Ballard Bullshit

Illuminating the Neighborhood of Ballard, Washington
______________________________________________________________________________

Ballard Bull****
Volume 3, Number 4, ©April 2006
Editor,Publisher, & Lead Writer: Richard Andrews
"Where Informed Attitude Counts"
e: ballardbullshit@yahoo.com
website: http://ballardbullshit.blogspot.com
* * * * *
Emasculated Urban Hillbillys

i-'mas-kyæ-lãt: 1: to deprive of virile or procreative power: castrate 2: to deprive of masculine vigor or spirit: weaken. syn see unnerve.

'er-ben: of, relating to, characteristic of, or constituting a city.

'hil-bil-ee: a person from a backwoods area.

We tend to think of "backwoods" as a term relating to stagnant organic growth, or even subterfuge of a pristine existence. But overpopulation forces new definitions. When you have miles and miles of city, backwoods acquires another dimension of meaning. Neighborhoods can become so distinct as to belie their urban plait. They can become independent, isolated towns, completely unrelated to the political boundaries that tell them otherwise. Without purpose, neighborhoods can revert to the very core that was their genesis. When that reversal occurs, a mind-shift accompanies the retrograde movement.

I.e., if you, as a town, were born from proven hillbilly immigration, you just may revert to that in a hundred years or so. Ballard has accomplished just that.

The Scandinavian stereotypes still rule here in Ballard. Any cutesy, mainstream press article still talks about lutefisk, strange accents, and colorful adornments. Nothing could be further from the truth. But even according to the historical Bible, Passport to Ballard, the original immigrants were, to wit, miscreants. They were a bunch of losers who couldn't compete in their homeland. They sought easier pick'ns. Resources were limitless here in Ballard, and the ecological rape was on. One thing these migrants were good at, was rape. Their vocabulary was limited, and when they could speak, it was in a lingo rife with Nordic slang and poverty verbiage. They almost had to go to church on Sunday, because most of them couldn't even read, and for certain, the preacher's gonna talk the truth, ain't he?

These fair haired/skinned titans subjugated the Native Americans, who believed in personal veracity and a morality that far superceded these hicks from across the water. But when God says you are a savage heathen, you own nothing. In fact, the very land your ancestors lived on for twelve centuries guarantees it is a terra firma contract from Satan.

So the abject ignorance of the settlers, via sheer numbers, ruled. Settlers whose base emotions were at the fore supported a dozen whorehouses; immigrants who could only speak in monosyllables even in their native tongue, found land that could support ignorance. In short, 19th Century hillbillys.

Speed forward that to Ballard, circa 2006. The baby-boomers' children are the oh-so-hip denizens. They are the ultimate recipients of forward historical indulgence, and their orgiastic mind-set, a substitute for self-absorbtion, fuels their rush to oblivion. With no nod to history, they plow into the urban fields with abandon worthy of a boar in rut. They have dumbed down their existence to guttural phrases and non-drug induced vacancy. They have returned to their roots, they are hillbillys.

Ah but the price of that return is extremely high. The women have exercised their powers of fickleness into law, and the men have accepted that temporary maneuver as dogma. But that "y" chromosome cannot be denied, ultimately.

The "metrosexuals" (a hundred years ago these gents would have been called "dandys") have substituted the honor of manhood for subservience. Like Narcissus staring into the pond, these fetid excuses for maleness have accepted a temporary standard of male beauty as Truth. For these lost souls, it is more important to assuage their own ego, and drown in their tempest of self immolation. All at the expense of two sensory faculties. . .sight and touch. And all women should bow at their altar of physical beauty, right?

That same mirror will haunt these expensive egotists when they age, and their shallow approach to life will echo and reverberate. Multiply this times a generation, and you can see how present technology and ignorance feeds this monster.

The heterosexuals who now have ascribed to "pretty," have put in yet another debasing subscription. Theirs is the world of full-knowledge subordination. These are the true hicks. They check to the "female" power, just so they can acquire sexual satisfaction. They are refined, usually mouthy, but man, they have a larger voice in their groin that speaks. Hell, they'll let the laws change until they are eunuched out, and it will still be OK, just so they can be gratified. This is a major change from the "good ole boy gettin' laid" paradigm. This is inferior capacity. They have abandoned historical and genetic Truths for temporal pleasure, to the detriment of future generations. "High culture" doesn't mean a lofty search for perfection in the Arts, it is simply the result of an herb.

