Personalized Luggage Tags

So, douchebag— what’s your invention?

Sometimes suitcases look alike. Even if they have different zippers or pockets or even when there’s a weight differential equal to half an old lady’s body mass, she can still sometimes wrestle your blue Samsonite off the carousel and drag it to the curb, leaving you with her case of old lady underthings and Este Lauder sampler lotions. If you’re lucky, she (or her handlers) will realize her error while still in the same county and you’ll only have to drive across town to make the switch. But sometimes she gets to the end of her long travel day hundredss of miles away before discovering her mistake. Personalized Airport luggage tags render this scenario virtually obsolete. Great product!

Bellingham Rock City

A column in the early issues of PMA Magazine was Great Escapes —a travel feature on a geographical secret shared with the reader with a wink and a tickle. Terry did Todos Santos in the innagural issue and Letman did Kawaii for #2. I did Bellingham for #3 before the concept was abandoned. I don’t believe we experienced a real estate boom as a result of the exposure…

Sometimes concessions are made by invaders of paradise. Visitors to Todos Santos in Bobby Bortolo’s Great Escapes entry in PMA 001 were encouraged learn and speak Spanish. In his guide to Kawai in 002, Jon Letman admonishes guests to listen more and talk less.

 Modern conquerors of the former milltown of Bellingham, WA are harder to spot from the sidewalk than more conventional invaders of paradise-- basically new whites crowding the established ones. Europeans began arriving in what is now Bellingham in the mid-19th century to the surprise of the Nooksack and Lummi tribes who’d already set up shop here and were doing just fine. Nowadays folks who’ve been here since longer than about the Reagan era consider themselves practically ‘native,’ rolling eyes in the direction of the coachloads of bearded pioneers landing downtown every day.

 It’s kinda hard to fault generations of the curious. Located conveniently between the international power centers of Seattle and VCBC, Bellingham offers peace and whimsy not seen in either of those venues for decades. At 90,000 people, the smart yet lazy village once known for the acrid stench of the Georgia Pacific pulpmill is waking up and finding that much has changed while it was anap.

 The line on Bellingham used to be that there were no jobs here. Graduates of Western Washington University lulled to passivity couldn’t find work at any anthropology or history firms in town, and there seemed to be ten qualified applicants for every vacant teaching job (WWU churns out a lot of teachers from its 15,000 undergrad population). Still, they’d fallen in love with the pace, price and endless recreational opportunities of Bellingham and just never got around to leaving. So they stayed. Now they’re rolling their eyes.

 To be super clear, there are still no traditional jobs here. When GP began shutting down in 2001, the first of 2,000+ working wage industrial jobs perished with it. Hi-tech (whatever that is) has decade and again passed on Bellingham as a host. The current local economy is precariously represented in public sector jobs: health care, local government, education-- plus a rainbow of non-profits and a small army of Realtors. And now instead of ten applicants for every teaching job, there are 50. And they all have PhDs-- though not usually from WWU…

 But unlike during the 20th century, folks don’t need an old-fashioned job to live in a city that doesn’t have any. Thanks to something called telecommuting or something, people can live anywhere. And they are.

 During the Great Inward Migration of 2004-2007, a lot of the new faces in town had liver spots and wore trifocals. Sunset and Forbes had fallen for Bellingham in the hardest promotional way, and Whatcom County was consistently rated as the #2 retirement destination in the US (behind Fort Collins, CO). Much early Bay Area Boomer money was pouring into town and the median price of a home in Bellingham proper was suddenly $345,000 rising as rapidly as the average age.

 The you-know-what of 2007-2012 reset the table. The retirees who’d been able to sell in their previous markets were cozy in their new one-level Bellingham charmers—but the moat was full of alligators and a number of fledgling businesses closed, abruptly deprived of a projected infusion of new blood and money. The overextended lost their homes and the ‘natives’ scowled, if gloating a tiny bit maybe…

 Then, like a record player whirring back to life after a power outage, Happy Days returned. The getting being again good in neighboring markets, those weary of big city wallop were invited to exit stage north to Bellingham, where the median home price has re-risen to a pornographic $460,000 with little relief in-sight.

