Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Ballard Bull****
Editor/Publisher/Lead Writer: Richard Andrews
Volume 3, © Fall of 2006
"Where Informed Attitude Counts"
e: ballardbullshit@yahoo.com
web: http://ballardbullshit.blogspot.com
* * * * *
Go Ask Alice. . .
The Kind of Heroine You Should Put in Your Veins!
Yup. (Vis-a-vis "White Rabbit," by the Jefferson Airplane.)
Giants are real. Nowadays, they just don't happen to subscribe to linear measurements. I want you to be cognizant of a real Goliath and her name is Edith Macefield. (1438 NW 46th Street, Seattle, 98107)
I knocked twice, firmly, because the handwritten sign on the door read: "Please knock loudly, the writer might be upstairs composing." After a couple of minutes, there was a little stirring behind the door. And there she was, all 4' 10" of her.
She peered at me cautiously, and very politely said, "Hello."
"Good morning Edith," I said. "I wondered if you would give me a few minutes of your time to talk about all of this development around you. I am a journalist, and I write a newsletter called 'Ballard Bullshit.'"
"Bullshit?" she questioned, as her one good eye brightened. "I like bullshit, c'mon in!"
Her living room had the comfortable feeling of grandmas--pungent, yet familiar and close. Straight ahead was her kitchen, immaculate, and painted in shades of spring lilac. She pointed to a loveseat and said, "Have a seat there." She moved her walker out of the way and sat down on her floral print couch, directly across from me, and stared at me. "Go ahead," she said.
"Well a few days ago I talked with Scott Clark, the developer who's going to build around you, that is, if you don't cave in."
"Cave in?" she exclaimed. "I'm gonna live here 'till I die, and yes, I've talked to Scott a number of times. He was very nice to me, but that's because he wanted something from me. I'm just not going to sell. You probably already know, if you're any sort of journalist worth his salt, that Scott can't touch me."I had to summon all of my professional strength, I was in front of a very snappy and smart lady. "Scott told me he offered you a very pretty penny for your property," I replied. ". . .in addition to all sorts of medical payments as well as a trust fund for your immediate relatives."
"Money is the last thing I need. I bought this house for my mother back in '52, and here I'll die. Nine hundred grand isn't going to give me a regenerated life. Period. I briefly thought about giving the property to the Catholic church, but then I thought it over, and I'm not going to give a damn thing to a bunch of pedophiles."
Whoa baby! I thought. Now we were getting somewhere. One thing I've always prided myself on is awareness of the moment. I knew what was in front of me. Something very pure, someone very huge.
"I heard you dedicated the Ballard Bridge, as in, you were the first person to walk across it?"
"Well yes that's true," she mused. "But that was many years ago, maybe sixty or so. I think I may be known for just a little more than that."
"You mean other than your victory for staying put on this block," I asked.
"How much time do you have young man?"
"I've got all day ma'am."
In a very lucid monologue, she proceeded to tell me about her remarkable life. Her excellent diction and syntax enthralled me. During World War II, she worked for the precursor of the CIA (the OSS), and was assigned to duty in England. High level intelligence stuff, involvement to this day she cannot, and will not, divulge. But she did tell me that famed French chef, Julia Child, was working in French intelligence, and they were in constant contact. Imagine that.
And as a very young, very beautiful, and very smart young woman, she was noticed romantically, by a well known literary colossus: William Sommerset Maugham himself. Oh, but that's a little too racy a story. Sigh.
So her mysterious employment ran its course, but the writing bug had bit her. She stayed in England for thirty years, and published many books under a pseudonym, transcontinentally bought that house she lives in, and then returned to Seattle. She had very little respect for American writers, and forged a new identity, successfully, all over Europe.
"Would you like to see my last book?" she asked.
"Well I would be honored."
She rose slowly with her walker, and took twelve steps into an adjoining room. I heard a muffled noise of pain.
"Are you alright?" I asked.
"Well maybe you could help me."
She had placed a hardcover book atop her walker, and could not negotiate the load. I grabbed the book--all 1,157 pages of it! I thought she was giving me a dictionary, but no, it was her last publishing effort. I was absolutely amazed.
Titled "Where Yesterday Began," the nom de plume used was Domilini. This little, frail woman, in her tidy house, is a national treasure.
I heard a faint noise to my left, and a small object moved. I hadn't noticed her tiny dog who had been not five feet from me, perfectly camouflaged into the carpet. Oh so slowly, this friend of Edith's hobbled toward me, its patchy, mangy coat looked like a well-worn doormat. Totally blind, it smelled my pants cuff, and I leaned over and softly said, "Well hi little one, are you gonna greet me?" Gently, it put its tongue out of its toothless mouth and touched my nose.
Like my 96 year-old friend, Oliver Feathers, told me long ago, "Gettin' old is Hell."
That's why I prefer to call her Saint Edith.
* * * * *
Do You Need $5,000?
Become a pig, it's that simple.
You know those annoying envelopes that come packed with coupons to entice you into buying goods or services you really don't need? Well no kidding, a month ago, in what's called ValPac of South Puget Sound, I was absolutely shocked to see the following coupon (reproduced in its entirety):
$5,000 CASH REWARD
Receive Up to a $5000 Cash Reward
For Information Leadng (sic) To The Seizure
Of Marijuana Growing Operations.
Call Today
All Calls Totally Anonymous
Call Must Be Received Before Law Enforcement Involvement.
REWARD PROGRAM
Monday Through Friday
7:30am-4:30pm
1-800-388-GROW (4769)
So not only should you turn your agricultural neighbor in, you get a bundle to do it. Now just look at some of the subtleties in this onerous coupon. The line about the call being received before cop involvement hints at some shady bounty hunter group placing this piece of garbage in our mail. But there certainly is a larger issue here. When will the authorities lighten up on the pot thing? This type of Draconian thinking here in 2006 is absolutely unacceptable. I won't bore you dear readers with all of the well known arguments for the decriminalization of hooch, but to receive a solicitation, via a mass mailing, encouraging me to bust neighbors of mine goes right back to the hysteria of the Commie-hunters of the 1950s. Y'know, narcs have very bad things happen to them. So is a busted up body really worth the five grand? If you don't agree with me, well I gave you the phone number didn't I? Just watch your back after you make the call. . . .
* * * * *
Gruff-iti Redux
"Rhetoric is the art of ruling the minds of men."