Which brings me to the historical and aquatic bent of this whole discourse. The male seahorse has a pouch. This really is a womb. The female deposits her eggs in the pouch, where the male then fertilizes them. Conception takes place inside of the male. That is his subservience, his feminization. This is the Seattle male consciousness. It is an infection that is temporal, but dangerous, and indeed, contagious. The anomaly that is the Seattle male is a disgrace, not only to the building blocks that culture is predicated on, but to historical precepts that we can actually access. The Seattle male has given up any sense of intellectualism for his basest instincts. . .and that ultimately is a result of the public school system, single parenthood (numerically a vast majority), and a male attitude that is so caustically hedonistic it is destructive.

The equalization battle will eventually be lost by women, because the genetic struggle is never about equality--that is an impossible fantasy. The equality issue is a losing battle, it is a cosmic impossibility. Once women realize that being feminine (not dominant) is the ultimate power syndrome, the sexes will come back to balance. If there ever was a race of women warriors, now known as Amazons, they certainly perished in the mists of time.

So the Seahorse that is the Seattle male, is not only pathetic, but unnatural. Dominant women who enjoy emasculating men have become the norm, and worse, the men have accepted it here. This bastardized attitude is seeping, slowly but relentlessly, into mainstream America. Seattle is most definitely the breeding grounds for many movements, but this one will be a dusky mark to its sterling history. It is akin to the Black Plague that started from a putrid drinking source in London in the Dark Ages. (The mystery was solved by modern day science: the infected fleas drank there, and bred on rats which infested the seaports, and were then transported by the shipping trade. Oh did those fleas love to jump their hosts and live in the beds that were also breeding grounds for many species, such as homo sapien). But why not take this into another metaphor: if you were a smart, feisty woman who subscribed to Truth in the 1680's, in Salem Massachusetts, and you gave a condescending look to a prejudiced misogynist, you would be put on trial for possessing an "evil eye," found guilty, and burned slowly at the stake. This Seahorse phenomenon, which is a modern deadly mental plague, has swarmed Seattle. The feminized heterosexual men have become parasites and only have electronic heroes and androgynous musicians to emulate, with additional negative models: bisexual women, business women with heavy attitudes , and single Moms who hold anti-male grudges. They, the Seahorses, don't have a clue about History and its adoration of the true feminine model. They accept the obese fetish goddess role as superior. But History has other means of correction, which will no doubt come from another sector of American or European society.

It might take a major tectonic plate shift, a meteor collision, a continental nuclear extermination, or a traditional war with immense casualties to change this power shift, but it will happen. The Seattle male fears women, and capitulates over lattés and sensuality. A base instinct, the fear of castration and penis dismemberment, has superceded any forceful mechanisms of logic or masculinity, and quality female interaction. The result is a gross amoebic tumor, an assiduous cancer on the global society that will be eventually eliminated, with the resulting purge being a clean slate where men will once again be traditional, and naturally in sync. Just as gravity controls a rock you may drop and just as black holes suck even light photons backward, so there is no counter argument or successful aberration to the natural order.

The DNA genome has been charted for the first time by researchers at the University of Washington. These are unchangeable, locked-in, sequences of life, and its replications. The Seattle "goddesses" have tried to alter this in a very short time span, and that effort is doomed for failure.

You may think this really is a problem of attitude. I wish it were that simple. Societal attitude usually changes with corrective knowledge. What I am describing is a sort of theatrical Passover, where you will be spared if you submit to female instability. And that's why this whole systemic mentastasized amalgam is a temporary phenomenon.

Well let's boil some blood in Shakespeare's cauldron shall we?

