Ballard Bullshit

Illuminating the neighborhood of Ballard, Washington
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Ballard Bull****
Editor/Publisher/Lead Writer: Richard Andrews
Volume 4, © January 2007
"Where Informed Attitude Counts"
e: ballardbullshit@yahoo.com
web: http://ballardbullshit.blogspot.com
* * * * *

eMERGEnce

Yet another new business has opened on old Ballard Avenue, and ladies if you want to understand the definition of suave, go to MERGE at 5000 20th Ave; in fact, go there immediately.

Patricia Wolfkill is the proprietor--a tall, immaculately dressed woman who would have made the jurisprudence world shudder if she had elected to become a lawyer. Instead she spent twenty years in the stratosphere of wholesale fashion at the American centers of style--New York City and Los Angeles. Ms. Wolfkill may be new to Ballard, but she is not new to what "urban" means in 2007. This business opened up at the end of October, 2006, and within days, the rains started that would break all records for any month in Seattle. Not a very inviting welcome to the community. But these rains would stop, after all, didn't God promise the Hebrews that he would never destroy the world by water again?. . .

But see, when you have a product line that caters to the 30-55 year old demographic, and you have such a unique pedigree, and the actual clothes you sell have an appealing, refined urbane look, well word travels very well in those consumer circles. "If you buy an $800 cashmere sweater from me, it'll be the best cashmere sweater you've ever owned," Ms. Wolfkill stated confidantly. "Even though I've been open for just two months, I have met my sales goals."

Born and raised in Detroit, Patricia is a city girl through and through, and makes no apologies for that; why should she? We all need a good toke of polish, intelligence, and worldliness. (And hey young guys, if you're into MILF's, sneak a quick peek into her window and drool, this woman exudes eroticism.) It is rare to have a big-league pro grace our presence. Ah but she's married, and when conjugal women speak well of their husbands, something else is operative, something loving, something solid. (He's a honcho at the new Microsoft endeavor, MSN AUTO, so married venture capital is solid and plentiful).

She mentioned she may open another shop up over on the East side, perhaps Bellevue.

"Wait a minute," I said. "It depends how deep your pockets are." She corrected me: "It really doesn't take that much money to open up a new shop."

"OK," I countered. "But Bellevue! Patricia, do you know where the number one locale, in the entire state of Washington, for breast augmentation is?" She kind of eyed me, puzzled. "It's Kirkland. And if you were to open up a store on the Eastside, well, over there it's all about 'me,' and that might work." She liked that. She understands women, and she understands that women like to look classy, at any expense.

"I notice there is no artwork on the walls," I mentioned.

"Well I realize I have tall ceilings, and if I were to put artwork up here, it would have to fit my vision," she said. "I think what would fit is photography."

"Well, if I were to let that word out, you would have 50 photographers contacting you within one week." A slight power ray oozed from her right eye. Do not underestimate her, or you will perish.

Ms. Wolfkill knows she's in charge, and she doesn't need any locals to dictate behavior or presence. Sure, the Art Walk is quaint, but it's not a necessary formula for acceptance, or for sales. She's here to dress women in finery. And boy do I like that approach. Too many small businessess acquiesce to financial models that cater to attitudes that don't really mean a damn thing, other than ass-kissing. Patricia has a solid business plan that works. In addition to her line of clothing, she has the one thing that most people forget--and that would be herself. Her expertise and savoir-faire are her gifts to her shoppers.

So gentlemen, now listen up: You go there as well, your special lady is going to look damn fine when you let Ms. Wolfkill give you the best female fashion advice, and apparel, you can get in stylish America. Guys, aren't you tired of second guessing your lady? Go get some education, and let a real lady pick and choose the apparel ambience that will be a sure hit with your women.

She won't break your bank.

Appropriately, we all need to be stripped of naïveté, to sate our thirst if you will, and MERGE is the place to take a sweet long drink.

* * * * *

A Re-visit, and a Critique

Me and a buddy are very interested in how this little business will function, from the inside out. A jazz quintet, named "The Willy Nelson Project" will be playing, We spy Ben outside the front door, because he's on the sidewalk checking out who will be coming to his event.