But this time the average age is falling. Unlike 2006, the inbound profile is the young couple or new family from Seattle. Refugees not able to get out of King County fast enough are kicking in doors in Bellingham. Families of 3.1 (plus pets) are parachuting into town every day while scrolling listings on Zillow.

Without a job market, it’s an effort to move to Bellingham. No one ends up here on accident (except students). A percentage of the well-meaning new-in-town grownups actually have or find traditional work here, though most of them telecommute. A few of them hard commute. But another segment senses this is their chance to realize the dream of opening that restaurant or starting a non-profit. Or brewery. Bellingham is startlingly over-represented in craft breweries, its thirst seemingly knowing no limits.                            

It wasn’t always this way. Janet Lightner, co-owner of Bellingham’s revered Boundary Bay Brewery, remembers when the landmark opened in 1995.

 “Bellingham felt more like a small town then,” Lightner says, recalling a version of the old days. “People wondered why Ed (Bennett, husband and co-owner) would choose that scary end of Railroad Avenue for his new business. There were no condos and no permanent home for the Farmers Market. It was dark down there!”   

These days—thanks in part to the fearless homesteading of BB-- that south end of downtown is lit any time of day or night. Plenty of residential, combined with food & drink, the BAAY children’s theater and Depot Square (permanent home of the Bellingham Farmers Market) translate to a healthy mix—one that includes students from nearby WWU. And right in the middle of it is the Boundary Bay ‘campus’ which now consists of three live music venues spread across 15,000sqft on two levels. The taproom, bistro, deck, garden and events-only Mountain Room employ 130 people pouring, cooking, serving, brewing and canning.

 “We strongly believe in Buy Local Be Local,” Lightner says, smiling (she’s always smiling). “Bellingham will always be home to us!”  

 Boundary Bay’s undying commitment to community is a shining example of the spirit that defines this town. Buy Local is not just a campaign slogan in Bellingham—it’s a way of life. (Although it is also a campaign slogan…)

 Buying local works here. A 100-mile diet is possible here. Bellinghamsters are willing to put their money where their mouths are, supporting independent merchants even if it costs more to do so. This noble localism is a source of great consternation to the Chains, who struggle here. Sure, there are some recognizable logos in Bellingham. But in general, the scrappy, locally-sourced merchant is held close and fiercely defended.

 Perhaps no single organization embodies the notion of localism more than the business networking cooperative Sustainable Connections. Wrangling the foundational values of green building, sustainable fooding, waste stream reduction and buying local under one living roof, the 17-year old non-profit is a kind of ideological mascot of Bellingham. With a growing staff and 400 dues-paying members, SC is headquarters for awesome ideas in Bellingham.

 “In my experience, Bellingham is extraordinary in that business owners often see localism as a mindset that creatively integrates business, community and the environment,” says Executive Director Derek Long, outlining the organizational tenet of the triple bottom line. “They tend to see and act on the connections in an effort to add value to all. This kind of local business leadership helps inspire all our community members to do the same.” 

 Unlike a lot of other Western Washington municipalities its size, Bellingham is a true Place—a small city rather than a large suburb. Built around the protected shores of Bellingham Bay, the town features an actual working waterfront bordering a thriving downtown business district surrounded by dense gridded residential neighborhoods. Eventually the flow is interrupted by Interstate 5 to the east, beyond which the more modern neighborhoods feature less of the character found in the older core. These subdivisions from the 1970s-2000s act almost as suburbs on a scale relative to the size of downtown—even though they are well within the city’s proper limits and greater UGA. There are plenty of pleasant neighborhoods and recreational attractions east of the freeway. But Bellingham really is all about downtown—even if it hasn’t always been that way.

 Nearly choked out entirely in the late ‘80s by the opening of Bellis Fair Mall, downtown suffered in silence for a decade. Longtime downtown anchors moved to the mall or closed down altogether and tumbleweeds blew down the deserted corridor of once-bustling Cornwall Avenue. But by the early aughts the new-mall smell had faded, and a romantic re-discovering of downtown began drawing merchants back. Bold tax incentives helped spur aggressive redevelopment, with shuttered taverns and blighted crack hotels being replaced with mixed-use mid-rises and expanded public spaces. But still, downtown seemed tentative-- not yet ready to seize its day.

