Ballard Bullshit

2010-05-04T10:32:00.000-07:00

Edgar (l) and Sig Hansen in front of their now famous fishing vessel, the Northwestern

Ballard Bullshit

©May of 2010
Lead Writer, Editor and Publisher: Richard Andrews
web: ballardbullshit.blogspot.com
e: ballardbullshit@yahoo.com
"Where informed attitude counts"

Sig Hansen

Ballard's Catch, Deadliest?

"You cannot make a crab walk straight"
--Aristophanes

There were about 300 people in attendance. And as you loyal readers know, I am no respecter of persons. So here's this pithy-mouthed star of "Deadliest Catch", used to getting his ass kissed, now on his home turf. He doesn't ask for a drink, but gets one, from Karen, two people to my left. She's 50, and can prove her groupie status with pics of Captain Phil Harris, who died from a stroke. But she's hot, desirable. And Captain Sig lusts, it doesn't matter if he's in front of a throng. She buys him another drink, right in the middle of his monologue, and she throws another sip in front of his brother, Edgar. The Hansens' mother is to my back, a little to my right. She sees the chemistry--hormones are raging. Quite another catch. Sig asks the crowd if he can have a cigarette, and they quite unanimously cry 'No!' He walks to the only window near the stage, cursing his unsated addiction.

This May 3rd collision happened at the Leif Erikson Lodge, 2245 NW 57th Street, here in Ballard. On and on his diatribe rolls, so interesting that even the Scandinavian elders, in their Nordic sweaters, have his full attention. Oh yes he acknowledges them, as well as his genetic forebears. Sig is a student of fishing history, but only into the 1940's. Before that, he admits ignorance. But what a detailed, and familial history that is.

Here's the enigma. Captain Sig admits that initially he allowed the network cameras run for just three segments. He never looked past that. And then the volcano of 128 countries loving his story erupted. As if in his wheelhouse, he didn't have to couch his words in front of this sassy crowd, nor did he. . .he was home.

And the hour and a half oozed with anecdotes worthy of a Mark Twain tome. His Mother beamed. These were her boys. The accolades were a plus to her loving commitment. After the 'show', I told her that my mother, at age 82, was still proud of me, with no fame. "Whatever her money, or your money, she loves her boy," she told me. Choked me up for a second.

Sig's drink of choice for the evening was vodka/coke. Dressed so casually in a grey shirt, designer jeans, and black engineer boots, you could easily have missed him if he had walked in front of Tullys, while you were bitching about the condos for sale. Brother Edgar was dressed-down as well.

Q and A time. I was weary of the standard fishing questions from the audience. Up my hand went. "Sig," I strongly asked. "I am an Alaskan from the Fairbanks area, and since there are no rules on language tonight, I write a newsletter called 'Ballard Bullshit.' A non-fishing question: What do you think of that young man up on Camano Island, his name is Colton--he grabs planes, he's 19, he's kind of our Robin Hood?"

Sig did not know, at all, what I was talking about. Brother Edgar did. "You mean that one up North flying airplanes and living in the woods?" "Oh yea," I replied. "The Barefoot Bandit" someone offered from the crowd. Sig, in his own way, resigned the question. He really didn't know, but brother did. "Maybe he's doing a bit of good," Edgar said away from his mic, almost inaudibly. All the rest of the questions for the entire evening were fishing related.

The brotherly love between Sig and Edgar was palpable. "I tossed him to the wolves and he's been chewed on ever since," Captain Sig offered. "But that's because Edgar runs other fisheries off the boat. He runs the deck on our ship. It's a good recipe." Sig knows his internal support system. He knows all these other minor fisheries, but Crab is his Muse. "Before all these rules and regs, when my Dad was out there, you just fished with very little oversight. The circle of laws were minimal. But, now we have more range, more technology, and that comes with a price."

I was warming to this supercilious specimen of the ocean. A perfect combination of arrogance and commonality.

Did you know there is yet a third brother, named Norman? "I think I screwed him as a child. Some light-switch turned him off to speaking Norwegian. Norman's trying now, if he's drinking, he'll talk," Sig reflected. And yet one more offering about the third wheel: 'Every camera man's dream is to say, 'I got Norman to talk.'" Revealing stuff there. Karen bought him another drink after this.
Someone proffered a question about the current Gulf oil catastrophe. A quite unexpected response was offered by Sig. "We can't control that,' he nervously offered. "There's always food to go around." Wow what a shit response I thought. And that was that, on to the next question.

"What's on board for you this year?"

"We'll be fishing out of Cordova this summer." Now to the rest of you readers, this is kind of an innocuous statement. But I have lived and fished in Cordova, and it is ground central for the entire North and East Prince William Sound fishery. Everything Cap Sig does, now, is monumental.

"How were the old days?"

"Well, all we really did was eat, sleep, shit, and fish." Sig is starting to get a little buzz on now. He waxes a little too gushy about his association with "Make a Wish" foundation. But the crowd eats it up. "I didn't want the limelight, but what you gonna do with it?. . . use it I guess." He wants a cigarette, badly.

The didactic discussion concluded, and I am a sucker for figuring out where the stars have to go, just after a presentation. Some have to take a piss, and believe me that is access to barriers. But remember that smoking urge. . . as in right now? Outside I go--a hundred people are lined up to get a personal signing for his book, inside. But he has to smoke. Well there he is, with just a couple of folks around. I pounce.

"Sig," I touch his shoulder. "I am a bigger asshole than you." He reaches his right hand out to shake mine, basically, a perfunctory hello.

"Um," he stuttered. "Really?" His grip tightened, then a wry smile.

"Really," I said. For once, he was speechless.

Then we chatted, privately. After that, as I walked the four blocks to my flat, I concluded there really was just one word to describe this incredible man: Authentic.

2010-02-06T13:15:00.001-08:00

Ballard Bullshit

© February 2010
"Where informed attitude counts"
Editor and Writer: Richard Andrews
e: ballardbullshit @ yahoo.com

Bob Goodman
Store Manager of the New QFC

"How dare you tell me horses have no souls? I have looked into their eyes and have seen the Truth."
Chief Joseph of the Nez Pierce

"Pink gave the best performance of the entire evening!" Mr. Goodman exclaimed, (commenting on the Grammys show that aired January 31st.) Well, any QFC store manager who extols the talent of an edgy millennial performer without mentioning tits and ass has got my vote. Furthermore, this guy thinks Johnny Depp is a top-notch actor. . . as do I. So I asked him if he'd seen Depp's movie "Blow" (as in cocaine). He hadn't, but he'd order it. These comments were monumental to me, as in, even the President has a Blackberry, internet access at his oval desk, and wi fi in 'Limo 1.' I mean, have we finally escaped, even minimally, stone-age thinking from ninety year-old senile senators (as in Strom Thurmond), or can we even laugh at disgraced senator Ted Stevens' remarks (aged 86), describing the web as "just a bunch of tubes and wires" ? Does anybody under forty-five even know what a vacuum tube is?

Mr. Goodman begged off my first attempt to interview him. A slight red flag. Had he read my 'best of Ballard Bullshit' spots? Was he slightly afraid? Had corporate infection taught him to avoid a hard-core journalist? Or was he just plain slippery. . .

. . .how 'bout none of the above? He did honor my second thrust for the interview (on February 3rd), yes, for a whole hour and a half.

I finessed my way into his psyche, and as you loyal readers know, tried to wrench anything insidious or contradictory from him. Not to be.This man is solid, and I mean to his core.

We talked of his grandfather who came from Norway, via Minnesota, to Ballard. We talked about his three children, the oldest who is at Western State majoring in International Business. Ol' Bob put three years in at the UW, but left to pursue business.

Mr. Goodman is fifty, and those Scandinavian values, old school that is, guide his every waking second. Oh yes, he attends the necessary corporate meetings, where they discuss strategies. I told him I didn't dislike upper management meetings, it's just that 'strategies' reminds me of Pavlov's dogs, or herds of sheep, where people become streams of molasses. His assiduous response: "Well that may be true, but the 'new' QFC gives the branch manager quite a bit of flexibility. So my belief that the customer should have a good experience, every time they come in my store, can still be my goal."

"And does corporate allow you the freedom to exercise your options?" I asked.

"Oh yes, they now encourage it. In fact, at those meetings, they want to hear my ideas for some changes, and they let me act on that."

Go figure.

And just a bit of store trivia here: that Starbucks you see in the southwest corner? Well, this QFC is a licensee of Starbucks. That means that those baristas are employees of QFC, and officially they are in the bakery department. So they can't be tipped. Nope. Would you tip the deli personnel? The checker? Well of course not. "They are paid six dollars more per hour than their peers." Mr. Goodman was proud of that.

I talked with the very relaxed man some more. I brought up what I perceived as either problems, or endemic floor anomalies, or just plain mistakes. I talked to him about 'choke points,' which designers just don't anticipate. I talked about 'floor islands' which just don't work. I even talked to him about little metal glitches which can injure a checker. He listened, and more importantly, agreed with every one of my observations. Not because he was being compliant, he was just being real. In more common terms, not once did he react with a Corporate defensive posture, not once. He had every opportunity to pull a sanguine, if not arrogant, response, but didn't exercise that option.

Security. Hmmm, how good is it? Well, as we were looking at a fairly good screen resolution from store cameras on his master monitor, one thing was certain. The printouts were archaic and basically '90's quality. Oh yes, there are lots of cameras, with more to come, but the system was cave-mannish. I mean, isn't this 2010? My Kodak 10 megapixel takes better vids than this embarrassment. Who is peddling these monolithic systems? Oh well, whatever, so I asked him about the 'hands-on', i.e., when you actually catch someone stealing.

"I just won't let anyone restrain a thief," he offered. "The safety of my employees comes first."

(And for you long-time readers, how can you kick this? The old QFC had a horrible incident: the night manager confronted a thief who had stolen a half-rack of beer. As the manager ran after the culprit into the parking lot, he was run over once, and then the assholes backed up and ran over him again. And the bitch of this whole story? When he called 911, the goddamn operator kept asking him where the store was, as in, what was the address on 24th street. There was no address on the outside of the building. The broken and mangled manager kept telling the lady it was the only QFC in Ballard, but she needed a street address, and this creepy operator problem was a major reason the thieves were not caught.)

So the "I won't let anyone restrain. . ." statement, and policy, is valid. But boy oh boy does that open the door for fast-footed thieves who want a few bottles of wine, and will never be caught. James, the wine steward, cannot be omnipresent.

Bob likes to fish (for salmon in Alaska), ski (at Stevens Pass), and golf. He is divorced but sees a lady for companionship. And even when he's not on the floor of his fiefdom, smiling, he's still smiling when he's looking you straight in the eyes. This man genuinely enjoys people. He's one of those mature guys who has been around the block a few times (even though he is not well-traveled), and throws any sort of bitterness or resentment right out the window. His personal surety pervades and precedes him. . .

So the next time you're in his, oops, our store, just say hi, and welcome him. He truly is one of us. And most importantly, he will listen, and then act on your valid input.

One can only believe his three children will carry his virtue forward. How rare that is.

* * *

myballard.com

the SCAM is on you

This site is pretty much real-time. When you post, you get the satisfaction that damn, I've just contributed to a really happening site, and if I witnessed a SWAT team response, or a fatal accident, or a quilter, or a dog shitting, well then I am someone. I just got electronically published, and now I am important by God. And that's exactly what the insidious owners of this website want you to think.

There's even a little bit of rock-star mentality going on here. If you read the bios of the controlling yet clever owners, well Hell, you may think the God called capitalism has blessed this duo. You see, if you even touch their creation, you're kind of a groupie, and you don't mind. I mean come on, how many people do you know that are higher-ups at MSNBC? Well if you're bought out that cheaply, why don't you go have a six dollar drink over at Hazelwood, on Market Street, and you just might get to rub elbows with one of the co-owners, the bass player for Sound Garden--just call him Ben, although his arrogance might turn you off. Same thing over at myballard.com. Let me illustrate the scam.

The principals are Kate and Cory Bergman. Cory is the director of business development at MSNBC. He's also connected to King5 TV. Kate tries to convince us she has been a journalist for years. She also was connected to King5, but told me she left to do this blog scam (my words, not hers). They started this little heist a couple of years ago, and in the boring, traditional approach to reinventing yourself, now they both are modern spokespersons, or mullahs, for Ballard. Excuse me while I puke in the john.

I met Kate last July, when the "squat house" was being demolished, over on 56th street. Brash, supercilious. . .a female bully. There is no social consciousness in her world, merely a shell of ambiguity. She and her husband can justify anything, all under the guise of innocuous phrases such as "we care about the community", or "let's have everyone contribute." Bullshit. They are the greedy successors of the Yuppie kingdom--espousers of morality when all they care about is money and status, and if you play, you are feeding the Beast.

Why are they so deserving of my bile? Well read on.

Now follow this: websites have counters. They used to be primitive, i.e., they just recorded hits to your page. Then, schemers found out a way to phish individual addys and add them to your 'hits.' So instead of 100 hits a day, you could claim to have 1,000 hits a day. Well the rod of correction came in, and for a while things mellowed out to Truth. Ah but you can't hold down a good capitalist. So the term 'unique users,' or something similar, came to be the standard. This was supposed to guarantee the actual number of visitors were real people. And websites worldwide bought into this, and still does, but the counters remain corrupted. This is the core-point data for myballard.com to do one thing: use these false numbers to sell advertising. The numbers are still inflated by a term called 'importing.' My neighbor, a retired Microsoft guy, explained all of this to me.

Myballard.com has the balls to claim over 55,000 unique users. (According to apartment.com, the Ballard neighborhood has approximately 32,000 residents !) And even more incredulous, they claim to have over 600,000 page views per month! People actually believe these hyper-extended 'facts.' Not only do I have some ocean front property in Arizona to sell you, but I'd like you to invest in a monstrous refrigeration system, take it to Barrow, Alaska (where I've worked), and convince the Inuit that they cannot live without slurpies and Eskimo pies. You in?

Kate quit her job to devote all her energies to her scam. Imagine that. Here's the drill: claim quite astounding numbers of unique visits, and convince your clients it is real, then sell your ads. Now here's the rub: you have an entire community giving you news, for free, because you've convinced them that half of the population of India is reading your posts. And you suck the life-force out of all of your contributors, and you watch your bank account grow, because your advertisers believe your bullshit. But the contributors are happy, because you've fed their ego. They get nothing, you get everything. Get it? Even the great robber barons at the turn of the 20th century paid their slave-idiots a dollar a day.

Well what kind of money are we talking about? As follows: for a mere $150. per month, you get a postage stamp size ad, with an image and some text. That's $1,800. a year! Oh boy, that'll get those buyers to your shop. So just one hundred advertisers grosses the scammers a cool $180,000. a year, for doing what? And worse yet, they run four other neighborhood .coms: Phinney, Magnolia, Fremont, and Queen Anne. Keep spending on the ads you suckers. AND, they have now partnered with the Seattle Times.com.

Vampires.

But I think their website propaganda says it best:
"After all, you power this blog. Not us. We just moderate it."

And in an incredible admission of their guilt, they call themselves an
"organic, neighborhood-grown news site", and they crassly admit they'll gladly take your money, for moderating, that is: "instead of creating competing efforts designed to draw advertising dollars away from the neighborhood." Please re-read that last line. Because they live on 67th street, all of Ballard is now their neighborhood. How pathetic.

So very simply, go fuck yourselves myballard.com, and take your false morality, and your vicious schemes and shove them right up your asses.

You are thieves. You are predatory.

* * *

Fronds

The Chai House: Shit, this beloved dump is closed. Yes, there are many rumors, but we all know the real reason. Sure, it may have been loud-mouthed patrons, sure it may have been just a little bending of alcohol laws, sure it may have been just the angst of Ballard's underground. But you wanna know what really closed it? The new yuppie-moms with toddlers who moved into the nearby high rises. Yup, them. Playing a less significant role, the senior apartment building, not one block away, brought the police just too many times to the Chai House. What you may not know is this little tidbit: any place that serves alcohol is rated by the amount of times the police are called. If you exceed the profile, you will be notified by the state, or the City. And they'll crop you in a New York minute.

With the Chai House finished, a part of Ballard is forever gone. Jessica started that venue years ago, on Market Street. Evidently she sold it just in time to turn a profit. But she was smarter than most of us. She saw the coming wave of bullshit. Well let's put it this way. She loved younger men, and she found one who could satisfy her, and financially seal the deal. Nothing wrong with that. Good business, good lovin'.

So with this closure, any Mohican-haired talented musician, or corn-rowed Rasta, or sassy babe with full-sleeve tats, no longer have a place to vent. At least in Ballard that is. Fremont is closed, as is Greenwood. Mark my words, this talent pool will gravitate South, to Sodo, or Rainier. Oh yes it will. And Ballard will stink of high-end perfume, and then die. Probably around 2040, it will make a resurgence.

For now, our neighborhood has been compromised, and the very reason all of these moneyed prudes moved here, is the very reason this neighborhood has been sold, not to the highest bidder, no no, it has been prostituted to banality.

* * *

The Ballard Branch Library: Finally, a little bit of chutzpah by the new Librarian, and her name is Cass. Didn't you get sick of all of the transients making the grounds their new pig sty? Didn't you get sick of all the teen runaways constantly harassing you for smokes, or worse yet, finding out where you live and then robbing you? Didn't you get sick of certain patrons passing out inside the facility, and then pissing their pants? And if you're male, didn't you get sick of the guys in the bathroom using it as their personal bathing cubby, all bare-chested and scowling? Single handedly, Cass has almost put a STOP to all of that. "I look kind of neutral, but I hide my heavy-handedness," she told me. "I just didn't understand the inaction of your predecessors," I commented. The previous acting Branch Manager, Dave Valencia, ran that entire facility right into the sod. His pissy little gay agenda was far more important than being responsible and responsive to the Ballard neighborhood. So I wrote a blistering letter to the City Librarian about him, and demanded the letter be inserted into his personnel file. Oddly, he was transferred out (did my tirade have anything to do with it?. . .don't know), and then Cass took over. So when you go visit our new and revised library, do not hesitate, if you see bullshit, to tell Cass about it. She most definitely will take care of it. . .

I am am absolutely convinced that the tension that suffocated the Library patrons has been curtailed, and this breath, this mellow enforced code, has brought the Library full-circle back, back to enjoyment.

Edith Macefield

2009-07-17T10:40:00.000-07:00

Greg Pinneo and his arm candy, oops, I meant his wife

Edith Macefield
Turns In Her Urn!

--Principles, Principals,
and Money--

"Don't piss on my leg and tell me it's raining."--Judge Judy Sheinlin

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. . .

* * * * *

Theresa Porch
Postscript

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.

Theresa Porch

2009-06-11T13:49:00.000-07:00

photo by Steve Shay

Obituary

Theresa Porch
May 30, 1954--June 5, 2009

Most of us met her at the free feast, at noon on any given Friday, in the basement of St. Luke's Episcopal Church, here in Ballard. With a booming voice and a firm grip, she would angelically enforce much needed order. Society's spectrum dines there, from shattered homeless souls to retired professionals (widowers usually), who need a home-cooked meal, prepared by humble elderly ladies who summon recipes, from oh so many years ago.

Theresa welcomed all--rank or status (up or down) meant nothing to her--you were a person, one of God's creations, and that was enough for her to love you. She would never preach at you, or to you--that was the subtle job for the food servers to insert. But she wanted to know the details of your struggles, and she would willing share hers with you.

Reporter Steve Shay and I went over there one Friday in April of 2008. I wanted him to witness what one amazing woman was doing. I asked him to take a couple of pictures, and Terri was OK with that. Steve's remarkable portrait at the top truly caught her essence. I sent her a copy. In a return e-mail she responded:

"Got the picture. Thank you. Have to say it is one of the best I seen of me in a long long time. Thanks again. See you soon. "(4.26.2008)

Terri had immense medical problems, and she and I would talk over symptoms, medications, and the procedures she was experiencing. She faced her mortality straight-on, yet, at a moment's notice, she was ready with a smile, a wry joke, or just a knowing nod.

An Angel has returned to Heaven. And while we who remain will miss her dearly, her legacy of love and forgiveness will live on, cemented in the hearts of many.

Goodby Terri. See ya up yonder.