--Plato
Speaking of swine, let's just shift focus to local politics for a second. More folks should really attend the Ballard District Council meetings for a sublime visit into the Valley of the Ridiculous (2nd Wednesday, every month at the new library, 7:00 p.m.). To get a close smell of puke in a public forum should entice you to attend.
"People must decide whether they choose to be the carcass or the vulture."--Lance Morrow
One of God's top Angels spoke about the "graffiti problem" here in Ballard, up 300% he claims (and that is uninformed bullshit). Yes I'm talking about Ass-istant City Attorney, Edward McKenna. He just wouldn't shut up about his perceived problem. This skinny little weasel raved on and on and hogged a lot of otherwise valuable time. Never mind crack-heads, wasted meth freaks, hungry homeless, the working poor, etc., this Mouse that Roars was hot on the heels of our street artists who paint excellent pictures on a few public structures. What the Hell is wrong with covering the ugly grey concrete bridge supports with colorful, and relevant scenes?
Well, shit-mouth McKenna has a mandate from City Hall to rid us of these Satanic artworks, and that's on our dime by the way.
This is a direct quote dear readers: "I hate graffiti! It's a good quality or trait that I have. I want offenders to have a year in jail. It is a conspiratorial crime. The whole goal of graffiti is notoriety." That's right, jail the Artists! They're part of a grand conspiracy to topple the City of Seattle! You now have a very succinct definition of the word "idiot." I guess we should prefer and just give a wink to drive-by shootings; maybe that would be more acceptable to the City Attorney's office.
As jackal McKenna continued his drivel, he was almost sexually excited (even though I didn't take a quick peek at his crotch for evidence.) He spent just five minutes on the subject of grand auto theft (a huge problem for Seattle), and 28 animated minutes on the 'larger' issue of graffiti. You want some more of his oral excrement? Here goes:
"We want a full-time graffiti prosecutor. Photos of taggers are put into files by hand--we would like digital photos to put in a database. As of now, we only have a 'diversion' program, which is a probationary condition. We can enter a 'no contact' order, which means the offender cannot hang around with the other taggers. We just can't prosecute juveniles yet."
Is this guy in the wrong decade? I can think of a better one--Germany in the 1930's.
"Taggers need a severe jolt--substantial jail is a request of mine."
This is almost fearful isn't it?
To her credit, Mary Hurley, District Council Chairperson, for once spoke up (albeit safely) about Wild Boar McKenna's contradictions and Gestapo monologue.
"We try to distinguish between tagging and gangsters. Luckily we don't have that big a problem with gangs. I think we should make a distinction," Mary said. Well Hallelujah! Now get this not so subtle form of racism on the reply:
"Graffiti has its roots in the hip-hop culture," McKenna said.
Now that got my blood boiling. Funny I had just finished a book titled, "Graffiti: the History of Tagging." Not only was bovine McKenna wrong about that statement, he was wrong by about 30 or 40 years, and wrong about racial exclusivity.
If you discount the cave paintings at Lasceaux France (circa 26,000 B.C.), modern graffiti had its distinct roots in the New York City subways, during the Depression of the 1930's. Photos of this great art still exist. And documented, all races (including Latinos, Chinese, and Caucasians) participated. But no, according to our Attorney, the ghetto blacks who created hip-hop are to blame. Imagine that. Yet another burden the Afro-Americans have to tote.
"I, as much as any other man, am in favor of having the superior position assigned to the white race."
Abraham Lincoln,
1858, in a debate with Stephen A. Douglas
Page 191, "Complicity" by Anne Farrow, Joel Lang, and Jennifer Frank
Page 191, "Complicity" by Anne Farrow, Joel Lang, and Jennifer Frank
Well after racist McKenna was finished, I cornered him in the lobby and re-educated him on the genesis of graffiti. He dodged me at first, and then I told him, "You're wrong, and I'm right, why don't you just admit it?!" Evidently that made his boner go limp as he realized his hip-hop explanation didn't cut it. "Well maybe you are," he said red-faced. "Wrong!" I flipped back. "There's no maybe in it!" He was standing with a fat Lieutenant from the North Precinct, who looked at me, steely-eyed, and said, "Well thank you sir, but we have to go."
I think they had to regroup their neighborhood strategy. At least I wished they would have returned to clean up the trail of McKenna's diarrheic discharge that was left stinking in the conference room.
Do they make an absorbent Depends for the mouth?
"The pump don't work cuz the vandals took the handles."--Bob Dylan
That's vandals McKenna you dolt, not gangstas. . .
* * * * *
Iridescent Opalescence
Girls: Equality simply means recognizing the power of your femininity, not your economic stats.
A big league author spoke in Ballard, as in a New York Times booklist heavy hitter. Her name is:
Marjane Satrapi
and her blockbuster best seller is
Persepolis
I want you to imagine this scenario: You go to a book reading/signing, and you really don't know much about the author, other than the press tells you she's breaking all records for sales by a foreign author. The room is packed with an amazing assortment of humanity. There's a buzz in the air, but no one can really put a finger on what the energy is all about. The host walks up to the microphone, and simply announces, "Ladies and Gentlemen--Ms. Marjane Satrapi." The audience explodes.
In drifts a woman dressed in black. But that is too simple a visual delineation.
Her long-sleeved, classy blouse was like silk draped over a Donatello sculpture. Her black stovepipe slacks, fitted by a Madison Avenue designer, were like extensions of a butterfly emerging from a chrysalis. Her coiffed, raven hair fell on her shoulders like a comforting Fall plant giving up its best show for the coming Winter. Her deep-pooled coal-eyes scanned the crowd, not needing acceptance. She searched for understanding. We, the audience, were in the presence of ephemeral greatness. The bio told us she was from Iran. And the incredible ambiguity first noticed by me was her black bra straps were showing, intentionally! I mean, Arabic women just don't do this, do they?
Ah but stereotypes need to fall by the wayside. After all, ignorance is just a façade for fear isn't it? That didn't apply, we were in league with a woman who could easily have traded quips with Shakespeare, and delivered his eulogy him as well.
"We should dwell on the positive," Ms. Satrapi started. " I left my country for many reasons--I was politically aware, educated, and there was more to life. Repression was not an issue, and certainly was not a catalyst." She spent just a few minutes promoting her new book, and then announced the rest of the hour would be for inquiries. Now that's strength, surety. (Sometimes authors, when they read their own words, are a sedative.) "All I ask is please don't ask me about nuclear weapons. No one should use them, the monies should go to peaceful endeavors. If I talk about nuclear issues, I would be put on the defensive. If I was to say, 'We should have the bomb', which I think we should, the discussion would stall." So there, she thinks her country should have the Bomb, and that's the end of that.