"Good evening Mr. Sweeney," I volunteered, as I reached out to shake his hand. "As Napolean once said, 'Nous sommes arrivé, (we have arrived).' "

I knew he wasn't expecting me, but was glad to see us attend. In we go to our reserved seats, and the room that seats 38 seemed to be filling up, at ten dollars a body. With that kind of money for a new music venue, I'm expecting some professional jazz guys--in fact, the group had been hyped to me by a couple of people, including Ben.

At the beginning of set #2, I counted 27 people seated. The band had already proven that they're self-worth was much more important than any connection with their audience. They had only done two true Willie Nelson covers, and when they absolutely butchered "Crazy," I moved to the tiny triangular patio to contemplate what was really going on. Ben had comped us the entry fee, but as you readers know by now, my impressions are never for sale (no, that was not his intention, he was merely being generous, which is his nature).

I want to see this little club inherit sovereignty. But now I was seeing some glaring errors, which need to be corrected now, or the barge will sink. Endemic to this type of business is a thorough knowledge of music, and the Seattle scene, and the Ballard scene. With such small seating capacity, you'd best be razor sharp on your bookings. I have found that the jazz scene is proprietary, intellectual, and full of educated bullies. It's exclusivity turns many people away, so the pool of paying customers shrinks, if you are trying to appeal to a wide audience to make your club succeed. You'd better be a damn good musician for people to appreciate your arrogance. I grow weary of the obligatory mid-song solos that oblige the audience to applaud a rather banal individual performance.

So my affinity to the jazz venue is low, but that doesn't mean it's Ben's mistake to feature that. I've been to Jazz Alley, and was thoroughly entertained. But if you're a small ensemble trying to make it, don't assume the attitude of the heavyweights, that's all. It's like a guy who graduated from high school thumbing a guy who's got a GED. It's like a fundamental Christian Southern Babtist subtley disdaining the Episcopaleans.

To Mr. Sweeney's credit, in my first interview with him, he definitely told me he doesn't want this to be exclusively a jazz club. Well then you'd better immerse yourself into a knowledgeable, and realistic assessment of where your club is, and what the current musical models are. Here's a tip, and it's kind of aggressive: there is a well-known club on Ballard Ave, I know the manager well. . .for that location, if you are an "unknown" act, you have to guarantee the club at least 75 paying customers at the door to get paid. Your group is rolling the dice, as you should. Hey, that's not too bad.

Why should Ben assume all of the financial risk? If you're that hot an up-and-coming group, you should assume risk as well, and call every friend and relative to help you out, and attend your gig. I agree with that approach for a small club. If you, Ben, get flack from some front men, well, the pool is so huge, you'll find some good groups anyway. Management and entertainment become uneasy allies, but allies nonetheless. (Did you know that up and down the West Coast, in the Art Gallery scene, that if you are chosen to be represented, you give up to 60% of your sale price to the Gallery, and, you are required to pay a percentage of all advertising?!! I am not kidding you here.)

It is the implicit job of a manager to maintain control of his domain. Early in the evening, a very obnoxious, drunk/drugged young man could not stop using the "F" word. Ben placated him until I simply said, "Excuse me." That foul mouthed man should have been showed the door without shame. Later, during a musical set, a pharmacist (i.e., money) pulled the tit out of a blond patron and kissed it. They were both drunk, but not verbose. If I want soft porn I'll rent it.

So we ordered a plate of kielbasa. It arrived sliced and cold. Lard on a black plate with commercial mustard. It was awful. (C'mon, just take one minute and hot-fry it to bring out a little flavor--and I'm pissed I even have to say that.) I ate one slice, and couldn't wash the cold fat coating from my mouth--if I was camping I'd accept it. A ten year old could have made a better plate. Which brings me to the larger issue: how dare any place deliver mundane music and a shitty snack and charge me high dollar? And then entertain lofty thoughts about expansion into other cities. Go figure.

Under the beautiful veneer of image, this place is totally out of control. It is a unit that spent so much money on image that the substance is mismanaged. Ben willingly talks of higher aspirations, such as booking Mellissa Etheridge at $300 per patron. Well let's look at the math: 38 guests times 300 equals $11,400 for the cover. Add the downtown hotel, (including limo), the advertising, her backup musicians, security, air fare, and other hidden expenses and you've got a financial elephant. Well I called One Reel Productions (which evidently Ben has not), and sweet Melissa will not show up for less than $65,000--that's just her fee. The total for one evening is going to run about $100,000. Do your homework Ben before you start talking large. You're not Bill Graham running the Filmore in 'Frisco, near Haight and Ashbury.