Photo by Terri's daughter, Kathleen

The Squat House

2009-06-02T15:55:00.000-07:00

Photo by "a Squirrel in a nearby tree", donated courtesy of
http://www.compasscenter.org

Above two photos by Lorn J. Fant
http://www.honario.net

Ballard Bullshit

©June of 2009
Lead Writer, Editor and Publisher: Richard Andrews
web: ballardbullshit.blogspot.com
e: ballardbullshit@yahoo.com
Where informed attitude counts

Peter Wesley Hall

The Squat House

"Nobody saves America by sniffing cocaine. When it snows in your nose you catch cold in your brain."
---Allen Ginsberg

Peter Hall is 15, and yes, that's his real name. Peter was born in Vladovostok July 15th, 1993. In that gray and rainy coastal town, his mother let him wander off, at age two, into the brutal Soviet streets. They don't pander to errant mothers in Russia, and he was whisked away to a nearby orphanage, in his soiled diaper.

Peter's mother let the State take him, and two years later he was adopted by an American couple, who live in Magnolia. Peter has a few memories of his days in the orphanage.

"I remember I burned my left leg on a hot stove, and had painful blisters everywhere."

Peter's first brush with authority was not pleasant.

"I stole an apple. . .I was just so hungry. I gave it to a girl who was sleeping a couple of beds from me Then I wanted it back. I went to grab it and she bit me, hard." Needles may have been a part of the punishment.

His Magnolia life was all about rules. Very little love and a whole lot of discipline, coupled with a warped Christian home life that just didn't make sense.

Peter is 5'6", 130 pounds, and mildly bow-legged. His eyes have an ever so slight epicanthic fold, reminiscent of his Mongol lineage. In Russia, if you have a small percentage of that warrior blood, you are an 'entitled' person. You are preferred--akin to Americans who have a quarter or eighth Native American blood coursing their veins. But over here, no one gives a shit about the great Khan's bloodline.

Peter's step-parents thought they could mold this boy into a clean-cut, respectable follower of Christ, but his genes worked overtime to refuse this indoctrination. The real reason is that Peter's mind can be described as a rarified mixture of cultural genius.

"You are different," I told him. "Your sense of reasoning is incredible. You can figure stuff out."

"Y'know," he chimed. "Even when I'm standing around with my friends, I sometimes feel all alone, and I can't explain it."

"It's because you're cursed with brilliance," I offered.

Because he was stubborn, Peter was deceived by his step-parents who drove him to a boot camp in Montana when he was just 14. A camp full of Russian kids. Now stay with me here. First, he was willingly abandoned in his home country, then adopted, then sent to a hell-hole by his supposed 'caring' American parents. You want to talk about all alone in alien corn? Peter was never violent, he just didn't give a shit about control.

Peter tried to run away from the militaristic 'corrections' that were brutally imposed on him. He found a car with keys in the ignition--a vehicle with a stick-shift. Of course he couldn't work that with any proficiency, and he ran the car off the road.

And of course he was caught. The vicious authorities at boot camp decided to mete out a little ol' fashioned punishment.

Solitary.

"They put me in a white room which I couldn't even stand up in. It was so cramped. A little bed, a toilet, and a small desk."

"Did they give you any books to read?" I asked, incredulous at this admission.

"Just one. The Bible."

The pained look on his face crushed me.

"I was in there for seven days."

After a total of three weeks of 'rehabilitation' Peter returned to Magnolia, and had to face the unrelenting pressure from his step-parents. He'd had enough of this bullshit. So he ran away--from home boot camp that is.

Caught yet again, he was re-enrolled in the juvenile offenders' school system. And in the Fall of 2008, he ran away again. To Ballard. Tired of sleeping in the weeds, he found recourse in the only available shelter that had no rules, especially Christian ones.

The Squat House, at 1753 NW 56th street.

* * *

This building had been abandoned for a few years already, yet the electricity was still on. It was a known crack house, and the 'residents' were dealers, thiefs, transients, and kids. Break-ins were occuring all over the neighborhood. You know the drill--steal, sell the goods cheap, and buy shitty drugs that have been stepped on innumerable times.

Two and a half years ago, I personally talked to the Captain of the North Precinct about this festering ulcer. "We are aware of the situation," was all he could tell me. And the Seattle cops did nothing about it. Neighbors talked openly about arson, and the only thing stopping them was their protection mode they had formed, ad hoc, for the young tenants who had nowhere to go.

Nobody wanted to burn them out, or burn them alive.

Cheap black tar heroin was the drug of choice, with PCP running a close second. How could this continue? Well, it turns out the female owner was getting a sweet little kick-back on the drug sales. She knew she was going to sell this dump anyway, so why not collect a little 'rent' on the side? That's why the electricity was left on. And I suspect a few dirty cops received some gratuities as well. With the neighborhood in an uproar, for years that is, just give me another plausible explanation. . .

This was the world Peter stepped into when he moved in.

* * *

It wasn't that he had anything against heroin, Peter has an intense fear of needles; remember that orphanage? He let me check his inner arms and lower legs to prove it. Pot. . .sure. Alcohol and cigarettes. . .sure. But needles?. . .no, not ever again. He tried to have his lower lip pierced, but he puked. Toddler memories can become quite influential.

Debauchery would be a kind term to describe what Peter witnessed in the Squat House. As a girl-crazy teenager, these sights would not be healthy. He wanted a girlfriend.

"I just can't seem to get a girl to take notice of me."

"Well you've got to be interesting Peter." He was just beginning to learn the adage that nice guys finish last.

Yet after I befriended him, he always had a smile and a cheery "good morning" for me. I talked with him, at length, about the absurdities of doctrinal religion, and he was a willing student. His worthy responses, and questions, were remarkable--as if I had a young Descartes or Aristotle in front of me. A few times he would tell me, "Man, I wish I could have taped our last discussion."

Imagine a young Doctoral candidate, capable of impeccable deductive and inductive reasoning, in front of you, and he's only fifteen.

"Religion is what keeps the poor from murdering the rich."
---Napolean Bonaparte

* * *

So finally the Squat House has been demolished. On an 80 degree June 1st. A group named "The Compass Center" bought the property and plans on building low income housing in a couple of years. I spoke with the facilities manager of that group--Tom Phillips.

A very caring and affable man, Tom was acutely aware of the house's reputation.

"I heard you might turn this lot into a P-patch for the interim. Is that right?" I asked.

"Well we thought about it, but we now feel the neighborhood just needs a rest from all the activity here. So we'll leave it just empty until we start building."

That's a big hallelujah for the immediate neighbors.

* * *

And what of Peter? He's back in juvee. I called to see if I could visit him, and it was a stern 'no'. Only parents. But they can't block the mail.

If you're fortunate, you get to meet a unique and startlingly smart person just once in your life. The main problem is recognizing what's in front of you. This middle-aged writer has been blessed, and I will not give up on this kid.

The last words I said to him, before his current incarceration was:

"Always remember Peter, you've got at least one person who cares." I was pointing at my heart.

Oh, I almost forgot--to Mr. and Mrs. Hall, over there in Magnolia: Fuck You. Your narcissistic egos brought over an East-Russian commodity, not a precious child. You are guilty of neglect. You knew the exact address to the Squat House. You brought your 'son' no food. Or clothes. Or support.

I did.

Furthermore Mr. and Mrs. Hall, take your synthetic Christian faith and shove it right up your asses. And if you don't like my words, well let's just kype a few from your New Testament: Mark 7:27--"But Jesus said unto her, 'let the children first be filled: for it is not meet to take the children's bread, and to cast it unto the dogs.'" Or, how about Paul's Second Letter to the Corinthians, Chapter 12, verse 14--". . .for the children ought not to lay up for the parents, but the parents for the children." Or one of my favorite karmic statements, from Matthew 10:21--". . .and the children shall rise up against their parents, and cause them to be put to death." Are y'all queasy yet?

You two really do not want to meet me face to face. . . . . . . .there's this little Russian tradition I'd like to revive. . .and spittle on your face doesn't taste too good. . . . . .

. . . . . .but unconditionally backing an 'at risk' brilliant young man sure makes my cup overfloweth. . .

* * *

Kiss My Glass

"The ancient Egyptians forged glass into currency. The future is to turn glass into Art."
---Leonardo da Vinci

He is from the Windy City. A kind of gruff, sloppy but literate kind of guy. Not afraid to use vernacular, his salty responses reek of authenticity. He's brash, in your face, and vulnerable.

Meet Bradley Axelrod.

Think glass. He was peddling his wares across the street on the west side of Fred Meyers.

"So I have to ask you the ultimate tourist question--have you ever met Dave Chihouly?"

"Hell no, but everyone I know who has, has said he's an asshole."

"Well OK," I replied. "Look, I met James Michener, and he was a total dick. But that can never diminish his great novels, some of which made it to movies."

"Oh yea, I get that. Chihouly really is my idol."

I asked him about sales, seeing's as this was Mother's Day. "Well, guys buy more for their girlfriends on Valentine's Day than they do for their Mothers on this day." Hmmm, well I guess he would know wouldn't he?

So what I'm really saying here is, look, this guy makes good glass. And it's not only just affordable, it's cheap--and gorgeous.

So check him out. You really should buy some of his creations, because his 3-D expressions are excellent:

www.etsy.com/bellafioriglass.

Then let him know your interests: Bella_Fiori_Glass@hotmail.com. Tell him I sent ya.

Dante Rivera: Yet Another View

2009-03-22T22:18:00.000-07:00

photo by Scott Cohen

Ballard Bull****

©March, 2009
“Where informed attitude counts.”
Editor, Publisher, Lead Writer: Richard Andrews
web: ballardbullshit.blogspot.com
e: ballardbullshit@yahoo.com

* * *

Ballard Bullshit Celebrates Its
6th Year!

Well my dear readers, you are the real heroes. This little rag is more known than I ever would have anticipated. Sure, a complaint now and then, but I don't change the format or content for the minority view. 99% of you love the straight-up, factual, hard-nosed style. And it's you who I will serve. My readership stretches from the gutter to the boardroom. I have met Mayor Nichols five times now, and recently, now get this, at the Central Library, I walked up to him and said, “Hey Greg, Richard Andrews, you know. . .”, and he finished my sentence, “You're the Ballard Bullshit right?” So even the Mayor can swear in a legitimate way. But I really don't care about any of that. Politicians are veiled liars, I just mention this to let you know that my blunt-force articles are being remembered. So here we go, the assholes get trashed, and the honest souls get lauded (or fairly analyzed) OK?

* * *

The Gentrification of Ballard?
or
The Bastardization of Ballard?

". . .and a mixed multitude went up also with them. . ."
Exodus 12:38

The root word of 'gentrification' is 'gentry' [ME gentrie, alter. of gentrise]. According to my Webster's 7th, gentry means: "...the qualities appropriate to a person of gentle birth; people of a specified class or kin." 'Bastard' [ME, fr. OF] means: "something that is spurious, irregular, inferior, or of questionable origin."

Language, being what it is, evolves slowly with quick, adept spurts of individual word adaptations. So don't worry now, I'm not going to lament the loss of the Scandinavians in Ballard--their numbers diminished long ago. The remaining relics will have to accept their fate--perhaps as a live exhibit with a reindeer in the new Nordic Heritage Museum, whenever that gets built. They can slobber lutefisk with an MD present who will treat the very painful poisoning caused by the caustic preservative, known as lye.

The newest incarnation of the Norwegian Independence Day parade, in May, will be led by an androgynous human with black skin, green eyes, and blonde hair. The new Nordic, that is.

So where does that lead us?

Ballard has had an artificial identity for decades. What lurks below its surface is a mean streak comprised of red-neck local business men and women, who hide behind a "Scandinavian" mask. The owner of Ballard Oil, Warren Angkervik, is a prime example of the hate-filled, mean-spirited attitude that rules this berg, or used to rule it. There are many of these fake chauvinists who conduct business here, and thankfully, they are diminishing.

So the newbies to Ballard, the folks who are buying the condos, townhouses, and cottages, are NOT the assholes, no no, the real bastards in Ballard are the local hold-outs who harbor a fear and dislike of the wave coming in, because they feel their power base is slipping, their economic power base that is. Their kingly stranglehold over a docile, serf population is evaporating. The newcomers are being polite to these hardcores, but that's not going to last. There are too many new, modern, with-it shops opening up, and they are being supported. The staid, boring 1960's mentality; the stuffy, shitty mainstream stores who try to profit on the antiquated mind-set relics of Scandinavian monoculture, will fold, and those storeowners will finally take their bile-filled bank accounts and move to the rural towns of Eastern Washington. Maybe they should move to the Tri-Cities, and breathe deep the radioactive air Hanford and Umatilla forgivingly release. . .(they're called "down-winders" over there).

Either way, the out-of-touch powers will be economically crowded out, and good riddance. If you want to see these caricatures I'm talking about, go to any Ballard District Council meeting, on the second Wednesday of every month (the conference room at the Ballard Library, 7:00 p.m.), and you will see a freakish collection of business owners that are not only laughable, but Victorian prurient. Really, just go and watch these fossils make fools of themselves, while thinking they are prim, and proper--and (ha ha), civic minded. If the charade wasn't so comedic, it might even be scary. More importantly, these powers-that-be, these dinosaurs, replete with their greedy mindset, will be gone, in time.

The bastardization of Ballard, therefore, is the last gasp of a fifties/sixties culture that is facing the guillotine, and the spore-caked business predators will be cursing and spitting, like a bunch of Dark Age heretics, on their way out.

The gentrification of Ballard is the slow infusion of modern professionals with their own identity, agenda, and money. This necessary transition is already in evidence, and I personally invite these new businesses, and individuals, to become active in the exciting, visceral change that is inevitable.

Oh, I almost forgot, that parade I mentioned at the top of this article: it should be just after the Vernal Equinox. A parade led by a paper maché, old-fashioned bulldozer that clearly pushes out the sour status quo. Following this float should be a high-tech, chrome plated seed planter, with a "Welcome Hybrids!" sign attached.

Now that's better than a red carpet. . . . . . . . .

* * *

Dante Rivera

Alchohol Unenhanced
C2H5OH--Friend or Foe?

"I've been walking forty miles of bad road,
If the Bible is right, the world will explode.
I've been trying to get as far away from myself as I can.
Some things are too hot to touch
The human mind can only stand so much,
You can't win with a losing hand.
Gonna get low down, gonna fly high,
All the truth in the world adds up to one big lie. . ."
---Bob Dylan, "Things Have Changed"

I count Dante as a personal friend. We go back some years. But nobody gets a free pass in my world. He had one hot-dog cart when I was vending fine art on Market Street, and that's why, without reservation, I can give you readers this analysis. Now he has at least three carts, does private parties, political get-togethers, etc. A nice success story right?

Sure I knew he drank, I didn't give a shit. But Dante got an intervention wake-up call from his family and friends (this "save your ass" meeting happened on August 14th, 2006--Dante graciously brought a case of beer for the celebration; I love it!) Down to the Betty Ford center he went for a 28 day hiatus, and that's an expensive proposition.

Dante got a three day journalistic spread in the Seattle Times, replete with photos, and the requisite redemption finalé for his 'heroic' transformation, with the emotional write-up crafted by an excellent reporter.

Marc Ramirez, the exquisite and sensitive journalist who wrote the tantalizing bio, chronicled Dante's fall from grace. (Seattle Times, beginning 11/23/2008). . .the six DUIs, the emotional roller coaster, the principals involved, damn--everything! Dante found some sort of Purification Entity (he recently e-mailed me and told me he was agnostic, so out goes the "I found Jesus" escapism), and is 'clean and sober' as we speak.

But what's wrong with this story?

"Gee, I wish I could sing like that."
--Elvis Presley, after hearing Roy Orbison sing live.
"Man, I wish I could write songs like that."
--Eric Clapton, after seeing the Australian band Crowded House
"Why don't these 3-chord kids practice?"
--Prince, on the current state of music (2008)
"Fuck music, and fuck you."
--Sid Viscious (before commiting suicide)

Well let me tell you.

(Now keep in mind, I'm probing into a friend's psyche here, no doubt there will be repercussions).

Some people fear the internal--alright, the demons if you will. Those evil Muses can shred your very existence and grip you tightly, more than any substance can. So find the 'societal enemy,' (chemicals, alcohol, 'scrip drugs, etc.), and place the blame there, all under the aegis of a non-punitive cure. Yes, you can blame your proclivity (which would be internal), or your own retreat problems, or your deviant thoughts on something external, but that's only a terribly thin band-aid to the real issues. So indeed, you get therapy, assess the blame, and now you're clean. But you can never escape the core issues. So even the Betty Ford Clinic becomes an extension of your ego. Hell yes, you're done with the 'substances,' but you're never done with yourself. So you get all of the congratulatory, ephemeral false kudos; you get presents ad nauseam, and you convince yourself you're 'cured.'

No you're not. You've just fooled a whole lot of people.

You still have the same inner torments, only you're not 'using' as you were before, and like a faded rock-star, you can't get enough adulation, for your 'cured' persona that is. So it's a couple of new addictions that cannot be sated, just like your old ones.

Replacement therapy is failure therapy. I can think of a couple of local mega-churches who just might need your patented, predictable inspirations Dante. . .you're still the same tormented soul you were, only this time your fixes are more societal, and more numerous. So you can continue your lies, to yourself that is. Did you ever consider the truest of friends you will ever find, are the most Poe-esque beasts who exist in your peripheral vision?

I liked Dante better when he was drinking. He was more connected, oddly enough, to real life. Even then, he made a lot of money. When you look in his eyes now, there is a nondescript cataract that acts as a reality barrier. It is as if there is a distant tune playing behind his prescient view. Now he thinks about franchises and compliments with attitude--he thought of these same burnishings when he was off the wagon, without attitude. But the other 'core' Dante, the respectful, people loving Dante surged when he was the 'uncured' Dante. Now he is more of a vanilla poster boy, (I won't question his neo_Puritan life style), a great guy who throws a hell-of-a party, invites all the right people, and looks just a little too squeaky clean. His sincerity is in serious doubt. The financial gods have seized him. But I guess that is the American Dream.

Delusions can be awfully deceptive now can't they?

Just listen to Mr. Dylan Dante, he'll supply the spikes for your own cross. . .

* * *

E-mails and Random Thoughts

Napster Replacement: Quite by accident, I discovered a site, from the Netherlands (legal, yes), that gives it all up for free, in a web-friendly forum. In its search box, type in the name of a song, or a group, and up they come. For free. Wireless or high-speed cable is best, and I've got a couple of hundred of my faves downloaded. So here it is, a simple addy: www.downloads.nl. There, now go and enjoy, it really is easier than BitTorrent.

A Twisted Compliment: "I read your diatribe on Jack Mayne, defrocked editor of the Ballard News-Tribune (on your website). You called him a fossil. I disagree. He's a modern legend. . .the only living man whose balls are made of granite. Kind of gives new meaning to the term 'rock star' now doesn't it?"
------Gennevive S.

Critique? "Mr. Andrews, I thought you were in your 30's, kind of a hipster. Then I met you, and discovered a 59 year old, paunched, white guy. Shit! You could be my dad, and I was kind of hoping, well, for something else. But now I know, there are a few renegades from my folks' generation. Could you pierce the left nipple on your man-boob, install a nano-cam, and put a viral show on at the Chai House?"
------Marco T. Polo

Do This: Go to Google, enter "Corey Chisel +video," the first entry should be a video of him, titled "See It My Way," now play it (MuZu Music). You want to hear a young 'natural' singer, with a foxy little blonde for back-up? He's on his way up. . .

A Regular Compliment: "You know what I like about the Bullshit? You don't resort to easy smut to get your point out there. It IS informed, and it IS attitude. I'm glad the P-I has gone down. They were irrelevant to my life. I even like the stuff you write when I don't have a clue. Journalism ain't dead, nor is it all electronic. Your rag is something I can stuff in my pocket, and read to friends. I like, I love it, I want some mo of it!"
-----Jasson and Julie Christianson

A Regular Non-Compliment: "Do you really know what 'bile' is? It's what comes out of your mouth when it should be coming out your ass."
-----X-Hubris

The Chinese Water Torture: "Your sentences are structured like an exquisite executioner--they seep into my psyche and crescendo to a finite Truth. Your sense of inductive and deductive reasoning works wonders. I knew we were all stupid, well a little bit anyway."
-----Brian Burmeister

The Ballard Chamber of Commerce: Who-wee, how do I approach this one? I have been asked, by a local banker, to investigate the Chamber. "Why?" I asked. "Because I can't see how they are relevant at all," he responded. All I can say is that the Chamber is totally irrelevant, a corporate small entity, and indicative of the neo-conservative mentality that will be replaced. Sorry, Mr. Banker.

