Thursday, February 14, 2008
Ballard Bullshit
Photo courtesy of Tom Kelley
www.TPK-photography.com
Illuminating the Neighborhood of Ballard, Washington
Source of SANE
The Smart Ass News of Excellence © 2008
www.TPK-photography.com
Illuminating the Neighborhood of Ballard, Washington
Source of SANE
The Smart Ass News of Excellence © 2008
Ballard Bull****
Editor/Publisher/Lead Writer: Richard B. Andrews
Volume 5, © Winter/Spring of 2007/08
"Where Informed Attitude Counts"
e: ballardbullshit@yahoo.com
web: http://ballardbullshit.blogspot.com
* * *
Editor/Publisher/Lead Writer: Richard B. Andrews
Volume 5, © Winter/Spring of 2007/08
"Where Informed Attitude Counts"
e: ballardbullshit@yahoo.com
web: http://ballardbullshit.blogspot.com
* * *
An Apothecary's Epiphany:
OK OK Gallery
The January 2008 Art Walk at 5107 Ballard Avenue NW
* * * A Historic Night * * *
(Editor's Note: A few years ago I had the extreme good fortune to enter the Hanford nuclear site--not just vist--I was the guest of a physicist who worked there. I received two security badges which would activate depending on the levels of radiation present. It was a very rare experience, not frightening per se, but I was in the belly of the beast. The physicist told me, "It's not that we don't want to clean up this bungled horror, we just can't.")
"The world has achieved brilliance without wisdom, power without conscience. Ours is a world of nuclear giants and ethical infants.”- ----Omar Bradley {1893-1981} American General, Commanded U.S. ground forces in Normandy, World War II.
I walked into the OK OK Gallery slowly. It was very dim in there, except for a hazed image on the far wall. There was no artwork on the sidewalls, and strange noises were fused in the still air; people were sitting on the bare brown concrete floor--it was both reverent and unnerving. All right then, I thought, this is some modern art kick being shoved down my throat. But, I love being wrong when it's a qualitative wrong.
We all were inside nuclear Cooling Tower 5, and the image now made sense. The noises were a complicated orchestra of the actual sounds you would hear inside one of those megaliths--birds, traffic, your own breath. . .digitilized and re-mastered into a glorious cacophony of man's insanity.
We all were inside nuclear Cooling Tower 5, and the image now made sense. The noises were a complicated orchestra of the actual sounds you would hear inside one of those megaliths--birds, traffic, your own breath. . .digitilized and re-mastered into a glorious cacophony of man's insanity.
* * *
Gabe Bacon and Paul Schrag (who were present) put together this amazing collaboration. Their non-profit corporation, Environmental Aesthetics, (incredibly) received permission to turn the key at this tower and let some artists in. This inaugural residency included Yann Novak, Olympia artist Myello, and an Olympia collective known as Problems. Daniel Farrell, a nouveau composer, employed masterful computer audio techniques which gave equal credence to the visual and and emotional dream sequence I was feeling. The Artists really did enter Tower 5 to record. The audio was an eerie mix of things that were ethereal--sort of a melange of whale calls and nightmares. While the sounds stretched the air like taffy, the interior wall of the cooling tower did not move, yet you had to stare at it, you wanted to. If you spoke, the sparse Vatican walls demanded you whisper.
* * *
When the Satsop Development Park (with Hanford as its aggregate co-conspirator), was planned, the five-nuclear-plant-mega-development just stopped, midstream. A swollen budget and public disfavor halted construction like the neutral boron element that was dropped on Chernobyl to arrest the melting sinkhole before it hit the water table. As a curious post-script, the Chehalis River was saved from degradation.
From Charlie Kitchings' press release: "The Satsop Residency aims to reinterpret this epic monument as a sublime environment with the potential to function as an all-encompassing artistic medium, emphasizing the interplay between site-specific sonic art, seemingly obsolete industrial architecture and the natural environment."
Let me reinterpret that: If you've ever visited the Great Pyramids, or Notre Dame Cathedral, or Westminster Abbey, the giant structures that man builds force you to be humbled. The amount of decoration, or lack of, is also an effect. Very few people will ever sit inside a Cooling Tower; this art event allowed that. At over five hundred feet, it's bizarre to live it, to meditate in its bowels. Like the Holocaust, whose origin was based in hatred, we can never forget the genesis of nuclear power--from Los Alamos to Hiroshima--we used it on our own species, first. Then we tamed it, yet like all dangerous and polluted beasts, its effluent remained seriously deadly.