I didn't intend this to be a hypercritical visit. It kind of just unfolded in front of me. Mr. Sweeney is a hard working, attention-to-detail kind of guy. It's just that he's in over his head, and his vision needs education. Before your business plan can be real, you have to start with whatever roots you're working with. This is a small club, and this is Ballard. Gather a base of locals who will swear allegiance to your venue, and your ideas. Then build on that rock. If you don't do this, you will sink, and so will your reputation. Life throws many salvos, so why increase that?

For now, I will not return. I don't need to be punished again.
* * * * *

I'm not being facetious here, that really is the name of Ballard's newest Art Gallery--it is that and more. A pretty tough furrow to plow in this town. After 2 1/2 years up on Cap Hill, and even making a little money, they found this location through a serendipitous association with a friend. Amanda and Charlie Kitchings have opened this tidy spot with a dream. It takes money to make a place go, and what if your pockets aren't that deep, but creative financing keeps you afloat?

There were two ladies sitting on the curb, having a cigarette, on this very sunny Wednesday, the 27th of September. I had no idea if they were connected with this gallery or not, so I simply walked up and said, "Excuse me, could I buy a cigarette?" I offered them a quarter.

"Well, I'll just give you one," the brunette replied.

"Um, I'm trying to quit, and if I buy one, it puts a little more pressure on me," I replied.

She got up and walked into her Gallery, and returned with a smoke. The financial deal was completed. Formalities aside, we both introduced ourselves, out there at sneaker level. Amanda Kitchings, entrepreneur, was solidly in front of me, and the warmth of the afternoon reflected from her heart right back to me, and it was pure.

OK OK had been in a tiny location above the Interstate--quite a difference from the almost 2000 square feet they now have. Amanda wears her heart on her bare wrist, and this mother of two (a three year old girl [Viola], and an 18 month boy [Milo}), seemed absolutely pleased to tell her story on this glorious day.

It was kind of quirky, all of us sitting on the curb. It levelled the playing field--we were all equal, yet stratified. And I made her take that damn quarter for the smoke: "Hey look, I work too; well let's put it this way, I acquire income," I told her.

It is hard to quote Amanda, as she has so much to say in hyper-connected sentences. But on that deliciously warm day, I inhaled her stories of motherhood, finance, and love for her husband. That'll melt your XY wax.

I will not give attitude on any Gallery that hangs the work of any Artist. The public will decide the merits--be it an ignorant public or an educated one. But I will say that the Gallery space at OK OK is spare, efficient, and is all about highlighting the Art. That's just smart.

Amanda's husband Charlie is one of those guys who could grace the cover of GQ. Like Tom Cruise, he is a short man--and a skinny little squirt to boot. If he were to use his God-given handsomeness as a sales tool, OK OK could be a private Gallery, with showings by appointment only, and the softly excited women wouldn't hesitate to offer their credit cards up. He has been in the music business, as a lad, back East. But this stolid young man decided to devote his life to a couple of things: firstly, to be an excellent Dad. Secondly, he has this fetish for toys. Interesting toys. So a full one-half of this business is toys. He keeps his price range dead center in the market, i.e., nothing above $150. These future heirlooms sit there in exquisite energy.

Being from the East, Charlie is a talker too, just like his wife. I would love to be a fly on the wall as these two sit, after the kids are in bed, and discuss the day. Perhaps both of them can talk and listen at the same time, so the discussion becomes a reality called mathematical doubles. Goodness, just wait until both two kids start talking. Now we're into binary star systems. . . so go visit this charming establishment, and yes, young people can teach you a few things. . .

Why don't you go buy a book for $75,000? Um, here in Ballard that is.

Our Berg's business concerns are starting to be populated with couples who genuinely love each other, and it shows. John's longtime partner, Judy Moynahan, oozes femininity, and as you regular readers know, that's where the power is. John got his degree in English Literature down at Arizona State University (Tempe). He deftly told me, "I'm one of the few people who uses his degree in something he likes to do."

This little store is very easy to miss. Well heck, it's at a southeastern diagonal to the Epilogue Book Store, with very little signage. Ah but therein lies the gist.

