slob actually sat down on the bench in there and started eating his sandwich. How dare a filthy street person sit on a QFC bench and eat his "probably stolen" sandwich. Get rid of the asshole!!!

"What happened?" I asked Zack.

"Well some store manager told me I was rude to a customer, and that I couldn't eat my sandwich in here, he basically kicked me out of the store."

"Oh really," I pondered. "Let's get him out here, because I witnessed what you did with that bike."

Well one of the cashiers was listening in, and she called oily Jim (maybe). When he walked up on his magic carpet of petroleum, I started asking questions, and asking them fast. Jim thought he could out-slippery me, and baffle me with his putrid verbage. Didn't work. He told me one of his employees relayed a message to him, that this filthy person had been rude to a customer. But remember, I saw the whole thing. "Did you tell him to leave because he was eating his sandwich on your bench?" I asked.

"I told him this was not an eating area," Jim vomited. In other words, Jammin' Jim was masking his intentions with political finesse that any fifth grader could've seen through.

Let's just take a further look at Zack. Mr. Ingraham is a carpenter, and makes $24.75 an hour. That particular day, he had "mucked out" a construction site, and it was wet, muddy, sloppy and sticky. He hadn't eaten all day, and was damn hungry. He paid his honest money at the QFC, and was so ravenous, he simply opened up the cellophane and dug in. But QFC didn't like how he looked, after all, he wasn't the pretty metrosexual with the lacquered bike was he now? And for working hard, being hungry, and making a damn good wage, he was profiled by none other than the Grand Weasel of QFC, Jim. That is outright discrimination, and for that, Up Yours Jim.

I had a one-on-one talk with Allan, the real Manager. He assured me he'd get to the bottom of it, and perhaps send Zack a courtesy card. But he, like a good little Toby, did nothing to right this wrong. "Give me a few days to figure this out," he told me. That's a stonewall. And Allan, for that, go back to Kindergarten. Little boys who have fear as a motivating factor need to start over from the course titled, "Adolescent One." Is there anybody that's even close to Sainthood (in management that is) at QFC? Yup, and his name is Martin, who, even according to various employees, is fair, reasonable, and knows how to take a joke. I know Martin, and yes he is that rare person who knows how to treat people like people. I hope you do not get corrupted young man.

And I know some of you kind readers are already wondering. . .what the Hell right did the fancy boy have bringing his bike into QFC in the first place?

A copy of this article is being sent to the various QFC managers, and President. And if I don't get satisfaction for this blatant display of discrimination, I'll go higher yet, to the Kroger headquarters in Cincinatti Ohio, just like I did with the previous Manager, (I called her Suzie QFC), who got banished to Carnation for her little indiscretions with our community. I'm sure she's faring just fine with those rural folks. . .(does the word start with "red"?).
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