* * *

Leon Hendrix: Jimi Hendrix's Brother, Or Is He?

I have been following the Leon Hendrix court cases for years, and have been wondering why the courts have awarded Leon nothing, nothing, for what seemed a legitimate case for a part of Jimi's inheritance. Jimi's white step-sister, Janie, still controls the 70 million dollar a year estate. What the hell? Leon even lost his case in the 9th Circuit Court of Appeals, and there's only one step after that--the United States Supreme Court.

As most of us know, Leon plays all over Seattle, and is booked in nearby Fremont a few times a year. So we know him, he's not a stranger.

Well here's where Truth gets real ugly. There is a brand new definitive book out, named 'Scuse Me While I Kiss The Sky', by David Henderson, that finally gives up the mystery. Now don't get pissed at me, this is what the author pulled up, and the author was asked by Jimi, many years ago, to be his biographer. All 432 pages sizzle with facts that will twist your acid addled mind, or, if you were a vegan back then, will color your green offal red.

And yes, the author is African-American.

Jimi's mom and dad were not happily married. Jimi's mom, Lucille Jeter, would leave Al for months at a time, go on binges, and Al would always take her back. Lucille was gone for 10 months when Jimi was about four years old. She came back very pregnant and Al told her that of course, he would welcome the child into the family. Mom had had an affair with a man who was half Filipino, and the resulting baby was Leon, yes, Jimi's "brother." Lucille died in 1958 from cirrhosis of the liver. Are you getting this yet? That makes Leon NOT a Hendrix. And every judge who tried his claims cases knew this. We didn't.

At the time of the first court case, white step-sister Janie had proved she was financially responsible, and Dad Al knew this, and therefore deeded control of Jimi's estate to her before he passed away. Leon had been an extreme drug abuser then, but, credit where its due, cleaned himself up, but just a little too late.

So Leon is Jimi's half-brother, on his mother's side only. And his last name is Hendrix because, on paper only, Al was still married to Jimi's mother. Janie is a step-sister. Neither Leon or Janie is a Hendrix. Every judge gave the nod to who appeared more level-headed and business savvy for riches we can only dream of.

At least legally, I get it.

Which makes Jimi even a little more ubiquitous now doesn't it?

* * *

Jack Mayne

2008-12-12T20:36:00.000-08:00

Last known photo of vitriolic Jack Mayne

Jack Mayne

Editor of the
Ballard News-Tribune

FIRED!

Exclusive to Ballard Bullshit
A Silent Dismissal Brought to Light

Jack Mayne, the pickled, vicious misogynist finally got his ass removed from Ballard's only weekly newspaper. The Robinson brothers, who own the News-Tribune and several other small Seattle publications, finally got rid of a snake whose venom spewed all over our fine berg for too long. That's right, even old friends turn the screw.

This relic from the Edward R. Murrow school of journalism thought he could re-create the cigar-chomping style from an era that squeezed out talent, only to be replaced by rank amateurs he could control. Legend has it he was one of the staff who invented the AP style of writing, which would become the new standard for American yellow journalism. Instead of surrounding himself with people who gave a direct representation of facts without interpretation, he eliminated anyone on his staff who would threaten his power base. Excellence in his office was rewarded with an old trick of the industry, i.e., he would shorten your hours and assign you asinine topics. I knew some damn fine reporters he crushed this way. One of them was a Chinese/American, with decades in the trade.

But Shithead Mayne found his deliverance. . .nothing like a good dose of "get lost and find some talismans for your sarcophagus."

With this fossil, if you weren't white, you weren't right.

This sinking piece of pond scum, this 'man' who ruined lives and careers, received his just rewards. I read his personal agenda within five minutes of meeting him. But the Ballard community, ever forgiving, was willing to let him have a length of rope, and then another. Well let this little article be the final yank on the noose.

The trap door has opened, and the literary gimp is now hanging in the pure ocean air, awaiting the ravens who will eagerly peck out his bile-filled eyes, only to puke out the excrescence because even that coagulated witches brew is too putrid to stomach.

Quoth those ravens, "Nevermore. . . . . ."

* * *

The Hierarchy
of the
Homeless

For decades I have been involved in many layers of assistance for the disadvantaged. From elderly shut-ins to gutter punks. In between that gulf live the Homeless, the hapless, and the hungry.

Government agencies tend to effect things in clumps; monies or concerns are allocated and dedicated by group definitions. E.g., children's health care, the poor, animal control, etc. And then there's 'the Homeless.'

But wait a minute--should shelters, re-hab programs, food assistance--should those 'social programs' all sit under the aid package to those classified as 'the Homeless?' No,no. Why don't we use a biblical word instead--Lepers. After all, that's what 'they' are treated like, isn't it now?

I would prefer the phrase 'cornucopia of humanity.' Actually, I don't even like the term 'disadvantaged' (which I just used), because I've known far too many people with money who are just that--emotional cripples, lonely, bitter, but. . .uh, they have riches.

So let me break down 'the Homeless' for you:

The Artists

Today's media shove their version of Art down our craws continually. Therefore that's what people buy. I have met and critiqued tremendous writers, musicians, and painters in the homeless community who would shame New York City's best. The difference? America won't buy from Lepers.

The Pigs

These folks are usually the visible faces of the ogres: the filthy, smelly shufflers who are always on 'main street.' Knot-haired, hole-clothed unkempt people who don't give a shit about themselves, or you. Checkbooks and credit cards close now, because the stereotype becomes cemented. The medical difficulties these people experience are immense.

The Thieves and the On-The-Runs

Those who have a very private network slide between jail and a free meal somewhere. They combine efforts with the 'drugsters.' These true losers, well-known in the Leper community, are feared and despised. They are the alpha hunters, the Ted Bundys who prey on anyone and anything. Police even leave these bottom-feeders alone, hoping they will move on. Many have outstanding warrants, and think nothing of beating the weak for silence. In 1910, these slippery fakes without morals would have been known as "yeggs,"--a truly fearful term, then.

The Saints

How can a Leper be a Saint? Well just open your eyes. Some are certain Christ will be here shortly. Some are agnostic, and live by an inner code of sanctity and giving, minus God. They are forgiving, beautiful individuals who quite literally have given many the shirt off their backs, and all the food from their poke. They are easily taken advantage of, but don't mind--the very fact they are alive means they can continue a life of penitence, and live for others' comfort. So just a note for you bishops, pastors, and ministers--go fuck yourselves, then re-enter the seminary of real life.

The Insane

Mental illness is rampant, and, at very least, recognized by the State as a genuine affliction amongst the Lepers. Survival is most operative, at all times. They are not feared in this community, as much as tolerated and pitied.

The Independents

These are the mysterious people who are not crazy, not martyrs, and not interested in re-joining the System. They are usually veterans, some are University educated, and all are fairly balanced people. This is where the word 'choice' really is a true lifestyle. They've played the game, recognized the folly of it, and have made a home in their van, or have skirted the law (trespass that is) with a mobile tent. I met one fellow with a Bachelor's in Philosophy who had a warm, comfortable flat above the railroad tracks--dug into a hill that is. Internal visqueen sheathing, a tiny heater (doubling as a stove), a little 12 volt light package, and a wood pallet floor. Oh, and by the way Mr. Visitor, would you take your shoes off please?

Summation

Dear Readers, are you following the thread here? The varied culture we call 'the Homeless' is a mirror image of all levels of any civilization. There is one glowing difference though: Truth is more an emotional issue amongst the Lepers than it is in society at large.

Money hides Truth. . .poverty insists it's an issue.

Extremes are magnified. Power rests more in sheer personal dominance here, but submission is temporary. The financial slave system, so apropos in traditional cultural structures, is a temporal anomaly in the Leper colonies.

Creativity oozes like an undersea thermal vent in this subculture. Society be damned. If you're any student of History at all, you'll appreciate the literature, the works of art, the music, et al, that has sprung from the netherworlds of a nation. Chaim Soutine, the expatriated Russian Jew, ate cockroaches in Paris, circa the early 1900's. Now, if you could find one of his paintings for sale, you'd pay thirty million dollars. Caravaggio, a starving convicted murderer, found pardon with the Pope in the 1600's, only because no one could paint like he did. Allan Ginsberg had to have his first book of poems, "Howl," printed in England, because he was considered a vile, gutter living homosexual here in the States. Jimi Hendrix fled his rat-infested house and joined the military--for three hots and a cot.

These anecdotes tell how there is an escape, but while in the Leper colony, you get used to ridicule and rejection. The road out is perseverance, and there is no lack of that 'mongst the Lepers.

They have time for excellence. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .do you?

http://ballardbullshit@yahoo.com

2008-06-30T17:16:00.000-07:00

Ballard Bull****

Editor/Publisher/Lead Writer: Richard Andrews
Volume 5, © June of 2008
"Where Informed Attitude Counts"
e: ballardbullshit@yahoo.com
web: http://ballardbullshit.blogspot.com

* * * * *

Einstein's definition of insanity: ". . .doing things over and over again and expecting different results."

The Chai House
SOLD!

Well it finally happened. Jessica (the founder) said "I've had it." Though she still retains ownership of the Chai House Tea empire (based in Greenwood now), the death trips and controlling staff was enough. Oh yea, there's money in the gutter-punk, Goth, metal-stabbed young crowd--they always have cash, but the price was too exorbitant. I personally think the Kyle Huff murders up in Capitol Hill had a whole lot to do with throwing in the towel. Her staff was numbingly close to that horror. And tangentially to blame, while acquiescent to the cops.

Ed Tudor (the old guy buyer) and Chris (his bland son), bought the business. Daddy's rich.

I talked to Chris at a recent Thursday Scratching Post (open mic). Guarded, young, milk-toast to the point of banality, he gave me time, that is until his yuppified friends showed up. The entire quartet was not interested at all with the talent that was on-stage. After all, it's his now, and his rise to importance is to be adulated right? This new group of millennials only know one thing--keep it boring and you'll at least make some money. I fear the Edge is vacating Ballard. But nature abhors a vacuum, and I predict some entrepreneur will find a location near Market to advance a new Edge. The last gasps of Mr. Spots are acrid. If indeed they are the last.

I spent the last four Thursday eves at the Chai to gauge the change, if any. The other Chris, let's call him MC Chris, is one of the last hold-outs there--he was M-C-ing at the old location on Market Street. I could never utter one bad thing about this outstanding young man. Now figure this, he works graveyards (midnight to nine), and faithfully runs the talent show on Thursdays. It's his contribution to Ballard, he doesn't, nor has he, received a dime for his efforts (well alright, maybe a free can of beer now and then). At this point in time, MC Chris is like the proverbial "deer in the headlights" scenario. With the new ownership, he feels everything slipping, slipping away. I personally have mentally bashed on him to take back control.

"I used to have the 'Chris formula.' Many of the performers I already knew (both musical and spoken word). I would balance the evening with their talent."

"Well what happened?" I asked.

"It's kind of like I let democracy take over. I had complaints, and I guess I kind of caved to that."

"So you let the 'Chris formula' die a quiet death, based on unsubstantiated complaints? Think of Ed Sullivan, think of any talent show that has a leader. Of course you're going to get complaints, and right now I'm complaining to you about the lack of talent, and a crowd that now supports that. Where's your balls Chris?"

"Yeah I know," he said.

Chris' Mom and Dad were the essence of the 60's culture. After you're done jading your memories, after your through denying your own myopia, then you'll begin to find the paths of two people, one man, one woman, whose intricate threads formed a perfect supplication with reverence: their Son Chris.

He is Ballard's MC.

It's just too damn easy to give accolades post mortem. Hence the Edith Chronicles Thing--recognize them when they're alive because History is on your side. Know that Sainthood knows no gender, nor age.

When you speak with Chris, please recognize the giant in front of you.

And this my good friends, is what the guts of Ballard is all about.

That leaves us with the Chai House up for grabs. This is a defining moment for that place, and if it succumbs to worn-out formulas, then so be it. But MC Chris is a clever fellow, and he just might find an extra ace up his sleeve. . . . . . . .

* * * * *

Edith Macefield:
The Rest of the Story

Edith's Edict--Leave Me Alone You Assholes

"You're dirty, sweet. . .and you're my girl."
-----T. Rex

Well here we go, and you, my dear readers, just might shit a brick.

What happens when a buxom young beauty actually lives to be an octogenarian? Do you still look at her tits? If you've even been sentient recently, you saw the article about me and Edith (age 86) in the June 25th issue of the Ballard News-Tribune. So it's all well and good right? Edith won the battle with Ledcor, the developer, and she has been canonized (with my help I may add) into local folklore. She won didn't she? But Fate has stranger twists for you. . .

Your intrepid editor did some real digging. I have a copy of the "Revocable Trust" that Edith signed. This type of document guarantees real estate passage. Well, she revoked it, and the "heir" was not to get it. "I was going to give my place to the Catholic Church," she mused to me one day, "but I didn't want to give it to a bunch of pedophiles." Are you with me yet? Now here's where the story undulates.

Barry M., the absolute Superintendent of the Ballard Blocks One project (the Edith thing), cared for Edith from the second they broke ground, and then began moving the polluted soils to Oregon. He took her to her hair appointments, made sure she had loads of fresh fruit, instructed his crew to always make sure her parking spot was available, etc. Follow me now. Edith told him she did not want her place to become a park or a memorial. She wanted to fade away into Eternity without fanfare. She was sick of the attention.

And in a final supernova, she...deeded...her...entire...place...to...Barry!!

The very person who was demonized (globally). The developer's lap dog. And, she gave him full Power of Attorney to take care of her affairs after her death. Both the Investigative Medical Examiner and the lead Mortician at Evergreen told me this. So to the Ballard community who wanted to keep her place as a shrine (including one of the founders of the Viking Bank), she simply stuck her middle finger right up their butts.

Irony At Its Best

The big question for everyone is: what's going to become of her house? Well you're getting it straight and true right here, and first: in time, it will be demolished, and the remainder of the Ballard Blocks One will continue, just as they had planned.

So the developer gained by personal default. But Edith dominated the battle from the beginning. Her final wishes were to raze her house, and let its memories be absorbed into the future.

Now what do you want to do? Go against her final algorithm?

* * * * *

ASTER

Well what is that damn CLOVER coffee maker? Is it the superlative infused nirvana? Did you, like ol' man Schultz of Starbucks, get sucked in, like a Latter Day convert, to the verbiage of hype? Dear reader, did you abscond your taste buds for two things:

The new Aster Café is at 56th and 24th NW (5615). At the base of the other NOMA. The owner, bless her soul, is Beth Scribner, who you may recognize as an ex-Cafe Verité employee. She now has her own little oasis. But be prepared to drop some bucks. While she admitted that she does not give anything away at the monthly artwalk, she was quick to add that her happy hour runs every day, from 4:00 p.m. to 6:00 p.m. The specials: $3.00 pints of beer, and house wines (red and white) for $4.00 a glass. Do you dear readers see a trend starting to develop? The operative word is 'overcharge.' Now here's where it gets sketchy--I love the entrepreneurship, but you gotta have a staff that is a clone of you, OR, you have to have a staff that brings a twist, OR, you have to have a superlative product that humbles the competition.

Her main employee---Dan U.,---is a narcissistic know-it-all who just doesn't know when to stop lecturing.

When can you get past the jargon of pomposity?. . .does price dictate pleasure?. . .is the brain's perception based on hype or bean reality? Barista Dan U. would be a consummate Marine. It's just that this type of simper fi doesn't fit Ms. Scribner's vision. Sure, he's got all the coffee jibe, and he's confident that his argument is secure. And that's the problem. I don't need, as a customer, to be cajoled into a knowledge cave. My palette will judge the bean, not the rap.

Well I ordered the 'middle.' Three dollars for what? For the barista's bullshit, that's what. If you're buying into brand name, i.e. the Clover brewing process, then you've just been conned. Hard to admit, but Starbucks' Pike Market blend, even in the drip form, was superlative over this Clover crap.

This joint is an evangelical paradise. BELIEVE. Faith cannot dominate my wallet, but evidently thespian excellence can. The coffee is the Holy Grail, and my faith has been diminished. This 'Clover' machine is supposed to take me to Socratic areas, per the barista that is, and when I arrive I crash to the earth. I make better coffee with my crude drip system at home.

So if you want to get sucked into this 'Clover' temporary mania, dig in.

It's bullshit in its purest form. And that’s how this rag gets its name.

* * * * *

The Ballard Art Walk
An Update, A Downturn

“The Arts Council doesn’t believe in supporting amateurs, except in its own ranks.”
--Sir John Drummond

Well OK. I do the perfunctory Second Saturday Walk. And once again, the arrogance of the Old Ballard Ave ambience does not overwhelm me. I'm supposed to feel fortunate that many of the businesses are open. What? Screw you.

There is a local cultural attitude that undermines the Spirit of the Artwalk. You (the customer) are here for me (the merchant). What a crock. It's not an Art Walk--it's a vacant attitude. You might as well have a ticket, a pass, to even let you sip wine. Take OK OK gallery for instance--last month they had a piece of art for $36,000. But both hosts, Charlie and Amanda that is, eagerly invited you to contribute to the 'drinks' fund, i.e., the cheap-ass cans of PBR. So you should throw some bucks into a kitty that should be free. I thought they had a little more class than that.

This is the new Ballard Attitude, and it sucks. Forced (albeit suggested) donations do not an Art Walk make.

There is a new cynicism that pervades Ballard right now. And it has nothing to do with the orgasmic growth of condos or apartment conversions. Why should the “artistic” Millennial generation be exempt from Greed?

But speaking of exemptions, let me give you a couple. SKARBOS, which is the new furniture store that replaced Olsen's, is a participatory player. The wife of the owner gets it: she provides wine and the appropriate cheeses, and doesn't worry about drunks spilling alcohol on her four thousand dollar leather couches. "Hey, this is the cheapest advertising I've done," she states. Exactly. She chooses her artists expeditiously, and grants them a whole lot of wall space. Quality artists. Her affable manager, Mr. Andrews (no relation to me), is witty, wholesome, slightly edgy if you push him, and warm to all of his guests. (Why else would they name the patron Saint of Scotland, St. Andrews?) This is a nice place, and you should support it.

And always peek at the New York Fashion Academy. Terri and her husband bought that whole building a couple of years ago, and it is just now re-germinating. This place is HUGE. Now of course the nationally respected Academy gets precedence, but there is enough space to have a full-fledged gallery, at ground level, and Gallery it will become. They held a few experimental exhibits in the last year, to a resounding response. Yes of course, they know the value of "give a little." Wine and cheese, yes.

Their May, full-blown art exhibit, was one of the most talented collaborations I have seen in Ballard. First class stuff. They're even going to refurbish the original fir floors to spec. I told hubby Robert: "Why not look at it this way. Give the South end of Ballard Ave to OK OK, and you take the North end. The noose tightens in-between." He got it.

So there you have two reasons to still attend the second Saturday Art Walk. As for the other businesses, they've got to capitulate a little, and realize they're not that important. For Ballard Ave to become a homogenous unit once again (like it was four years ago), it's about sharing the wealth, escape the 'take take take' mentality, and get back to a few basics, the most important one being: lighten up, serve up some freebies, and give us locals a definitive reason to return.

If not, there's always Fremont, just a little stretch down the street. . . . . .

The Fremont Art Walk
An Update, An UpTick

“I look as if I was having a difficult stool.”
---Winston Churchill, on his portrait painted by Graham Sutherland

Well OK again. First Fridays have never looked better. What a refreshing change from the greed of the Ballard Art Walk. I hadn't been over there in a while but what a treat. At every place I visited I let them know that Ballard was represented. Nothing but open arms and open treats. Fremont has been trashed in the last few years, ad nauseam. But therein lies the problem--it's a false conundrum. Gentrification did NOT take Fremont over. The press said it did. but the locals quietly fought that bad representation.

And hence, an excellent Art Walk. I mean it. Of particular note was a Gallery called The Orange Splot. It featured five artists, and didn't mind at all if you had one too many glasses of wine. In Ballard they would have scowled at you. All of the Artists were in attendance, and all were willing to discuss their Art. Humble. This is the Stuff of an Art Walk, and leave it to Fremont to lead the way.

It’s annoying to live in Ballard and allow the local powers shove this Nordic shit down our throats all of the time. I wrote in an early issue of the Bullshit a needling fact: the Scandinavians never were the dominant force in Ballard. The definitive census from 1910 put the Nordic population second to the Midwest Germans. So we really should be celebrating knockwurst with good dark beer. Ballard lives a lie that way.

