Tuesday, June 02, 2009
The Squat House
Photo by "a Squirrel in a nearby tree", donated courtesy ofhttp://www.compasscenter.org
Above two photos by Lorn J. Fanthttp://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
©June of 2009
Lead Writer, Editor and Publisher: Richard Andrews
web: ballardbullshit.blogspot.com
e: ballardbullshit@yahoo.com
Where informed attitude counts
Peter Wesley HallThe Squat House
"Nobody saves America by sniffing cocaine. When it snows in your nose you catch cold in your brain."
---Allen Ginsberg
---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.---Napolean Bonaparte
* * *
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
---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.
Labels: Ballard Bullshit, Lorn Fant, Peter Hall, Richard Andrews, The Squat House
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Dante Rivera: Yet Another View
photo by Scott CohenBallard Bull****
©March, 2009
“Where informed attitude counts.”
Editor, Publisher, Lead Writer: Richard Andrews
web: ballardbullshit.blogspot.com
e: ballardbullshit@yahoo.com
* * *
©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!
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?
or
The Bastardization of Ballard?
". . .and a mixed multitude went up also with them. . ."
Exodus 12:38
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. . . . . . . . .
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?
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"
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?
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. . .
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)
--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.
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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?
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Labels: Ballard Bullshit, Corey Chisel, Dante Rivera, Greg Nichols, Leon Hendrix, Richard Andrews