Do you remember the acronym SNAG? It started in the '90's and meant Sensitive New Age Guy. It was the precursor to my phrase: the Emasculated Urban Hillbilly. But the word SNAG was just too caustic a word, and only caught on briefly. So it morphed into the very pleasant term Metrosexual. That term legitimized the soft side of men, with its resultant physical expressions of sweet clothes, plucked hair in various places, and a compliant demeanor--but strictly heterosexual. An urbanized SNAG. (There will be yet another term in the near future to mean the same thing, I don't think my term will gain national acceptance. EUH just isn't pronounceable, unless you say "ugh!")

On to my point. Currently, if there is any sort of tragedy, and you are interviewed and you are male, if you can produce tears you will get air time. So now it's not enough just to be an emasculated feminized male, you have to produce tears, and the more prodigious, the better the coverage. The women (and their economic power) love the glistening orbs of emotion--it further empowers them and justifies their galvanizing force to reduce their "men" to a consensual status that is the ultimately degrading. After all, the men are merely making womb donations, because it is the woman's baby, and the woman's rules of conduct.

So the pitiful sight of a man crying on TV or on the front page of the New York Times has become the new image for sensitivity. These jellyfish consent to this blatant display of weakness to gain sexual acceptance. Just think about this before you disagree, dear reader. But I think we should really add a little more science to the mix: the tears should be collected and tested for salt content. The man with the most salt wins.

The emasculation is complete.

The Seattle male is a malignant tumor and a mind-set that is expanding exponentially. This phenomenon has no future until it rots from within and decomposes. The Seattle male has allowed himself to be obsequious and is in sycophantic compliance.

"He who has an ear, let him hear. . ."--Revelation 2:7.
* * * * *

Oh dear readers, I think I'm getting a little too crafty as of late. The Ballard District Council met yet again (every 2nd Wednesday, 7:00 p.m. at the new Library), and one of the featured speakers was Representative Mary Lou Dickerson. Well, she spouted the usual political machinations to insure her milque-toast base, and then the floor was opened up for questions. Every one, to a tee, was concerned about the huge monies it would take for the various viaduct replacement options. Not me though. I raised my hand:

"Ms. Dickerson," I prompted. "I live in Ballard, I vote, and therefore you are my representative. I don't really have any lofty financial questions for you, but I do have a local question. You mentioned early in your discourse that the residents of Ballard, Magnolia, and Phinney supported the 'rebuild' option. Can you tell me specifically, which poll or survey indicated that, so I can personally check on it?"

Her face, caked with make-up, flushed. "Well," she sputtered. "I base that on, uh, my discussions with people, my talks with various meetings I attend, and, uh, with various business constituents." Yet another pregnant pause. . . she repeated herself in different anabases. So the crux of her verification for her personal decision to vote for the rebuild, was baseless. I really don't want to hear from the "we need more women in legislative positions" crowd. They (the electorate) are all crooked on their way to the top, and insurance for re-election is the prime mover. So aren't you glad we have yet another politician who doesn't really have a tap on his/her constituents? Aren't you happy her personal little polls, absolutely unscientific and unverified, are the basis for a hugely important capitol project in Seattle, with a price tag numbering billions? And as an adjunct to the previous article, this is the same Mary Lou Dick-Her-Son who has taken her "goddess" castration agenda to the State Capitol:

Jake Eakin and Evan Savoie are now on trial for the heinous murder of a thirteen year old schoolmate, Craig Sorger. Evan had little Craig kneel on the ground, count to ten, and at nine, dropped a rock the size of a basketball on Craig's head. Then Evan stabbed him 34 times, at least. "Why are you doing this?" Craig pleaded. "I'm dying!" Then perky little Jake took a tree limb and beat the mortally wounded child until the club snapped in two. Then the two ghouls left to go have a Pepsi.

Representative Mary Boo-Hoo said (on 4.15.2006): "These kids were only 12 years old at the time of the offense, and given what we know now about the capacity of 12 year-olds, it's crazy to treat them as adults and assure mandatory minimums of 20 years."

Don't you agree that 12 year-old murdering males are so cute, they don't deserve justice? When they're boys they're adorable; when they're men they're in the way.

This putrid excuse for a legislator needs a six month stint in the women's wing of the Correctional Institute to clear her mind, and then her orifices. As Ms. Screw-You departed the Library commons, I walked up to her and handed her my card.