All Fremont ever claimed was to be the Center of the Universe, and put some outrageous statues in their town.

Thus: false pretension in Ballard, honesty in Fremont. And it shows in their Artwalk.

* * * * *

E's:

E-0: "I don't know if I like you at all, but hottdamn, Y'know what the Iron of Truth Is? It's you."-----Billy H.

E-1: "Since Edith ain't alive, I'll hang out at Mike's Chili and beat the shit out of anyone who might disrespect her."-----Reggie W.

E-2: "Can I still talk to her?. . .can I just sidle up and tell her she's loved, but not in the way she's used to. . ."-----Renaldo R.

E-3: "History is best when it erases. Her memory will fade, until entropy says 'I'm gonna put it right back in your face.'"-----Derek II Z.

(f)E's:

(f)E-0: "'The Chronicles of St. Edith' is the right title. When you achieve Sainthood, minus the Church, God smiles. . ."-----Jenna B.

(f)E-1: "I Googled 'Bertrand Russell' and scored some photos. No wonder Edith went after this sexy, distinguished, all guy, all guy. . . "-----Melissa A.

(f)E-2: "Her memory imprints structure to a tortured soul. There is comfort in that, comfort in that. . . "-----Cari Ann B.

Aggravated e(f)ểmails
androgynous at best:

"So Edith's your hero huh? Why?"-----Willus

"Gosh Richard, did you get any bone fragments from her?. . .saliva?. . .personal relics?. . .it appears you are a master of vivisection. ."---Elliote

And a Poetic Favorite:

"You've put into words what was just beyond my tongue."-----Leera Beckon

* * * * *

Snippets

"Tiny," an Alaskan Native American living in Seattle (Ballard), got screwed by the Supreme Court's ruling regarding the Exxon Valdez oil spill. He, and all of the other 33,000 plaintiffs, will get $15,000. for the punitive damages. The court ruled that compensatory damages should benchmark the punitive award. Translation: this dilution comes after a jury award of over 5 billion dollars in 1996, then to 2.6 billion dollars (from the 9th Circuit), then to $500 million after almost 20 years. (h)Exxon won.

Benny Goodman and Tommy Dorsey: if you want a melodic, but quiet moment, go to the free concerts, on Sunday afternoons, at the expansive lawn near the entrance of the Ballard Locks. You will witness a geriatric crowd who lived in an era that determined ours. I saw an old gal get up and dance a swing tune, despite her arthritis, despite her pain. Go there and experience a warm time from long ago, a time that hinted at that demon of the youth--rock'n'roll. I’m not saying you have to like the genre, but if you need a break from all the madness. . .

The New Homeless Shelter in Ballard: Well it's really the Library. Cement this image in your mind that I saw. I took a dump, flushed, and on my way to washing my hands, I saw this: some bum (yea that's right, bum) had backed his ass up to the stand-up urinal, and was spraying liquid shit out of his ass into, onto. . .yckk!. . . Can you smell this yet? But the female man-haters who run that dump would rather listen to the melodious and dulcet tones of toddlers, screaming their friggin' heads off. . .well, that's just because they're cute you know. . .and their public offal is confined.

When The Rubber Hits the Road: Did you know you can get all the FREE condoms you need at the local DSHS? Yup, increase your stash, at no charge. If you're shy, well just go to the john (this is the second bathroom rap, I've got to get a grip). In the little atrium is a plastic bin full of all the protections you need.

Film It You Idiots: Look, we live in a police state, and you know it. Learn your vid/phone. It's not that hard. It's a check and balance the Constitution never could have imagined. And when you see the pigs beating the rights out of your friend's head, film it. The major networks love it, and so do local judges. The right snippet can go viral very quickly. Why should the cops have all the advantages? Well they don't, just film them. Learn your cam damnit. Here’s a little scene I witnessed at the North end of Pike Market just a couple of years ago: a cop pulled up near the central speed island and stopped. A scruffy guy emerged with a roll of bills, put it into the cop’s hand and vanished. My angle of sight would have been a perfect angle for filming, had I had a vid phone. C’mon now, exercise your rights OK?

Edith Macefield

2008-06-20T00:44:00.000-07:00

Photo courtesy of Barney Burke
http://www.burkedigitalpix.com/Seattle.html

Photo by Richard Andrews

Obituary
Edith Macefield
1921-2008

I knocked on her door, tentatively.
I could hear her stir from within. She pulled the frayed curtain aside.

"Excuse me ma'am--my name is Richard, and I write a newsletter called 'Ballard Bullshit.' I just wondered if I could talk to you for a few minutes."

"Bullshit?" she asked, laughingly. "Well Hell, I like bullshit, c'mon in."

Thus began a three year odyssey into the incredulous life of a legend. This was before reporters would plague her. She grew to trust me; she let me peer into her past, she let me film her, but not too much.

I was originally intrigued by the "David and Goliath" aspect--her sling would be her knowledge of code and zoning, and her smooth stone would be her unstoppable defiance to the construction concern that tried to steamroll her into submission. But she had bought the house in 1952 for her mother, who passed away there. Now it was her turn to meet the Eternal, and by God she was going to do just that, right there. Two generations would wind their way to the Maker at the same domicile.

But the 'story' became so much more. Her life was an odyssey that even Homer or Dante could not envision. She mesmerized me with tales of intrigue from World War Two, and she would mention names that live in historical anthologies, without blinking her eyes. . .Bertrand Russel (a beau in London), Winston Churchill, Julia Child. . .on and on, I believed every vignette. Even if some story had a tad of ageist license, well that was just fine with me. Every incredible remembrance had a string to one source: her love of people.

"People invent demons," she remonstrated. "Why do that? Aren't some things just obvious?"

I once had a friend named Oliver Feathers. He was 96 years old, born in 1886. "Gettin' old is Hell," he told me. The natural ravages of age took its toll on Edith, and she was OK with that. Her savvy intellectualism never was affected, and she delighted in that.

She was victorious to the end. We all need to realize that the fight, according to her, is the passage. Results were almost predictable to her, but the battle was always twisting and turning, and that's where the excitement lived.

"A warrior knows no gender," she told me. "Never forget that, lest you imprison yourself."

* * * * *

ballardbullshit@yahoo.com

Ballard Bullshit

2008-02-14T22:13:00.000-08:00

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

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

* * *

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.

* * *

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.

"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?

(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

"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

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.

* * *

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

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.

(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."

* * *

2007-09-12T21:45:00.000-07:00

Illuminating the Neighborhood of Ballard, Washington

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

Are you
Wild @ Heart?

Oh Ballard, how much do you really want to know? For the first time in its history, Ballard has an XXX store. (Not to be confused with the XXX ladies on Ballard Avenue, circa 1890's.) Oh now come on, you're already in a tizzy--hell, that kind of establishment just brings in the trash right? You know, pervs, druggies, bottom-feeders. Well just keep reading and witness a form of entrepreneurship that just might have a moral edge. Possible?. . .read on.

"Let's see if I've got balls as big as the King of France!"
--Pope Julius II, January 2nd, 1511

So you want to buy your kid a pair of current sneakers at the Big 5 store, down there east of the Ballard Bridge, and you pull into the ample parking lot, full well expecting a clean-cut experience. When you and yours get out of your car, you look to your right, and see a subtle neon sign with perplexing words: "Wild @ Heart." Well no problem, you buy your kid a pair of shoes, and other things you weren't expecting, but damn, hmmm, that sign to your right. What the hey? Your kid is a teen, a soph over there at Ballard High, so you tell him you're going to do a little bit more shopping, and he can just iPod his next twenty minutes. And then you enter the forbidden zone, and you are titillated.

"Well hi, and welcome," a warm-hearted lady says. "Now honey, you just let me know if you need any information about things." She is the owner, rather, one-half owner of everything sexual you might need, or fantasize you do need.

You have just met Lisa Szilagyi (sil-'leg-ee).

The decor is purple. Deep mauve curtains frame the 2000 square foot interior. Mellow violet walls are the background for a plethora of intimate additives. And even the neo-Persian throw-rugs echo the ambience of ultraviolet warmth against the grey concrete floor.

You are here because you are wanting sexual spark, an igniter. And if you're a regular, you want smart, truthful answers about your private life. But does that mean it's dirty? Would you call the conception of your child filthy? Of course you wouldn't. There are no racks of thumbed magazines for you to loiter at. Yes, some DVD's, but not many. This store is all about who you want to be sexual with. Most of her customers are married.

So do you want to be prurient with me now?. . .cater to Victorian repressive falsities that make you better than others? Don't you dare hypocrite, don't you dare.

Lisa gushes humanity, and all of its foibles, strengths, and frailties. She has a degree in Education earned from Western State, and in a very modern sense, she is a consummate educator. She spent some years in counseling, and met her partner Vicki, while a student. She is a born and raised Seattle-ite (yet I initially pegged her as a New Yorker, and yes, I've lived in Manhattan!).

Oh yeah, you can buy almost anything here--ambitious lingerie, vibrators, all kinds of erotic paraphernalia, well c'mon, you know the drill. People tend to compartmentalize the retail goods with morality. . .and that's the prime mistake. Lisa and Vicki opened this store as a necessary adjunct to the human sexual experience. Just think of the private mental moments you have with your partner, and then have the chutzpah to enhance your personal space with, well, uh, with things. There are designer walls in this shop that will assist you, of one particular note was a display featuring a collection from Scott Paul--a first-class presentation meant to make you think, make you be a little unnerved if you will. This store simply echoes the modern woman who is willing to express her sexual freedom, without restraint.

Lisa gave me time, time to know her, and her business plan, and her life.

"My clients come from roughly a 2.1 mile radius. Magnolia, Ballard, Fremont, some from Phinney. I really don't spend much on advertising--the Stranger, a little bit of Google, but mostly word of mouth," she explained.

Fittingly, Steppenwolf's "Born To Be Wild" was playing, followed by the Sex Pistols "Bang A Gong." Now follow me here, judgments are incremental, and unnecessary. Can there be a modern millennial store dedicated to YOUR pleasures, without being a magnet for societal scum? Yes there can. Class comes in many containers, and this vessel exudes honesty.

Lisa's 80 year old grandmother, Opal, is in the middle stages of Altzheimers. Antecedent love and responsibility acknowledgement is so strong it is the motivating factor in Lisa's life. Each night, when she closes her shop at 10:00 p.m., she returns to her primary care scene. Yes, she tends an obligation that most people would obviate, and then succumb to State care. But not Lisa, no no. Opal is her dedication. Do you, dear readers, get it yet? I said this store closes at ten o'clock. No lurkers at midnight, no neighborhood blight, no hangers-on. Clean.

"Business is awesome, it is booming," Lisa confidently said. "The only thing that could sink a business like mine is the lease. Oh yeah, we had some problems looking for a location, telling a prospective landlord about my business invited closed reactions, as did some banks."

"How long is your lease," I asked. "And how about the renewal?"

"It's for four years. And our landlord is great."

"How's that?"

"Well he's an old Italian, 80 or so. He loved our premise."

I raised my eyebrow.

"He's just ornry enough. . ."

A friend/customer entered. She had had some physical problems, but was enamored with cementing further relations with her husband.

"I have a six-month journey with my husband for prostate stimulation," she offered.

Lisa, expertly, educated this woman about lubricant viscosity and prostate techniques.

"Well this will be slow for sure," the plus-sized lady said. "So I'll start by just having him in the same room!" She wryly chuckled.

Sixteen dollars later, her friend left. And then yet another customer entered, spoke briefly (in low tones), and pointed to an "appliance."

"That'll be fifty dollars."

This man could have been anyone's uncle, father, or co-worker. Yet there he was, buying what he knew would be an accoutrement to his sexual enjoyment.

"Well you have quite a famous neighbor next to you," I teased.

"I was a little concerned about Mars Hill Church being right next door to us, but things worked out. Married couples come in here from the Church, but yes, they come in as a couple, seein' zazz everythin's OK if they are married."

This didn't floor me. But it sure would knock the socks off of any deacon over there. The ultimate misogynist has his flock surreptitiously buying dildos and DVD's. Go figure.

"What kind of food do you like, or rather, where's your favorite eatin' spots," I asked.

"Well, it's Chinook's for sure. Or Anthony's. I didn't know they were the same!" she exclaimed.

"But on the smaller realm, I just love the Dumpling House in Shoreline. It's just around from Tiger's Bar up in there: 145th and Greenwood. You can't believe that place."

So now you readers have a little secret to take your friends and relatives to when they come visit.

Alright, enough of this. One thing is certain: Lisa's heart is bigger than Puget Sound, and if you want a warm, understanding, and accurate representation of how you can glorify your sexuality, in a normal, pristine environment, go to Wild @ Heart. This establishment respects your sexuality, and is all about expanding your personal experience.

And in a corny, almost Patsy Cline-ish verse, the sign above the interior office, politely says:

"Friendship Love and Truth."

You got a problem with that? Of course you don't. . .now just quietly slip in there. . .

* * * * *

QFC

The Final Answer
WHY aren't they tearing it down?

For a few years now, the employees of QFC, the neighborhood, and worried bachelors have been trying to second-guess when that aged building will be torn down, to be replaced by an architecturally handsome apartment complex, one shaped in a giant C, with an elevated courtyard covered with grass which really will be the roof of the new ground-level QFC.

So what is this delay all about?

Your intrepid editor found the answer, and it just makes sense. I have an in with the largest commercial real estate broker in Ballard, and I will not name him. I'd rather get accurate information than splatter his name here. I also called Kroger headquarters in Cincinnatti (parent of QFC), many times, and finally talked to the real estate lady at the lease/acquisition arm. Both sources are ground zero, so listen up.

The development is a lease, not an ownership proposition. It appears Kroger will be leasing the land for at least 70 years. You cannot build condos for sale on leased land--period. So the 65 foot high structure will be high-end rentals. Ah, therein lies the rub. Does that have anything to do with the demolition? Oh yes it does. There is no permitting problem here at all.

Amazingly, both of my sources gave me the same answer:

"The market is not ready."

Let me 'splain this to you. We are not yet, at least here in Ballard (and Belltown), at the top of the "condo bubble." There are still plenty of buyers out there. The bubble will not burst, it will slowly ooze down. According to my Mr. Realtor, pretty much all of the "fallow" land here has been scooped up. The condo developments you see going up, with a few more conversions to come, take years to come to fruition. These zoning laws that allow all of this construction were basically put forth in a city master plan initiated in 1989. Imaging that--we are seeing the 'futuristic' results from a plan that is 18 years old. Kroger sees this. It would be bad business to build high-end rentals when a plethora of artificially priced condos are still selling rapidly.

It's a waiting game now. So do you see it? Quite literally, "the market is not ready" in Ballard for new, high-dollar rentals. When it is, Kroger will blink, and that building (with only a 30 day notice to all involved) will be razed.

See how simple all of this was?

* * * * *

Fronds

"It is senseless to get annoyed with this world, for it isn't in the least bit bothered if you do."
--Marcus Aurelius

The Ballard Library: I want you to imagine a day-care center with no rules. None. And I want you to remember that you, as a taxpayer, are financing it. Everything over there at that damn glorified child-hell-hole is out of control. The cacophony from dozens of pre-school monsters never stops. This is not a Library, it is an architecturally perfect mess. Oh but I forget, all children get a free pass in our present society where three year-olds dictate parental behavior, and public employees, to assuage their frustrations, torment adult males who they try to emasculate.

Kurt Cobain: So your gracious editor gets summoned for jury duty, and by God he goes! He befriends a couple of ladies. And one of them is best friends with a gal who was Kurt's neighbor, at the time of his suicide (murder?). Courtney Love told her to take what she wanted. She took the Door To His Upstairs Garage Apartment!!! And better yet, she told me where it was re-installed, right here in Ballard. No no, I'm not going to give you the address, but I'll tell you this: it's purple, and is split. Globally, rabid fans would tear that beautiful door to shreds. I ain't tellin' but I know where it is. . . . . . .

Café Fioré: Brand new this little gem. Just go South on Leary, past the Chai House a couple of blocks, and there it is, in a re-modeled old brick building. It's long and narrow, but order up and walk to the very end of the café, and sit at the luxurious little outdoor veranda. What a treat. You're looking right at old Ballard Ave at this point, and it's quiet and sublime. Artistically, it even gets better. Walk around the block, and look east at the very wall you were sitting beneath. You will see, across the verdant lot, a hand-painted sign on the brick wall, crafted by a master, Russ Rasmussen. This was a wow moment; I interviewed him when he was painting it, as he moved his brushes on 100 year old weathered bricks, and made it look like a smooth piece of masonite.
"Well I was born in Chicago, and moved to L.A. when I was about 10. And I've been painting ever since," he offered. "Then North."
"Do you advertise at all?" I asked.
"Naw, I don't need to. The word-of-mouth is more than enough."
So you know all of those faded ads you see on the corroded brick walls on Ballard Ave?. . . a memory of distant endeavors? They were all hand-painted, by guys just like Russ.
When you're of this caliber, you will not lack for work. What an honor to meet a man of this skill, and this excellence. Call him, tell him, tell him he is 'preciated: 206.285.4954

OK OK: I have written about this relatively new Art-Only gallery on old Ballard Ave. Charlie and Amanda Kitchings are an aggregate phenomenon. But they must grow weary of accolades. How many times can 'critics' tell them how good they are, and not get bored? They are now an established player in the Ballard Art scene (Since 'Trine' went out of business that is). I think Charlie finally gets it--you don't serve cans of Pabst at the Art Walk and still maintain a modicum of class, so now it's Pabst and bottles of something Seattle. Anyway, while I think their offerings are somewhat academic in approach, the red dots, indicating 'sold,' speak volumes. I see they've expanded the actual gallery space and got rid of the toys and such which were only fractional interest items. Art is the primary draught now, as it should be. You locals just have to support them, why?

Because I said so, that's why.

Emerald City Gardens: Well we're in FreeLard now, 4001 Leary Way NW, (and I really do hate that geographic designation). The co-proprietor, Jay, moved here from Mount Vernon a few years ago. He really is a horticultural encyclopedia, but just unappreciated. Well he worked at this little establishment, was retained as a full-time regular, and then the elderly owner decided to sell. But this was not a regular Fred Meyer greenery. It was a sophisticated outfit. Jay's partner, Andrew, saw the potential. So they bought it. The client base has become national right now, and it would behoove you to eat a small slice of humble pie, and visit this place, after New Year's of 2008 that is. Give them a little time to tweak this global class act.

60th and 22nd NW: Well since we all have condo/townhouse/conversion aversion, just catch this one for style. The old one-story Rosicrucian building sold some time ago, and the neighboring house was scooped up as well. But I talked to the developer. Now hang with me here. No more ugly cheap build/expensive sell units. No, this corner of the block will have nine 'cottages,' all single family, and will look like a modern equivalent to old Ballard subversion. No 65' height amendments at all. A little reversion/conversion thing. Displacement? NONE. The occupants of the house were moving to California anyway, and the Rozzy building was only used once a month. We all will welcome these neighbors.

* * * * *

Adult and Occult on 70th Street!
"I count religion but a childish toy, and hold there is no sin but ignorance."
Christopher Marlowe, The Jew Of Malta, 1592

Did you know Ballard had a bona fide, call it Charles Manson, or Jim Jones, or whoever, remnant cult, tucked away on the corner of 70th and 9th Streets, for almost 80 years??? I dug this info up from an obscure article buried in a folder called "Ballard Churches" at the public library. Oh my, please follow me on this one, who would've ever guessed?

Before his death in 1929, at 84 years, Daniel Salwt (name legally changed), prophesied that Ballard and Phinney Ridge "would be the greatest ridge in the world, as it is the gathering place for the Elect of God, where the Holy City New Jerusalem will show the world the way into Heaven, alive."

What?? Did you know you've almost made it to Nirvana because you live here? (Aw shucks, he didn't include Fremont, so much for the Center of that universe!). Well let's go and take the Angelic highway to its Zenith, I mean, what are you waiting for? A backstage pass? We're talking about a jamboree that surpasses, by far, any Rave at the Kress building. (No insult intended for the "Live Girls" theater there.)

So who was this kook?

Daniel Salwt founded the church, in 1917, as an off-shoot of the Michigan based House of David, whose followers considered themselves the "New Israelites."