So with the unleashed strong-force that holds atoms together, we are willing to kill generations, and the seventh Son of a seventh Son will suffer it with the legacy of death that will pass, unadulterated, for 400,000 years. This is exactly why oral legends can remain in an Eskimo lineage for over 3,000 years.
If you are even a mild student of history, this night was all about frightful scientific decadence in the 20th Century, twined with apocalyptic visionary art. It may well be centuries before something this historic emerges again, and it happened right here in Ballard. 'Nuclear fusion' just may have a new definition: The re-combining of pure art and pure science, without the horrific consequences.
From Charlie Kitchings' press release: "The Satsop Residency aims to reinterpret this epic monument as a sublime environment with the potential to function as an all-encompassing artistic medium, emphasizing the interplay between site-specific sonic art, seemingly obsolete industrial architecture and the natural environment."
Let me reinterpret that: If you've ever visited the Great Pyramids, or Notre Dame Cathedral, or Westminster Abbey, the giant structures that man builds force you to be humbled. The amount of decoration, or lack of, is also an effect. Very few people will ever sit inside a Cooling Tower; this art event allowed that. At over five hundred feet, it's bizarre to live it, to meditate in its bowels. Like the Holocaust, whose origin was based in hatred, we can never forget the genesis of nuclear power--from Los Alamos to Hiroshima--we used it on our own species, first. Then we tamed it, yet like all dangerous and polluted beasts, its effluent remained seriously deadly.
So with the unleashed strong-force that holds atoms together, we are willing to kill generations, and the seventh Son of a seventh Son will suffer it with the legacy of death that will pass, unadulterated, for 400,000 years. This is exactly why oral legends can remain in an Eskimo lineage for over 3,000 years.
If you are even a mild student of history, this night was all about frightful scientific decadence in the 20th Century, twined with apocalyptic visionary art. It may well be centuries before something this historic emerges again, and it happened right here in Ballard. 'Nuclear fusion' just may have a new definition: The re-combining of pure art and pure science, without the horrific consequences.
"The radiance of a thousand suns which suddenly illuminate the heavens all in one moment--thus the splendour of the Lord. And I am Death, who taketh all, Who shatters worlds. . ."
---from the Sacred Hindu text, the Bhagavad Gita
* * *
The New
Executive Director of the Ballard Food Bank:
Nancy McKinney
or
How Do I Clean Up This Mess, Tess?
Nancy McKinney
or
How Do I Clean Up This Mess, Tess?
(John Simpson was the last Director (Direct-whore) of the Ballard Food Bank, and in a past issue I exposed that scammer from the East. Rumor has it that he's drifting with the floating hydrocarbon garbage pit that undulates 1,000 miles off the coast of California--this sludge/mess is about the size of Texas. It was the only filth-pit big enough to hold both his crimes and inflated ego. He can now chew on plastic yogurt cups after he naps in one of the many floating refrigerators.)
Thanks to her predecessor, Nancy McKinney's first duty is to prove one thing: trustworthiness. Her second duty is to keep food, clothing, and toiletries stocked and flowing. All the rest pales. Well the Board of Directors took their sweet time to pick a new leader, and after many months, aimed their compass at Ms. McKinney. The Food Bank is at the intersection of 24th street NW, and 70th, and Nancy lives four blocks from there. Not bad for openers huh? For years she has been volunteering for a very specific charitable attribution--she takes the mobility challenged, and visually impaired, skiing. Of course this is all admirable, but running an organization that deals with some of the rawest emotions on the planet? Let's analyze her first big test, titled:
The Thanksgiving Day Debacle
or
How To Turn The Hungry Away From A Hot Meal
or
How To Turn The Hungry Away From A Hot Meal
"So if you're walking down the street sometime, and spot some hollow, ancient eyes--please don't just pass 'em by and stare, as if you didn't care, say "hello in there, hello."
- --John Prine
- --John Prine
Well I was there. I arrived at 11:00 a.m. to a full crowd (Calvary Methodist, 22nd and 70th). I have been to eight of these Holiday feeds at this church, and this disaster was an organizational mess. It was a sunny, cold Thursday, and people were hungry. The attendees were the outcasts, the throwaways: the homeless, transients, people who just stumbled and took a hard fall. While the numbers surged, time rolled.