John's store is an exercise in controlled clutter. This place could be easily transplanted from the back streets of London, circa 1880. It has that presence of intellectual curiosity, coupled with collector ambience. You expect to see a little ogre peep from a stack of books, or you might even be privvy to some international dandy who has a collection worthy of a Gates' Codex, and yet he has to come to this little adjunct of knowledge. This small store is a global treasure.

Internet sales account for about 40% of his business, but his real clients are a very elite core of knowledgeable buyers. Antiquarians, who deal in old and rare books, are some of his elite visitors. Yet elitism does not prevail here--knowledge does. John is the kind of guy who really doesn't care if he is right, he just wants to be correct, and in the arena he pursues, being correct can make a tremendous financial difference. There is exertive value in paper and cardboard, depending on their age and what's printed on them.

When you navigate the changing aisles, it is quite possible to trip over something valuable. But maybe that's just another way of adding patina. If a book, or portfolio, is truly precious, it will be in a glass case, neatly arranged. For example, did you know that the original journal of the Lewis and Clark Expedition was first published in 1904? Thomas Jefferson was exasperated with Merriwether Lewis for not codifying the final treatise of his travels. And then Mr. Lewis committed suicide (alright, this is still open for debate). Heaven forbid! So almost one hundred years later, everything congealed into a cognitive whole, and the journals were published, but only fifty of them. And guess who has one just sitting in a glass case? As I paged through this amazing time capsule, Einstein and Tesla were put on hold. But reality reared its practical side when John told me the asking price: $38,000. . .

So please go over there; if not for the books, why not just chat with a fun couple, who could fit into any century?

* * * * *

"Grant me the strength to change the things I must, the wisdom to know what I must change, and the rationality to know God isn't the key person here.
--Elieser S. Yudkowsy

Gifted is the word they used but gifted doesn't mean much when you hurt. Gifted doesn't mean much when you draw breath to avoid pain. I remember days younger, I can't say I remember my youth because it doesn't seem right when you haven't seen the back side of thirty, but in that gifted era I used to think everything we did was in the avoidance of pain. I sunk my teeth into that idea, swallowed whole, made it true at least for myself. I can no longer speak for the others. It isn't to say that there are no vestiges of contentment or happiness left. I can't read this pill bottle, the last name is still there a bit, something ends in -owski. Some Pole lost his shit. It sounds like a shaker but I'm not trying to shake it, my hands just won't stop. Music in the pills, or music in me? There is a black spot growing in the center of my vision but I don't feel much now, so I suppose I don't really mind. I know I am wet, I know I am cold and I know there is a goodly amount of cold wet stone touching me, but somehow feel is the wrong word now.

If there is something good beyond the shaker, the Polish name and the full pill bottle no longer full, it is this concrete, this textured poured stone, this thing man-made that'll be limestone some day. It holds up the 15th street bridge, my solace, roof to keep out the rain, street lights that bathe what there is left of me, hold me solid and splash red the clouded Seattle night in a color so sick I think people just stopped looking up. Nobody wants to see that, but I don't really mind. That's something of a solace too, I can see it and it's alright with me. Alright with me now. All these cities are like that, you can see it out on the highways, a big sick orange-red and you know a big sick sprawl lays out underneath it, scared to look up at what they've made, the price of their insomnia and wonton light fetish. I can't judge. I can't say I'm not frightened of black, the night, the growing dark in my vision and the ink creeping in my veins, afraid of these black tendril tattoos. Well, not so much now. Feel might be the wrong word.

I wondered how people end up sprawled out in puddles full of mud, of piss, cans of Steel Reserve, cans made to look like batteries, plastic garbage bags all mixed up with the curb. The low red brick wall along Leary to stem the tide of these things. I'm laughing and cold and I don't know how other people end up like this, but I know how I ended up like this. I roll and laugh and notice the grit in the water and mud and waste and I wonder if others that've been here noticed these things. I'm just broke, something wrong, my mind couldn't make serotonin, it tried I bet but it just couldn't. I remember an image I'd made of the great touched artists of ages past lapping between cobblestones like some French peasants in the streets of Paris after a cask of wine had shattered in the street but it wasn't wine, it was serotonin. I had this picture held in my mind for so long, Joyce and Maupassant and Lovecraft and van Gogh on their knees and full of glee, lap lap lap. I don't know why. But gifted doesn't mean much if you hurt, Derrida and Kant and Sartre and Foucault and I can name-drop all day but none of them could keep me from hurting. But the pain is going away. I hear myself laughing and can't stop and this black spot keeps growing and my nose is bleeding and something in me loves being cold and wet and rolling and laughing because feelt isn't the right word anymore, it certainly isn't pain. I can't think it a bad idea to eat a bottle of pills some Polish schmuck dropped. I had doubts, but they're gone.