 “Bellingham’s always been kind of like the pretty girl who doesn’t really realize she’s pretty,” says Downtown Bellingham Partnership Executive Director Alice Clark, gazing out the window at the very pretty young lady downtown has grown into. “At some point she started thinking maybe she ought to start wearing makeup and actually talk to people.” Call it tourism.

 Clark has been one of that shy girl’s most enthusiastic cheerleaders for decades, having kicked a lot of boulders down the hill. In 1998 she co-founded the beloved Pickford Cinema which is now the regionally-renowned Pickford Film Center featuring top-shelf first-run independent film on three screens around town. In 2009, she launched the hysterically-successful summertime neighborhood artwalk the Sunnyland Stomp. There was the Bellingham Wigout and Alice’s Pies, and now a percolating brainchild that could be her wiliest challenge yet: a 30,000sqft all-hands-on-art interactive museum on the re-developing waterfront. BOOM!

 For a city built on a bay, Bellingham has historically had surprisingly little public access to the water because of GP’s dominance of the flats. Converted from a cannery in the early 20th century, the mill covered 130+ acres of the central waterfront, a staggering 4,300 square feet of shoreline. With its demise came an opportunity for repurposing of a waterfront that had been enclosed in chainlink and steeped in mercury & chlorine as long as anyone alive could remember.

 The Port of Bellingham swapped GP the land for the environmental hot potato responsibility in 2006 and entered into a partnership with the City to much fanfare. Citizen steering groups were formed. The Department of Ecology got involved. Babies were born at St. Joseph’s Hospital and matured to puberty, but still—no new waterfront.

 It’s a pretty big project, to be fair. By presstime, there is a thru street that crosses the site. The Granary Building, one of the few salvageable structures from the old mill, has been renovated and is partially occupied by optimistic new lessees. There is a parkish park with a beachish beach and an expensive centerpiece of industrial art. The waterfront redevelopment is happening, but the process has been slow and at times contentious-- and some residents have lost patience/interest. In the future it will be a jewel with a healthy mixture of residential, commercial (including legitimate maritime trade) and public land. Stay tuned…

 Further south along the Bay shore from what will eventually be a brand new waterfront district is one of the city’s oldest neighborhoods, the historic district of Fairhaven. This photogenic commercial center was once its own municipality, back when what is now Bellingham was actually four separate towns. Today it is a very dear brick shopping district with its own identity, its own Village Green and its own pricing structure. Posh by Whatcom County standards, Fairhaven is home to the landmark Village Books, a number of slick new tippling houses, and Tony’s Coffee House—proudly caffeinating hippies since 1971. The paper doll definition of what a ‘hippy’ looks like has changed, but the location and coffee haven’t.

 Residential Fairhaven features a rich mix of architectural styles. Bordered by modern mansionettes & sprawling mid-century moderns in Edgemore to the south; the grand, registered Craftsmans and Tudors of South Hill to the north; and the dusty Folk Victorians and student-soaked 70s multi-family of Happy Valley to the east, south Bellingham is  .  The village itself is home to one of the larger concentrations of condominiums in the city also--much of it modern construction-- built of brick and well-integrated into the existing character of the district. 

Lots of times condos are bedeviled in cranky gentrification rants like this story. But it would actually be great if there were some new condominiums built in Bellingham. Developers can’t build apartments fast enough right now, with vacancy rates hovering around one percent. With the median home price rocketing toward $450k, Bellingham could use some affordable home ownership options, and condominiums traditionally help fill that need. But developers have shied away from the risks associated with building condos, widening the gap.

Housing has been highlighted as a marquee issue in a closely-contested Mayoral race coming down to the wire at presstime. Like everywhere else on the West Coast, Bellingham is struggling with a homeless dilemma. With housing costs rising disproportionate to wages, more and more working residents are finding themselves unsheltered. There are solutions baking, but they’re not quite done yet. The City and the Lighthouse Mission Ministries have been working together to find a site for a new shelter. Further upstream, The Bellingham Housing Authority is working toward redeveloping the site of the formerly blighted Aloha Motel to provide 150 affordable rental units. Another rung up, Kulshan Community Land Trust is partnering with Habitat for Humanity to build 50+ townhomes on the city’s northern boundary that will be owner-occupied and remain affordable in perpetuity.

