Seattle Mariners 2025

A pirate, an MVP and a promising young centerfielder are in a rowboat

Tuesday, October 21– Bellingham, WA 

Q: How far will they get before the boat fills up with water and they are violently dismembered by bull sharks in a froth of blood and salt, the rogue fibers of their musclebound torsos floating lazily down to the sandy ocean floor to be consumed nonchalantly by the least of the sea’s parasites—a murky ecosystem failure and decay.

A: Not as far as the World Series.

Along with the traditional offerings of just wait’ll next year and how about them Hawks making the rounds this morning is a milky-eyed group meme of congratulations for how far the Seattle Mariners advanced this year– a resignation that not reaching the World Series is plenty good enough and that we should be not only satisfied but indeed proud that the team got as far as it did. This is a very PNW point of view, and showcases the low expectations for baseball and spectator sports in general in this region. Decades of losing have conditioned us to enthusiastically embrace 2nd (or lower) place, gleefully celebrating early-bracket victories as if they were championships. We’re just so grateful for a pause in the beatings that we can actually say with a straight face on the morning after a soul-sacking game 7 Championship Series defeat ‘only 112 days till pitchers and catchers! ‘

I wish I could see it that way.

another disappointing Championship Series

It’s not that there’s any shame in getting beat by a better sports team than yours. Especially in baseball and especially in October, when these series get stretched out over a long week. When you actually amortize the contest over seven grueling games, each with its own game within the game, with the innumerable plate appearances and recurring matchups and tangential storylines and super slo-mo replays & aerial photography, reverse-splits and the in-game interviews & miked-up umpires—it’s a fucking study. And usually there are enough chances for the better team to win. Just ask the Bad Lieutenant.

And yes of course the Mariners tasted success this season. For sure it was exhilarating to be one of the last three teams standing while all other baseball players were already golfing. FUCKING A RIGHT it was thrilling to have stolen along on Cal’s impossible, historic season. Certainly there is much to look forward to in 112 days.

But I guess what bugs me about this post season and what troubles me when I allow myself to consider 2026 is that as the diamonds got larger and the lights got brighter and the stakes got higher, this Mariners team did not consistently show its best self. In fact, it frequently showed its ugliest ugliest ugliest ass to the national audiences who hadn’t seen all that much of them to that point. That’s frustrating, because they’re better than how they played in much of the playoffs.

And it’s not just because my cousins in Boston watched the Mariners boot the ball all over the fuckin’ field in game 6. It’s not that Jeremy in the Bay laughed when they ran the bases like ladybug league soccer practice in 3 & 4. It’s not even when NYY Robert from Florida winced at some of the shockingly uncompetitive swings in all three. Rather it’s a combination of these boners and many more. Frankly, the team that stunk up much of the Championship Series was not a championship team.

And it wasn’t just the bleak nadirs of the Toronto series. There was breathtaking underachievement in the Division Series too.

“But we won the series,” will cry the apologists in teal. “We beat Skubal in an elimination game in front of a sell-out home crowd that stood and stomped for 15 innings. Everyone on Sports Center was talking about it!”

Oh, no doubt. That was a high-stepping October Friday night baseball thriller right there. But a series against these Tigers should never have gone five games to begin with. And this game needn’t have taken as long as it did. The Mariners had abundant opportunities to end that game in the bottom of every inning from the 8th on without using starting pitching that was supposed to be resting for the Championship Series. But they couldn’t do it. Inning after inning they just couldn’t score one runner from second base. Logan registered an inspired performance in relief for sure, but he never recovered—did he?

The statistical opposite of RLoB (Runners Left on Base) is execution. It doesn’t show up in the box score—there’s no quantifiable metric for it. Rather execution is the general capacity to move baserunners from first base (let alone second!) to home plate, and it is one of the things that separates good teams from very good teams. It is a combination of baserunning and situational hitting, including bunting.

Now, if you’re just planning on hitting a home run every time up, then of course it doesn’t matter– squander all the opportunities you want! But you can’t homer your way out of everything, as the Mariners found out last night.

The tenth man will sleep just fine over the winter, warmed by recollections of the Mariners’ spectacular 2025 stretch run that saw them advance farther into the playoffs than any other Mariner team in history. Tridents up!

I’ll wake up cranky, though, after an unsettling slumber– worrying that the end of the Mariners’ 25 season was flawed and ultimately futile. The Championship Series was cheapened by mental mistakes, mis-calculated pitching and terrible swing decisions. The Division Series took too long and wasted resources earmarked for higher callings. And the thrilling 17-4 late September run that moved the team not only into first place, but in fact into a position to enjoy a first-round bye? That was accomplished almost exclusively against sub-500 teams. The only playoff team the Mariners would face during that run would be the Dodgers, who—even with nothing to play for– made the Mariners look pretty thin in a 3-game sweep to close the regular season. The Mariners tiptoed into the playoffs when they’d previously been on a real rager, trouncing any last-place team that got in their way. Not ideal.

Fuck the Houston Asstros

No. If there’s one thing I’ll cling to this winter when the sun is unplugged and the tarp is on the infield, it will be the weekend in Houston. The one unqualified triumph of the second half of the season wasn’t realized in October at all, rather in the middle of September with more than a week to go in the regular. The Mariners barged in to Houston on a Friday afternoon having pulled into a tie with the first-place Asstros after an 11-1 run. With only six left to play afterward, it seemed likely the division would be decided between the two rivals on the field. And not just any field, either– but that crooked diamond in that backward town in that confederate state versus the orange villains we had all learned to despise so deeply. This was high drama and it was a perfect opportunity for the Mariners to choke like they had in so many Septembers past. One version of the script saw the Mariners piss away the crescendo of momentum they’d built over the previous two weeks—getting swept in Houston and losing out on not only the division title but in fact a post-season berth of any kind.

But that’s not the script that got played. In true fact, the Mariners dominated from the first pitch, leaving no doubt as to who the best team in the AL West was in 2025. Unhittable pitching from Woo, George & Logan. Multiple home runs from Cal. Speire’s gutty innings. Robles’ impossible catch. It was such a rewarding and dizzying thrill and I will cherish it always.

I wish that was the version of the team that had played the Blue Jays…

Rowdy Tellez, Donovan Solano and Dylan Moore walk into a bar

It boggles the mind to think that these three guys were Mariners during the same season that just ended last night. It seems like years ago! That gives an idea just how long a major league baseball season really is.

Lots of bit partiers come and go during a season. Guys get waived, traded, demoted and designated. No team ever finishes the season with the same roster it began with. That’s baseball. But it is interesting to note what’s washed ashore and flushed out with the tide over the course of a campaign.