There were some very nicely dressed people seething with intense anticipation. On repression:
"Everything is a question of point-of-view. You have idiots everywhere. Westerners tend to show you the most shocking and outrageous stereotypes. You know what I mean--like Iranian women looking like blackbirds, when, really, our cultures are very similar. It is not like you are locked in your house. There is very little government interference in our daily lives. To a degree, we have a commercial culture.
"You have fundamentalists everywhere. When the President of the greatest democracy says fundamentalist things, that is much more dangerous. People like that think 'if you don't think like me, then you are the enemy.'
"I thank God they don't think like me! In the end, 'normal' people are gaining."
So if you don't get it by now, never think of Arabic women as blackbirds. With Ms. Satrapi, you'd be more accurate to think of her as a woman with the looks of a Mediterranean Greta Garbo with the smarts of Madame Curie. On artists and writers:
"In Iran, lots of things are happening, and only a few things have stopped. That has never kept Iranians from being active. More and more authors are now being known. Having said that, everything has to go through the Minister of Orientation for permission. It does not mean it's an end to all of the Arts--that simply continues. "
On politics: "America should get out of Iraq because it is their country!" A natural and emphatic applause followed that statement. " 'Liberating' a country is a bad idea. Liberation comes from inside a country, not outside. In all of my travels, the most angry person I've ever seen was in Texas, (laughter). The man was so stupid I was speechless, and for me that's quite a feat. He was a cowboy. Incredibly, he ended up buying seven of my books! I didn't have the heart to ask him if he could read."
Her hour was over. And I'll graciously give Ms. Satrapi the last word:
"What is true, and what is not true, this is my secret."*
* * * * *
Where There's A Will, There's A Wade
The next time you see a "homeless" person, why not just consider that person just might be in transition, instead of trapped in a permanent condition? He has family somewhere, and shame and pride might enter into a very complicated equation. Please read the following words, written by Robert Delos Wade, Jr., which I solicited for this issue of the Bull****.
My Grandfather, Rupert, was born in Petrolia, Ontario, and migrated around 1923, (illegally), hopping one freight train after another until he made it to the Sierra Nevada mountains. He eventually became a logger, melting into the landscape to avoid detection. He was a hellraiser and a bull of a man, standing six-foot-six sporting two hundred and fifty pounds of solid muscle and girth. Maybe it was the charms of Betty or the possibility of settling down that appealed to him, but it was going to be rough going after the stock market crash of October 1929.
Things went a bit crazy with the onslaught of the Great Depression, so I’m a little unsure of the initial meeting between Rupert "Doss" Wade and Elizabeth "Betty" Minghetti. On November 10th, 1930, my Father, Robert Delos Wade, was born. Ten months later, approximately one thousand miles to the north in Seattle, my Mother, Pauline Curry, along with her twin brother Paul, were born to Loy and Clara Curry. It would be at least eighteen years before Robert and Pauline would meet. After their initial meeting didn’t produce the sparks that traditional romances are made for, it took a miscalculated accident to bind Bob and Pauline into a short and sometimes tumultuous marriage. But there were many, many good times that would be remembered and enjoyed.
This is my story of how life came crashing down upon me. I sunk into the depths of destitution, homelessness, and despair. I fought victoriously and overcame injuries, scorn, and self-doubts, and regained my place again in society.
I averaged a mid five-figure income and was quite comfortable in my lifestyle, only to have it completely change on January 17th, 2003.
I had been working for a marble and tile company and had finally qualified for medical and dental insurance, but had yet to receive my insurance card, so I was anxious to do what was asked of me to gain those benefits. I was 51 years old and the insurance was gold to me, as anyone is aware of at that age. January 17th, I was put into a position of doing extremely hard "prep work" for my boss with the threat of termination and loss of benefits if I did not complete the task by the end of the day.
After working on my hands and knees for 10 1/2 hours in a quarter inch of cold standing water, scraping oil-based paint off of a cement floor, I had finally finished the task, but at a great physical cost. I now had the unfortunate duty to inform my boss on the next working day that I needed to see a doctor to find out what had happened. On January 21st, I met my boss at the Super Floors warehouse to get my paycheck and to inform him of my difficulties, but never got the chance. Directly after getting my paycheck, I was informed that I was fired and that my insurance benefits were revoked. I was completely stunned.
I had to start a Labor and Industry claim to get medical help for my injuries. My nest egg was gone in less than two months and I was evicted from my apartment. I had no place to go, no one to let me stay at their place, and only enough money to pay for 6 months of storage for my worldly possessions. It was a hard pill to swallow and I had to seek some kind of shelter from the elements.
At first I was able to sleep in the backyard of an acquaintance of mine, but it was in the open and very cold. This was only available for me for less than a week and being it was February, I started looking at the possibility of finding a business that had an awning or covered porch. This was hard to find, but I discovered a covered park bench that was next to the canal in Fremont. This was to be my bedroom for the next six and a half months.
I never gave up hope that I would be back soon to my chosen trade and this nightmare would end. I had no idea that circumstances beyond my control would not only prevent that from happening, but would become much graver than I would ever had expected.
During that six month stretch of sleeping on the park bench I was molested, constantly disturbed by party goers, awakened by mentally disturbed people, and on one occasion was awakened by some man with a loaded .45 claiming to be "watching my back." It was mid August when I was hounded by two men who wanted to cause me brutal and bodily harm. I was able to fend them off with a large stick, but only after I had fallen down a bank trying to escape. I re-injured my back and was now supporting an obvious limp, which made me visibly vulnerable. It was only a few days later that I was attacked by a large man from behind with a bat that caused a concussion. I was also punched in the eye with a lit cigarette. Although I had found the strength again to fight back, that was it for me living on the streets. I needed to get back into society and I needed to find some kind of job that wasn't physically demanding.
While wandering around in a fog from the concussion, and with the help of a kind and concerned person, I made it to my daughter's house in Mountlake Terrace. Although I was an obvious mess from the attack, my daughter allowed me to clean up at her place. She was living with her mother at the time who would not allow me to stay at her place, nor camp out in her back yard. But my daughter did take me to a sporting goods store and purchase a cheap tent for me to use for the future.