But it’s a drop in the Bay. Bellingham’s creatives and working families are finding it harder and harder to live here— whether owning or renting. And that’s not good for anybody.

Still, Bellingham WA is a nice place to visit. You can still put a nickel in an analog parking meter, and if you don’t mind bussing your own table, there’s plenty of good meals to be had. Stop by and sit a spell. They don’t call it The City of Subdued Excitement for nothing…

Hard Fixed, the DTs

Nepotism is the practice of giving jobs, promotions, or fawning press coverage to family members or other drinking buddies because they ask nicely and because you already like them pretty well. (It doesn’t hurt when you actually love their work, but it’s still nepotism…)

If it aint fucked up, don’t fix it.

Hard Fixed, the smouldering debut by Bellingham, Washington’s DTs is neither fixed nor fucked, rather a collection of saucy rhythm and soul with enough jolt to flatten the proudest. Sure, it’s real purdy at a glance, but watch out for that big goddamn hammer. I said WATCHOUT!!

An ardent departure for Sir Estrus Dave Crider’s former work with the Mono Men and Watts, this band draws its muse from the blue moods of ‘60s soul. Hard Fixed is a dynamic romp through themes of love, loss and revenge—stuff no one sings about these days.

The DTs label themselves Hard Soul. To dare a record like this you need a shit hot chick singer like Diana Blanchard. Girl’s got Voice and the guts to use it— inviting the listener in with a sultry taste, then turning with wanton wail that harkens Tina or Janis. Her vocals are powerful and sure at either extreme, and her lyrics are the stuff of life lived. “I’m down on the ground, but I’ve been here before” she snarls on “On the Ground,” summing up the lyrical attitude of the album—that which does not shatter my heart only makes me stronger.

Drummer Phil Carter takes it to the roof, and organist Patti Bell lays down an opaque bass that sets the DTs apart from all the other hard soul bands out there right now jockeying for position. As if! The DTs are on a train all their own with a sound part borrowed, part new and all blue. No one’s pushing this kind of junk right now.

The album kicks off with “Loaded Gun,” featuring Dave on some great slide guitar, and closes with a murderous version of Tina Turner’s “Chopper,” one of two covers on the record. Hilights in between include every one of the other 8 tracks. “Proud Man” drives hard in low gear while “Hurt is Over” climbs hypnotically from cool to fucking insane-- baby baby baby babaay! “The Slide” and the desperate “Star 69” are sparser and feature Diana at her slyest. 

Calmly etched in a weekend at legendary Egg Studios in Seattle with his Honor Tim Kerr at the wheel, Hard Fixed is a collection of feel ‘n’ fury for any era. Together a year as a three by the time Patti joined last April, the band hit the road ‘neath the summer skies to testify on jaunts with the Immortal Lee County Killers, the Midnight Evils and the Makers. Mercy missions overseas are planned in support of the record later this year.

Damn handsome packaging, too. Meticulously crafted by northwest illustrator extraordinaire Jim Blanchard (relation), the metallic snakeskin themotta represents perfectly the pretty yet gritty and sincere inner sinner of the DTs. The foldout mini-comic tells a narrative all its own, another dimension to the Hard Fixed device.

Hell, on second thought, this record is both fixed and fucked. In the hardest way. Baby…

— Callous French

Michael Costelloe

Ask Michael Costelloe to describe himself, and you probably won’t get far. Painter? Singer? It’s not that he’s elusive or that he minds interest. Father? Teacher? It’s just he’d rather talk than answer. Irishman? A label’s in there somewhere, if you delve deep enough. But who needs labels?

Though he is likely best known to readers of this magazine as the painter of the medium-heavy scenescapes hanging in local bars, or as the loose-hipped & quiver-lipped singer of the late Elvis, Michael Costelloe is not the same man to all peoples.