I personally wanted it to work out for Rowdy, partly because I think Quick Sands would have loved him. Tellez had a playful personality and actually managed a pretty darned serviceable first base. He was also 6’4” and 270lbs and when he ran into one (which wasn’t actually all that often) the ball would go a long way. Rowdy homered in three straight games (including a grand slam in a 12-inning win) during an Easter weekend series win over the Blue Jays at that place Rogers Center.

But there wasn’t roster space for Rowdy once Luke Raley returned from the injured list at the end of June and the big guy was bye-byed. The heightened scrutiny at first base motivated Solano to subsequently crank up his program and he went on a tear, hitting .385 in 17 games in June. But the arrival of first baseman Josh Naylor at the trade deadline made Don Salon expendable and he was outrighted back to the Cheesecake Factory.

Those two guys were transients. They shared a role and soaked up some ABs during their relatively brief stays in Seattle. They had some moments, but Dylan Moore was a different story entirely.

Dylan Moore, thoughts arrive like butterflies

The longest-tenured Mariner (signed a month before JP Crawford), Moore was the epitome of a utility player. In his first game with the team– in Tokyo on opening day 2019– he entered the game in the 7th as a defensive replacement. The next inning, he drew a walk in his first at-bat as a Mariner before promptly stealing second. And then he just kept doing that for the next six + seasons. Whatever the team needed at that moment, Dylan could and would do. He could bunt and run. He could lead off or hit 9th—it didn’t matter. He played every defensive position except catcher and pitcher! He was such a versatile defensive player, he actually did win a Gold Glove for a utility player, which is baseballese for a guy who wants to play and win bad enough that he’ll play wherever the manager needs him to play and do it well. No drama.

I always thought that if Dylan Moore had gotten more regular playing time—more consistent at-bats—that he could be a star rather than the role-player he spent most of his Seattle seasons as. And he proved me right at the beginning of this year, hitting .385 in April and earning AL Player of the Week honors while splitting starts at second and third base while the Mariners were shaking their roster to see if there just wasn’t someone else better in here somewhere. Ultimately rookies Cole Young and Ben Williamson were brought up to fill the respective positions and D-Mo went back to spot starts, defensive replacements and pinch running. Without the rhythm so crucial to the art of baseball, his production plummeted and he was designated in August to clear a roster spot for Victor Robles, who was emerging from the injured list.

So long, Dylan Moore. I’ll miss singing your name in the stadium when they play “Even Flow.”

KNOCK KNOCK (who’s there?)

Josh Naylor—Lord, I can’t even remember what this team was like before Josh Naylor landed. I love this baseball pirate so much. He looks like a pirate and walks like a pirate, yet he speaks like a beat poet. He also runs like Fred Sanford! How did this guy steal 30 bases? Because he’s smart. He’s smart at baseball and he’s insightful, unlike most professional athletes. And funny. Whatever the fuck it was he was doing at second base in game 3 of the Division Series with those fake signals– I do not even know. It was like he was helping to land an airplane—no subtlety whatsoever. Then the goofy attempted breakup of the double play in the finale. The errant flip to Logan in Game 2— totally whack! It’s like jazz baseball…                                                                                                                    Not everything worked, like it doesn’t always in the improvisational arts. He made some sparkling defensive plays in the post, but also committed a couple of errors and was called out on the obstruction play. And like everyone else he had a few ugly at-bats.                       Worst of all his gaffes, however, was running in to an out at third base in Game 4 to ash a threat in the 6th inning with the Mariners down only three and the tying run coming to the plate. But I can forgive him that because he’s just my main main that’s all. Signing him will the the Mariners’ #1 off-season priority. Josh Naylor who? 

JP Crawford—This guy is infinitely lovable too. The longest currently tenured Mariner, JP has been a co-face of the franchise and has shown durability and resourcefulness. But he’s 30, and he did not have a great post, batting only .200 with 15 strikeouts. I was gratified to see him have such a great game 7, with a double, the motherfucking sacrifice bunt (the Mariners’ only of the post?) and that lyrical defensive play to start the double and crush the Blue Jay’s 5th. Identifying his replacement is something the team will need to start working on at some point next year, with the splashy extension he signed in 2022 expiring after the season. JP Crawford who? 

Dan Wilson—I liked Dan as a player and even as a broadcaster, but he’s not my favorite kind of manager. I was delighted when he replaced Scott Servais because I thought Servais needed to be replaced by someone. Anyone. And Dan has largely avoided glaring fuck-ups in his first full + season at the bridge.                                                                                Naturally there has been much second-guessing this morning about the pitching progression last night. Kirby out too soon? Woo out too soon? Bazardo instead of Muñoz? Unlike most of Servais’ moves in 22, I didn’t find fatal flaw with Dan’s choices this month. I think he got unpleasantly surprised by some guys who’d been nails all season long. But I don’t blame Dan for going to them or even going back to them. Sometimes the guy with the bat just hits the ball no matter where it’s thrown.                                                                          One thing that did kind of gross me out this year, though, was the staged ejection in Tampa. A big deal had been made about Lou being at the game, and when some bad strikes were called against Mariner hitters in the 3rd, someone in the dugout got rung by homeplate umpire Manny González. When Dan emerged seeking clarification, he too was tossed. But there was no fire in the thing at all, Wilson’s act was mild and inauthentic– an embarrassment. He looked like he’d just watched some A Eye YouTube video on how you argue with an umpire. Clearly the whole thing was for Lou’s enjoyment only. As much as I miss a good ol’ fashioned baseball argument, I could do without much more of this limp theater. Dan Wilson who? 

the author preparing to shave the good luck mustache Monday October 20, 9:14pm

The Trident—I don’t know if it’s because the team did actually hit a lot of home runs this year or what, but that tiresome fork didn’t bug me as much this season as it has in the past. Funny how winning changes things! While a lot of teams have done away with these dugout talismans, the Trident is still on the Mariner roster.                                                                                                                                                                                                            I do think they need some PR consultation where some of the other stuff is concerned, however. National media loves running stories about dark horse’s endearing B-market customs, but you can’t run parallel with the mustaches, the witches, the Trident and the shoes-on-the-head. Choose one and play it– but don’t expect national audiences to embrace every quirk, no matter how adorable. The Trident who? 

Eugenio Suárez—It was sure a gas having Geno back. I actually had goosebumps and a tearlette when I heard the story of him boarding the plane in Sacramento. I didn’t like letting that dude go in 23, and I’ve missed him since. Unfortunately, he stunk the fuckin’ joint up pretty good once back– at least on the field, more accurately at the plate. He was still great for attendance though, and I know he’s good in the clubhouse. But he was awful in the playoffs, striking out 18 times. It just looked like he couldn’t get back in the dugout fast enough so he could brush his hair. He had the two good swings in Game 5, but even a stopped clock is right twice a day. I assume there will be no effort made to bring him back for 2026. Eugenio Suárez who?