My daughter did offer me a hot meal at her place and it was during that meal the suggestion was made that maybe my cousin Steve in Ballard might be able to put me up in his apartment for a little while. I had completely forgotten Steve's offer to me the year before because I had my own place prior to the injuries I had gotten. Steve said it would be fine, but I needed to find any kind of job to support myself and pay him $300 a month rent.
So with the prospect of finally getting off the streets, I went looking for any job I could handle physically. I started walking door to door of local businesses asking if they were hiring. With luck on my side, I was able to convince the manager of the Sunset Bowl's restaurant that I could handle the job of short order cook. I hadn't done that type of work in over 30 years, but I figured it couldn't be that hard. At first I was only promised 2 days a week employment, but was assured that hours would increase within time. The first day I was hired, the morning cook announced she would be retiring within the next 2 weeks. I was being groomed to take that position, when I discovered I wasn't that good at breakfast cooking. What to do? I confessed to the manager that I might be better suited to be the night time cook, because of my incredible slowness getting the customers' orders out. I really thought my job was in jeopardy when the night-time cook quit suddenly and his shift was offered to me.
What a lucky break for me. I not only had a full-time job now, but was allowed one free meal during my shift. I had gone from 185 lbs. prior to the injuries down to 130 lbs. and looked like a walking skeleton. By the beginning of October, 2003, I had gained back 20 lbs. and my hours had increased to 55/60 hours a week. It was difficult to stand at my cooking post because of my knees and back, but I wasn't going to back away. I truly felt I was back into society, gainfully employed and nothing was going to prevent me from continuing my resurgence.
It was near Halloween when out of the blue my attorney contacted me to inform me that Labor and Industries had at last discovered my shelved file and would allow my left knee to be surgically repaired. All I had to do was set the date for the operation. I decided November 18th, 2003 would be the date because I wanted to make sure I had qualified for my medical and dental insurance from Sunset Bowl. While working my second to the last shift on November 16th, I was informed by my co-worker that I was to be fired the next day. What??? I guess Management didn't want me to qualify for benefits, even after I had already worked an incredible 120 hours in less than two weeks. I decided I would resign that night and cited health reasons for the cause.
The operation ensued as planned. I was finally compensated for the time lost during that short stretch of time, but knew I would need to find another job after going through rehab. By mid-March, 2004, I was deemed "fixed and stable". I needed to find employment, but was informed by my attorney that I would never again be certified by the State of Washington as a tile setter. Gee. What did I want to do when I grew up? Good question.
I have made it back, but at a great cost financially, physically, and spiritually. But I'm back!!!
"Fear not that your life will come to an end but that it will never have a beginning."
--British theologian John Henry Newman
* * * * *
Snippets
"Innumerable suns exist; innumerable earths revolve around these suns in a manner similar to the way the seven planets revolve around our sun. Living beings inhabit these worlds."
--Giordano Bruno, burned at the stake in Rome for heresy, 1590.
Are you willing to die for your personal beliefs?
* * * * *
Our New Library
--The First Year--
A Critique. . .
Ok, so we get this architectural wonder that garners all kinds of national awards. Recently, the Mayor and his self-congratulatory cronies had a little ceremony to let us locals bow at the altar of aggrandizement. Well that's just great. The "green" futuristic approach to buildings is supposed to be a partial solution to the energy crisis. The building is supposed to be a shining icon of ecological fulfillment. The living green roof turned brown mid-summer. Well, libraries, by charter, are supposed to be a vibrant, living part of the community. The building is supposed to reflect the neighborhood, or rather, become the neighborhood. But a building is only as good as the caretakers, i.e., the staff, and its relationship with the local demographic.
Ah but submerged secrets are subterfuge aren't they? The rules of the library are posted in the entryway, but they are viscous, and subject to individual librarian agendas. The staff at the new library is the same staff as the old library. They had their one chance at change. They had their one chance at mimicking the conceptual newness of the building. But emotions and leather-strap wounds rule. The anti-male attitude of the majority of these ladies just won't be erased. We have no Dr. Phil to counsel these women. The pathetic little power bases they wield are a detriment to the Ballard community. There is one exception to this onerous gang, and her name is Ellen.
The rest do their job because they have to. A couple of these ladies are almost vicious in the execution of their duties. But we are now in the era of "all kids get a free pass." And there's no exception. So if you're a screaming, uncontrolled child, the library-ladies just let it go. But if you're a white adult male, and you are sitting in the "teen" section, because the chiropractic challenged chairs hurt your back, you will be admonished by the Ladies in Black. If you are trying to have an intelligent discussion about Shakespeare or Sartre, and you are attempting to talk over the cacophony of outlandish children, you will be addressed as a problem. You are male, and you are the nemesis. Submit now, it's all about power. Because women are in charge, and the interior space has now become an insane out-of-hand day care center, well, that's what rules. You have few rights. The library has morphed into a noisy, non-educational, pliant zoo. Francis Bacon is now turning in his grave.
The rest rooms are a study in depravity. Maintenance revolves around a hopeless loser who is just a hired lackey. The result: stench-filled concrete dungeons. Well OK, "green" dungeons. Maybe the green at this point revolves around feces. Well for sure it does. The gentleman's shit room is a study in what went wrong in air filtration and exchange systems. It's a sty. "Air Exchange" is a metaphor for "smell my shit." I'll go head to head with every and each architect on this issue, and I'll bury them.
Additionally, the distance between the freestanding shelves is OK if you're five feet tall and weigh a hundred pounds. (I measured them for this article: in the nonfiction area the shelves are 44" apart. The rest revolve around this number. Try standing there with a backpack on. Try getting by someone who is in your same aisle. Bad plan.) The common areas between computer terminals would be fine if you were a leprechaun. When you're at a terminal, your mouse hand is inches away from your neighbor. The architect blew it when he designed the movement and flow of the floorplan.
And even Edgar Allan Poe's spirit is in the house. Those ghoulish noises emanating from the commissioned "artwork" would be a fine soundtrack for "Nightmare on Elm Street 10."
So the new Library is not all that "touchy/feely." It's a pretty building that has very little to do with the neighborhood that it serves. But expectation and reality becomes a pitched battle doesn't it? So if you want an uncontrolled, noisy, agenda-ridden educational experience, go to the Library. . .after all, it's not about you, it's about the staff, and their lack of control, and their submerged animosity.