To his students at Wellspring, the alternative high school where he’s taught art for the past seven years, Costelloe is likely better known for being a kickass art teacher. And to his ten-year-old son Conor, he goes simply by “Dad.”

“I got Conor an electric guitar for Christmas,” says Costelloe excitedly, explaining that he’d already picked one out before letting the the boy play every guitar in Smash Your Guitar. But when he fetched the Dan Electro he’d had in mind, it was clear from his son’s reaction that this was the one. Kinda like destiny.

Kinda like. Or else he was just lucky. He is Irish, after all.

Costelloe’s Irishness is an elment of his persona that permeates all of his work, without dominating it. It is present in the folk music of the Elvis, and also in his painting, but not to the point where it’s patronizing.  His accent is still strong, but dude is as much Bellingham as he is Irish.

Born “without an e” on the fourth of July in Dublin, the son of a devout Catholic mother and a Republican father (“Republican in the Irish sense…”), his early inclinations were toward soccer. But by the time he was Conor’s age he was making his own comics, and by the early 1990s he was far from home in Bellingham, Washington, piecing together a living with a paintbrush that, even then, was very powerful.

“Bellingham has been good to me,” he says, stepping back to gain perspective on his latest painting, a 9’x5’ commissioned mural for the Grand Street Ale House. The piece features the likeness of the Sweethearts of the Rodeo, captured live at the bar, and is scheduled for completion when it’s finished. You can’t rush it.

Like “Boundary Sketches,” the series of  less-developed oil and pastel pieces featuring the Monday Night Project twang and Tuesday jazz  scenes at Boundary Bay, this new mural is an example of the sight-specific, moment-in-a-bottle style that has become one of Costelloe’s signatures. Along with his extensive works featuring various mayhems at the 3B, Costelloe’s work has become a kind of visual history to which the music scene in Bellingham has added the soundtrack.  A soundtrack that has often included himself.

Though the Elvis broke up over a year ago, Costelloe has continued to work on his chops. And just this past New Year’s Eve, he brought them back out of the living room and onto the sticky planks of the 3B stage. It wasn’t planned as a 75% Elvis reunion, but the coincidence that Peadar had just rolled back into town after six months in Spain (I’m sure it wasn’t just his arms that were tired) was pretty hard to overlook.

“It was great,” Costelloe says of the imprmptu set that also featured Elvis upright player George Hossaphatt. “Just completely off the cuff, you know. What key is it in? It was New Year’s Eve…”

That was New Year’s Eve. But tonight is just another Monday night. Just another pound of acrylic. Costelloe does not skimp where paint is concerned. There is enough on the coveralls he is wearing to paint the YMCA. But his brand new adidas, a Christmas present, have nary a fleck on them. This will change before tonight’s session is done.

Breathing through a cigarette, reclining in a chair adjacent to the work area in his waterfront studio, Costelloe is surrounded by his art and the art of others—paintings, blockprints and sculptures of wood, clay, metal and soapstone. He shares the space with longtime friend and co-conspirator Francis X. Donovan and the principal of Wellspring, also a sculptor.  Though none of his spacemates are working tonight, there is a spirit of cooperation present in the long, tall room. There are no barriers between stations. A newly-released CD of unreleased Bob Dylan recordings plays politely in the background. 

Micheal Costelloe dances with his painting.

“It’s gotta be physical,” he says, pacing the floor in front of the mural, applying cottonball-sized globs of paint at seemingly random locations on the scape. “You just gotta kind of dance around it.” Splat.

Up close, the piece has a rugged texture that almost defies comprehension. But as you move away from it, its lines become more logical, and you can almost hear the melody and taste the second-hand smoke. A record of time; art of music. 

If there is some kind of magical recipe for the mixing of visual art and music, it is a mystery to Costelloe. He digs making both art show and rock show, but does not necessarily envision a way to integrate one with other. “They’re the ultimate compliment of each other,” he says of the brothers of different fathers. “They definitely come from the same wellspring of the body and soul.”

Splat.

It’s late. Micheal has discovered a spot of yellow paint on his new adidas and, giving up trying to rub it out, switches to pen and ink. As we talk, a nude emerges, rolled over on her side. His pen works lazily, yet with great decisiveness, and I ask how in the world he ever knows when something is finished.

