Ballard Bullshit

Meet Greg Pinneo, co-founder of Reach Returns. And now the owner of Credo Square, which would be Edith Macefield's previous residence. All my regular readers, and many, many others, know my commitment to tell the tale of this remarkable woman, via a documentary. But I knew I couldn't put the film out until the house itself reached some finality. And now it has.

I met with Greg at 9:15 a.m. on July 14th, at, and in, Edith's house. Just he and I. He was on his cell when I arrived, but he looked up at me, and winked. That was a suitable acknowledgement I figured. When he finished his call, he apologized. But I needed to look him in the eyes and probe his psyche, which I did.

We exchanged small pleasantries. He later e-mailed me and told me he was 51 years old, but why was he limping?

"How did you injure you ankle?" I eventually asked.

"Well, it's kind of a lifelong compilation," he said. "I used to play a lot of handball, and now I'm paying the price." He lifted up his right elbow, which looked like a deformed knob worthy of a circus side show. But it was just a result of many years of abuse, and his body had formed a golf-ball sized bony defense.

But let's get to the guts of this story. Yes, he's going to elevate Edith's house two stories, and the bottom two will be for you and me. The remodeled house will be office space for his company(s). The second story will be a mezzanine, and the ground floor will be a public area as well, so we can perhaps have a cup of coffee, and laud the efforts of a man whose very being oozes money. Similar to medieval barons who lived above their serfs. This man speaks to audiences of ten thousand, for real, and he sure does like reminding you of that fact.

Just to refresh you readers: Barry Martin is the project co-ordinator of a huge development called "The Ballard Blocks." Building #1 is the U-shaped building surrounding Edith's house that is completed, with a much needed Trader Joe's as a prime tenant (and L.A. Fitness). Barry befriended Edith during the last year of her life. As a gesture of thanks, Edith deeded her house, and small lot, to him. Imagine that.
But as she told me, "I was going to give my place to the Catholic Church, but I thought it over and decided I didn't want to give it to a bunch of pedophiles." Yes, she said that to me. So Barry got it, fee simple. Well, he also just received $310,000 for it, under the aegis that the money will go for his children's college education. According to the Seattle Times (07.08.09), "Martin said that when Macefield told him she was leaving him the house, she said he'd need it to put his two kids through college." I absolutely call Bullshit on that. What really happened is that she stiffed the man who had helped her for twenty years, because of a petty argument. Now just think about it: wouldn't you help out some little old lady for just one year, and receive a third of a million dollars? It's all about timing.

So I don't want to hear this crap about Barry Martin being the beneficent developer--Christ, he was dwarfing her home into oblivion, and the parent company, Ledcor, would face abuse charges if they didn't do something to help her. I was there, and there was a small army of volunteers who were helping her already. Ledcor was backed into a corner what with the pneumatic poundings, concrete trucks, insane traffic, et al--she was already well known. Believe me, Barry had his eye on the prize at all times, then she died, and he won the jackpot.

Just as I anticipated, this whole damn story is being sugar-coated, and re-invented. That's the cruel price of revisionist history. Except that pesky little writer, me, just happens to have the closest thing to the truth, and will pound away at it. But here's even more bullshit: Yes, Edith told me that she did not want her house to become a shrine. She quite literally wanted to fade away, because keep in mind, she was a genuine spy in WWII, working for the precursor of the CIA, known as the OSS. Dead dogs tell no lies.

So Barry Martin uses that tenet to his advantage (the no shrine thing). And Greg (the now owner) full well mimics that. Nope, no shrine. I'll get back to that hair-split in a minute.

Let me physically describe Greg to you. Definitely a GQ kind of guy. His career now is as a motivational speaker, and I guarantee you, one look at him, from millions of unhappily married women, and the market is a sure bet. He speaks in deliberative sentences, yet I was somewhat taken aback by his lack of vocabulary. I had to explain to him the meaning of 'antiquarian.' But maybe I'm just a language snob.

You don't need Webster's dictionary memorized, you just need to recognize, and act on, peoples' frailties. Call yourself New Age, hell, call yourself a self-appointed Messiah, it's all the same shit. Use hypnotic suggestion, appear as a sensitive guy, and you'll double your audience, because let's not forget the legions of feminized heterosexual men who will salivate over a guy like this. Do you see countless dollar signs yet?

Definition: shrine / 'shrïn, esp South 'srin/ n [ME, fr. OE scrin, fr. L scrinium case, chest] 1 a: the reliquary or tomb of a saint; b: a place in which devotion is paid to a saint or deity: sanctuary; c: a niche containing a religious image; 2: a place or object hallowed by its associations.