* * * * *
Sage
Are you troubled by the current educational system? Consider this:
On June 17th, 1744, the commissioners from Maryland and Virginia negotiated a treaty with the Indians of the Six Nations at Lancaster, Pennsylvania. The Indians were invited to send boys to William and Mary College. The next day they declined the offer as follows:
"We are convinced, that you mean to do us Good by your Proposal, and we thank you heartily. But you, who are wise must know that different Nations have different Conceptions of things and you will therefore not take it amiss, if our Ideas of this kind of Education happen not to be the same as yours. We have had some Experience of it. Several of our young People were formerly brought up at the Colleges of the Northern Provinces: they were instructed in all your Sciences, but, when they came back to us, they were bad Runners, ignorant of every means of living in the woods. . .neither fit for Hunters, Warriors, nor Counsellors, they were totally good for nothing.
We are, however, not the less oblig'd by your kind offer, tho' we decline accepting it; and, to show our grateful Sense of it, if the Gentlemen of Virginia will send us a Dozen of their Sons, we will take Care of their Education, instruct them in all we know, and make Men of them."
So much for bitching about classroom size huh?
from "Touch The Earth," compiled by T.C. Mcluhan
* * * * *
Egan's Jam House:
Sweeney's Sward
Have you ever talked to anyone who doesn't swear? Now wait. He might quote someone who swears, but in line after line of dialogue, this guy talks clean, and talks true. I'm focusing on the Manager of Egan's, and his name is Ben Sweeney.
"Why should I come here?" I asked.
"Because this place is unique," he replied without pause.
The Jam House used to be called the Penny Cafe, and that little place was loved. Well that's all changed. Tens of thousands of dollars later, the morphing is complete. They have a spendy menu now, and Ben defends it vigorously. Now before you think I'm going to trash this new business, just take a breather, because I want you to understand something very elemental--and it's called humanity.
Mr. Sweeney is something of an enigma. This father of two boys has a plan, and it's not unrealistic. He wants this place to succeed for a pretty good reason: his name is on the line. His character, molded by honesty over his 42 years, should make this small business succeed. He knows the obstacles: lack of parking, transients traversing 'syringe alley' just across the street, and the ever-present eye that stares directly at Egan's from the Odd Fellows hall. (That is perhaps a little too mystical for this well-grounded gentleman, but we did discuss it.) Those are the obvious hurdles.
Let's talk about business impediments. The remodeled elegant music room looks like a ritzy sound studio. It truly is first class, but according to Ben, it seats 38 guests. That's all. Other than the street seating, unless you're the band, you don't get to appreciate the former ambience of what's now called the "green room," and in a major mistake, you don't get to use the back patio, which the previous tenants built for patron peace and quiet. This is a lousy decision.
"Well we're not quite sure what we're going to do with that patio. But the green room is definitely for our musicians to gather in," Ben said. Well I guess that's two mistakes then. You bar us locals from one of the few commercial islands of tranquility, and then you make an exclusive room for people you want to treat like rock stars. That's at our expense. The small space that Egan's leases cannot afford to take a full one half of true commercial space and make a management decision that is ill-informed. I mean, you're not sitting on Abbey Road in London.
"So do you want this place to be a destination, or a local hang out?" I asked.
"Well we want both," Ben said.
"With seating for 38, that's impossible," I replied.
Now Ben is a rather chatty fellow. If I were to quote all of his responses to my questions, his lengthy discourses would fill an abridged Britannica. If you don't stop, or interrupt him, he'll continue. But you see, he knew he was being interviewed, so best foot forward, always, right? So in the middle of our whole discussion, I found myself in a dilemma, which is unusual. Now keep in mind, I'm not comfortable with the prices on his menu, and I'm not comfortable with the incredible misuse of square footage. And yet there's this really moral, intelligent, and just plain good ole' boy in front of me.
"OK," I said. "I recently heard from the people over at the EMP that on any given Friday night, there are about 6,000 acts that want to be booked in Seattle."
"That's true," Ben said.
"So, it doesn't take much intelligence to book any act, and get a response," I said.
"Exactly," Ben replied. "And we want to refine the booking. We want to make this place known for its music, we're not just going to be a jazz house. We want to make 'Egan's' known at many places. . .could be Egan's San Francisco, or New York, or where-ever."
Pretty big talk from a pretty small place huh? But I kind of agreed. "Oh I see, like, KAVU, which has its national headquarters right here on old Ballard Ave?"
As he nodded in agreement, a lady started to enter the establishment. "Excuse me ma'am, but we're closed," Ben said. She didn't hear him, and walked right in. Well, he followed her, and got her a soda, and let her know she was more than welcome to sit at the sidewalk table and have her drink, and smoke her ciggy.
So as you can probably surmise by now, I have mixed feelings about this new business. The presumptuous veneer is palpable and fixable, if viewed as a problem. The very idea of a green room for the musicians puts them one notch above the rest of us--it's an implied arrogance. We locals want to be on an even keel with people, we don't want to pay for serfdom. And for me to not be able to go to that quiet back patio which I used to love to sit in, well, that's fixable as well.
The Penny Cafe is a very hard act to follow, it was generous to a fault. With this new menu and setting, I am still trying to figure out how Egan's is giving anything to the Ballard community. A six dollar glass of wine with a $4.50 red beans and rice plate is a stretch for my compliance. (Shrimp or lamb entrees launch you well over twenty bucks).
And then there's Mr. Sweeney: Such an industrious, genuinely polite, articulate, and generous man managing this conundrum. I just had to ask:
"Ben, have you had any higher education?"
"No," he said.
"Well then you must be a reader."
"That I am."
Having said that, I hope his read is right. If anyone deserves a modicum of entrepreneurial success, it's him. So go over there, and make up your own mind, and then drop me an e-mail.
After all, with a last name like "Sweeney," you're bound to fit in Ballard, aren't you?
* * * * *
and her blockbuster best seller is
Persepolis
In drifts a woman dressed in black. But that is too simple a visual delineation.
Her long-sleeved, classy blouse was like silk draped over a Donatello sculpture. Her black stovepipe slacks, fitted by a Madison Avenue designer, were like extensions of a butterfly emerging from a chrysalis. Her coiffed, raven hair fell on her shoulders like a comforting Fall plant giving up its best show for the coming Winter. Her deep-pooled coal-eyes scanned the crowd, not needing acceptance. She searched for understanding. We, the audience, were in the presence of ephemeral greatness. The bio told us she was from Iran. And the incredible ambiguity first noticed by me was her black bra straps were showing, intentionally! I mean, Arabic women just don't do this, do they?