“It’s been said,” he says, pouring a little beer on the drawing and smearing a line between her thighs, “that any work of art can be created with twelve strokes. Any more and you’ve done too much.”

“You gotta know when to stop,” he says, stopping. “Especially with nudes.”

“Done.”  

                                                                                          -- Callous French

If they keep making paint, Micheal Costelloe will have already unveiled the Grand Street mural by the time this book goes to press. Stop in for a stiffy and check it out. Then head over and buy a guitar at Smash your Guitar and dig another of Costelloe’s latest, a snap of holder of the key to the city, Bob Logg III, who will probably just kick the fucking door down like he always does when he visits Bellingham later this month, key or no key. If you’re not in the market for a new ax, then you can always just enjoy the painting for free. It’s on the cover of this magazine. 

Braimesworld 2002

This was the family Christmas letter, sent during the holiday season of 2002. Little did I know that within a couple of years we would actually have become the family band foretold in this festive holiday greeting…

BraimesWorld breaks new ground with 2002

Bellingham, Washington—After what Braimesworld was able to accomplish on 2001, expectations were high for their follow-up, the recently completed 2002.

But this quartet from the misty Pacific Northwest does not disappoint with this latest effort. It is every bit the epic joyride 2001 was, but seasoned with new dimension that leaves one wondering if this family has any limits.

Lead singer Edie Braimes has expanded on the stylings that made her one of last year’s biggest surprises.  Her range is remarkable for a child of only 3 years, the moody croonings of ‘Shooshoo Beegy’ giving way to the crazed, shrill screechings of ‘I Want a Popsicle Right Now.’

Edie graduated to the preschool room in the autumn and enjoys riding her bike, looking after her dollies, and pretending to read the newspaper.  “One day a kitty cat climbed a tree,” she says, adding “dinosaurs are scary!”

The creative genius behind BraimesWorld is clearly guitarist Vincent Braimes.  In addition to writing nearly all the material and telling the rest of the family where to stand, he also designed the cover art for 2002.  His guitar work is again very compelling—blistering on the rave-up ‘Hammerhead Shark, Hammerhead Shark’ but sensitive and contemplative on the instrumental ‘Pouring a Glass of Milk for My Mom.’

“I’m going to go to MarineLand tomorrow,” Vincent says, even though he totally isn’t.  In addition to being heavily into marine life, he has been experimenting with reading and writing, loves climbing trees, and also picked up a live garter snake in 2002.  He is expected to begin work on his first solo album (tentatively titled Vincent Blackshadow) late in 2003, if his kindergarten schedule permits.

She’s come a long way from her days as the Roofdogs’ Josie P. Cat, but keyboardist/producer Patti Braimes seems a natural for her role in BraimesWorld. Her work on 2002 is crisp yet whimsical (also paid) and the family clearly looks to her for guidance, relying  on her solid bassline.

Patti is looking forward to receiving tenure at Whatcom Community College in the first quarter of the coming year. She finds her work rewarding, and is a favorite of the faculty and administration.  How does she do it? “Volume,” she says, quartering a chicken while wearing heels and a rubber dress. “It’s all about volume.”

Drummer Jeff Braimes also turns in another solid performance on 2002. Somewhat of a departure from his presence on 2001, he seems to be getting more comfortable in his new capacity, and can no longer be seen driving around town talking into his digital camera.

Jeff wears eyeglasses now, and his side project with Coldwell Banker is thriving in a hot Bellingham market. He expects to double his commissions in 2003, with your help.

“Contact me with all your real estate needs,” he says, letting another call ring through to voicemail. “And a-one, and a-two, and a-one, two, three…”

The band kicks in on cue and BraimesWorld rips through another hit song. One thing readily apparent about this band is that they really do enjoy playing together. There’s plenty of love & respect for one another, and it shows in the music. BraimesWorld has indeed produced another timeless classic with 2002, and 2003 hopes to be another smash. Look for big things from this family in the years to come.