70th Street, here in Ballard, was the boondocks then, and he considered his compound an almost wilderness retreat. He named his church the "Seventh Elect Church in Spiritual Israel," and found many followers in this new Puget Sound territory. I did a Google on him and his church, and could only find one reference to him, and it took me a while. I dug up the Seattle directory from 1923, and by God, there he was, on page 1265, listed as follows: Salwt, Danl, founder, 7th Church in Israel, R818 w.70th." And that was it. No other mention anywhere, and believe me, I tried. But that sure gave legitimacy to the very fact that he was a presence here, albeit obscure. Think History Detectives here.

But the July 7th, 1993 edition of the Seattle Weekly, provided an excellent source of information on this strange phenomenon. The reporter, Dennis Liu, got to interview the last of the old timers that were adhering to the strict tenets of the veritable Mr. Salwt, and had actually known him. What an ogre he must have been.

Two brothers, the oldest being 85, were the stalwarts of the dying movement fourteen years ago. They provided the reporter with some interesting factoids: in the late 1800's, when Daniel Sult took the name Salwt, he left his wife and three children in the Midwest to journey around the country by bicycle (now that's religion!). He reported experiencing many miracles on this journey, of course, none of them provable. Y'know, just say it and its true.

Salwt pedaled into Seattle and oh my, a vision told him to preach at the corner of Fourth and Pike. Clashes erupted. By 1917, Sawlt had snookered a sizeable legion of followers, and had begun building his church, 400 members strong.

Living in such a community meant sacrifices. You had to give up all of your property to the Church, and your privacy. And you had to be celibate in this new "Heaven's Gate," if you will. If you joined, and later disbelieved, you were an apostate, and you left, broke. But if you stayed, you had to clear new garden land, tend it, and attend boring and laborious services led by the Prophet. But when the Prophet died in 1929, the community of Ballard was onto the scam. From the Weekly, "when they (the parish) finally relinquished the body for burial, they suffered the taunts and jeers of a crowd of on-lookers. . .those jeers seem to live on in the communal memory."

Well no wonder. The Truth of life inside the compound had long been known. Only the Messianic Mr. Salwt was allowed milk, butter, coffee, and tea, not because they were society's manna, but because they were expensive. One beautiful young blond woman named Eva Falk declared Salwt had seduced her when she was just 13.

But here's where it really gets juicy. Yet another concubine, Irene Jacobson, reported sharing the prophet's bed while she and her husband lived in the church. Now get this: Salwt's justification for his behavior, according to many women, was that he was an "overcomer"--he had conquered the desires of the flesh and their submission to him was his reward and a cleansing rite.

Yep, right here in our lovely town. Their closing hymn at any given Sunday services, eulogized the words, "Praise Salwt from whom all blessings flow."

There are two and only two tail-enders over there right now. Both female, they just want to let this awful legacy die, well, while they still control the real-estate that is. Go ahead, take a gander at that property--it is very prim and organically mature right now, and the manager is a guy--his name is Gary. He "takes care" of the grounds, basically for free rent. His son is a genetically challenged, spurious child, who could have fared quite well as a Renaissance Court jester.

Quite a fitting end for a sexual monster whose only legacy is just a damn good piece of real estate ass eh?

And you think you got problems?

* * * * *

Broken Psyche Shadows
by Jordan McGill

The young writers need to break out of the fog: the controlled miasma by a generation that lives for monetary fortitude demands a tight form of submission. That would be my generation--a fetid selfish subgroup that now lives in the putrid arena of self-aggrandizement. The new crop has been cultivated. . . the predictable rebirth of creativity moves forward. I give you this burgeoning writer, age 21. But beware, the Temptress knows no gender.--R.A.

Shadows. They stop and stare at you from every angled corner, every fractured bone of concrete edge; obtuse, long angles parked like fire hydrants set between the building’s base and the sidewalk. The sun, blotted out by this big gigantic man-made creature, sits and waits behind a hand-painted bush yearning to make itself appear for some overrated existence: the Sun. Shadows. Nobody played in the daylight streets anymore, everything was dark, dreary, and full of that wispy feeling; something’s creeping up behind you, laughing, manic and aware of your anger, pain and hate. So I stopped going to bars late at night, I stopped roaming the streets. I stopped looking for an argument or opportunity to shank someone. I stopped caring, stopped leaving messes behind and only worried about what the next day might bring but even then, I didn’t worry too much. I was sick in those days, see, I was sick. I was messed up, off my rocker, gone. I hadn’t a soul in the world to relate to and yet, I wasn’t alone. I wasn’t some Bickle-fied maniac running around trying to grasp meaning on the edge of reality, no, I was gone. Out like a light in a baseball field. Something had shut me off, set me off and I had never been sure what it was. Until now, that is. But even now doesn’t matter, just as those days don’t either. I’m already moving on to the next thing, the next awareness, the next level of subconscious reaction where all the plates are mirrors and the only way to level up is to smash them. Smash them like the Japanese smash plates against the brick, smash them like a windshield choking a bug of its life, smash them like a hiatus in the middle of a quick paced basketball game, smashed. Gone. Intrusion.

I slept all day in those days wondering if this insanity would ever stop. I still sleep, just not as much as I used to and I don’t set an alarm. That was the one thing, that damn alarm. That was the one thing that really got me goin’. I was always waiting up for it, waiting, like a magician to see a rabbit pop out of his hat, waiting, like a bus stop; always waiting, wondering, when was it going to go off as I sat, half-cried on the bed, waiting, for that alarm like St. Mary’s hospital on the Day of Reckoning, the drugs kick in and we all die, waiting, like a nigger for his freedom, waiting, like a jewel to be found in a coffee pot, waiting, for that god damn alarm to go off and set me up with another day of disappointment.

Pointless disappointment. A lot of things were pointless in those days but who knew? No one who was there at the time. They all figured it was good for mankind and good for each other if we slept in and didn’t go to class and only made it when we had to, when we were forced to, when the alarm went off.

The other thing I need to tell you about those days is that I drank a lot. And I mean a lot. I drank morning, noon and night; I had a beer with breakfast, a shot with lunch, an entire bottle of whiskey for dinner. I drank so much, my entire skin turned into an inside out sponge. I was soaked in kerosene. You could have lit my skin on fire with all the alcohol that was bleeding out of me. It was insane. Which is exactly what I was. I can remember days where … … … Well, I guess I can’t really remember days. I can remember nights mostly but, I can’t remember the days when I showed up to work half-blind, blurred beyond recognition. I can’t remember the days when my apartment manager complex would kick in and I would start raving and jabbering, banging on everyone’s doors late at night, maybe two or three-thirty in the morning saying, “Rent’s due! Get your fuckin’ money out! Rent’s due!” And I would stand there, in the middle of the hallway in my bathrobe swaying from side to side like a curtain blowing in the breeze of an open window. I stood there, wanting to castrate the next scowling face that poked their head out and screamed, “Shut the fuck up, anchor boy! You’re only weighing us down and we’re not gonna wanna live here anymore! Then what are you gonna do, huh? Then what? What are you gonna be without us?” Pajama-boy you better get back inside before I cap your ass and leave you in a pool of blood like a Christian, yeah, what do you think of that?

And that’s how it went. Night after night, that’s how it went. I would stand there, waiting for their rent checks until someone would call the police and they would ask to see the manager. I would spit in their faces and say, “I am the fuckin’ manager…What’re you gonna do about it? Wanna help me collect their rent checks?” They would stare at me with such grief and disdain that there was nothing I could do except spit in their faces and take another swig. This was my life at the time, and I don’t look back on those moments very fondly. At least I can say I can recognized the bad behavior patterns and habits I was establishing and how I got out of those situations I don’t really know. It all just kind of cleaned itself up one day and I was forced to live with changed circumstance. Changed circumstance, doesn’t that happen on a daily basis? Doesn’t that happen to all of us? All of us who’re drunk off Consumerism and Past-Time Depression? Don’t we ever think for ourselves anymore or are the cogs of life jammed in our direction? Whatever happened to those windy nights when we went out to the baseball fields to smoke a joint? The winds rolled against our necks like some overweight woman’s pussy around our cocks and we were forced to feel something. We were forced to take it from behind whether we wanted to or not… What happened to those days? At least there was emotion involved.

But those days have passed us on my old friend. And now I’m sitting here wondering, what letters could we have sent to each other to make sure our lives weren’t heading down the pisser? How could we have made sure our Shakespearean Operas still lived on? Could we have made it back to where we had come from? Those good families and homes, loving girlfriends and wives? Could we have made it back? The distance I mean, isn’t that far to travel when a car rolls down the road…We could’ve made it Joe. We could’ve made it. We could’ve made it back home and squared our lives away but we didn’t. No sir, instead we sat on the corner of life watching it all go buy, buying into things, whatever they were, whatever they meant at the time, buy. Buy Joe, buy, because that’s all we have in this world, that’s all we do. We’re given opportunities to buy things, to cultivate our lives around something that was presented to us in one form or another that made us think, “I need that.” No. No we don’t and we didn’t. We didn’t ever need it Joe, we never did. We didn’t ever need what those backbone breaking soldiers were selling us; their lies and their war. We didn’t need their expenses, their costly overtures that sang of Passion, Legion, and Fulfillment, no. We never needed any of that. And that’s what the problem was. That’s what got us down; we were forced into something we didn’t even want in the first place as they asked us, they asked us in the lines at the supermarkets, “Do you need a box with that, for that and everything in between? Do you want it from behind or shall I fuck you up front, plain and simple?” And most people Joe, most people want it from behind because they don’t want to see or know who’s fucking them. They don’t want to see their own names and faces of themselves reflected in their Plastic Card Swipes. They don’t want to see their signatures scribbled on the bottom line of those slips of paper they have to sign after they use them, like their responsible about paying their bills on time or something, no. No, Joe, they don’t want to know. They don’t want to know it’s themselves. Instead, they’d rather be shown a sign and some Corporate Membership that makes it look like they’re not fucking themselves in the ass. They have to be shown somebody, might as well be a copyrighted logo, an intangible something, something unreal. They don’t want the real anymore Joe, they don’t want the real. And yet, I can’t make them stay, nor can I make them stay away. I can’t make them stay in a place they don’t want to be in but if they can’t leave for themselves, well, then they’re fucked. They are fucked like a virgin on prom night and this ain’t gonna’ be no soft introduction, no way Joe, no way. They are going to be pounded for it, hounded, for the rest of their lives for handing themselves over to the express ways of someone else’s dream. They are the deciding factor, the members themselves, any member of any organization, they are the ones who decide their fate and where their leadership takes them. They are the ones who, if the time comes, will get marked down and cummed on like some steaming pile of shit left for the dogs to lick up.

And so I sigh. I’ve been lingering on this for far too long and all I had really wanted to tell you about was that I’m doing better these days; that I’m making it. I’m not making it; at least, not any better than when I had done this before. There is no way to tell for sure if I’m alright or not but as I look into their faces they seem to be smiling at me, they seem to be making me feel welcome and aware, anxious, of the fact that I do belong with them, that I don’t have some alter-ego-self complex and that my mind has been working right these past few weeks. These are the back-alley deals that have been going down Joe, and they’ve been going down right out in the open. They are the things that define my day, that make it ok to get up in the morning without an alarm. An alarm. How archaic and unruly. How defined and unpredictable. How handicapped and warm, like an alien surface you know feels good for you yet has something hidden underneath that makes you bleed, makes you real, makes you whole. These are the deciding factors I’ve come across Joe, these are the things that make it OK to get up in the morning. These are the things that get me through my day and yet sometimes I still find them slipping. I still find them slipping away into madness, slipping away into nothingness, slipping away into sadness. I feel these things coming and going every day of the week, like shadows, shadows waxing and waning with the moon and the sun.

These are the things that I know make it OK for me to live out there, with the rest of them, outside of the Shadow World, away from that Dark Place, where names are just that. Who knows if they are real or fake or not, they’re just names. They’re just places. They’re just the things I’ve seen now that I’m away from that Shadow World, away from that place.

Now that I’m away Joe, I can live.

Ballard Bullshit

2007-01-27T21:00:00.000-08:00

Illuminating the neighborhood of Ballard, Washington
____________________________________________________________________________________________________
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.

* * * * *

Egan's Ballard Jam House

A Re-visit, and a Critique

In a previous issue of the Bull****, I interviewed the Manager of this new business, formerly known as the Penny Café. I spoke of Mr. Ben Sweeney's pure intentions, and his work ethic that could make this place succeed. So I had to attend a night of music, an entire night, to make a more informed essay for you readers. . .let's proceed.

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.
* * * * *

OK OK
. . .A Gallery. . .
5107 Old Ballard Avenue

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. . .

* * * * *

John Michael Lang Fine Books
5416 20th Avenue NW

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?

* * * * *

Ballard, Sleep Well Tonight. . .
by

Nick Favicchio

"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

("The Homeless" is some kind of semantic political machination that now means nothing. The word is an aberration of language that has morphed into an adjective instead of a plural noun. Why don't we just call them "the Unfortunates?". . .it might only take a decade to degrade that word. We all see these people here in Ballard, and they are usually over 40. But there is a young contingent in our presence--they all don't congregate up on Capitol Hill, no no, under the 15th street bridge is just fine at times. What's their story? Do you even care? The essay below was solicited by your editor for this issue of the Bull****. Read on, peer into the mind of a homeless young man, age 27.)

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.

"There is no difference between the behavior of a god and the operations of pure chance."
Thomas Pynchon, Gravity's Rainbow

* * * * *

Heat From Hades:
Tully's
Checks To Our Neighborhood

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:

Would I sponsor a lie? For the record, if there is no fair neighborhood resolution to this problem, then the fires of journalistic Hell will be unleashed, and I am relentless if I attach my Star to a Crusade. All of your investors, if I remember correctly, to the tune of sixty-some-million dollars, will be contacted. I know the game Rob, and I don't play to lose.

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:

Ms. Pratt is wrong, but politically correct, when she said, "The truth lies somewhere in the middle." That kind of statement reeks of judicial misrepresentation. Someone is absolutely lying, and it's either Mr.****, or your manager Jenna. Period. The disconnect I discussed this evening, between Tully's management and its employees, rings louder to me than a bold-faced lie from Mr.****. As you can surmise by now, this is a dead-serious local issue. Our meeting left me feeling, both intellectually and business-wise, severely lacking. I don't appreciate being manipulated, or "schmoozed." For now, I will hold my public tongue. But I am all done with verbal garbage that only works in secret board rooms. Out here in the real world, "town-criers" like me can penetrate the various veneers, and tell the people what is really going on. I am so disappointed with our meeting today, that I am perched and ready to fly to the next level, and that includes various local and national business publications. Yes I am transparent to you, would you have it any other way?

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.

* * * * *

2006-11-15T21:51:00.000-08:00

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!

(In a previous issue of the Bull****, I wrote about an 84 year old woman, the one holdout who will not sell her property to a construction concern planning a large retail/condo project. Since the developer did not have power of eminent domain (only government can invoke that), she just said no to selling the house she bought in 1952. Construction has begun all around her, but the project had to go back to the architect to adjust the "anomaly" in their plan. I just had to talk to her, right? So up to the front door I went, took a big breath, and knocked. Would she even talk to me? Oh my God, please read on. . .)

Wait a minute. Are women really ten feet tall?
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

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

Guys: Listen up, and know what respect for women really means.
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?
* * * * *

Ballard Bull****

2006-04-28T22:19:00.000-07:00

Illuminating the Neighborhood of Ballard, Washington
______________________________________________________________________________

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

Seattle and Ballard Heteros and Metros fail, and morph into a phenomenon called 'Seahorse'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seahorses
(term coined by Edward Harcourt {aka 'Eddy the Skull'}, codified by your editor and Eddy)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cry Me A River You Little Sniveler

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

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

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

The emasculation is complete.

Conclusion

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

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

Rep. Mary Lou Dickerson
(36th Legislative District)
Flounders!

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

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

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

A grisly take your time crime

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

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

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

"Wha, dey iss jess a chyle massah, dey dint meen ta do eet!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Other Highlights of the Evening

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

CrowFeathers
by H. C. Petley

We continue the mirthful tale of our aerial neighbors, by renowned local author,
Herbert Petley.

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

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

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

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

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

"Warn!" cried Brother.

"Warn!" cried Ladyfeather.

"What is it?" Brother asked.

"Danger. Where is danger?" Ladyfeather asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Falcon was not concerned.

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

"Scold! Scold!" they continued.

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

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

Young crow flew at him.

"Scold!" Young crow cried.

Brother crow flew after him.

"Scold! Scold!"

Ladyfeather crow flew to the dense cedar.

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

Fronds
Little snippets about our community

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ballard Bull****

2006-02-15T18:41:00.000-08:00

Illuminating the neighborhood of Ballard, Washington
______________________________________________________________________________

Ballard Bull****
Volume 3, Number 2, © February 2006

"Where Informed Attitude Counts"

Editor and Lead Writer: Richard B. Andrews
e:ballardbullshit@yahoo.com
website: http://ballardbullshit.blogspot.com
* * * * *
"A casual stroll through a lunatic asylum shows that Faith does not prove anything."
---Frederich Nietzsche

Well dear Readers, unbelievably, this is the third year for this rag! You Faithfuls know how journalistically pit bullish I can be, but this issue is about the Ballard that is new, about people and small businesses who are forging ahead despite tremendous obstacles. It is also about professionals who come to Ballard to speak, knowing that our berg is perched for a renaissance. No more "you betcha" and "lutefisk" tired stereotypes. The Ballard of 2006 is still diverse, but dynamic in a way only the locals know. So this issue is a salute to the new community model, the success of the "little person," whose sheer will power and beliefs are, right now, carving a path that, in retrospect, will be immortalized in the annals of Ballard history, circa 21st Century, and be etched forever in the next generation who will inherit our Millennial achievements.

"Uff da!" has officially been replaced by, "Hell yeah!"
* * * * *

Meet
Jayne Ann Krentz

It is extremely rare when you meet an individual who is so unique you cannot compare him or her to anyone else. Had you been at the new Ballard Library the evening of January 26th, you'd have met one. She was gracefully introduced by the spritish Librarian, Ellen Fitzgerald.

A few facts: Ms. Krentz has had forty-one books on the New York Times bestseller list, and her latest, All Night Long, debuted at number six, just last week. Astonishingly, she has published 141 novels! If you don't recognize the pseudonym Janye Ann Krentz by-line, she's also published using her natal name Jayne Castle, and yet another nom de plume, Amanda Quick. With that kind of provenance, she turns water not into wine, but Chevis.

And there she was, this tiny lady with shiny burgundy hair, smart orange vest, lavender blouse, and tailored black stovepipe slacks. She reminded me of an elegant hummingbird, or even a rare, colorful harlequin Dendrobates Lehmanni from Central America. At fifty seven years old, she cut an impressive swath in the circular public room.

Every now and then on the Antiques Roadshow, one of the professional appraisers gets launched into the stratosphere because of an important item someone innocently brings in. These rare pieces are usually termed national treasures, and their value is immense because they just don't appear on the market, and their significant uniqueness is of historic importance.

Jayne Ann Krentz is an American treasure.

To call her smart would be to debase her. Enlightened consciousness like this comes around to bless humanity randomly. I have never read one of her "romantic suspense" novels, or her "nineteenth century setting" works, or her "futuristic paranormal" themed fiction, but millions have. To be in the presence of genius is a very humbling experience.

"I grew up on Nancy Drew," she offered. "This genre seems to be American, in writing and film. Every relationship twist affects the suspense twist. Both are interlinked, one resolves the other. Survivors re-invent themselves."

To the delight of her captive and overflowing audience, she promoted her latest book for about three minutes, and devoted the rest of the hour fielding some very interesting questions.

"Is there one superlative term that defines the style of all of your literary personalities?" one sophisticated woman asked.

"I am a pop fiction writer, period," she said. "I like it, and have stayed with it for years. Why is pop fiction vitally important? Early on, it got lumped into a cage known as inexpensive entertainment. But it has survived. I take the Darwinian view. . .why does something survive against serious odds unless it has survival value? It's not just entertainment. Pop fiction affirms our core values. Honor matters, courage matters. Doing the right thing matters. We as a culture value that. Pop fiction affirms those core values, and affirms the healing power of love."

When Ms. Krentz speaks, her answers craft correct syntax and grammar. She does not say "um", nor does she giggle nervously mid-sentence. In a split second, her amazing cortex assembles thoughts into a comfortable and natural flow. She answers questions directly, and never loses focus.

"I will be meeting with a small group of young writers next week," I said. "We now live with POD publishing, publishing on demand, as well as with traditional publishing concerns. What do I tell these young authors, from your lips, about the most effective way to get published, in 2006?"