Ah but stereotypes need to fall by the wayside. After all, ignorance is just a façade for fear isn't it? That didn't apply, we were in league with a woman who could easily have traded quips with Shakespeare, and delivered his eulogy him as well.
"We should dwell on the positive," Ms. Satrapi started. " I left my country for many reasons--I was politically aware, educated, and there was more to life. Repression was not an issue, and certainly was not a catalyst." She spent just a few minutes promoting her new book, and then announced the rest of the hour would be for inquiries. Now that's strength, surety. (Sometimes authors, when they read their own words, are a sedative.) "All I ask is please don't ask me about nuclear weapons. No one should use them, the monies should go to peaceful endeavors. If I talk about nuclear issues, I would be put on the defensive. If I was to say, 'We should have the bomb', which I think we should, the discussion would stall." So there, she thinks her country should have the Bomb, and that's the end of that.
There were some very nicely dressed people seething with intense anticipation. On repression:
"Everything is a question of point-of-view. You have idiots everywhere. Westerners tend to show you the most shocking and outrageous stereotypes. You know what I mean--like Iranian women looking like blackbirds, when, really, our cultures are very similar. It is not like you are locked in your house. There is very little government interference in our daily lives. To a degree, we have a commercial culture.
"You have fundamentalists everywhere. When the President of the greatest democracy says fundamentalist things, that is much more dangerous. People like that think 'if you don't think like me, then you are the enemy.'
"I thank God they don't think like me! In the end, 'normal' people are gaining."
So if you don't get it by now, never think of Arabic women as blackbirds. With Ms. Satrapi, you'd be more accurate to think of her as a woman with the looks of a Mediterranean Greta Garbo with the smarts of Madame Curie. On artists and writers:
"In Iran, lots of things are happening, and only a few things have stopped. That has never kept Iranians from being active. More and more authors are now being known. Having said that, everything has to go through the Minister of Orientation for permission. It does not mean it's an end to all of the Arts--that simply continues. "
On politics: "America should get out of Iraq because it is their country!" A natural and emphatic applause followed that statement. " 'Liberating' a country is a bad idea. Liberation comes from inside a country, not outside. In all of my travels, the most angry person I've ever seen was in Texas, (laughter). The man was so stupid I was speechless, and for me that's quite a feat. He was a cowboy. Incredibly, he ended up buying seven of my books! I didn't have the heart to ask him if he could read."
Her hour was over. And I'll graciously give Ms. Satrapi the last word:
"What is true, and what is not true, this is my secret."*
* * * * *
Where There's A Will, There's A Wade
The next time you see a "homeless" person, why not just consider that person just might be in transition, instead of trapped in a permanent condition? He has family somewhere, and shame and pride might enter into a very complicated equation. Please read the following words, written by Robert Delos Wade, Jr., which I solicited for this issue of the Bull****.
My Grandfather, Rupert, was born in Petrolia, Ontario, and migrated around 1923, (illegally), hopping one freight train after another until he made it to the Sierra Nevada mountains. He eventually became a logger, melting into the landscape to avoid detection. He was a hellraiser and a bull of a man, standing six-foot-six sporting two hundred and fifty pounds of solid muscle and girth. Maybe it was the charms of Betty or the possibility of settling down that appealed to him, but it was going to be rough going after the stock market crash of October 1929.
Things went a bit crazy with the onslaught of the Great Depression, so I’m a little unsure of the initial meeting between Rupert "Doss" Wade and Elizabeth "Betty" Minghetti. On November 10th, 1930, my Father, Robert Delos Wade, was born. Ten months later, approximately one thousand miles to the north in Seattle, my Mother, Pauline Curry, along with her twin brother Paul, were born to Loy and Clara Curry. It would be at least eighteen years before Robert and Pauline would meet. After their initial meeting didn’t produce the sparks that traditional romances are made for, it took a miscalculated accident to bind Bob and Pauline into a short and sometimes tumultuous marriage. But there were many, many good times that would be remembered and enjoyed.
This is my story of how life came crashing down upon me. I sunk into the depths of destitution, homelessness, and despair. I fought victoriously and overcame injuries, scorn, and self-doubts, and regained my place again in society.
I averaged a mid five-figure income and was quite comfortable in my lifestyle, only to have it completely change on January 17th, 2003.
I had been working for a marble and tile company and had finally qualified for medical and dental insurance, but had yet to receive my insurance card, so I was anxious to do what was asked of me to gain those benefits. I was 51 years old and the insurance was gold to me, as anyone is aware of at that age. January 17th, I was put into a position of doing extremely hard "prep work" for my boss with the threat of termination and loss of benefits if I did not complete the task by the end of the day.
After working on my hands and knees for 10 1/2 hours in a quarter inch of cold standing water, scraping oil-based paint off of a cement floor, I had finally finished the task, but at a great physical cost. I now had the unfortunate duty to inform my boss on the next working day that I needed to see a doctor to find out what had happened. On January 21st, I met my boss at the Super Floors warehouse to get my paycheck and to inform him of my difficulties, but never got the chance. Directly after getting my paycheck, I was informed that I was fired and that my insurance benefits were revoked. I was completely stunned.
I had to start a Labor and Industry claim to get medical help for my injuries. My nest egg was gone in less than two months and I was evicted from my apartment. I had no place to go, no one to let me stay at their place, and only enough money to pay for 6 months of storage for my worldly possessions. It was a hard pill to swallow and I had to seek some kind of shelter from the elements.
At first I was able to sleep in the backyard of an acquaintance of mine, but it was in the open and very cold. This was only available for me for less than a week and being it was February, I started looking at the possibility of finding a business that had an awning or covered porch. This was hard to find, but I discovered a covered park bench that was next to the canal in Fremont. This was to be my bedroom for the next six and a half months.
I never gave up hope that I would be back soon to my chosen trade and this nightmare would end. I had no idea that circumstances beyond my control would not only prevent that from happening, but would become much graver than I would ever had expected.
During that six month stretch of sleeping on the park bench I was molested, constantly disturbed by party goers, awakened by mentally disturbed people, and on one occasion was awakened by some man with a loaded .45 claiming to be "watching my back." It was mid August when I was hounded by two men who wanted to cause me brutal and bodily harm. I was able to fend them off with a large stick, but only after I had fallen down a bank trying to escape. I re-injured my back and was now supporting an obvious limp, which made me visibly vulnerable. It was only a few days later that I was attacked by a large man from behind with a bat that caused a concussion. I was also punched in the eye with a lit cigarette. Although I had found the strength again to fight back, that was it for me living on the streets. I needed to get back into society and I needed to find some kind of job that wasn't physically demanding.