Suddenly it was 1:00 p.m., then 1:30, and the first meal was finally served (for years, eatin' time was noon sharp). There's no telling how many stomachs were rumbling, how many teeth were aching, how much sadness was oozing. The first line was a hundred people strong, and the snail's pace of delivery was a meltdown.
I went outside with the smokers. That crowd was feeling edgy, uneasy. They recognized the breakdown and grumbled. Incredibly, someone posted a lady, outside the door, to tell the hungry people that they could not enter the church, as it was too full. This has never happened before (and don't give me the fire occupancy numbers, they were already violated at 11:00). "Well, can I get a cup of coffee while I wait?" one fellow asked. "No, we just can't put any more people in there."
Well you can imagine how that went over. Keep in mind, people were leaving already, i.e., emptying the space. Another gentleman was told the same thing, and when told the "no room at the manger" nonsense, he left, crying, feeling absolutely neglected, rejected, and debased.
The traditional sleeping bag give-away (not too hard to figure out) was also shameful. Nancy, et al, decided to make everyone wait untill 3:00 to give them out, as opposed to, when you're done eating, pick up your bag and go. But no, they all had to wait, and wait, further gumming up the crowded miasma. So some people did not get fed, nor did they get a new sleeping bag.
Damn you Nancy. Defend yourself all you want to, you blew it, and blew it big time. You've just insulted your gender. Let a man run it next time.
I publicly volunteer to run the whole shebang next year, and I'll show y'all how to do it, efficiently and thoroughly.
Suddenly it was 1:00 p.m., then 1:30, and the first meal was finally served (for years, eatin' time was noon sharp). There's no telling how many stomachs were rumbling, how many teeth were aching, how much sadness was oozing. The first line was a hundred people strong, and the snail's pace of delivery was a meltdown.
I went outside with the smokers. That crowd was feeling edgy, uneasy. They recognized the breakdown and grumbled. Incredibly, someone posted a lady, outside the door, to tell the hungry people that they could not enter the church, as it was too full. This has never happened before (and don't give me the fire occupancy numbers, they were already violated at 11:00). "Well, can I get a cup of coffee while I wait?" one fellow asked. "No, we just can't put any more people in there."
Well you can imagine how that went over. Keep in mind, people were leaving already, i.e., emptying the space. Another gentleman was told the same thing, and when told the "no room at the manger" nonsense, he left, crying, feeling absolutely neglected, rejected, and debased.
The traditional sleeping bag give-away (not too hard to figure out) was also shameful. Nancy, et al, decided to make everyone wait untill 3:00 to give them out, as opposed to, when you're done eating, pick up your bag and go. But no, they all had to wait, and wait, further gumming up the crowded miasma. So some people did not get fed, nor did they get a new sleeping bag.
Damn you Nancy. Defend yourself all you want to, you blew it, and blew it big time. You've just insulted your gender. Let a man run it next time.
I publicly volunteer to run the whole shebang next year, and I'll show y'all how to do it, efficiently and thoroughly.
* * *
Fronds
Mr. Rogers' Hell-Hole: That toddler-cacophony from Satan, otherwise known as the new 'green' Library, has also become known for yet another anomaly: a haven for the homeless, transients, and other n'er-do-wells. I love it. But wait--our Ballard branch now has the cure for the latter 'problem.' Let's just call this solution Pot-Belly-Pete From Texas. Ol' Hoss (yup, they had to go find themselves a boner-fide sheriff over there), struts in with his gleaming buckle and seven gallon hat. By God he's gonna clean up the slop, cuz the 'feminazis' who run that dump cannot pull it off. Hoss is full-time but guess what--looks are deceiving. He's just another wimpy metrosexual with an invisible leash around his neck, ultimately connected to Branch Librarian Sybil, whose venom spews to other white males who prostrate themselves to her wicked stare and bullish demeanor. So why don't you go over there and titillate your senses: your eardrums can be punctured by the screams of uncontrolled infants; your eyes can feast on a real-life playdough buckaroo and his dominatrix, and your sense of touch can be savagely cut by those tables that belong in someone's Golden Garden campfire. Now everybody say AMEN.