"Sharp New York editors monitor the internet publishing sites," she explained. "So I would do both approaches--POD and traditional. A word about the "query" letter: don't send one. DO send fifty pages of your work, and include a short note. Tell them which market your style and content fits into. You have to identify your market, because it's what you like to read. Act innocent with these publishers, don't bog them down with long cover letters." And almost under her breath, Ms. Krentz wryly said, "If you're in the literary world, live in New York.

"To finish this question though, look up the organization, Romance Writers of America. It is the best source for all ends of publishing." Ten hands were raised before she ended her sentence.

"Could you explain how you write, I mean the actual creative process?"

"My creative process is somewhat murky," Ms. Krentz said. "I start vague: I know the themes and the settings. I have a clear idea of the first mystery twist (murder, et al), and I have some idea of the conflict between hero and heroine." The audience was rapt and silent.

"If I outline it, I grow bored with it. My energy goes flat. I generally have the first thirty or forty pages down pat, but simply put, my best ideas come when I start writing.

"Writers are usually going to be inspired by description and dialogue. I focus on dialogue, it moves the story for me. Rewriting is the bane of the writer's existence. I move on, go back and forth, almost to the point of chaos. When I'm at the end, then I know what to do, and I can return for the rewrite."

No one noticed the even rain sliding down the windows. No one was irritated by the obvious lack of heat in the room.

"Yes sir," she pointed.

"I have quite a few of your audio books, and I must admit, I prefer them to the written word," an elderly gentleman offered.

"Narrators can make or break an audio book," Ms. Krentz inserted. "Audios are a huge end of this business. Did you know the narrators usually read those books in a single setting?"

A slight breath of disbelief undulated through the crowd.

"Yes really. The pros fly to New York, into a highly technical studio, and roll right through all of the text. There is very little editing. They are trained readers, and do not get hoarse after five or six hours of constant expression."

Ms. Krentz, the insider, was performing her spell. . .Mr. Mesmer would have been proud. I think even Rasputin would have been silent.

"As a seasoned writer, after all these years, what satisfaction do you get from writing yet another novel?" I thought this question was a little mundane, but the answer was forthcoming.

"Writing is an addiction for me. A pleasant one at that."

"About the process, what is your day like, when you write?"

"I try to pace a new book over four months, but, as I near the end, it becomes a compulsion, and all timing is lost," Ms. Krentz continued. "Seven a.m. to noon is my general writing time. Afternoons are usually about organization. But I live in a state of generalized anxiety. Some nights are definitely sleepless, because if I'm writing a trilogy, I need one story arc. Each book has to have a complete story though. Time becomes exponential when writing a trilogy.

"Look, it took me six years to get published, I was a librarian. But no matter how hard I tried, I could not bring myself to quit. All I can tell you about writing is that if you want to do it badly enough, you do it."

And with that, the hour was over. The audience had been covertly inspired by this elegant lady who calls Seattle her home. In fact, she told me she lives three blocks from Pike Market.

A legendary evening was concluded, but we all took a little part of Ms. Krentz's inner aura with us, and none of it was fiction.

* * * * *

And speaking of fiction, yet another installment follows of the popular CrowFeathers, written by reknowned Ballard resident and author Herbert Petley. This mirthful tale penetrates the social zone of the ravens that make our berg their home. The next time you see these wily birds squawk, perhaps they are conversing as follows.

CrowFeathers
by H.C. Petley

"Sun is coming back!" Young crow flew into the top of a tall cedar tree where old crow was resting.

"It always does," old crow replied. "That is why we crows stay put and don't go chasing Sun like so many other silly ducks or geese and other birds who worry that Sun is going somewhere without them. We crows know better. Great Raven gave us good sense and keen sight into the was of the world. Yes, I have learned that Sun goes only so far that way, and then returns and goes only so far the other way. And leaves are coming back also. All good things return to us crows. We are skilled in waiting. Wait and watch. Sun comes back to us, leaves and flowers sprout soon after. Rain comes anytime, especially where dark clouds cover the sky. Rain brings out worms. Worms are very tasty."

"I have noticed that squirrels do not eat worms," young crow said.

"You have been watching. A very good trait for a crow. Look first, act later. Watchful, waitful. That is the way of crows. I have also noticed that squirrels can jump from branch to branch, but not fly from tree to tree. Squirrels have no feathers. I think it's because they spend too much time on the ground. That makes them strange. They haven't decided yet about flying so they don't grow feathers."

"There are new crows in our crowKeep neighborhood," young crow stated.

"Yes. They come from over high hill by the lake. Young crows, younger than you. Just kids, really. Just abandoned last summer. Now thy are looking for a good crowKeep to settle into. We should welcome them. New crows in our crowKeep are good."

"Many of our own younger crows have flown away."

"True. Some of them join the beachcrows. Some of them fly over hills to the lake and settle there. Jas as lakecrow youngsters come here. This is good for crows. By exchanging youngsters all crow tribes grow stronger."

Young crow flew off on the next breeze and let the rising currents of air take him high above the tree tops. All was quiet. Sun was returning to warm the sky, leaves and flowers were returning to decorate the bare hills. After long, dark days of heavy rains and fierce winds, all the lands below looked clean and renewed.

When young crow flew down to the cedar treetop he was surprised to see two plump healthy crows there in the branches where old crow was resting. It was Brother crow and a female!

"Yo! Young crow! Yo, brother!"

"Brother! You have come back!"

"And I have Lady crow along with me. We have flown here to be with you for the springtime. Sun is returning."

"I am pleased to be in this crowKeep," Lady crow said. "I have spent much time among the humans."

"Lady crow has a sister you will very much enjoy flying with," Brother said.
"She is very pretty and a good thief. She will enjoy flying with you. Some crows from Far Mountain are flying this way to join this keep for a time. She is flying with them."

"You look well Brother," Young crow said. "Far Mountain territory has been good to you."

"Life is very different there. There are many hawks and owls in the night," Brother replied.

"Going out and coming in," said old crow. "Sun travels high and then travels low. Leaves spring from buds, crows hatch from eggs, rain and wind, leaves fall and blow away. It is the way of the world."

* * * * *

Meet
Linda Enge-Pemberton

How would you like to meet a one-of-a-kind babe who will talk like a sailor or entrepreneur, knows Ballard from the old days, and only wants the truth from you, or if you stray, she just might kick your ass in?

Ms. Enge-Pemberton is one of those raw, gutsy gals who would be totally at home if she was running a whiskey bordello in El Paso, circa 1889, or a three-floor cathouse servicing the Nordic fisherman on Ballard Ave, circa 1902.

But instead she opened up quite a tame establishment last December 17th, and it's simply called "The 99¢ Gift Shop."

Market Street, just west of 24th, is once again changing. There's an elegant Italian eatery that has not been noticed yet, and a little further, at 2421 NW Market, sits Linda's little diadem of a store.

But as her flyers state, the real owner is Bandit, her dog. And Bandit has personality oozing out of every canine pore. His flat is in the back of the store, and it really is his domain, right down to a second floor outdoor dog run. Bandit is in on everything from ordering to greeting customers that Linda deems are worthy.

But Linda is the star. She has some bawdy, raucous stories about her early years in Ballard that would distort the bra of every Christian spinster in town. Just ask her about some of the pranks she pulled when she grew up at her Grandparents house, whose spread graced the South side of the Locks, long before the cement retaining walls were installed. (E.g., her brother would blow a horn, whose sound waves would amplify over the water of the Locks, and sure enough, the old railroad trestle would lift, anticipating a boat coming through! "I used to hide jewelry, and take my friends to go find treasure," she wryly offered.) Grandpa had a place called the 'Salmon Boat Fishing Resort,' where you could walk right up to the house and buy salmon from old Gramps himself, right through the first floor window."

Oh my dear readers, you gotta meet this saucy lady. And support her immaculate shop too. Linda has a solid business plan. She knows current and future trends.

"People don't want to wrap presents anymore, they want to put gifts in fancy bags, and I gotta ton of 'em, all for just 99 cents." She makes wonderful baskets too, and the public loves them. She'll even frame a picture for you.

Since Linda is an old salt (odd for a female to attain that lofty position), I asked her what she thought was good about Ballard in 2006.

"Well, Ballard seems to be cleaner and more update. I'm still not sure about all those condos though."

Ms. Enge-Pemberton worked for Holland America for ten years. She was one of the few "elite" travel agents who would sell packages to other agents. She feigns a kind of silly innocence about her present business though. "I'm just new to this whole 'store' thing," she said.

"But Linda," I replied. "You've got decades of savvy living which translates to this new shop, so you're really not that new to this stuff." Her business eye flashed a knowing look to me, and she said nothing.

So go check this piquant lady out. It's well worth fighting the intersection of 24th and Market. Be nice to her as I have a feeling that she could bear-hug you into the next universe.

"You can find anything here," she beamed.

Oh yes you can, and that certainly includes this woman who is a living classic.

* * * * *

Meet

Paul von Kempf

Following is a poem by a local icon who has quite a different cantilever on life. If Woody Guthrie had a son we didn't know about, Mr. von Kempf would be him.

Silhouettes

by Paul von Kempf

Peaceful silhouettes

Like soldiers

Standing guard

Waiting

Elders,

Grandfathers

And those who have gone before me

Who are they?

Their bodygrease impressions

On the wall

Inviting

Calling

To me

Come

Sit with us.

* * * * *

Meet
Timothy Pigg

You're working the graveyard shift, and you step outside to have a smoke. A couple of guys rush out of the store, obviously stealing some items.

It's 4:00 a.m.

Your co-worker wants to tackle them, but you just shout to him to cool it, you'll call the police. They'll take care of it.

But the 911 operator is adamant that you give her the actual physical address of the only QFC in Ballard. Things are happening fast, and you turn around in the parking lot to find some sort of number on the building, to no avail.

It's then that the getaway car slams into you, kind of like shooting someone in the back with no forewarning. You are dragged underneath the car for 90 feet before your mashed body is clear. To your horror, the car backs up and runs over you again. Two homicide attempts on the same body. Both your hips are broken, your chest is crushed, your back severely damaged, and your head has been bobbled on the asphalt, putting you in a coma for ten days.

That's what happened to Mr. Pigg on April 20th, 2005.

When I interviewed Tim for this issue, I found a very gentle, charismatic father who just wants to put in an honest days work for an honest days pay. Physically, he looks like he could have been the child of Al Pacino and Gina Lollobrigida. Dapper, clean cut, standing erect despite his injuries, Mr. Pigg could've walked right out of the pages of GQ. And just guess where the interview took place? Right back at the Ballard QFC, and right in the middle of the night shift.

"Are you nuts?" I asked, incredulous.

"No, no. I needed to get back to work. I spent a week at the Northgate QFC, but I requested the Ballard location. The support from the Ballard community was the reason I returned. The people are just great here. The outreach of the community was overwhelming."

"Well why the night shift again?"

"Simple. There weren't any 40 hour day shifts open."

We talked about his life, his ambitions, his hobbies. After fifteen years at Boeing (in a way, he was another kind of victim of the massive layoffs, but there's a little twist to that story), he ended up in the bowels of QFC, now a subsidiary of the Kroger corporation. At the time, he had two teenagers to keep up with, and it was quite a financial demotion to work at a grocery store. But that's Tim, he's a provider. He is a throwback to an America that once valued moral standards, civility, and the work ethic.

The two pins that are holding his hips together are permanent, and non-adjustable. The doctors assure him they will stand up well to life's rigors.

"I do have dead spots, and I guess they're permanent." he said.

"Dead spots?" I asked.

"Yes, numb areas all over my body. Some of the nerves don't work."

But it's the flashbacks and the nightmares that just won't go away. Another doctor diagnosed him with Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome. And in this case, it's damn real.

Mr. Pigg has re-married, and they have a one year old daughter named Isabella. One wonders when this little girl is in her late teens, if her dad will be alright. Will injuries keep cropping up, under different guises? Tim doesn't really think about that. He'd rather think about the next computer system he is assembling. His subconscious will take care of all of the dark areas, he'd rather have his conscious life deal with hope, rebirth, and future plans.

You have to die for a cause to be a martyr. Ok then, what is a hero? Does a hero have to be a crusader who suffers the slings and arrows of misfortune? Webster's Seventh says a hero can be "a man admired and emulated for his achievements and qualities." Oh yes dear readers, heros live amongst us, they are not some amorphous entity you read about in the New York Times. They are our neighbors. Surely you know that Saints live just down the block from us don't you? Like the 90 year old lady who has a faded tatoo on her inner arm, which just happened to be her ID at Auschwitz?

Mr. Pigg took a very heavy hit for every resident of Ballard. Let's be specific here. No, he didn't become a Sherman tank and block that auto, no he didn't attempt to wrestle the burglars out of their car, and no he didn't grab a box cutter and try to slash their tires to impede them. But he did feel Death via execution; that visage roared at him while his face was turned. He spent two and a half months in the hospital recuperating for you and me, so we could pick items from a well stocked shelf, and pay our monies to a convivial clerk. Like a screaming raptor from the sky, this violence was brought to Tim, not because of Tim, or any courageous deed. Mr. Pigg is a benign hero, and the Ballard community did indeed respond with charity and kindness. He didn't return to right any wrong, he returned because the very berg we live in is a righteous community that stands up and supports heroic deeds.

Mr. Pigg's life hung in the balance while he lay there, broken up in the hospital. So now that this episode is behind us, let's all just do one more little thing for Mr. Pigg. The next time you're in QFC, drop a card or note to any of the managers, addressed to Tim, and tell him once more, how fortunate we are to be graced with his strong presence, and kind personality. Let him know that he is the living embodiment of a man we "emulate for his achievements and qualities."

Or if you can't remember that phrase, just use the word hero.

* * * * *

Meet
Leo S.
(part owner of Bombshelter Skate Shop)

If you're an insider, you know exactly where to find Ballard's own skateboard shop. Just turn South at 24th and Market, down Shilshole, walk twenty-five feet, and enter this little jewel of what young entrepreneurship is all about.

The Bombshelter opened in November of 2005, with Leo and his partners Ryan E., and "Jammer." You don't ask for last names here, no need to, it's a first name kind of shop. The building owner decided to have a little more retail real estate and did a bunch of improvements, including a new door facing Shilshole. Leo and his buds saw the "for lease" sign, and dove in headfirst, into ownership.

Leo is a very affable fellow. Covered in tatts, and looking all the world like he could waste you in some back alley, this young businessman is more polite than any politician you meet, amazingly knowledgeable, and trés business savvy. He lapses into street talk now and then, but when asked questions about his business, he's right there with syntax and grammar worthy of a UW alumni.

"Why should our kids skateboard?" I asked, trying to trick him.

"Because it's an independent sport," he replied, confidently. "It's only you, you're on your own." Now that's a succinct description. And with that honest and righteous response, I relaxed into a half hour of getting to know a real pro.

When you walk into the small store, you are struck with how orderly the sales floor is, and uncluttered. It has been painted in modest gray, and the display cases are neat and easy to view. Yet everything you might want is in stock. From shoes to hoodies, from decals to helmets; if you're serious, you can walk out of there ready to conquer the Ballard bowl.

"Why do some of these guys wear body protection, and others don't?"

"Pads are for tricks," Leo explained. "If you're going to attempt an unknown, or if you're into faster, then you'll wear a helmet."

Made sense to me. In other words, if your going to do some vanilla carving, hey, just wear pants and a shirt. There is no condescension if you're all giffed up with protective gear. Obviously, in this kind of sport, a certain vernacular comes with the turf. I was surprised to hear Leo (and Little Ryan, who joined us) use the term "gnarly." This word's been around for decades. But if you talk clean to these guys, you might want to know what the term "schralping" is. This is when you are shredding and coping, and the truck slides the rim, which is a synonym for grinding. Now it's up to you to go to the shop and ask for clarification. But "shredding" is a little more inclusive term.

"We didn't take out any loans," Leo further explained. "A lot of our stuff is on consignment from some great local skateboard concerns. Local as in Seattle. "Monster Skateboards, Free Skateboards, Dirty Bearings, and Addictive Skateboards all display their goods here. . .we just can't support them enough."

Yea, hell yea, that's how ya do it. "We carry the small companies--old school and original. Maybe not popular to the masses y'know. We do buy the clothing though."

Three guys. One business plan. Co-operation. Respect. Their own money. What a recipe!

"We are holding a benefit March 4th, at the Sunset, where all proceeds will go to the construction of a new bowl known as the 'Marginal Skatepark.' All legal hurdles have been passed. If we raise $5,000., the City will match that amount. Grindline, the nation's best bowl designers, based right here, is designing it. In fact, construction has already started. It's at Hanford and Marginal Way."

When I walked outside, the sun was shining a warm February tenor. This really is the new Ballard, I sighed with warm confirmation. These young organizers are jumping into this decade with confidence, vision, and a little bit of money. As I bicycled past the new Ballard Bowl, I reflected on my last question to the boys of the future:

". . .and what really, does 'shredding' mean?"

Leo and little Ryan looked knowingly at each other, then at me.

"Shredding is doin' it man, y'know, you're sick!"

So let's celebrate this generation of self-starters, and let's all smile and pass a little of that good ole fashioned sickness around. I like it.

* * * * *

The content of this issue, as you readers can surmise, does not contain one "attack" snippet. Two local women are directly responsible this: Pam (one of our Librarians), and Judy (who runs the Sunday Farmers Market.) These ladies are strong supporters of the Bull****, and their suggesstion to do an issue like this was taken very seriously by your editor.

Expect bloody, gaping, gangrene wounds in the next issue. . .

Ballard Bull**** 2006!

2005-12-31T18:33:00.000-08:00

Illuminating the Neighborhood of Ballard, Washington
______________________________________________________________________________
Ballard Bull****
Volume 3, Number 1, © January, 2006

"Where Informed Attitude Counts"

Editor, Publisher, Lead Writer: Richard B. Andrews
e: ballardbullshit@yahoo.com
website: http://ballardbullshit.blogspot.com
* * * * *
"If you pursue this the way I think you will, I'll cut you off at your knees!"
--Rob Mattson

Ballard Neighborhood District Coordinator, Department of Neighborhoods, Seattle, WA
Angrily said to your Editor on 11-2-2005

Local King and Pontiff Reviles His Serfs!!
This is your your local government working for you! This is where your tax dollars go! If you pry too far, this is how you are treated. It's always about power and money.
{Before I wrote this article, I consulted websites about libel, and then off to the races I went: http://injury-law.freeadvice.com/libel_and_slander/}{www.expertlaw.com}The following is my mixture of fact and opinion.

Who is this asshole?

You have to dig into the Ballard political scene to know this bulbous little Hitler. Ballard is his town, and you'd better give up your butt for a good pounding if you want to get any city money. "Ballard is a small town," he told me. "You'd better understand that." You loyal readers can predict my reaction by now can't you? This slippery trough-feeder hides behind his disability. (I'll bet he drinks pure shots of pork grease for breakfast.)

He's legally blind.

But he's also legally corrupt. So why did he threaten your local Crusader???
I had received numerous complaints about "Crudie Rudy," you know the dickhead who blows those leaves up your dresses and male thongs on Market Street every morning. (Rudies' paycheck comes from the Ballard Merchants Association headed by Mary Hurley of Best Regards.) Well I had the audacity to question his alliance with Mary and her little toy-boy Rudie who blows leaves, as well as other items he likes to blow, but who's measuring inches here? Rob and Mary are in the same political bed. Not only do they massage each others' backs, they are in league to corn-hole every resident of Ballard. To thicken the plot a bit, Ms. Hurtful-Hurley is the President of the Ballard District Council, which meets on the second Wednesday of each month, at the new library. (More on this transparent amoeba group in a bit.) Collusion is rampant. You dear readers might be confused already, but this is how these people control you, and spend City money, all by favoritism. To explain:

Milk-tit Mattson is the City's representative to the Ballard District Council. They are the good ole boys and girls who have the power and the Glory of the Second Coming. Under the guise of "community involvement," they are there to screw you. Don't believe me? Just go to one of their meetings. You'll see how a truly modern financial bordello works. If you're willing to play their game, you're in. It's simple, that's how it works. It's been this way since the cavemen offered up their wives to other hunters to acquire a rotting, smelly dinosaur bone. So Blood-leech Rob didn't like it when I showed him a document proving his acceptance and support of the business who supports and pays for our noxious leaf blower. So he decided he could cut my legs off. I guess if you have a disability, you would like to project that to others that don't like your policies.