While wandering around in a fog from the concussion, and with the help of a kind and concerned person, I made it to my daughter's house in Mountlake Terrace. Although I was an obvious mess from the attack, my daughter allowed me to clean up at her place. She was living with her mother at the time who would not allow me to stay at her place, nor camp out in her back yard. But my daughter did take me to a sporting goods store and purchase a cheap tent for me to use for the future.
My daughter did offer me a hot meal at her place and it was during that meal the suggestion was made that maybe my cousin Steve in Ballard might be able to put me up in his apartment for a little while. I had completely forgotten Steve's offer to me the year before because I had my own place prior to the injuries I had gotten. Steve said it would be fine, but I needed to find any kind of job to support myself and pay him $300 a month rent.
So with the prospect of finally getting off the streets, I went looking for any job I could handle physically. I started walking door to door of local businesses asking if they were hiring. With luck on my side, I was able to convince the manager of the Sunset Bowl's restaurant that I could handle the job of short order cook. I hadn't done that type of work in over 30 years, but I figured it couldn't be that hard. At first I was only promised 2 days a week employment, but was assured that hours would increase within time. The first day I was hired, the morning cook announced she would be retiring within the next 2 weeks. I was being groomed to take that position, when I discovered I wasn't that good at breakfast cooking. What to do? I confessed to the manager that I might be better suited to be the night time cook, because of my incredible slowness getting the customers' orders out. I really thought my job was in jeopardy when the night-time cook quit suddenly and his shift was offered to me.
What a lucky break for me. I not only had a full-time job now, but was allowed one free meal during my shift. I had gone from 185 lbs. prior to the injuries down to 130 lbs. and looked like a walking skeleton. By the beginning of October, 2003, I had gained back 20 lbs. and my hours had increased to 55/60 hours a week. It was difficult to stand at my cooking post because of my knees and back, but I wasn't going to back away. I truly felt I was back into society, gainfully employed and nothing was going to prevent me from continuing my resurgence.
It was near Halloween when out of the blue my attorney contacted me to inform me that Labor and Industries had at last discovered my shelved file and would allow my left knee to be surgically repaired. All I had to do was set the date for the operation. I decided November 18th, 2003 would be the date because I wanted to make sure I had qualified for my medical and dental insurance from Sunset Bowl. While working my second to the last shift on November 16th, I was informed by my co-worker that I was to be fired the next day. What??? I guess Management didn't want me to qualify for benefits, even after I had already worked an incredible 120 hours in less than two weeks. I decided I would resign that night and cited health reasons for the cause.
The operation ensued as planned. I was finally compensated for the time lost during that short stretch of time, but knew I would need to find another job after going through rehab. By mid-March, 2004, I was deemed "fixed and stable". I needed to find employment, but was informed by my attorney that I would never again be certified by the State of Washington as a tile setter. Gee. What did I want to do when I grew up? Good question.
I have made it back, but at a great cost financially, physically, and spiritually. But I'm back!!!
"Fear not that your life will come to an end but that it will never have a beginning."
--British theologian John Henry Newman
* * * * *
Snippets
"Innumerable suns exist; innumerable earths revolve around these suns in a manner similar to the way the seven planets revolve around our sun. Living beings inhabit these worlds."
--Giordano Bruno, burned at the stake in Rome for heresy, 1590.
Are you willing to die for your personal beliefs?
* * * * *
Our New Library
--The First Year--
A Critique. . .
Ok, so we get this architectural wonder that garners all kinds of national awards. Recently, the Mayor and his self-congratulatory cronies had a little ceremony to let us locals bow at the altar of aggrandizement. Well that's just great. The "green" futuristic approach to buildings is supposed to be a partial solution to the energy crisis. The building is supposed to be a shining icon of ecological fulfillment. The living green roof turned brown mid-summer. Well, libraries, by charter, are supposed to be a vibrant, living part of the community. The building is supposed to reflect the neighborhood, or rather, become the neighborhood. But a building is only as good as the caretakers, i.e., the staff, and its relationship with the local demographic.
Ah but submerged secrets are subterfuge aren't they? The rules of the library are posted in the entryway, but they are viscous, and subject to individual librarian agendas. The staff at the new library is the same staff as the old library. They had their one chance at change. They had their one chance at mimicking the conceptual newness of the building. But emotions and leather-strap wounds rule. The anti-male attitude of the majority of these ladies just won't be erased. We have no Dr. Phil to counsel these women. The pathetic little power bases they wield are a detriment to the Ballard community. There is one exception to this onerous gang, and her name is Ellen.
The rest do their job because they have to. A couple of these ladies are almost vicious in the execution of their duties. But we are now in the era of "all kids get a free pass." And there's no exception. So if you're a screaming, uncontrolled child, the library-ladies just let it go. But if you're a white adult male, and you are sitting in the "teen" section, because the chiropractic challenged chairs hurt your back, you will be admonished by the Ladies in Black. If you are trying to have an intelligent discussion about Shakespeare or Sartre, and you are attempting to talk over the cacophony of outlandish children, you will be addressed as a problem. You are male, and you are the nemesis. Submit now, it's all about power. Because women are in charge, and the interior space has now become an insane out-of-hand day care center, well, that's what rules. You have few rights. The library has morphed into a noisy, non-educational, pliant zoo. Francis Bacon is now turning in his grave.
The rest rooms are a study in depravity. Maintenance revolves around a hopeless loser who is just a hired lackey. The result: stench-filled concrete dungeons. Well OK, "green" dungeons. Maybe the green at this point revolves around feces. Well for sure it does. The gentleman's shit room is a study in what went wrong in air filtration and exchange systems. It's a sty. "Air Exchange" is a metaphor for "smell my shit." I'll go head to head with every and each architect on this issue, and I'll bury them.
Additionally, the distance between the freestanding shelves is OK if you're five feet tall and weigh a hundred pounds. (I measured them for this article: in the nonfiction area the shelves are 44" apart. The rest revolve around this number. Try standing there with a backpack on. Try getting by someone who is in your same aisle. Bad plan.) The common areas between computer terminals would be fine if you were a leprechaun. When you're at a terminal, your mouse hand is inches away from your neighbor. The architect blew it when he designed the movement and flow of the floorplan.