The Ballard News-Tribune---180 proof and barely upright. Our little piece of shitpaper that is stuck on Ballard's anus exhorting 1950's-style yellow journalism has sunk to yet another nadir. In a recent issue, the pickled alcoholic, otherwise known as the Editor, had this to say on the op-ed page (January 23, 2008): "It would be easy to totally blame Eyman, but the people vote for his trash. . ." and ". . .the real problem can be named simply 'Tim Eyman Disease.' This bottom-feeder, who is getting wealthy drawing initiatives that cut taxes. . ." In other words, we, the voting public, are trash because we support some of Eyman's initiatives. And by correlation, we are also bottom-feeders. Hmmmm. See what happens when a dementia addled, bulbous nosed, vodka-smelling has-been is put in charge of a local newspaper? You, the voters, are the enemy, enabling Editor Jack Mayne to show up at District Council Meetings reeking like formaldehyde and piss. Why don't you write him a letter, and tell him how much you appreciate his incoherent spiteful words, and then ask him if he prefers his booze out of cardboard boxes or urine specimen cups? Oh and don't forget to congratulate him for being Ballard's spokesman, when he lives way over there in West Seattle. Fittingly, what's left of his liver hangs out there on Alky Beach, oh, sorry, that would be Alki Beach, now wouldn't it?
New York Fashion Academy--At the November Art Walk, this concern held a silent auction. But get this, you could bid, on paper, on many very nice gifts, meals, etc, and you know where all the money went? Why for the New York Fashion Academy! More specifically, to help reduce the tuition for incoming students. So, posed as a benefit, it was so self-serving, even Terry, the owner, couldn't hide her sly smirk. * * *
The Burn of North Pierce County
by Robert Delos Wade
Ballard Resident
"If I do not return to the pulpit this weekend, millions of people will go to Hell." --Televangelist Jimmy Swaggart
by Robert Delos Wade
Ballard Resident
"If I do not return to the pulpit this weekend, millions of people will go to Hell." --Televangelist Jimmy Swaggart
This story begins in the summer of 1972. It centers around a well known used car salesman, well-recognized from his commercials on television as one crazy SOB that smashed up his cars with a sledge-hammer. His name was Dick Balch. His dealership was based in the small township of Federal Way, 25 miles south of Seattle and 8 miles north of Tacoma. There was something of a cult-hero status with Dick Balch and his viewers, and a few of the potential buyers actually wanted the damaged vehicles that he smashed up during his commercials. As his popularity grew, Mr. Balch also had a secret side few people knew about.
We all knew this man did his commercials totally blasted.
This guy was one huge party animal (a snow-shovel) and if you were fortunate enough to attend one of his impromptu gatherings at his home in Federal way, well you were in for one hell of a good time that included all the booze, weed, cocaine, and heroin--if it was your thing. I will admit that I was very much seduced to this way of life, since I sometimes supplied the cocaine and weed. Most of the time Dick Balch was into just booze, coke and weed, but on occasion or two the junkies would show up with their needles and their own heroin.
Their supplier was what we knew as a "burn-artist"--meaning, that this person would peddle useless drugs to support his own insatiable junkie habit.
This "burn-artist's" name was Casey Treat.
Oh no...I believe I know what you're thinking. Could this be the same man that we see nowadays on the TV as Pastor Casey Treat, with his lovely wife Wendy Treat (Cher?) Absolutely! Why would I want to trash the name of such a renowned man-of-the-cloth, with such a soiled accusation? It is very simple. I do not believe one word that is uttered from the lips of this Pastor.
Sincere truth? Oh sure, he talks the talk, and he may even to appear to walk the walk, but my personal experience with Mr. Treat, in that day, was of deception, guile, and intimidation. Woe be to you if you ever confronted Casey after he sold you bogus drugs and demanded your money returned. The only time I was unfortunate and foolish enough to purchase some cocaine from Casey, it became obvious to me that practically all of the "drug" was in reality powdered baby laxative.
The "Burn of North Pierce County" had allowed me to sample his wares and it definitely was coke. I paid my $25 for a gram, but with the sleight of hand trick he possessed, the small package was replaced with the laxative. By the time I realized that I had been hoodwinked, Casey Treat was gone. That was his MO. Hit-it-n-git-it.
It would be almost a month before our paths crossed again. I confronted the burn-artist and pushed his red-headed ass up against a wall and demanded my 25 bucks back. When his fellow junkies came to his rescue (a sort of intercession between me and the rat-bastard), I grabbed his orange shoulder length hair and wouldn't let go. Only when one individual lifted his shirt and flashed a revolver at me, I knew it was time to leave.