If I hold a match to the coarse strip on the back of this match book it lights. I'm laughing and now I know why. I'm so cold and shaking so bad I just have to hold the match to the rough strip and shiver and it lights. Funny, right? Shivering music, shivering light, shivering warmth. It's nice too because it brings up images to fill the black that's growing in my eyes. All we should see is black because our pupils are black. Now it's finally fitting. I think I'll call that right, or maybe even good. But I light a match now and flash! I'm back in that Chinese place and the guy smiles right off because he knows I came in for black tar, not kitten called chicken. That doesn't hurt anymore. I light another match because it's light and it's cold and I like what the matches show me and I don't understand how they didn't get wet and I'll call that good too and flash! I'm north a couple blocks at the pederasts' place, a whole house of 'em with a real nice lawn and they say hi to the neighbors but now they're all cheerng me on as I suck them off one by one for some meth and some H because they're the only ones in town with anything other than black and one of them shoves it in me from behind and the rest of them laugh their asses off and I try real hard to keep sucking, thinking I might get a few more hits for putting up with this and I do and I keep wondering about my sexuality, even though it doesn't really matter, because no matter how sick and wrong and horrible this is, no matter how much I cry and have a hard time seeing through the tears well enough to strap my arm and get the needle in, I am forced to admit something deep sick stuck in my base reptilian brain loved the black reality of a dick in my ass, the stick and the crust and the complete debasement and think twice about my sadness for an ex who did two guys at once and felt real bad about it later. I don't think I could be furthere removed from the feelings these things used to bring. They are and that's that.

Some lady is crying and screaming now. People over-react when you puke on their shoes. Laughing after you've done it and asking for money doesn't help either. Maybe I should have stayed up back by the wall but I thought it'd be a good idea to try and get a few bucks from people walking by even if it is late. I kind of feel bad about it. Feel isn't the right word. Lying on the sidewalk and lighting another match with my face to the clouded sky blood from the endless sea of halogen lamps, laughing still, now thinking about the signs that say no sitting or lying on the sidewalks from 9pm to 7am and flash! I see Edith, her lonely sad house on the edge of the cesspool where they want to put up more condos or a Trader Joe's or some health club or some other bullshit, shove to the hilt that big yuppie dick up Ballard's ass like they did Pike and Pine but Edith ain't leaving, says hi, her frame looking likely to blow away in the wind as she feeds the pigeons that wait day and night up on the line for her to come out with feed, that sad little house perched on the edge of a block full of mud, arsenic and waste. Seeing such staggering beauty, it doesn't hurt anymore. I wonder if those pigeons get bored up there on the line all day. What do they talk about?

I'm near out of matches. The lights will all be gone soon. Just one more match after this and flash! I'm back in Lakeshore just noticing the needle in my foot. The lady upstairs with Dilaudid that hit so hard. I noticed two hours later the syringe in my foot. She's fighting with my old roommate, I'm waiting for them to just light another rock and be done with it.

Last match. It's lit and I see nothing, no flame, just a sense of something burning my finger tips but I don't mind. It doesn't hurt and pupils are finally what they should be, opaque screens.
Ballard, be well tonight. I don't blame you, I don't blame anyone. I was just broken. There is nobody else bridge-side tonight, everyone is huddled toward Ballard. I like to be bridge-side. Maybe it's what it represents. Maybe I like the idea of bridges, of the other side, of something that isn't this. Funny, right? Thinking about bridges at a time like this. Perhaps the grass is greener on the back side of this. Maybe when Saturn returns, as it has for me now at 27, those who leave with it after one go-around, maybe they find something, like those Heaven's Gate wingnuts. Who's to say they aren't boogie boarding the twin- tailed wake of Hale-Bopp? You don't fucking know. Maybe Kurt and Elliot and Jimi and Shannon and Bradley and Janis and ole crossroads Robert and Hillel and Jim and all of them are basking their ethereal bodies in the endless variegated rings, lazily drifting around the father of the gods. Or maybe they were just eaten by that same father, following a different path, becoming one with the creator. . . and then devoured what he'd made, the god unable to bear the pain of being separated from what he'd made, trying to reclaim it all because he didn't know he'd created loneliness along with the myriad. Or maybe they're just dead and that's bridge enough. I don't know. I suppose I'll know soon.