The second definition becomes problematic to the enigmatic, profligate powers that be. So let's just back up and take a look at the facts, and then the BS, OK? We've got Edith (deceased), Barry (the developer), and Greg (the owner) all saying, no no, no shrine here. Well Christ, of course the money men aren't going to admit to anything as crass as a shrine. That would be sacrilege, and a public relations nightmare. But if the public insists on looking at her house this way, well then, at least the money moguls said it wasn't one now didn't they? Barry gets his free cash without working for it, and Greg, the motivational guy, will put a total of a million three into it, shove it thirty feet in the air, invite people to use the bottom two levels, on Edith's reputation that is, and her house becomes a visible lighthouse to his new creed, excuse me, his new Credo Square that is. ("Money for nothing and the chicks for free.") And the public will buy it hook, line, and sinker--they already have.

And if you don't buy into my take on this yet, consider this: you can even touch a little bit of immortality, via Greg that is, by purchasing a tile for the project. Yes really, to quote Greg in the Times article: "This endeavor is much more philosophical in nature than it is about real estate or construction. It's continuing to think deeply about what's important. That's what Edith put out there...to consider the great questions in life (emphasis mine)." More garbage, and I'll tell you why. She never subscribed, at all, to that kind of lofty, synthetic thought. She and I talked about these things. Philosophies are what she fought against--they were thought limiters to her.

So while pandering to the community, Greg Pinneo is cleverly twisting the Edith legacy to advance his own agenda. Still don't believe me? Well you'll have to pony up $250. to $5,000. per tile. And it all goes to Greg. Do the math--100 people paying $5,000. each adds up to a half a million doesn't? Don't you see it dear readers, WE are buying Greg's real estate; WE are buying Edith's house, and WE get no financial return, but we sure do get to be a part of Greg's "philosophical nature." Remember, it's NOT about real estate or construction. . . and folks, that is pure Bullshit. Getting others to pay for your projects is nothing new to capitalism.

What a transparent lie this whole scheme turns out to be. Barry gets free education for his kids (there's no accountability on this one, but man it sure sounds good doesn't it?), Greg appears as a shining knight, who saved "the little house that could." Well Amen bruthahs! And all of the congratulatory free press they both get is worth a king's ransom.

You've all seen those late night preachers, usually with big hair who wow their audiences with healings and scriptural authority--always immaculately dressed. Well that's really all Greg is, minus the Scripture. He's written his own ecumenical treatise. And apparently, judging from his wealth, he's tapped the same yearning, but resurfaced it. Kind of like a millenial asphalt, which I would spell Ass-fault.

Yet another thing bothered me while I was talking to Greg. Every time I would relate an anecdote from my discussions with Edith, a glaze would come over his eyes, as if he knew he'd better listen. He didn't give one rat's ass about the personage. Because it wasn't about him. As the powerful owner, his inner insistence that the Edith story is his to re-invent, was evident. Her story has to diminish, while his has to increase. I mean come on now, just look at the above picture with his dot com ad splashed all over Edith's little cottage. Well we'll just see about that when I submit my documentary to the Sundance Film Festival.

We have been duped. Except me that is, and now you know. Is it raining yet?. . or is somebody pissing on my leg? Remember that song Smooth Operator? Oh, and just one more little ditty: according to Greg (in so many words), if you disagree with anything he says (you know, the Gospel according to Greg), or if you believe in his criminal conviction for real estate fraud a little over ten years ago, you are a "nay-sayer." Um, what? Let's see, if I believe court records and factual convictions, the problem is mine, not his. I.e., do not peel back the onion layers of truth. Truth be damned. Where is P. T. Barnum when I need him?. . .there certainly is a sucker born every minute.

Remember the physical infirmities I mentioned earlier--Greg's body racked with injuries? Karma sure is a bitch isn't it now? Perhaps in the not too distant future, Greg may be resigned to a wheelchair. Then he can look from his aerie, that would be Edith's house touching the Heavens, and like Howard Hughes, rot in self-pity.

And don't you readers ever forget, it's not Edith's shrine. It's Greg's sanctuary. . .




Let me share something very profound with you, my dear readers. The next time you feel a twinge of guilt, or remorse, or deep feelings for the plight of the homeless, well just remember this little piece of reality.

If you read my obituary of Theresa's, you saw that amidst her immense suffering, for years, from two forms of cancer, she was all about giving, quite literally, the last years of her life to the homeless, and making sure they got a square, home-cooked meal, every Friday, at St. Luke's Church. Many of us sat with her, joked with her, applauded her iron fist of control, which was sorely needed. No one lipped off to her. And if you stepped over the line of civility, she would scoot you out the door, with a bag lunch to go of course. You would not go hungry on any given Friday under her watch.

Then she died.

And here's how "respectful" the Ballard homeless were: In addition to an announcement before the feed on Friday June 19th, I'll bet I talked, personally, to at least fifty of the food recipients, and asked them to attend Terri's memorial at 2:00, just two hours after their bellies were full. The general announcement reached at least 150 of the hungry homeless.

Including immediate family, 24 people showed. Six of them from the feed. Only six would pay their respects to a woman who gave every last ounce of her life to the hundreds she fed, via the Church.

So when your hearts bleed for the "homeless," just remember their cowardice, and their cold lack of attention to a Saint.