Cal Raleigh—What else are we even supposed to say? Are there any superlatives yet available? We all just sound like broken records trying to describe the juggernaut that was Cal Raleigh this season.

Like every player on this team, I would smile if he cut down on the swing-and-miss. I know striking out is part of power hitting, I just wish there was a shortened 2-strike swing that could be employed. For all of them.

He looked tired in the last two games in Toronto and some balls got away him behind the plate. Go figure. The Mariners will do well to find a way to rest him more regularly next season—whether he likes it or not.

I hope he wins the MVP but will understand if he doesn’t. It will boil down to how much value is assigned to the catching piece, obviously. Maybe that and stolen bases! Cal owns that advantage over Judge 14-12. To be honest, I would like to see him running less in general. It just cracks up the radio booth whenever Cal catches everyone off-guard and steals second. But no one’s going to be laughing when he pulls a hamstring or gets in some awkward collision at home plate when fucking Kris Negrón sends him with one out and a 3-run lead. The guy’s got a lot on his plate, maybe we can just cool out on the ill-advised baserunning risks in 2026. Cal Raleigh who? 

Right Field—I like both of these guys—Victor & Dom. But one of them needs to step up or get lost early in 26. Miserable posts, both of them– well sub-Mondoza. And that E for Vic with the laminated cheat card in his teeth was a bad look– as was his javelin suspension in August. Stewy Griffin was as ineffective as anyone in the black hole of the back of the Mariners’ post-season lineup and we need more from the position. Right Field who?

Rotation—The least of anyone’s concerns, clearly. It’s actually kind of shocking that the Mariners won 90 games with all the injuries and general underachievement of the young starters in 25. Castillo’s surprise season is regularly overlooked in discussions about Mariner pitching, but The Rocker was really good—super clutch. There’s no reason to think the starting rotation will not be wikked awesome again next season after the off-year in 25. Like many of the hitters, they weren’t good enough in the post– but there are explanations for that. Rotation who?

Julio Rodríguez of the Seattle Mariners— I have a complicated relationship with Julio. It certainly is not in my best interests for him to fail—yet I find myself being much more irritated when he does than I am elated when he succeeds. I’m not sure why I’m so critical of him. I don’t think it’s the actual money, but it surely has something to do with the expectations attached to it. The Seattle sports blogosphere thinks he’s the best thing since curly fries, but I believe he’s got a long way to go before he’s sharing any sentences with you–know-who. A super long way.

Everyone strikes out sometimes. Everyone hits in to a double play once in a while. Guys get caught stealing, I dig it. But this dude’s errors are more often mental lapses. I think Julio Rodríguez is the most vacant baserunner I’ve ever watched. Certainly the most relative to his reputation as a great baserunner. “But he stole 30 bases!” they whine. This is true. But there’s more to baserunning than stealing second. J-Rod is constantly getting picked off and running in front of ground balls when he should just freeze.

I also do not believe he is an elite defender. “But he’s nominated for the Gold Glove!” At the risk of being exposed as a heretic, my opinion is that he doesn’t make the really difficult plays and that he makes the routine ones look difficult.

Baserunning mistakes cost outs. Fielding errors, like the banquet offered in Game 6 (two by Julio) give extra bases to the other guys. They can’t be tolerated.

I do give Julio all the credit in the world for stiff-arming the All-Star Game, however. For a guy who admires himself as much he does, summoning the discipline to forfeit limelight in order to put himself in a position to do what should be most important (namely having the sensational second half he did) couldn’t have been easy. My cap is off for this bold choice. But I need Julio to play smarter in 2026, all year. Julio Rodríguez of the Seattle Mariners who?

Jesus Won— I find this team’s recent embrace of Christianity to be positively revolting. I’ve never thought it was a great look on any celebrity, honestly, but somehow it’s even worse on baseball players. The Latin American guys, I can cut more length—even if Geno laid it on far too thick more than once. But Logan? Where did this even come from? I’ve never observed it before and suddenly they are kneeling in a team prayer. I could do without this and will be writing a letter in the off-season, believe me. Jesus Won who?

Randy—This guy is a weirdo. I got a real close look at him at Spring Training, and he is a dark motherfucker. And no, I don’t mean that—he’s just super intense and unless he’s flashing that million-dollar grin then he’s just hard scowling. But I love that he throws 20 baseballs into the stands during the game. Other players actually throw balls to him in left field for him to throw to the crowd. It’s a weird tic.                                                                                                          But Randy had some real presence this season, and even if it wasn’t exactly the 2020 World Series, I loved his work on the basepaths this post and I like him in left. Randy who?

The Bullpen—I have appreciated that these modern Mariners teams have had strong and deep relief pitching. To me, a rad bullpen is even sexier than a great starting rotation. Particularly in the post season, it’s fascinating when the nameless gunslingers emerge from beyond the left-field fence to face certain hitters again and again. And not just the closers, but the set-up guys and other specialists too. Muñoz was good again this year– but he was far from perfect, with seven blown saves. Even the successful finishes often seemed to be an adventure for him. But Brash has settled in nicely to his 8th inning role and Bazardo & Speier had great years even if some of their luck ran out in the playoffs. With the hopeful return of Santos and Thornton next year, the bullpen should again be a strength for the Mariners. The Bullpen who?

Quick Sands, T-Mobile  Park 10/2/21

Quick Sands—I wasn’t even old enough to vote when I first started copying everything Rick Sands did, and we were friends for more than 40 years before he died last season. He taught me lots of stuff and made baseball cool for me again after a decade of estrangement, worshipping the NFL. We went to a million games together over the years, but never a World Series game. Matt and Evan and I took his voodoo stickers to spring training and I was looking forward to taking them to a Series game also. But the team ended up making too many fucking baserunning mistakes and missed the fall classic by 9 outs. Quick Sands would have scoffed at the just wait’ll next year optimism, mocking it as sushi-eating American League bullshit. But, you know—just wait’ll next year… Quick Sands who?

The World Series— By the time I’ve gotten to the bottom of this pompous protest piece, two games of the Series are downstream. Game 1 was a shocker. Like most people, I didn’t know if Toronto would even score a run let alone win a game. But the Dodgers haven’t exactly looked like the 27 Yankees either. Still, I like LA to win it all, maybe in as few as five. We’ll know more after tonight. I won’t be going to Game 4 tomorrow night, like I had hoped… The World Series who? 