There is one thing about junkies--they will scream innocence until they either pay up or find another way out of their dire predicament. I never attended another party at Dick Balch's home after that. I was shocked years later to find out "The Burn of North Pierce County" had become Pastor Casey Treat.
OK Pastor Treat. You either owe me a gram of cocaine, or $25...cash. I won't charge you interest. Your words are meaningless to me. If you truly want me to start putting any stock into what you are now peddling, then divest yourself of all materialistic possessions and give them to the poor and go live amongst the less fortunate with your lovely wife Wendy (Cher?) for ten years.
Hell...You'll probably meet up with some old buds out there. Ahhh, but alas. You truly love your possessions, don't you Casey? Sadly, it comes at the cost of people that believe you are a spokesman of God.
Well Casey, there is one "lamb" out here with fangs and maybe someday we will meet again.
Hopefully alone.
We all knew this man did his commercials totally blasted.
This guy was one huge party animal (a snow-shovel) and if you were fortunate enough to attend one of his impromptu gatherings at his home in Federal way, well you were in for one hell of a good time that included all the booze, weed, cocaine, and heroin--if it was your thing. I will admit that I was very much seduced to this way of life, since I sometimes supplied the cocaine and weed. Most of the time Dick Balch was into just booze, coke and weed, but on occasion or two the junkies would show up with their needles and their own heroin.
Their supplier was what we knew as a "burn-artist"--meaning, that this person would peddle useless drugs to support his own insatiable junkie habit.
This "burn-artist's" name was Casey Treat.
Oh no...I believe I know what you're thinking. Could this be the same man that we see nowadays on the TV as Pastor Casey Treat, with his lovely wife Wendy Treat (Cher?) Absolutely! Why would I want to trash the name of such a renowned man-of-the-cloth, with such a soiled accusation? It is very simple. I do not believe one word that is uttered from the lips of this Pastor.
Sincere truth? Oh sure, he talks the talk, and he may even to appear to walk the walk, but my personal experience with Mr. Treat, in that day, was of deception, guile, and intimidation. Woe be to you if you ever confronted Casey after he sold you bogus drugs and demanded your money returned. The only time I was unfortunate and foolish enough to purchase some cocaine from Casey, it became obvious to me that practically all of the "drug" was in reality powdered baby laxative.
The "Burn of North Pierce County" had allowed me to sample his wares and it definitely was coke. I paid my $25 for a gram, but with the sleight of hand trick he possessed, the small package was replaced with the laxative. By the time I realized that I had been hoodwinked, Casey Treat was gone. That was his MO. Hit-it-n-git-it.
It would be almost a month before our paths crossed again. I confronted the burn-artist and pushed his red-headed ass up against a wall and demanded my 25 bucks back. When his fellow junkies came to his rescue (a sort of intercession between me and the rat-bastard), I grabbed his orange shoulder length hair and wouldn't let go. Only when one individual lifted his shirt and flashed a revolver at me, I knew it was time to leave.
There is one thing about junkies--they will scream innocence until they either pay up or find another way out of their dire predicament. I never attended another party at Dick Balch's home after that. I was shocked years later to find out "The Burn of North Pierce County" had become Pastor Casey Treat.
OK Pastor Treat. You either owe me a gram of cocaine, or $25...cash. I won't charge you interest. Your words are meaningless to me. If you truly want me to start putting any stock into what you are now peddling, then divest yourself of all materialistic possessions and give them to the poor and go live amongst the less fortunate with your lovely wife Wendy (Cher?) for ten years.
Hell...You'll probably meet up with some old buds out there. Ahhh, but alas. You truly love your possessions, don't you Casey? Sadly, it comes at the cost of people that believe you are a spokesman of God.
Well Casey, there is one "lamb" out here with fangs and maybe someday we will meet again.
Hopefully alone.
(Jimmy Swaggart, on February 21, 1988, without giving the details of his transgressions, tearfully spoke to his family, congregation, and audience, saying:)
"I have sinned against you, my Lord, and I would ask that your precious blood would wash and cleanse every stain until it is in the seas of God's forgiveness."
"I have sinned against you, my Lord, and I would ask that your precious blood would wash and cleanse every stain until it is in the seas of God's forgiveness."
* * *
Labels: Satsop Tower--TPK Photography