And even Edgar Allan Poe's spirit is in the house. Those ghoulish noises emanating from the commissioned "artwork" would be a fine soundtrack for "Nightmare on Elm Street 10."
So the new Library is not all that "touchy/feely." It's a pretty building that has very little to do with the neighborhood that it serves. But expectation and reality becomes a pitched battle doesn't it? So if you want an uncontrolled, noisy, agenda-ridden educational experience, go to the Library. . .after all, it's not about you, it's about the staff, and their lack of control, and their submerged animosity.
* * * * *
Sage
Are you troubled by the current educational system? Consider this:
On June 17th, 1744, the commissioners from Maryland and Virginia negotiated a treaty with the Indians of the Six Nations at Lancaster, Pennsylvania. The Indians were invited to send boys to William and Mary College. The next day they declined the offer as follows:
"We are convinced, that you mean to do us Good by your Proposal, and we thank you heartily. But you, who are wise must know that different Nations have different Conceptions of things and you will therefore not take it amiss, if our Ideas of this kind of Education happen not to be the same as yours. We have had some Experience of it. Several of our young People were formerly brought up at the Colleges of the Northern Provinces: they were instructed in all your Sciences, but, when they came back to us, they were bad Runners, ignorant of every means of living in the woods. . .neither fit for Hunters, Warriors, nor Counsellors, they were totally good for nothing.
We are, however, not the less oblig'd by your kind offer, tho' we decline accepting it; and, to show our grateful Sense of it, if the Gentlemen of Virginia will send us a Dozen of their Sons, we will take Care of their Education, instruct them in all we know, and make Men of them."
So much for bitching about classroom size huh?
from "Touch The Earth," compiled by T.C. Mcluhan
* * * * *
Egan's Jam House:
Sweeney's Sward
Have you ever talked to anyone who doesn't swear? Now wait. He might quote someone who swears, but in line after line of dialogue, this guy talks clean, and talks true. I'm focusing on the Manager of Egan's, and his name is Ben Sweeney.
"Why should I come here?" I asked.
"Because this place is unique," he replied without pause.
The Jam House used to be called the Penny Cafe, and that little place was loved. Well that's all changed. Tens of thousands of dollars later, the morphing is complete. They have a spendy menu now, and Ben defends it vigorously. Now before you think I'm going to trash this new business, just take a breather, because I want you to understand something very elemental--and it's called humanity.
Mr. Sweeney is something of an enigma. This father of two boys has a plan, and it's not unrealistic. He wants this place to succeed for a pretty good reason: his name is on the line. His character, molded by honesty over his 42 years, should make this small business succeed. He knows the obstacles: lack of parking, transients traversing 'syringe alley' just across the street, and the ever-present eye that stares directly at Egan's from the Odd Fellows hall. (That is perhaps a little too mystical for this well-grounded gentleman, but we did discuss it.) Those are the obvious hurdles.
Let's talk about business impediments. The remodeled elegant music room looks like a ritzy sound studio. It truly is first class, but according to Ben, it seats 38 guests. That's all. Other than the street seating, unless you're the band, you don't get to appreciate the former ambience of what's now called the "green room," and in a major mistake, you don't get to use the back patio, which the previous tenants built for patron peace and quiet. This is a lousy decision.
"Well we're not quite sure what we're going to do with that patio. But the green room is definitely for our musicians to gather in," Ben said. Well I guess that's two mistakes then. You bar us locals from one of the few commercial islands of tranquility, and then you make an exclusive room for people you want to treat like rock stars. That's at our expense. The small space that Egan's leases cannot afford to take a full one half of true commercial space and make a management decision that is ill-informed. I mean, you're not sitting on Abbey Road in London.
"So do you want this place to be a destination, or a local hang out?" I asked.
"Well we want both," Ben said.
"With seating for 38, that's impossible," I replied.
Now Ben is a rather chatty fellow. If I were to quote all of his responses to my questions, his lengthy discourses would fill an abridged Britannica. If you don't stop, or interrupt him, he'll continue. But you see, he knew he was being interviewed, so best foot forward, always, right? So in the middle of our whole discussion, I found myself in a dilemma, which is unusual. Now keep in mind, I'm not comfortable with the prices on his menu, and I'm not comfortable with the incredible misuse of square footage. And yet there's this really moral, intelligent, and just plain good ole' boy in front of me.
"OK," I said. "I recently heard from the people over at the EMP that on any given Friday night, there are about 6,000 acts that want to be booked in Seattle."
"That's true," Ben said.
"So, it doesn't take much intelligence to book any act, and get a response," I said.
"Exactly," Ben replied. "And we want to refine the booking. We want to make this place known for its music, we're not just going to be a jazz house. We want to make 'Egan's' known at many places. . .could be Egan's San Francisco, or New York, or where-ever."
Pretty big talk from a pretty small place huh? But I kind of agreed. "Oh I see, like, KAVU, which has its national headquarters right here on old Ballard Ave?"
As he nodded in agreement, a lady started to enter the establishment. "Excuse me ma'am, but we're closed," Ben said. She didn't hear him, and walked right in. Well, he followed her, and got her a soda, and let her know she was more than welcome to sit at the sidewalk table and have her drink, and smoke her ciggy.
So as you can probably surmise by now, I have mixed feelings about this new business. The presumptuous veneer is palpable and fixable, if viewed as a problem. The very idea of a green room for the musicians puts them one notch above the rest of us--it's an implied arrogance. We locals want to be on an even keel with people, we don't want to pay for serfdom. And for me to not be able to go to that quiet back patio which I used to love to sit in, well, that's fixable as well.
The Penny Cafe is a very hard act to follow, it was generous to a fault. With this new menu and setting, I am still trying to figure out how Egan's is giving anything to the Ballard community. A six dollar glass of wine with a $4.50 red beans and rice plate is a stretch for my compliance. (Shrimp or lamb entrees launch you well over twenty bucks).
And then there's Mr. Sweeney: Such an industrious, genuinely polite, articulate, and generous man managing this conundrum. I just had to ask:
"Ben, have you had any higher education?"
"No," he said.
"Well then you must be a reader."
"That I am."
Having said that, I hope his read is right. If anyone deserves a modicum of entrepreneurial success, it's him. So go over there, and make up your own mind, and then drop me an e-mail.
After all, with a last name like "Sweeney," you're bound to fit in Ballard, aren't you?
* * * * *