Jorge Polanco—I don’t usually watch baseball on television. A 30+ year radio listener, I normally only see baseball on TV if I’m in a bar or a hotel room. I don’t miss too many pitches during a season, but I’m normally listening to them while I’m cooking or walking or puttering in the garage. So it wasn’t until pulling down a Fubo subscription this post that I actually got a good long look at that bug-eyed freak Jorge Polanco. Talk about your blank stares—I love this dude’s super-neutral shark act. You get absolutely nothing from him and then BOOM– he’s running slow around the bases.                                                                    The Mariners haven’t had a real DH since Nelson Cruz. I hope they’ll make an effort to sign Polanco, though he will likely test the market after a productive season. Maybe we should step up our efforts to circulate that blooper reel error of his in shallow right field during the Division Series. Dude not necessarily known for his D. Jorge Palanco who?

2026 SEATTLE MARINERS—Despite how sardonic and generally discontented I come off, I do think this team will definitely win the World Series next year. Of course, I always think the Mariners are going to win the World Series until the pitch on which they are eliminated for the season—even when that’s been in June. This year it wasn’t until the end of game 7 of the ALCS. And yes of course that is something.                                                                                                                      I do hope there’s a grown-up in the room at some point during spring training 26, however, who will motivate these boys to re-visit the some of the classics like catching the ball, throwing to the right base, bunting, and not getting picked off third. Home runs are bitchin’ but a bunch of balls taken smoothly the other way pencil out the same in the scorebook. I know it’s a lot to expect, but being a team that puts the ball in play (TOR25) sometimes has a better chance of winning a pennant than the team that hits home runs a lot but then can’t score after a leadoff double when the season’s on the line (SEA25).                    There is much to be optimistic about looking forward. The rotation should be as good as any in the game. They have stars under contract and with any luck they’ll sign another in Naylor. Hopefully Mitch Garver is playing elsewhere and that he takes Luke Raley with him. They may well have the steepest home-field advantage in the sport.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             But we can’t pencil in 60 for Cal again—he won’t be pitched to like he was for a lot of this year. Someone on the pitching staff is going to be injured and miss half the season. How are matters going to take shape at second and third base? Who knows when the best Julio Rodríguez is going to show up…                         A baseball season is a long prospect. It starts in early February and doesn’t end until November if you’re good. If you make sweet love to and impregnate your darling one (does not matter if you are married to her or not) on the first day of spring training, she might give you a son on the last day of the World Series. And there’s only three months of leave available before you have to get back in the dugout with those dudes that are all dressed the same as you.

As Quick Sands often said, baseball is mean…

you wanted the best but you missed it

Well– is that all there is to a fire?

Tonight, in the midtown temple where in many respects it began, the journey comes to a merciful end for the most-important rock band of my life.

I won’t be there. Not because I couldn’t be– although tickets are pretty spendy (starting at $500 and ranging up to more than $10,000). Rather, I guess I just don’t really want to be. After all, I didn’t bother attending when the remains of KISS lurched to within a hundred miles of my house three weeks ago, when I could have gotten in for a paltry C-note.

No, I believe I’ll sit this one out.  Plus, I already saw KISS on their ‘Farewell’ Tour almost 25 years ago. Fool me once…

Nothing I’ve observed of this self-congratulatory ‘End of the Road’ Tour has made me second guess my decision to not get involved. The advance social media hype has been forced and banal. The merch is shit. The VIP Packages are an outrage. And that’s just the stuff the band can control! Not till you drill down to the overlit and underfiltered cellphone fan footage do you really get even the faintest whiff of just how bad things have really gotten…

It hasn’t always been this way, of course. There was a time when KISS was everything they still claim to be—the Greatest Show on Earth. The window was brief, but still — four years is a long time to be The Best. But when you borrow against four great years for the next 46, then you risk ending up in default, don’t you?

It’s a long story.

Christmas Day 1977. L-R: Jimmy D, the author, Colin K and Sean K

I personally was late to the party. By my own math, I climbed aboard the KISS float exactly one week before the end of that golden age of relevance. It was Christmas Day 1977 and Santa had brought me my first record player. My parents, in reluctant coordination, gifted me the latest studio KISS album, Love Gun. There’s a lot more to the Christmas morning story, but I’ve told it (published it, even) so many times by now it’s starting to get on even my nerves. Surely it is boring you as well. So I’ll skip the tired details other than to say that from that day forward, I was as dedicated a KISS fan as there was– a completely different person than I had been previously. Like as in during the 32 minutes it took to play the album, I had undertaken a complete and wholesale transformation. (29 minutes if you excuse “Then She Kissed Me.”) For a month I listened only to the two sides of Love Gun until I got Alive II at which point I had six sides to rotate through. The 2-record greatest hits set Double Platinum came out in March and my collection grew to 10 sides. Mind you, not only did I not bother with records by any other artists– but I didn’t even listen to the radio unless it was waking me up for school. It was all KISS every single day of 1978 for our young Braimes.

Autumn brought the long-anticipated release of the solo albums– an ambitious project designed to extend the life of KISS Mach I. The scheme worked beautifully[1] as the four KISS-branded records were released simultaneously on September 18. Not having the bread to buy all four records at once, I struggled over which to acquire first. I chose Gene’s and was fairly confused by it. (I still am to a degree, although I listened to it intentionally this past summer and will say it makes a lot more sense in 2023 than it did in 1978). I saved my allowance and bought Paul’s record next. I loved it, and still do—probably the truest of the four to the established KISS formula. Ace’s record followed, and though it is universally considered the best of the four, it frightened me at the time with its references to drug use and general ne’er-do-wellism. I got Peter’s record last and though I have grown to recognize his as the best voice in the band (if not necessarily the best singer), I didn’t have capacity in my rotation for a jazz record at the time.

What I did have space for was more of KISS’ back catalog which I picked up one at-a-time, whenever I had the coins. I wasn’t hip to the concept of the used record store, so these albums were purchased new, usually at the music store in Sea-Tac Mall– the Brass Ear. My October birthday and Christmas were both good for an album or two and by the spring of 1979, I was about caught up. Just fucking swimming in KISS sides…

May 23, 1979 Federal Way, WA

On May 23rd I had four teeth pulled to make room inside my skull for my upcoming orthodontic braces. As I lay on my twin bed afterward with a mouthful of gauze and a headful of local, my mom walked into my room with Dynasty, released that day. It was the first album of new material that had been released during my almost 18-month tenure as a KISS fan. My mind raced with possibilities: nine brand new songs, written and recorded especially for me! I couldn’t get off the bed, so mom put the record on and left me alone with “I Was Made for Lovin’ You.”

