Ballard Bullshit

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 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 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?


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. . .

* * *

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?

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

* * * * *

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.

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?

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?

Broken Psyche Shadows
by Jordan McGill

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.