"I wasn't happy with any of your comments tonight," I told her. "Uninformed legislators are a scourge on the State."

"Well why don't you stop into my office above Lombardi's, we'll talk," she replied.

"I don't commune with contagious, terminally ill people," I countered. "It appears you're in advanced stages of hoof-and-mouth. Especially the Mouth." I walked away.

I think it's perfectly normal that an elected grandmother should exhibit her first stages of Altzheimer's publicly. Get my point? I sure hope her house doesn't have too many flat tires. . . . .all the parks are closing.

Don't you admire pigs feeding at the financial trough?

Let me be real succinct here. Over by Mars Hill Church is a square block that is slated for yet more development. It is colloquially named "Ballard Blocks." No attitude from your editor on that. It kind of sounds like a child's overgrown Tonka Toy. But Scott Clark, Principal Architect and Developer, spoke. The usual "neighborhood friendly" justifications ensued, to the yawns of a few participants. But then he slipped in a juicy tidbit: an 88 year old woman is the only landowner that stands in the way of the development. She dedicated the Ballard Bridge oh so many years ago. She is an icon of feisty, old-timey babes. Arrogantly, Scott proclaimed, "Edith's attitude is one of 'bring it on,' and we will." Then he went on to extoll all of the virtues of the huge project. But that one line stuck in my craw, and when he was done with the peasants, and walked out the door (early), I cornered him in the Library hallway.

"Excuse me Scott," I intervened. "You said you were going to 'bring it on' with Edith. What did you mean by that?"

He reiterated, almost verbatim, his earlier words. So I asked him again, "What are you going to do to Edith? Eminent domain?"

"Oh no no," he replied. "We are just going to continue our project."

"Wait a minute," I countered. "That doesn't tell me anything. Flat out, are you going to legally evict her via eminent?" He shook his head. "Are you going to kill her? That would certainly solve your problem. Just what does your challenge really mean?"

"Look, we offered her a lot of money. We offered her medical, in many forms. We offered her more than market value for her property, we offered her a fund for her and her relatives. And she has refused all of our offers."

"So what's your alternative," I pushed.

"Well, I guess we'll just have to build around her, and when she dies, we'll just see where the property goes."

What a preposterous statement that is. Do you see it dear readers? I'll bet in yet another secret set of architect plans, there is a contingency to just connect the new buildings after Saint Edith dies, but we won't see those plans. At least for now, she's holding firm. I hope she lives for more than a century.

"Warn! Warn! Warn!" Old crow flew up from his favorite perch atop the tall, ragged cedar tree.

"Warn, warn!" he called and began to fly in a widening circle.

"Warn! Warn!" Young crow flew into the air echoing the cry. It is the rule of crows. When one cries "Warn!" all others repeat the cry. Young crow flew higher looking everywhere for danger.

"Warn!" cried Old crow again. "Falcon is in the sky! Warn!"

Young crow scanned the clouds but could see nothing. The cry of alarm echoed across the tree tops as other crows took up the call. Brother crow and Ladyfeather flew up from below.

"Warn!" cried Brother.

"Warn!" cried Ladyfeather.

"What is it?" Brother asked.

"Danger. Where is danger?" Ladyfeather asked.

"Old crow has seen a falcon!" Young crow answered. All across the crowKeep the calls of alert and warning went up.

Bushbirds hid in the thickets. Ducks and geese seeking refuge paddled under boughs and branches that grew over the shores of the nearby canal.

"Falcon is in the air!" Old crow insisted. "Warn! Warn!"

Young crow repeated the alert for that was his duty. He scanned the clouds above, hoping Old crow was just seeing shadows. But in an instant a shape, grey on grey, glided across the sky far above. Falcon was on the hunt. Falcon was brave and very fast.

A clutch of pigeons, seven or eight, flew up. Startled they were, heeding the crow warn, and dashed away, confused in their flight.

Pigeons fly fast, very fast, and some can travel long distances. But pigeons fly straight, without thinking. And this group flew too high.

Falcon dropped from the sky faster than any pigeon. Into the middle of them he fell, wings tucked back, talons flaring. He struck one of the pigeons in full flight and grabbed it. A puff of pale feathers exploded in the air. Falcon had his prey.