It was a helpless feeling to be trapped inside my own drugged body, unable to reach the record player and lift the needle. Without the internet to provide endless advance scouting, I’d had no idea what to expect from the new album. It was being billed as The Return of KISS. Of course I had no way of knowing in that tender spring that KISS would spend the next 45 years ‘returning.’ It had not occurred to me in my wildest dreams that my favorite band would go disco. But here it was—the hard and truthful wax. Ace’s detached rendition of “2000 Man” followed, and I became even more disoriented. I didn’t realize it was a cover of a bad old Rolling Stones song, and thought it was just a bad new KISS song[2]. My head spun. I would come to appreciate “Sure Know Something” in later years, but on first listen I dismissed it as soft (it is) and Peter’s “Dirty Livin’” didn’t help matters any, finishing side 1. Having swallowed too much of my own blood, I barfed. The needle lifted automatically off the record, the tonearm reseating on its cradle– and my room went quiet once again.

From these challenged beginnings, my relationship with Dynasty has grown even more complicated over the years. It’s not a terrible record. But timing is everything, and the album’s arrival in my life was poor on both a micro (quadruple extraction) and a macro (disco sucks) level. At a time when older kids in my same grade were abandoning KISS, I was forced to stay home and defend them. Mostly to myself, but still: there was some heavy inner-negotiation going on in the summer of 1979. I was a long way from quitting The Life. But I also bought Live at Budakon.

Don’t worry: I’m not going to spend 500 words on every post-peak KISS album. There’s really no need. With a few notable exceptions[3], the work moving forward would represent an increasingly desperate attempt to re-capture the black magic of the 1970s. With each New Low, the band’s place in history complex would become more evident and shrill– all leading up to tonight’s drymax in front of 20,000 middle-to-late aged white monied yessers who wouldn’t be anywhere else…

II

Mervyn’s box, Burien. L-R Dennis G (in red), the author (Raiders coat)

My braces had been on a full year by the time KISS released the follow-up to Dynasty, the punchless Unmasked. In the meantime they’d been touring in support of Dynasty and a Seattle date was announced for November 21, near the end of the US leg. Dennis Gregg and I camped out in front of Mervyn’s in Burien to buy tickets when the box office opened in the morning– for a festival seating show that never even sold out.

We’d never been to a rock concert and had little idea how to prepare or behave once there. Mrs. Gregg had an uneasy look in her eye as she dropped us off at Seattle Center on the morning of the show, and we fell in line with a group of other kids outside the angular Coliseum. We were only 35 people deep, but by the time the doors opened at 6pm, we were several hundred heads back, closer to the fountain. The line crowd had grown older and increasingly unsafe over the course of the day and we were relieved to finally get out of it. We ran to the stage along with everyone else, but lost ground quickly there too. After shivering outside all day, it was suddenly very warm and smoky inside the arena, with red-eyed bile-breathed rockers pressing in closer than what we were comfortable with. Eventually we found ourselves practically back at the sound board. Scanning the tiered seats, it appeared all the good ones were by now occupied as well. Not knowing what else to do, we went and looked at the merch.

First concert. I had never seen a rock band play live. Not in an arena or at a harvest days festival or in a neighbor’s basement. My entire pre-conception of what I was about to experience was based on nine KISS albums and the live sequences from their made-for-TV movie KISS Meets the Phantom of the Park, the multi-camera high-def Hanna Barbara puff piece from mid-1978. I’d spent a lot of hours dreaming of what it was going to be like to finally see KISS live– time I might otherwise have spent sleeping or studying or at least trying harder to kiss Michelle Buckley[4]. But I imagined a KISS who were in-tune, wide awake, and puckering for me personally.

What I got, of course, was a stark disappointment. I’ve become quite skilled at enjoying rock concerts in the years since that cold November evening in the pre-Bezos arena. But that night, standing on my tip-toes at the back of the hall with contact cottonmouth, barely able to see Paul’s hair– let alone his boots– was a hard dose of rock and roll reality, augmented by my towering expectations. The shitty stadium sound bounced and farted, and the only member I could clearly see was Peter. He looked half asleep and in fact would be out of the band within weeks. I can boast that I got to see the original lineup with makeup in the 1970s—but barely. The dream was coming apart at the time, and though I didn’t yet have the vernacular to articulate it, I believe now that I sensed it even then…

III

by Jeff Braimes

I was still drawing pictures of the band[5] and collecting bubble gum cards as the new decade dawned. But my attention was beginning to drift. I bought Dream Police and even sidled up to my (younger) sister’s copy of Van Halen II (the first VH had been too strong for me when I heard it in a neighbor’s basement two years earlier– also an oft-related account that I won’t re-torture you with here…). I bought Unmasked on its release date in May with guarded hopes, but the record confirmed my darkest fears and was a sweeping disappointment. The band spent the year touring outside the country. Peter’s replacement Eric Carr had been confirmed and masked and it just seemed like things weren’t the same. They weren’t.

Nor would they ever be again. To be fair, it wasn’t all KISS’ fault. Yes: of course the band should bear partial responsibility for going as soft as it did. They deserve to be discredited for writing empty songs and recording them without any guitar, and for adding too much color to something that had worked so well in black, white and silver. But KISS didn’t invent capitalism. As much as they embraced it, the system for bleeding artists dry had been in-place for centuries before it voided KISS. Regressing commercially simply is not a viable design in show business, and with too much advice and too much coke and too much promise of even bigger payday, most mercurial artists do eventually shred the envelope before losing ground and being abandoned– first by casual fans and ultimately by their true bases. Some recover eventually, surviving to reinvent themselves and return to making good art that is self-satisfying and occasionally even commercially sustainable. But as often as not, the sensitive creative is cast aside to root in its own past until the money runs out and they’re forced to hit the fair and casino circuit. KISS took a third route, which was to forge ahead, subtly adapting to prevailing trends while still pretending to be who they’d always been. Occasionally it worked[6]; more often it didn’t. Mostly it felt hollow and cheap to those who knew better.

Finally, I’ll accept my share of the blame for KISS sucking as bad as they have for the past 45 years. Arriving as late as I had, with the band’s creative peak already eclipsed, I probably yearned too fiercely for my own glory era. The signs were everywhere for me to disembark and cut my personal losses, but I couldn’t help myself. Instead, I sat on my bed listening to Dressed to Kill as summers slouched away unnoticed. I refused to take any version of no for an answer. I believed (at least at first) that there was still something left in the tank for me and I did not look to the side. I wanted the best. But the cruel truth was that I’d missed it.

IV

I oughtn’t be so cynical. KISS Rules—I hope that much is clear. The essence of the band still burns in my heart and in the hearts of so many I call brother. Alive! still sounds menacing turned up loud. Page 98 of the coffee table book still gives me chills. And I could watch the Winterland footage[7] all day and often do.