I promised you some clarification. Here's how the power works. Let's say you have a project you want to get off the ground. Yup, you need some money, and you find out the city has grants that will help you. Well, you live in Ballard, and you find out about the City of Seattle Department of Neighborhoods, which has grants from $250. to $100,000. For real, this money is available. But you have to start somewhere, and the City wants you to step through the hoops, just like a Vegas feather dancer. So they refer you to the Neighborhood District Coordinator, who knows the red tape, inside and out. But you'd better be nice to that person, because he/she makes recommendations to the City about your proposal. You can sink or swim here. There's only 13 of these "coordinators" for the City of Seattle. Are you with me? You piss one of these local sheiks off and you'll be blacklisted. Oh but they would never admit to that.

Our Coordinator is Rob Mattson. He's slick, mouthy, and banks on the slight percentage of advantage because of his "disability." After all, can you really bad-mouth a blind man? What would the neighbors think? So Rob knows his leverage very well. He thrives on ego massage, and knows the City basically cannot do one damn thing to curb his power base. I know this, I called his superiors about his threat. So if you want grant money, get ready to smell the brown when you pull your nose out of his ass. Except for me that is.

As mentioned, Rob is the City's representative to the Ballard District Council. Well who the Hell are these yay-hoos? The Council is a quasi-government organization. They are not paid by the City, but have various, powerful input mechanisms that really work. Any business or even "group" can be a member, if you are accepted that is. I have read their By-Laws and they are about as clear as puke in a vinegar bath. So, if you want a grant, it is best to be affiliated, in one way or another, with the Council, where King Rob sits. Are you seeing this yet? Mary Hurley is the current President of the Council, and if you want to see Evil incarnate, go to a meeting. Her persona is absolutely angelic, but her deeds are black. She's a modern day Goth in designer clothes. She is a siren whose melodic song lures you into her spidery maze, and then she calls her political and business troops in to squash you. She's ruined the Ballard Seafood Festival (unless you're an insider) with her regulatory fervor. (Sue me Mary, I've got a whole lotta other stuff on you: does the word 'dyspraxia' mean anything to you? Would the State be interested in your BMA's nefarious deeds over the years?)

So the two powers that rule Ballard (excluding Beth, et al, over at the Chamber of Commerce, which will be the subject of a future issue), are Profligate Rob and Dominatrix Mary, (I would have used the term "Strap-on" but that term has been heisted by a member of the Ballard Insurgents to describe one particularly vindictive female police officer.) I'm almost thankful that the immense financial Dukes who are behind the various condo projects are independent of these two. They, the Money barons, have bigger financial assets, and bigger power, but for the rest of us pee-ons, we have to live with the pettiness.

So if you're wanting a grant, or if you're a hot dog vendor who needs help navigating Parks and Rec, or if you need any other sort of "insider" know-how, the City wants you to go through King Rob. His phone number is (206) 684.4060. If you want to protect the herons that nest nearby, and you don't know what agency to contact, just call Guillotine Rob. If you're really fearful about Emergency Preparedness in the advent of an earthquake or a terrorist attack, call Savior Rob, after all, he is God, and certainly, we must all bow to divinity. . .

Oh, I almost forgot, do you know what my immediate answer to Rob was when he told me he'd cut my legs off at the knees? "I've got a lot of prosthetics," I said. . . . . .

Discrimination at
QFC
(and you know what the "F" stands for)
Profiling is Alive in Well in Ballard!

When will this bullshit stop over there? Well your editor was just doing some shopping at that vile, but close, establishment, and a scene unfolded right in front of me that was not only atrocious, but illegal, from the management that is.

Weasels come in many forms. I just hate it when they happen to be hominids, masquerading as sentient, homo sapiens. Well let's just name some names here and let the chips fall where they may.

Allan is the Store Manager. Jim is the Assistant Store Manager. I hope you're impressed. Jim is also a slippery profiler that obviously is not affected by Federal Law that even reigns in cops for doing that. So what on Earth happened that pissed me off, in my never ending fight for the common man?

I park my bike outside, walk in, and pause to take my hat and gloves off. A man had just bought a sandwich and a coffee, and simply wanted to put cream and sugar in his brew. Pretty simple so far huh? Well there was a fancy thousand dollar bike absolutely blocking access to the condiments, and the man looked around for the owner, couldn't find him, and proceeded to gently move the bike out of the way. The owner of the bike, dressed in hundred dollar lycra tights, rushed over. "Hey, what'ya doing?" he asked. "I just wanted to dress up my coffee," the shopper replied. Pretty innocent so far. Well, I finished shopping, and I walk out the same North door I came in, and the same shopper (His name is Zack) looked at me, and with total exasperation, said, "I don't believe what just happened to me."

Let's take a little closer look. If you were to look at Zack that evening, you would have seen a man in jeans and old jacket, covered in mud, slightly unshaven, with steel tipped boots that had gone through Hell. Well he's obviously a transient right? And "His filthiness" moved someone's fancy-ass bike. Well we can't have vermin touching the porous cleanliness of a Gen-X man, right? And then, Heaven forbid, this slob actually sat down on the bench in there and started eating his sandwich. How dare a filthy street person sit on a QFC bench and eat his "probably stolen" sandwich. Get rid of the asshole!!!

"What happened?" I asked Zack.

"Well some store manager told me I was rude to a customer, and that I couldn't eat my sandwich in here, he basically kicked me out of the store."

"Oh really," I pondered. "Let's get him out here, because I witnessed what you did with that bike."

Well one of the cashiers was listening in, and she called oily Jim (maybe). When he walked up on his magic carpet of petroleum, I started asking questions, and asking them fast. Jim thought he could out-slippery me, and baffle me with his putrid verbage. Didn't work. He told me one of his employees relayed a message to him, that this filthy person had been rude to a customer. But remember, I saw the whole thing. "Did you tell him to leave because he was eating his sandwich on your bench?" I asked.

"I told him this was not an eating area," Jim vomited. In other words, Jammin' Jim was masking his intentions with political finesse that any fifth grader could've seen through.

Let's just take a further look at Zack. Mr. Ingraham is a carpenter, and makes $24.75 an hour. That particular day, he had "mucked out" a construction site, and it was wet, muddy, sloppy and sticky. He hadn't eaten all day, and was damn hungry. He paid his honest money at the QFC, and was so ravenous, he simply opened up the cellophane and dug in. But QFC didn't like how he looked, after all, he wasn't the pretty metrosexual with the lacquered bike was he now? And for working hard, being hungry, and making a damn good wage, he was profiled by none other than the Grand Weasel of QFC, Jim. That is outright discrimination, and for that, Up Yours Jim.

I had a one-on-one talk with Allan, the real Manager. He assured me he'd get to the bottom of it, and perhaps send Zack a courtesy card. But he, like a good little Toby, did nothing to right this wrong. "Give me a few days to figure this out," he told me. That's a stonewall. And Allan, for that, go back to Kindergarten. Little boys who have fear as a motivating factor need to start over from the course titled, "Adolescent One." Is there anybody that's even close to Sainthood (in management that is) at QFC? Yup, and his name is Martin, who, even according to various employees, is fair, reasonable, and knows how to take a joke. I know Martin, and yes he is that rare person who knows how to treat people like people. I hope you do not get corrupted young man.

And I know some of you kind readers are already wondering. . .what the Hell right did the fancy boy have bringing his bike into QFC in the first place?

A copy of this article is being sent to the various QFC managers, and President. And if I don't get satisfaction for this blatant display of discrimination, I'll go higher yet, to the Kroger headquarters in Cincinatti Ohio, just like I did with the previous Manager, (I called her Suzie QFC), who got banished to Carnation for her little indiscretions with our community. I'm sure she's faring just fine with those rural folks. . .(does the word start with "red"?).
* * * * *

E-Mails Received
A Sampling. . . .

"I visited your website (you don't know me), and I read your Obituary on my friend, Todd Kennemer. I have never read a more touching, revealing, truthful treatise in my life. Surely, Todd is smiling above at you, and your tender testimony. . ."--Rachel

"I am here to make a case to never advertise! Yer the bulldog we all need!"--Ted

"I am told you pay for the hard-copy of the Ballard Bull**** yourself. Thanks for posting your articles on-line, it is free for you and for me."--Genevive

"Your attack journalism is offensive. Go f*** yourself."--Samuel

"Your slogan, 'Where Informed Attitude Counts' is right on the money. I am weary of the uninformed attitude in the Stranger, and I hope to see your publication grow, and be recognized by the entire city of Seattle."--Diane

"Hey, why don't you do some investigation on that pornoKing who is the editor of The Stranger. He can't be clean with such a dirty rag making him all kinds of money!"--Rachelle
(Well that's a capital idea Rachelle, give me some time on that one. I happen to think you're right--Dan Savage is a terrestrial black hole who has reduced journalism to one low common denominator. Not to worry, he will just be another rich lemming who will not be remembered. Quality reporting will always be respected and quoted.)
* * * * *

Fronds
little snippets about our community

"What comedian designer configured the region between our legs--an entertainment complex built around a sewage system?"
--"The Perimeter of Ignorance" by Neil deGrasso

"Ballard will become more of a bedroom community to Seattle."--Bob Hawley, third generation commercial real estate broker in Ballard. Think about that quote dear readers!

Roberto Minghetti foiled a robbery at The Smokeshop Restaurant (Ballard Ave) on November 3rd. You know what his reward was for being a courageous citizen? He got fired. Yup, it's true. Why don't you tell the owner, Tom, what you think of this?

Ballard's New Park (adjacent to the Library): What a gem this 1.4 acre plot is turning out to be. The kids got a brand new skate bowl (better than the old one they tell me), there is lots of open space, a whole lot of grass to be lazy on, and a first class design meant for people. I love it. The same firm who built the Library built this multi-use, 1st class modern park. Don't worry, the transients cannot fill that whole space with puke!

Parking Pigs at Bartell's: have you seen the pricks who think they're FBI employees, policing the parking lot at Bartell's? They're small timers, taking their jobs way too seriously. . .and pissing off a host of legitimate shoppers who just might be five minutes over the 45 minute strict parking enforcement.

"If you're traveling faster than light, would you be in the dark?--H.C. Petley (local writer).

The Silver Cloud Hotel: What's that? It's the name of Ballard's first hotel to be built in many decades. It will grace the parking lot of the Yankee Diner, and have 172 units. This is a done deal, we'll see construction begin next year. All the permits are in place. That will be change, for sure. Which makes me think about all of those hundreds of thousands of salmon that climb the fish ladder nearby. . .does the term "poaching for tourists" mean anything to anyone?

QFC to be demolished, then rise again: the new QFC: scheduled to begin construction next summer, it will have two underground parking levels, a new store at ground level, and an astounding 270 residential units above! Wow! 85 feet is till the maximum building height, but the skyscape will change over there on 24th, what with the two brand new seven floor condo projects being built right now adjacent to QFC.

Obituary for Our Friend Todd Kennemer

2005-12-13T21:15:00.000-08:00

Todd committed suicide on November 17th, 2005

______________________________________________________________________________
Ballard Bull****
Volume 2, Number 10, ©December, 2005
"Where Informed Attitude Counts"
Editor, Publisher, Lead Writer: Richard B. Andrews
e: ballard bullshit@yahoo.com
* * * * *

Obituary
Todd Kennemer

______________________________________________________________________________

Most of us first met him when he started working at Tully's, after a hiatus with Starbucks. All of us locals were enamored with this charismatic young man, who always had a smile and a quip, and if he wasn't pleased with the brew, he'd toss it and make another one, just for you.

But we all have those areas that haunt us. Those caverns that are private. Those areas of the psyche that have never been explained: not by Native shamans, not by Freud and Jung, not by parents. It seems each generation tries to put a definitive moniker to these depths of the human mind, to no avail.

Arguably, to possess genius is to confront demons.

After Todd's nervous breakdown, and analysis at Harborview, he went to convalesce at his folks house near San Diego. I called him. The only request he made of me, was to send him a current issue of the Bull****, so he would "keep his tap on Ballard," and have some much needed local humor. Upon his return, Todd was prescribed some of the most powerful anti psychotic/depressant, new generation drugs available. His Father, Rex, brought him back to Ballard.

Connie Kennemer, Todd's Mother:
"In 1986 my family moved to San Diego from Tucson, Arizona to start a season of ministry in a missions organization. We moved during Todd's Kindergarten year. My husband, Rex, and I had anticipated being able to put our only child in a private Christian school. The move, however, had taxed our finances and we were prevented from making this choice. We were disappointed and apprehensive about entrusting our one and only to a public school setting. In fact, my personal apprehension reached epic proportions as Todd's first day at Westwood Elementary found 2 Kennemers in the Kindergarten classroom--Todd and Mom.
"I saw and heard things that afternoon that chilled my soul and convinced me that this was not the environment for my innocent young man!. . .I can still recount the desperation I felt as I cried out to the Lord that afternoon on behalf of my heart's treasure, my little Todd."
But Mrs. Kennemer's faith would guide her through this crisis. She started a prayer group named "Mom's in Touch." "That. . .was the beginning of an ongoing prayer walk for my son. As a college sophomore Todd has been the recipient of hours of prayer, gifts of love given by women who battle weekly, praying for the lives of their children. My son's life--and this mother's life--have been molded by this hour of power. . ."
Rex and Connie Kennemer are missionaries. Connie is in advanced stages of MS. They have been Christians for decades, and tried to implant the Faith in their only child. Whatever the outcome of that effort, Todd received the ultimate gift from his parents: the gift of Love. This was cemented inside Todd as much as any DNA double helix that defines what we look like. And that was evident to all who knew him. But there are penalties when you have that much Love inside of you--you are under attack, nonstop, from the Evil forces who hate that.

The enormity of those forces were not understood by Todd. And when the maelstrom swarmed his consciousness for just one too many times, he took his life; it was just too much. No amount of medication could penetrate and calm his almost Poe-esque consciousness. The powerful vortex and pressures of Beelzebub were more fearful than life itself.

And because of that, we lost an angel.

Todd's Mother:
"For fifteen years I have had the awesome privilege of praying for Todd, one hour every week--joining hearts with godly moms, committed to their children and their God. It has changed everything. I am now a woman of prayer. Moms In Touch has the definite markings of a Prayer Revolution. . .and what about Todd, the recipient of this concentrated attention? Let me share a few sentences from an endearing e-mail I received while he was attending college in Chicago:

'I love you so much, Mom. . .most people have no reason to keep going in life, with MS or not, but you press on through every painful day, out of love for God and for Dad and I. I slack in my studies, I don't practice my music, I don't read my Bible every day. I forget to pray, and my Mom has not ceased praying for me for as long as I can remember, and even before. . .'

"An hour a week, well-spent!"

Excerpts from
Fly Away
by Connie Kennemer

Fly away. . .Child of mine
Fly away. . .It is time
I've packed up all your yesterdays
I'm framing your todays
The Lord holds your tomorrows
So I stretch my hand and say
Fly away
Prayers I whispered, prayers I cried
Asked the Lord to be your guide
He won your heart at three years old
And still we watch His plan unfold
Now you're grown and soon you'll part
Years of prayer have shaped your heart
I trust you now into God's hands
Release you now--my child, a man

Ballard Bull****

2005-11-15T20:31:00.000-08:00

Ballard Bull****

Volume 2, Number 9, ©October-November, 2005
"Where informed attitude counts"
Editor, Publisher & Lead Writer: Richard Andrews

Bergen Place and The Mural
subtitled
Ballard: Bend Over

So you thought the mural was taken down to do some restoration work? No, no dear readers, that's not how it really went down. As late as November 2nd, the Ballard News-Tribune stated: "The park's distinctive mural, depicting scenes of Scandinavian heritage has been removed temporarily for minor restoration work. . .(it) needs some small touch up work like replacing rusting screws and one-inch pieces of wood." Remember that ocean-front property in Arizona I've got for sale? Here's what really happened.
This whole story started out pretty innocently. I was just wondering where the mural at Bergen Place went, and when it would return. But upon intense investigation, I found a murky maze of quasi-organizations, many of them who seemed intent on diffusing knowledge via intrigue. Well as you kind readers know, you blow smoke in this editor's 20/20 eyes, and my mental vacuum cleaner will strip you naked. You may never see this mural again, but a few powerful people really do want to see it return, so we'll see.
It all starts with the Olsen brothers, (the furniture magnates), who own the brick wall that the mural was kind of installed on. I initially thought its removal was related to "earthquake retrofit," for the wall, which would make sense. But no, that was not the issue. That wall is exempt from the Ballard Historical Commission's rules about old-timey preservation. It escaped that determination by 1/2 block. So what was going on? Of course I had to talk to the principals, so I interviewed both Art and brother Bruce Olsen, owners emeritus. Their wall is the North face of the business "Art By Fire," the exquisite glass shop next to the Chai House. Little slimy, many legged centipedes et al, were crawling right through that wall into the Fire's shop! Well how the heck does that relate to anything? Well, well, as Bruce Olsen told me, he feels that the large mural, affixed to that wall for years, had allowed a continual moisture bath to accumulate behind it, never drying out. This eventually led to mortar deterioration, which led to perfect little houses for soft, viscous clay inhabitants.
Here's where the plot thickens, but the wall doesn't. Olsen's Furniture signed a 30 year lease, way back in 1975, with the Parks Department, and allowed the City to use their wall to "hang" the mural (in 1995, that is). Now let's be fair here, the lease stipulated the City would do necessary maintenance over the life of the lease. Well they did nothing in those three decades, nothing, hence the "rot" of the wall. Well this kind of pissed the Olsen brothers off. They don't want to replace the wall. Bruce Olsen recently got five bids for its repair. They range from $2,500. to $12,500. He feels, since Parks had not honored the maintenance part of the lease, that the City should pay for any and all repairs (through their negligence, that is). And that's the real reason the mural was dismantled. Rest assured, that mural will not hang on Olsen's North wall until Parks divvies up the repair money. Bank on that. Yet the mainstream press, and the local rumor mill, had been fed the scrap of info that the mural came down for some sort of "restoration." Nope, that was a secondary, but effective, PR campaign. But who took the mural down, and where was it being stored? Naturally, I was not done yet.
I finally nailed down Gordon Strand, of the Nordic Heritage Museum. "I've talked to one of the original artists," he said. "The artist feels that any restorative work should be done, after it has been reinstalled, and is in a vertical position." OK, I'm fine with that. "But the moneys that have been saved for that are being tightly controlled, and may not be released." (We're talking a measly three grand here). Oh no, here we go, I thought.
So I caught Victoria Sangrey (a third generation Norwegian), who heads the "Friends of Bergen Place," (and is a member or officer of innumerable Nordic associations) while she was weeding in the Park. I feigned ignorance. "The mural was delicately moved and is in storage, awaiting restoration," she told me. Well that's really a half-truth. Here's what the Post-Intelligencer wrote recently: ". . .the panels that made up the mural are in storage, and while the furniture store is willing to bring the mural back, some day, it's unknown when that might be." Bullshit. Ms. Sangrey "hopes the mural will come back soon." I guess murals sprout little legs and scurry back somehow. To her credit, they have installed granite cornerstones featuring a seining boat image, on the corners of the park. But the real mural answer is coming at you.
Just guess what your editor witnessed a few weeks ago, by happenstance. It was a Sunday, and I had risen early to catch the glorious Fall day that was about to unfold. I walked to Bergen Place, and saw about five men, two on the roof of Olsen's, and three on the ground. The middle panel of the Mural was being lowered by a chain that had been looped around the plywood. Three feet from the ground the chain slipped, and ratcheted along four feet of the edge. Small slivers of wood glinted in the early morning light and I thought, "Who the Hell put Bubba and Hoss in charge of this dismantle?" I stood by Vera's, lip-locked and astounded at the bumbling scene right out of a Marks Brothers film. So much for the "delicate move."
Turns out these hillbillys were some of Ballard's most powerful men.
With the removal of the Nordic themed mural, all we have in this Scandinavian park are the five twenty foot tall penises (or sex-toys, whatever) known as public art, a blank brick wall, some African savanna grass, and now laying flat, a little Nowegian seascape. Now that's heritage, cubed.
With all of the people I was talking with, somehow the Viking Bank was always inserted into the discussions. Hmmm. . .
So I went over to the Ballard Chamber of Commerce, and had a nice chat with Beth Williamson Miller, the Executive Director. Beth is a good lady, and I genuinely like her. She is affable and informative, and knows the insides of this town better than anyone. She overviewed the history of the Park (which I knew already, but always good to hear another slant), and gave me names and numbers. She is almost as fiercely protective of Ballard as I am. Beth was the one that was insistent that I go over to Viking Bank, for the real inside story.

"Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain!"
from The Wizard of Oz

So I did. Eight times in fact, until I finally had audience with the local heavy hitter, Ozzie Kvithammer. The "Oz-man" founded that bank. Of course he now is more advisory than not, but he's really enjoying retirement, and his official title is "Community Relations Officer" for Viking. Paydirt, readers, paydirt. I would not be intimidated.
He knew why I had come, and escorted me into the official meeting room--a spare, but spacious environment. In front of me was a man who had financially seen it all. (Sitting in that room, I wondered how many deals had gone down in there, legal or not.) He was old enough to find humor in his entire career, and mentally savvy enough to remember details with lightning speed. I definitely had to stay on my toes with this cat.
Remember those "hicks" who I witnessed at the Park, taking down the Mural? Well Ozzie headed that group, and as he told me, "Well, we may have looked like Hoss and Bubba, but most of those men you saw have a net worth that far exceeds mine." Money has never impressed me, Oz-man.
Ozzie is one of those rare gentlemen who figures you out in three seconds. In his "dressed-down" style, he could be any balding man in line at Safeway. He exudes a warmth that can only come from years of intelligent living. Perhaps he got an extra dose of the DNA code that deals with heart.
For well over an hour I successfully pulled details out of this very fun man. He was absolutely a straight-shooter with me, and he didn't need to do that, at all. Had I detected any sort of illusion or con in him, I was ready to rip his ass to shreds, really I was. So here's the story from the apex of this entire mess: Ozzie, and his people, want to find the money to install the Mural as a free-standing sculpture, replete with (he hopes), a stainless steel frame and foundation. That would take the Olsen brothers entirely out of the mix. Amen to that! And he wants this done by mid-May, 2006! Well hell yeah. Then the Artist could have the green light to restore the painting (assuming those restorative funds get pried loose, or there is other funding).

But if anybody can accomplish this, it's Ozzie (and Victoria). Of course, the new installation would require yet another permit from Parks, but guaranteed, Mr. Kvithammer can take care of that in short order, if need be. And to answer the last little detail, the Mural is being stored over at Pacific Fisheries, with space donated by none other than Doug Dixon.
So while all these other groups are running around ill-informed, and all wanting a little glory out of this story, it was the Oz-man who was pro-active. Sure he has to meet with all these little prissies who run around with false Nordic pride, but he's the man when we need action on a viable plan. This man is civic minded, and I like his style. But I guarantee you won't find his name quoted in many articles, (and I've read them all), because this kind of player stays in the background, while he stokes the fire of forward momentum. But just in case the slings and arrows of misfortune befall Ozzie, guess who is going to contact the Norwegian Consulate, here in Seattle, and the present Norwegian King Harold and his lovely bride, Queen Sonja. . . . ? Well heck, it wouldn't be me would it?
All of those Nordic committees had a meeting on October 25th, and basically, from what I'm told, it was more drivel and "planning." I wish everybody would just shit and get off the can. So after it's all said and done, we only know one thing for sure: the mural is gone. We do not know when it will return. It's just too damn complicated in this town of talk 'till you die, then let your kids talk 'till they die, then do something.
Hey, just for fun: if you're by the Viking Bank, why not stop in and thank this iconic man (Ozzie), he's one of the few true allies we have. And if he's not in, leave a message with any of the polite people who work there, and sign the note, "Richard sent me. . . . ."

* * * * *

Ballard Etymology
I Demand Babe The Blue Ox be Installed in Bergen Place!
Scandinavian Roots? Bad hair dye?

"I have no problem whatsoever with dumb blonde jokes. First of all, I'm not stupid, and secondly, I'm not blonde."
Dolly Parton

Ballard's reputation is only preceded by its revisionist lies. The current hyperbole is a logical extension of bad PR and even worse, Nordic perpetuation. Whoa, that's a pretty damning statement from your editor who lives here isn't it? But let's just take a little peek into historical fact, and then you judge for yourself.
When 1899 flipped into the twentieth century, Ballard was a boomtown, and it's own town. It hadn't agreed yet, to be absorbed into Seattle (that would be in 1907). People were flooding in from everywhere, and the stench and smoke from the ten lumber and shake mills that lined the Locks was all-pervading. But there was work here, lots of it, and almost unlimited resources to pillage. So where did this idea come from, that Ballard was overwhelmingly a destination for the northern Europeans? Was this truth, or was it an idea that morphed into legendary, but incorrect status?
Let's take a look at the hard facts, courtesy of the U.S. Census, and courtesy of the landmark book, Passport to Ballard: The Centennial Story. In 1910, Puget Sound was undergoing explosive growth. Tens of thousands of domestic and international immigrants were pouring in, and quite literally, many had more than one job offer. This westward movement easily submerged the more benign culture that had preceded it. But just how dense was the Scandinavian population? Are we emulating a percentage that just doesn't measure up?
According the official U.S. Census of 1910, 44% of Ballard's residents were foreign born, and 56% were U.S. born. Bear with me now, statistics can get both boring and confusing. From the total demographic pie, 27.3% were Scandinavian born, and 27.39 % were U.S. born, from the MidWest (WI, MI, MN, IL and IA)! The remaining percentages included "other" foreign born (16.7 %), and U.S. born, other regions (27.9 %). The Scandinavian percentages never increased from 27.3 %. So why aren't we celebrating Paul Bunyan and cheese, instead of gnomes and lutefisk? After all, by the slimmest of margins, .09 %, the Scandinavians were in second place to the MidWesterners. So how on Earth did Ballard become solely associated with this Nordic heritage thing?
The immigrants were boisterous, different, and in your face, all of the time. They were always celebrating something, and they ate strange things that were soaked in lye. They were entrepreneurs, their decorations were loud and beautiful, they were not held down by any norms whatsoever, after all, they were in a new country, and felt the need to explode. They had evolved from a nation of seafaring conquerers, and knew it. A long long time ago, their ancestors had already visited this New Continent (as in 900 A.D.). It was common oral historical legacy.
The internal immigrants from the Midwest understood the trades, and trees. Their culture was the work ethic; their ethnicity was secondary. Many of them were German. Their grandparents were true immigrants, and talked "funny". By sheer personality, the Scandinavians ruled.
But this 1910 census hid yet another important, albeit humorous fact. Adults, defined as 18 years or older, made up 68% of Ballard. And get this: Ballard continued to be a paradise for single women with there being seven single men for every three unmarried women.
With that ratio, do you really think these women gave a rat's ass about equality?

* * * * *

CrowFeathers
Chapter 7
by H.C. Petley

We continue this tale of the Crows that fly above us here in Ballard, by renowned writer, Herbert Petley, written exclusively for the Ballard Bull****. Your kids will love it!

"Oh ye crows! Ye squawky songs disturb my contemplations."
Hagus Blinders, 1634

"Crowmootcrowmootcrowmootcrowmootcrowmootcrowmootcrowmoot

crowmoot!"
The sky was filled with crows flying in scattered chaos, swirling on black wings, diving and cavorting, engaging each other eye to eye, showing black feathers.
"Come along," old crow shouted as he flew by, racing the lacy clouds above. Young crow shook himself awake from a brief afternoon nap.
"What is the ruckus?" he asked as old crow settled on the spruce bough beside him.
"CrowMoot! Song gathering! It is time to sing our crow songs. It is time for the nestlings to be abandoned. Great Raven hath given us our mighty crow voices and today is CroWoot! Our time to voice. Our time to sing." Old crow flew off and young crow quickly followed after him.
First ten, then twenty, then crows unnumbered filled the sky with rustling feathers. Pigeons scattered. Starlings stayed clear. Bushbirds huddled under twig and leaf. Sparrows hushed in sudden silence. This was CrowMoot! Even gulls flew away.
To a human ear, to the ear of dog or squirrel, the songs of crows are raucous cacophonies. But to crows, their songs are the echos of Great Raven and his primal band of feathered accomplices. A great cloud of crows swirled over the trees. Old crow was eager to join in and young crow followed, uplifted by the warm currents of air, encouraged by the presence of so many other crows, many of whom he recognized, his friends, his sisters, his pals.
The crows called and sang, flying in a wide circle. They sang of clouds, they sang of rain, they sang of their many battles with the gulls. All of the younger crows were keen to learn the songs, happy indeed to repeat them. CrowMoot! A jargon day for the songs of crows. They sang of plenteous food, of fish carcasses, nests and feathers. Half a day went by in flying songs.
And then, above all, old crow flew. He circled the cloud of wheeling wings below him. Old crow sang the Song of the Eagle. He was the only crow able to sing that song. Most of those flying just under his wings were hatchlings when the Eagle was last sighted. Few there were who remembered the Eagle invasion. Old crow and his brethren had driven the monstrous sky terror from their territory. After that, a great Moot was held in honor of the encounter. Old crow became Top Crow then, by the acclaim of all the others.
And now he sang his song of remembrance. How the Eagle, huge and silent, had come gliding across the sky, sweeping in from the far country where bears roamed and trees stood so close together even the humans didn't go there.
Young crow flew in wide circles along with his peers. Old crow, his tattered wings spread wide, his eyes clear, his beak held high, sang his Eagle Song in a strong clear voice. He was still Top Crow and, although many were stronger of wing, quicker of beak and talon, none flew up to challenge him.

* * * * *

Crudie Rudy Redux
or
"Why don't you stick that leaf blower up your ass and spray your tonsils all over Market Street?"
--Ballard resident, who shall remain anonymous

This story just will never end it seems. I wrote about Rudy McCoy almost two years ago, and, like a good parasite he's still around. He's the one who is supposedly cleaning up Market Street, in the early morning hours, with his leaf blower that God gave him. I wrote about his absolute disregard for us locals, and the possible health effects his blower was causing (not to mention a decibel problem). I wrote about all of those pretty girls, dressed to the nines, waiting for the bus, that had to deal with his cloud of dirt, spores and toxins.
Well I received an e-mail from a loyal reader, who voiced his anger about Rudy, when he showed up on Market Street at 6:10 a.m., leaf blower going strong. That was enough for your editor to notch up the power play, so I went to see Rob Mattson, Neighborhood District Coordinator, Department of Neighborhoods at the Neighborhood Center, in the new Library. He is the apex of power for this little problem, even though Crudie Rudy's paycheck comes from the Ballard Merchants Association, a non-profit with a questionable agenda, headed by Mary Hurley, of Best Regards.
Rob is not sighted (that's the current correct spin nowadays), and his service dog is a sweetheart. Rob is also a city employee, and sharp--wait a minute, beyond sharp, so let's say he's brilliant at what he does. Rob is also used to most people giving him extra credence because of his disability, and uses that to his advantage. To everyone else but me, that is. But he gave me audience. Repeatedly, he tried to deluge me with bureaucratic squiggle, but you readers know me too well, and I persevered. When he finally realized he couldn't snow me with verbage, he settled down, and listened. Of course I came armed with a solution as well, but if it didn't come from Rob, or Mary, it wasn't a solution, it would be, in his terms, a "perception."
And just so you kind readers know, I received other complaints, recently, about Crudie Rudy--at least six businesses have contacted me, as well as other individuals who wish to remain anonymous. One very public woman told me of a man at the corner of Roosevelt and 65th, who sweeps the walkways, and bags the garbage. Well how novel an idea, to actually care about your own neighborhood!
Recently, Crudie Rudy, delivered a flyer, or should I say some sanitized apologia, (is that too big a word for you Rudy?) to all of the merchants on Market Street. He wrote that milque-toast letter, which still smelled like shit, about how he was basically the ecological Savior to Ballard. Well I wrote a rebuttal, and on Thursday, October 27th, delivered that response to a couple of dozen of our Market Street merchants. What a response I got! The business owners didn't know they were paying for a death merchant. They all had received an "ivoice" (a payable debt), from the BMA, with stepdown billing, and much later it was called a "contribution." This deceptive billing had some of the merchants hoodwinked. Some thought they were paying for yet another City service. I patiently let all of them know the scam they were being subjected to, and that they were not required to pay it. NOT ONE of them thought it was fair. In fact, some of them were riled to the point of action. So the bottom line is, Mary, and her Toy-Boy Rudie, are pissing off the very merchants that make our place interesting and vibrant.
Of course the Assholes are going to try to topple my argument with fancy verbal digressions. But guess what your Editor has in his possession? The night of Sunday, October 23rd was a bit blustery, the Fall winds had started. And for whatever reason, Crudie Rudy decide to use his penis blower at 8:10 p.m. Well, a tenant, who lives above Tully's, had had enough, and confronted him during his illegal foray. The confrontation was loud, and almost violent. Rudy thought he could bully this local, but it wasn't to be. Well the beauty of this event just happened to be serendipitous. A friend of the Bull****, just happened to be there, with his vid-cam, and recorded it. I have, in my possession, a 90 second video, with audio, of Rudy's little indiscretion. Rudy broke the Seattle Municipal Code, and I have evidence that will crush him in any legal action. Wanna tangle Rudy?

Pyroclastic love, just let it flow dear readers

And Rudy was oh so kind, in his putrid essay, to give you his phone number. Why don't you give him a call and tell him how much you love him? His gratuitous number is: 206.459.0622. Mary Hurley, on her billing statement also gave you her number, so give her some love: 206.783.4562. And by God, Rob Mattson even put his little contact on the bill: 206.684.4060. So let's all sing a little "Koom-by-ya" around the campfire for these stellar pillars of our community. Oh, and I almost forgot, if any of you wish to really stir up the coals, the Ballard Merchants Association registered, non-profit number (for Washington State) is: UBI 601.328.207. Believe me, just one complaint to the State regarding a Nonprofit is equivalent to the death knell, and two complaints......is the sweet smell of power to the people.
Which brings up yet another point: many of the Merchants don't pay for this vile service, yet they have to clean up the interior of their space. Meaning, Crudie Rudy's effluent is spewing dirt, mold, and shit into their businesses, from underneath their doors! So if they pay the bogus invoice, they're really paying to have some dick-head throw a mess into their place of business! And if they don't pay the "contribution," they are cleaning up a mess that shouldn't have been there in the first place. So just that little action could be assessed as vandalism. Wow, that's certainly a good bang for the buck.

Blind Justice?

Rob finally realized I wasn't there to attack him or Crudy Rudy, that I was there representing my neighborhood. That's a testament to his intelligence, or perhaps it's a testament to his ass coverage. When he makes a call to SPD, they respond with full force. But that's not enough for me to kiss anyone's butt. I view Rob as a clever manipulator, once he scrapes the brown stuff off his nose. He let me know that Rudy's job, basically, was tenuous. That this whole "clean-up of Market Street" could collapse in a heartbeat. I told him I was OK with that. Would you really mind shuffling through aromatic Fall leaves, and reminisce about days gone by? "Not that many people make the effort to either see me, or field a complaint," he told me (see phone number above). "They just get annoyed and go home." Well there's a no brainer--not that many people get an active response from Rob, unless you're one of the "insiders", that is.

"When one burns bridges, what a very nice fire it makes!"
Dylan Thomas

"So here's what I propose," I said. "Do you remember that little thing called work? Don't fire Rudy, but have him sweep Market Street, by hand, from 20th to 24th, and use the blower on adjacent areas." Gee, is labor really that hard a thing to ask for, to preserve neighborhood ambience and public health? Rob knew I was right, and sort of conceded. He also was bright enough to know that I probably had other levers to pull, if he had been confrontational (in the next issue, I'll tell you a tale of how he loves to bully people). But he couldn't resist at least one barb to me: "Ballard's a small town," he said. "You really don't want to burn too many bridges." It's all he had for ammunition, and the sulphur and gunpowder was just too damp. Don't threaten me at all, because my ultimate power rests with this neighborhood who supports me, remember "the people" Rob? Bureaucratic assholes merely amuse me. I am a thief--I only steal one thing: I steal power and shoot it right back to the common man. Rob assured me of only one thing--continued psycho-babble ranting.
So Ms. Hurley makes up a pretty invoice and bills the merchants so she can pay the ogre to poison us. It's true. She bills people who have not signed into her bogus Association, and it looks so damn official, some people actually send her the "fees." Under the guise of a formal invoice, which looks powerful and dominating, your payment really is voluntary. This is called subterfuge. So my suggestion to every Market Street merchant is: don't give a dime for this so-called "service." You don't have to be coerced by a small time business owner is who has learned how to feed at the trough. Lombardi's doesn't pay for this financial atrocity, why should you? Yup, Ballard sure is a small town. . . but I will not let the lacky off the hook. Crudie Rudy thinks he's a cop when he's doing his poisonous mischief. He's reviled in our community, and should be sentenced to years of community service assisting the asthmatics, and he should launder, by hand, the clothes of the professional women who ride the bus and get soiled from his filthy semen. Then, perhaps he should be impaled on one of the five penises that adorn Bergen Place. That way the next King of Norway could be reminded of his own penitent past.

Politics Makes Strange Bedfellows

I want to stress the fact that Rob appeared to be a genuine fellow. But appearances can be tricky. His office is in the southern bowels of the Library, behind locked doors, but power usually rests in unforeseen locales. His handshake is firm, and he lives with technology for support. Maybe it'd be fun to get him drunk, and watch him cry on my shoulder for all of the sins he has visited on Ballard. Let him know that he really isn't that insulated from the very neighborhood he claims to represent. Let him know that he's really an overpaid call girl, who has to put his palms on the ground for the City at any given time. He's really one of the "good ole boys" whose network time has passed.

And then I'd like to invite him to walk with Rudy for one morning, without earplugs or dust mask. Oh, and I'd probably slip his service dog a little pale ale, just for fun. . . . . . .

* * * * *
Fronds
little snippets about our community

Washington Mutual: Will you moneyed assholes please put the hands back on the clock tower? It's been a year, or better now. You suck as much money from our community as possible, and you can't afford to do this little civic thing?
The Locks: Now that you've installed those fancy little electronic parking pay stations, charging us for the first time in History, why don't you lighten up on the security? Jeez, you can't even set up an easel on "your" precious lawns without the Port of Seattle or Homeland Security jackboot idiots questioning you. I believe that land belongs to us, the citizens. . .
Ballard Bull**** is on-line kidz: Ok, for those of you who haven't seen what your writer looks like, I've got a pic for ya there: http://ballardbullshit.blogspot.com, as well as the current issue of the Bull****, and in time, check the Archives.
Another fatality: Only the street people know this little ditty. They found yet another body, about three weeks ago, at the shore of the Canal, by Fred Meyer's. Nobody's talking, after all, if you're homeless, you're also anonymous. . .
Ron Sims: You know why I still like him (but did not endorsed his candidacy)? It was within his power to nix, with finality, the move by Southwest Airlines, and others, to use Boeing Field as a hub (instead of SeaTac). And he trounced it. I found out, had this horrible idea gone through, that up to 52 commercial flights a day would have started their descent directly over Ballard and Magnolia!!! Every day. I don't care how you politically feel about Ron, this was a major bullet that was dodged.
The 1st Amendment: I've had people who care about me try to caution me about the content of this rag. They feel I could be in serious danger because of the depth of my investigations. Well thanks for the concern, but I just happen to love my neighborhood. All I can really say is "bring it on" to the scammers who hide under the cloak of normalcy, but who are really pigs feeding at the moneyed trough of public compliance. These are the insidious enemies of you and me, but they groom their appearances to disguise their secret agendas of power, and money. They can try to sue me, but guess who has a friend over at the ACLU? Let's rumble. . .
32nd? 65th? Holman? 85th? 3rd?: Ok fair enough. Some people have mentioned that I should be covering the extended Ballard, the rest of our neighborhood that radiates out of Market street. Guess what, you're right, and I'll address those areas, in upcoming issues. Thanks for the noise! Don't forget to e-mail me: ballardbullshit@yahoo.com

* * * * *

And in keeping with the Ballard guests contributing to this issue, I give you
Brandon Hatley
who lives on 61st Street NW, goes to the UW, works at QFC, and with that full plate still has time to write poetry. He can have the last word, for this issue.

"Love is a sham"
One of my buddies said
To me

"You can't learn
From your mistakes
Because every woman is
A different mistake"
Another one said

I guess I am
Just looking
For a well
To throw my penny into
___________________________________________________________

Just perhaps, music may save us. .

2005-10-08T14:07:00.000-07:00

At home, in Ballard