Ballard, be well tonight. I don't know as I'll see you in the morning.

* * * * *

This saga is so complex that I am forced into simplicity. OK, here's the rub: a prominent Ballard Icon, his first name is Gary, was promised the Art Wall at Tully's. He notified the Ballard News-Tribune of the upcoming event. As usual, the manager position at Tully's changed, and the new manager, (who hates men), was now in charge. She called Gary and told him to come to her store, and remove the Artwork (which was hung for the December Artwalk). She angrily confronted Gary, and basically caused a scene with the Artist. It was a personal power play. She 86'd him. Now keep in mind, this Artist is financially well off, and didn't need the exposure, he just thought he'd make a display, NOT for sale, to the community. In the ensuing emotional discharge, she accused him of using the "F-bomb." He never did. So I got involved, and as you dear readers know, I don't pick a battle to lose.

There are only three Vice Presidents of the floundering Tully's corporation. Two of them (Rob Martin and Dana Pratt), Gary, and I, met at the Chai house for a powerful, historic meeting. Gary presented his facts, backed up by the almighty printed word in various publications, and I used my intellect to carve up the rest of the ruthless corporate personalities. Of course I came prepared. So the scene was thus: the Ballard community versus the honchos from Tully's.

Tully's cannot afford any bad press--they've shown a loss for eleven straight years, and their investors are antsy to show a better spread sheet. They proved solvent only last year when they sold some licensing rights to Japan for a cool 25 million dollars, which enhanced their image, albeit via a one-time sale. Tully's has never looked good to its investors, and negative publicity is the number one enemy to the company. Image reigns over money in this case, if that makes any sense.

So here we Ballard-ites were, challenging the Structure. Oh yes, I wore a tie.

The meeting started out with pleasantries, and then it was time for me to stick the knife in, and turn it.

Credit where it's due: the Senior Vice-President, Rob Martin, is a consummate professional; I have dealt with him before, and he is one smooth cat. He's personable, and when he says he will do something he will. But Mr. Martin is also clever, and thinks about solutions. I genuinely like the guy. After our meeting, I e-mailed him, and flat-out gave him details of my strategy. Here's a tidbit:

Mr. Martin understood the underlying message. But he is a gentle soul, and knows how to stamp out little fires that can consume segments of cities. He is a family man, and he is smart enough to know if he screws this job up, he's really screwing his children. Tully's, for now, is his platform for mobility. He knows this damn little chain (five states) can perish in a heartbeat. His little girl and boy, coupled with his ambition, is quite a workable formula. He opted out of the male model/runway career, which his handsomeness would offer. Not that he was in that position, but Rob is mentally available to know that that was a possible vocation. Drive the women nuts, in a classy way. So he chose humanity, and the moral responsibility his folks instilled in him reigns supreme. Rob can't be frivolous, or less true to himself. Ms. Dana Pratt, yes indeed, showed up as a vice-president, but as a 6 month newbie to that position. Her bio states she was a chef in California, but your editor made a call, and she was just a glorified fry-cook. Well by God, that's good enough to take over the Retail end of Tully's--i.e., she knows which trough to feed from. More from my e-mail to Rob:

Alright then, now you fellow Ballard denizens see the picture. And the conclusion:

Though Tully's won't admit it, (remember bad press is the enemy here) a background maneuver happened. The Nervous Giant leaned on that awful Manager; the Tully's manipulation occurred. It's one of those things that is never admitted, but sequestered. Corporate screw-motion from the top down can be devasting. That man-hating manager realistically and emotionally quit. It's that simple. She's gone. And the staff at Tully's received a cryptic note from someone in Management, that Mr. **** was re-instated. Awwww, like I'm supposed to genuflect to that. Bottom line: Tully's subtlely admitted the problem, made an actionable movement, and solved the problem without ANY written or verbal record. Therefore nothing happened.

As a compromise, I'll take it. Ballard won the battle, and the Corporation didn't have any prissy little debris that would go public. Stalemate perhaps, instead of victory.

Gary is now a regular back at Tully's, and a dirty little secret got buried, as it should.