Gene at Winterland, 1975

That’s probably what I’ll do tonight, actually—watch Winterland. The B/W BGP footage from early 1975 captures the band at its apex, playing every show like the Garden. The hung-up cartoons that would squat in the personas later have not yet been born– and it’s just the hungry, unvarnished KISS in all its sinister, stainless glory.

No, I don’t think I’ll watch the pay-per-view simulcast of tonight’s finale. Live footage of the gaudy facade the band has been dragging around on this 5-year hospice victory lap has become increasingly painful for me to look at: the video poker aesthetic of the pyro and sound; Gene’s jowls soaking up more and more makeup; Paul’s increasingly self-righteous raps[8] and withering voice. It just makes me feel gross.

The stream is only $40– a drop in the bucket compared to the fortune I’ve spent on KISS in my lifetime. Not only me, but also my loved ones. My parents at first of course, but later my sibling and girlfriends, eventually my wife and even my children have spent unimaginable sums of American money supporting my KISS habit. And not just on records and concert tickets. Not just posters and magazines and t-shirts and belt buckles. But all of the lunchboxes and comic books and wastebaskets and transistor radios and field guides, the sleeping bags, knee socks, Colorforms, electric toothbrushes, Halloween masks and non-alcoholic wines. The action figures, good Christ—all of the action figures! I wanted them all, and for entire decades I endeavored to keep up.

the Vincent Blackshadow, Christmas morning 2000

But shortly aftetr at the turn of the century I made a vow to stop paying Gene. I wrote him a letter on real paper telling him so! And with the exception of purchasing one copy of Sonic Boom, I’ve honored that vow. The record was being exclusively marketed by Walmart (another reason to ignore its release) and the owner our boutique record store refused to poach a copy for us, despite my offering a large premium. So ten minutes before closing time, Vincent and I literally ran to the back of the Walmart (the only time he has ever been in one, to my knowledge) and plucked a copy. We were back in the car in six minutes.

Of course it wasn’t really worth it.

the Vincent Blackshadow, November 15, 2009– Seattle Center

It was interesting to watch Vincent wrestle with Sonic Boom, the first album of original material released during his tenure as a fan– indeed during his lifetime. At age 11 he had already mastered not only KISS’ entire body of work but had in fact had already stomped through a Van Halen phase, an AC/DC phase, and even the first of several Alice Cooper phases. He was a deep, rounded hard rocker already– but KISS still held a special place for him, as it had for me. Sonic Boom was in some respects his Dynasty, although I believe it is safe to say that not only were his expectations more realistic, but also that his safety net was more accommodating. He could always turn to Thin Lizzy and Cheap Trick whereas I had no such safe harbor in 1979. His risk paled by comparison, and it was comparatively easy for him to roll his eyes and move on.

Generally speaking, my son has shown far greater resilience and good humor regarding the curdling of KISS than I have. Like me, he’s long since lost interest in the regrettable current condition of the band, but was genuinely gleeful in his embrace of nostalgia when we attended the Alive 35 show in 2009 (with free tickets—in case Gene is reading). In preparation, we listened to all the early records and watched the Houston 77 tape[9], and we both climbed into makeup day-of-show. Secretly I worried whether he would have a bad trip like I had my first time which incidentally was in the same building 30 years earlier to the week[10]. He knew Santa Claus wasn’t real; he knew Paul was wearing a wig and that Tommy Thayer was playing lead guitar. But I’ll be damned if he didn’t sing along with every song and clap his hands. Because that’s what rock and roll is all about. I doubt Vincent is writing a spiteful 5000-word essay tonight berating the band he would gladly have died for most of his life.

What he is doing tonight, hopefully, is taking the L-train from his pad in Brooklyn to Mid-town to make December’s rent busking for the variously intoxicated pilgrims marching to MSG, anxious to memorialize the occasion by spending as much money as they can on this night of nights. Vincent can play and sing pretty much any ‘70s KISS song, and in many respects has spent his life preparing for the opportunity to be part of this story– a modest but mighty dust spec on the great, garish clover that is the legend of KISS.

V

I imagine there’s a growing part of both Gene Simmons & Paul Stanley that can’t get this night over with soon enough. Despite modest historical side projects– in and outside of music– KISS has been the duo’s identity for 50 years. It will surely be bittersweet to say “KISS loves you GOODNIGHT” for the last time. But between being forced to cancel three of the final six shows due to Starchild Flu and the unflattering press surrounding his puzzling trans comments plus Gene’s complaining about cell phones– the bitter might just well be eclipsing the sweet as the painted wagon limps ever closer to the finish line.

Without much historical regard from critics, KISS has always held its fanbase aloft. “We serve at the pleasure of our bosses,” Gene is fond of saying, “the people in the seats.” Those bosses are in-turn fond of believing that people who don’t like KISS simply don’t understand KISS. But even at $1,000/head, this endless gauntlet of meet ‘n’ greets has got to be wearing on the two co-founders.  Tommy Thayer & Eric Singer have been over it for a long time– those two just want to pick up their final paychecks and clock out. No one wants a photo with them anyway. But Gene and Paul are obliged to pause and pose with every fool with enough money to buy a package. And it kind of sounds like it’s starting to get to them.

They are in their 70s now, and there’s certainly something to be said for the level of commitment necessary to continue being KISS for this long. I guess the grown-up in me questions the motivation. They’ve made the money. They’ve unmasked, re-masked, re-united and broken back up so many times even a fan like me has kind of lost track. They’re in the motherfucking Hall of Fame. What more is there to prove? Every person in the developed world has been offered the opportunity to see KISS and they’ve either done so or else opted out. The band was never designed to be for everybody[11], yet it seems like they haven’t been content to hang it up until we’ve all cried Uncle.

I’m generally not big on extending credit for merely ‘still doing it.’ There was a lot of that patronizing jive last month when the Stones released Hackneyed Diamonds. “They’re 80!” Fuck that. As far as I’m concerned, you either play good and look cool doing it[12] or else you invite scorn. I actually kind of like the new Stones record, and it’s probably easier to be the Stones in their 80s than KISS in their 70s. Plus pull-dates are soft. Best if used by Christmas Day 1977 is merely a suggestion. I’ve eaten well-expired canned goods without getting botulism and I bought every KISS record up to Asylum. But enough is enough…

Is it, though? Is tonights’s 2 1/2- hour blowout really the end? They have bid us adieu before, remember– more than once. Will we learn later that this is merely the final tour and that one-offs or even residencies are fair game? Will Gene and/or Paul finally retire from the band, to be replaced by younger mortals who will step into the makeup ala Singer & Thayer? Gene & Paul have been threatening this for years, after all. And even I have to admit that an immortal KISS with re-perpetuating members isn’t a horrible idea. It’s worked for 007. And getting some new creative blood into roles of influence might just be the trick. It seems obvious that the current regime is out of fresh ideas. But there are kids out there who are still full of songs. KISS as a brand need not be dependent upon its biological fathers to continue to propagate.