"Scold! Scold!" Old crow changed his cry and flew after Falcon. The pigeon was doomed. Falcon dropped to the ground and raked the unfortunate bird with his talons and snapped it with his fearsome sharp beak.

"Scold! Scold!" A dozen crows gathered around, perched on wire and branch above the deadly falcon. A dozen more flew in from all around.

"Scold! Scold! Scold!" The many crows chanted together.

Old crow, then Brother crow dove from their perches and swooped down to harass Falcon. Young crow followed and dove, clipping Falcon on the head.

Falcon was not concerned.

"Pigeons are mine!" he cried. "Pigeons are mine!" His screech did not dismay the crows.

"Scold! Scold!" they continued.

"We are the crows! This is our crowkeep. All birds are welcome here. Scold! Scold! Birdeater, go away!"

Falcon paid them no notice. Suddenly, his talons gripping his pigeon prey, he flew off into a nearby cedar dense with foliage.

Young crow flew at him.

"Scold!" Young crow cried.

Brother crow flew after him.

"Scold! Scold!"

Ladyfeather crow flew to the dense cedar.

"Falcon is here!" she cried. "Falcon is here!"

But Falcon ignored them. He settled into the protective cloak of the cedar boughs where none could see him. In time, the crows flew off to other interests. Brother and Ladyfeather were hungry and turned away from Falcon watch to look for food. Old crow and Young crow were the last to leave.

"But we don't even like pigeons," Young crow said. "They do nothing for us crows. They eat too much and take food from us. Why should we care about them?"

"It is our job to warn other birds when falcon, hawk, or eagle is in the sky. Pigeons are stupid. Great Raven has set us to watch over them. And the silly geese, the foolish ducks, the timid bushbirds. We are crows. This place is our Keep. Stay alert, Young crow. Be brave. Always watch the sky and be quick to sound alarm. It is our task in the way of the world. We are crows.

Now look, we all have bread that, well, just goes a little bit stale and dry. Hell, it's still food. I had a partial loaf of righteous kosher rye bread that I just couldn't throw away. It was early morn, and I threw those little hard-breads to the universe. I figured my neighborhood birds needed a little treat..
I tossed those sheaves like Frisbees, and there was a certain amount of Freedom to that. Crows appeared in minutes, and not a single seagull. Now that is unusual here. Jewish Rye to the Jewish Crows! No Palestinian fowl here. . . .

By gawd it appears my letter to the Branch Manager of Ballard's Washington Mutual had an effect, well a 2/3 effect. That damn clock tower that hasn't told time in two years has had some attention. As you no doubt have noticed by now, two of the three sides have hands that actually tell the correct time. Now about that South facing dial. . .

A kudo to Patty and Benson, who are raising a remarkable young son, Jager. We always hear about all of the crap our young people get into, but what about those parents who are raising fine upstanding kids? Dismiss the inconsequential surveys, and celebrate the kind folks who are quietly bringing the next generation into focus. These are our neighbors, these are Americans.

How about a little garbage? The Chai House, or rather some employees, have a direct link to the Capitol Hill murders. But guess what? There already is a rebound effect, and the pendulum is swinging to the obverse. What was cool, for a brief spell, has swung the other way. The ravers and hardware kidz have milked the coffers too much. They didn't realize the public has a short attention span, and no longer cares. Welcome to the real world Chavon, Donovan, Tom, and Five.

The Yankee Diner closed its doors. And it went out whining and whimpering like a she-bitch in heat. They've ripped off Ballard and its environs for decades, and now that they can't do that anymore, they locked its doors like a Federal cellmate. Good riddance. The new development, the Silver Cloud Hotel, is a suitable replacement. At least they have plans to appease us locals. Waterfront, even if its just a canal, can get quite spendy, can't it?

Folks, just get aware of Market Street, west of 24th. A lot of money is being spent over there. New businesses are cropping up with the hope that people will actually walk across that dangerous intersection. And yes you should traverse that! The traditional model of Ballard business is from 15th to 24th. Whooops. Realign your thinking. From 24th to the Locks is totally vibrant and viable. I will be featuring some of these businesses in future Bull**** issues.