I don’t know. I probably wouldn’t be so hard on them if they weren’t so damned easy on themselves. Now that I’ve gotten some of these grudges off my chest, I guess I do kind of do wish I was there tonight. The anticipation in the air. The curtain falling. The actual heat from the actual fire. The green light and red blood of “God of Thunder.” A broken guitar. One last melancholy blast through the pulsing solo section at the back of “Black Diamond.” The confetti. The encores. The gratitude.

Let me go. Rock and Roll…

Watts vs. Brazil

Don’t ask them how, but WATTS recently did a ten-day tour of Brazil, and What’sup’s very own Callous French dragged along with the band through South America’s biggest country, to document the madness. Here is the first in a three-part epic of sickness.

I could draw worse assignments.

It’s not every loud, clumsy rock band that gets a chance to tour Brazil, and not every aging “journalist” that gets an opportunity to accompany them. So when WATTS invited me along on their conquest of the 3rd world, I scribbled out a quick will and started brushing up on my Spanish.

The Spanish didn’t turn out to be too helpful, as the national language in Brazil is Portuguese. But I was comforted on several occasions by the fact that my signed will was folded neatly on my desk at home. As it turns out, Brazil is in South America, about fifty thousand miles from Bellingham, Washington. And there were definitely a couple of times when I thought I was going to have to use my feet to get home.

The trip was sponsored by the mysterious head of Monstro Discos, Fabricio Nobre, an Estrus fanatic who wanted the Mono Men but settled for WATTS. In addition to re-releasing the band’s 1999 album, booking the tour and arranging for “sponsors” to cover travel expenses, F would serve as an invaluable interpreter/babysitter/drinkingbuddy throughout the tour. We would test him perpetually, starting with not getting off the plane in Goiania.

We’d known it was going be a hellish trip-- almost 30 hours door-to-door including the crippling layovers-- but we hadn’t counted on the Bonehead de la Americana move we would execute in Belo Horizonte, where we accidentally disembarked when we were supposed to have remained on the plane. All six of us. Without ever considering for one moment that we were dangerously separating ourselves from all our checked baggage & guitars, all of which proceeded stoically to Goiania without us.

In retrospect, we should probably have been more intimate with our itinerary, which, upon reexamination later clearly showed that we were to remain on the aircraft. But this revelation came sorrowfully late, and we were left to lie upon the floor of Belo Horizonte International while Nicole, the only English-speaking attendant at the TAM Airlines counter, diligently booked a series of alternate flights and a taxi to take us 50 kilometers across town to the domestic airport, basically a bus station w/ airplanes.

This cabride was to be our first time on non-airport Brazilian soil, and appropriately, the driver spoke no English. This did not deter (King of America) Dave Crider.

“What are they building?” he asked in a raised voice that was already starting to take on the hint of a Latin accent. “What is the name of the cow?”

The cabby would only shrug, making the rest of us very uncomfortable, as there was no spare room in the tiny KIA for shrugging, with 7 of us plus carry-ons. Immediately upon leaving the airport property, the slick asphalt road had dissolved into a leopard print of pits and pots. Our driver sped directly down the middle of the 2-lane road, which wound up-and-down, side-to-side through green fields, the occasional spray-painted cinder block village popping up like images in a shooting gallery.

Now, we needed a half-hour cramped taxi ride at this moment like we needed hepatitis. We were midway through our second day without sleep already, and at least A.Dog, me & fuckin’Braimes.com were reeling pretty good from closing down the flight from Miami the night before.

“There is no more wine,” had said Leona, using most of the English she knew.

“How about a scotch & soda, then?”

“I am sorry,” she’d said, smiling, making her way back to the attendant’s cabin where the rest of the flight crew was sleeping. Christ, everyone else on the flight was sleeping except us three and maybe the pilot. We’d been playing liar’s poker, and Dog had a huge pile of dollar bills on his fold-down tray. We beat the service button like a drum.

“Johnny Walker?”

Eventually they stopped answering the buzzer altogether, and Dog retired to the lavatory to stretch out for the last two hours of the flight. They were happy to be rid of our rummy American asses when the plane mercifully touched down in Sau Paulo at 6 a.m., Brazilian time.  

Customs can be a pressure cooker, but usually only when returning to the States. Lily-white American contraband generally is not of great interest to the balance of the world unless there is money to be made from the confiscation of it. Drug traffic is obviously heavier going north, but if you come swishing through with a box of 45s, priced, they’re going to want their cut. The entourage cleared customs without episode—all except for fuckin’Braimes, who hadn’t even reached customs before dude was screaming at him in Portuguese. There was a form distributed on the flight that was supposed to be filled out and presented prior to customs, and Braimes, in his drunkenness, thought it was an all-star ballot. So he wrote in Daryl Strawberry and returned it to the stewardess, who was probably all-too-happy to dispose of it for him, knowing what showing up to the counter without it would mean. It took 20 minutes for an English-speaking airport employee to be summoned to hold the confused singer’s hand through this first gauntlet and to customs, where he had considerably less trouble.

Dig, we were en-route to a foreign land. Being naïve Americans, we assumed everyone in Brazil would speak English. We could not have been more wrong. The fact is that most Brazilians speak no English. Some speak some, and a few speak English very well. Had we known this, we might have drilled on some Portuguese, but as it turned out, only Chris Watts had bothered to download and rehearse any phrases that seemed useful. “I have broken my glasses,” “my gums are bleeding,” and “what do you have in an egg dish” were a few that he practiced in the airports, rolling his R’s like a Fred Flintstone strike in a pre-historic Brazilian bowling alley.

At first blush, the only sane one in the group appeared to be the enigmatic El Morto. I would find out otherwise very soon. I should have had an idea as to the depths of his depravity when he got in the van in Bellingham with a dufflebag of disposable outfits, individually wrapped & labeled w/ the date he intended to wear them. When he got up in the morning, he simply unwrapped the day’s package and dressed, not looking to the side where yesterday’s clothing was concerned. El Morto would leave a trail of once-worn shirts & shorts strewn across the enormous country of Brazil. By the time he arrived home, he would have only the clothes on his back and ass.

It would be 38 hours before we eventually stopped moving-- eight airports, seven planes, two taxis, and a whole lot of drinking & giggling. I felt as though I had already toured the world on the handlebars of a dirt bike, and we were only just now crouching into the starting blocks.

Next month: tage ov you are panz!   

Do peeves make good pets?

How many peeves are we allowed to keep as pets before they’re just peeves? And what’s the difference, anyway? Do Pet Peeves get to sleep on the bed with us while the general population shivers outside or in the garage? Are some peeves domesticated and others feral?

Pets of any variety are comforting. They love us unconditionally and are generally free of the bullshit hang-ups that render the relationships with our upright companions so frequently intolerable. Whether we keep dogs or cats or snakes or goats, many of us are more invested in our pets than we are in the seemingly more primary relationships in our lives including the ones we flog with our spouses, children and parents.

But where is the line? How much is too much—how many too many?

Every neighborhood has a “crazy cat lady.” No one visits her because her furniture & cutlery is coated in a film of silky dander and the whole place smells hard of piss. Cat lady’s house is usually too warm inside. The mewing is unnerving.

Robert Stroud was known as the Birdman of Alcatraz, despite the fact that he was not allowed to keep birds on The Rock. And although he did raise hundreds of canaries and author several well-respected books on Orthonology during a prior sentence at Leavenworth, the dude was evil & insane.  A poor model.

Plenty of dog owners not only dress their best friends in garish sweaters & hats, but often don complimentary or even matching outfits themselves. This is not OK. Not OK. 

So who is to say how many peeves I can reasonably keep as pets? Is the peeve police going to come to my door? Are my neighbors going to turn me in? Should I be more careful about the kind of loose assertions I make on social media?

I don’t much give a damn. We’ve all got our hangups, and sometimes it feels good to vent. So whether I have room in the kennel for all these peeves or not, I’m not sure. But here are a few of my favorite peeves, otherwise known as the kind of shit that just drives me crazy.

• stuff all over the floor. Not too many things that aren’t always on the floor belong there. Furniture and rugs go on the floor, and shoes can too. Towels, coats, pencils, guitar picks, cereal bowls, cellular telephones and eyeglasses do not

• motorists yielding to jaywalkers. Stopping your car in traffic and encouraging someone to step off a curb is not the responsible or compassionate thing to do. It is the stupid-head thing to do. It puts you both in danger

• when people don’t talk good. Our language is deteriorating before our very ears. While the low expectations of the internet are certainly contributing to this regrettable trend, mis-use of words like irony & literally has been going on for years as well as any use of conversate, supposably or irregardless 

• plus when people write bad. There/their/they’re; too/to/two; your/you’re; then/than; could have/could of; alot/a lot; than/then etc etc etc

• “everything happens for a reason.” This heavyweight challenger of all copouts is second in its numbing lameness only to the milky-eyed reference to “God’s will.” It’s true that things happen for reasons. But those reasons are that someone drove drunk, got cancer, or didn’t pay their taxes– not that a divine entity threw a lightening bolt like a javelin in order to facilitate hard personal growth or otherwise “test” someone to whom an unthinkable tragedy has occurred. Shit happens by cause-and-effect and raw chance, not because we have lessons to learn. We may learn them– but that’s not why shit happens in the first place

• cat turds in the houseplants

• LOL

• broken bottle of Michelob

That’s about it. Pretty much everything else is fine with me.

oh shit it’s march

Oh, shit– it’s March.

I should have known this would happen. It’s the same thing every year: New Year’s, recovery, resolution, resignation, Super Bowl, February– March!

I loathe March. Nothing good happens this month, ever. The weather in February is always interesting, and March always just sucks. “Spring” begins on the 20th, but we all know what that means or doesn’t mean. No legal holidays. No illegal holidays, unless you’re Irish. College basketball all over the place– GROSS!

I adore April, but it doesn’t start until four weeks from Saturday. I need to figure out a way to get through March…

How about a real estate party?

Normally March is too early for any serious real estate dance parties, but this year could be different. The anticipation in the air is palpable as buyers continue sharpening their nails in preparation for the inventory that seems on the brink, week after late-winter week, of breaking loose like a pinata full of houses and condominiums and airplane bottles of Fireball.

Earth to sellers: buyers are screwing themselves into the ground, psychotically motivated to buy your house as long as it has a roof and a toilet. They’re not particularly interested in your touch-up painting. The guest bath vanity is fine. Don’t worry about spreading new beauty bark. Leave the photos on the fridge– the buyers don’t care. They just want to buy your house, possibly for more than it’s actually “worth”. Who are you to stand between them and the dream of home ownership. Let them buy!

Remember when the wet paper bottom of the housing market fell out and our economy seized up and all the banks turned their pockets inside out and pretended they didn’t have any more money? Remember when the smarmy executives all took off their pants and put on barrel cloaks? Well, that was seven whole years ago! This is like a completely different era: unemployment is down, the stock market up, top hats for all my friends! Two lobsters each!

Any beating we took in Whatcom County in terms of home values during the whatchamacallit was like a hickey compared to what most of the country absorbed. If we lost 20% between opening day of the 2007 baseball season and Christmas Day 2012, we’ve made it all back since then. Sellers who wished they’d pulled the trigger in 2006 have gotten back to where they were plus some. It’s time to let bygones be bygones and trade some real estate deeds!

Maybe this is the year where March actually does come in like a lion…

–tMdR

(Blogger’s note: Pay no attention to the illiterate orange man behind the curtain. This is actually a subtle re-write of a post from March 1, 2015. Much has happened since then, but the inventory crunch is the same. If you’re selling there’s never been a better time. If you’re buying, there will never be a better time. Call me if you want to talk, I’ll walk over…) 

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Suspendisse potenti. Maecenas vitae erat sed neque tempor pretium. Aliquam erat volutpat. Proin vel ligula eget nunc congue cursus. Nunc nec lectus a orci hendrerit gravida, non dictum nisl cursus.

This is a test Not a Blog Post

Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Vivamus luctus, sapien vitae varius convallis, justo purus gravida lorem, vitae fermentum nunc tortor at lorem. Integer sit amet sem non mauris volutpat volutpat. Phasellus in arcu eu leo convallis tincidunt. Sed quis sapien id velit dignissim aliquet non sed nibh.

Curabitur eleifend, massa vitae tincidunt placerat, nibh justo dictum nisl, sit amet bibendum est odio a libero. Pellentesque habitant morbi tristique senectus et netus et malesuada fames ac turpis egestas. Aenean at nisl sit amet erat facilisis faucibus. Donec at nibh vitae odio volutpat tincidunt a vitae lorem.

Suspendisse potenti. Maecenas vitae erat sed neque tempor pretium. Aliquam erat volutpat. Proin vel ligula eget nunc congue cursus. Nunc nec lectus a orci hendrerit gravida, non dictum nisl cursus.