                                                      --Callous French 

(Editors note: watch for Braimesworld at various engagements on the west coast this coming year:

 Live at The Absolut—Poulsbo, Washington

                                         New Year’s Eve

“Adults only”-- San Fransisco,California

                                          January 17-19

70th birthday bash, invitation only—Pasco

                                               March 15

TBA: MarineLand, Steel Lake, Bumbershoot

Jim Blanchard

Another artist profile for What’sUp by Callous French.

Jim Blanchard looked me in the eye and summarized his point.

“That’s the true test of art.”

I don’t have a fuck’s idea what his point was by then, because we were both pretty drunk already. But it shows up in my “notes” from our conversation, so I know he said it.

Also in the notes are some other profound statements similarly orphaned of context, like:

“The medium is the message.”

“I’ve been rejected by many printers…” and

 “When you have a toothache, you just can’t stop touchin’ it (with your tongue.)”

Blanchard, or Jimm b as he signs his art, has a lot to say. But he is most often given to saying it with images, not words. His vast and varied body of work spans three decades and includes most of the limbs of the craggy visual art counter culture monster, from fanzines to comics, rock flyers to original art. His resume includes extensive collaborative work with the Peter Bagge, Jim Goad and Pat Moriarity, as well as creditsin Exit, Answer Me! and even Newsweek.

He’s one of us now, having moved to Bellingham on September 11, 2001 with his wife Diana, the saucy lead singer of the DTs. His path here has been a long and staggering one, with his most recent headquarters being Seattle-- a cultural universe away from his formative home of Bartlesville, Oklahoma.

Can growing up in a hideous void like northeastern Oklahoma cultivate in one’s brain a fascination with double-dick Satans, exploding eyeballs and coprophelia? If not, then Jimm b’s got some explaining to do, because there’s this and a lot more lurking in his highly-developed style which includes mediums as diverse as collage and sticker art.

But his out pitch, the one that is probably most central to his most important work is the trusty pen and ink.

“It’s kinda my freak” he said of the medium, drawing on a tall glass of bourbon, no ice.

And what freak. The startling detail in Blanchard’s pen work absolutely boggles consciousness. Whether conveying the multi-frame descent into mind-mashing psychedelic death in The Execution of Carl Jung or laying down the sincere and literal milk in portraits of middle-shelf 1960s celebs like Lee Marvin and Captain Beefheart, Blanchard exhibits that hyper-keen scientific gift that the great realists have in common where proprietizing likeness and freezing time are concerned.

There’s always commercial work available to artists with these skills, and Blanchard supplements his creative projects with “commercial” work to pay the rent. But when your day clients are Loompanics, Hustler and the Stranger, you can hardly call it straight work.

After the wild success of 2002’s sticker art series, for which Blanchard created 4’ x 4’ portraits of Teli Savalis, Steve McQueen and other offroad personalities composed primarily of produce stickers over black acrylic (a favorite juxtaposition was James Caan and kosher stickers), the frontier might have seemed just about conquered to even the most adventurous artistes. But new to Blanchard’s todo list this spring is an interpretation on Chicken Little, actually commissioned by the Kings of underground destruction themselves, the Disney Corporation! Thirty respected artists from across the wide world of Disney were approached with the task of applying their own peculiar spins to a common 8” Chicken Little figurine. The results will be auctioned off in Los Angeles and New York this month and next, with proceeds going to charity.  How Jim Blanchard of Bellingham, Washington—an artist much more interested in serial killers than cereal boxes—wound up on this short list seems a bit of a mystery, even to Blanchard himself.

“Disney didn't actually approach me,” had admitted. “It was some firm in Boston that specializes in promotion and hooking bigwig companies up with hip, underground artists. I'm sure Disney doesn't have a clue I exist, and that suits me fine.”

The Disney-commissioned Chicken Little project might suggest than Blanchard has “done it all,” coloring the inevitable question “what’s next for Jim Blanchard of Bellingham, Washington?” But there’s always something evil lurking in the heart of this man.

Set to a backdrop of unorthodox music and coffee (a.m.) or beer (p.m.), Blanchard is currently immersed in a compilation of his portrait penwork for an 80-page coffee table book to be published by his old buddies at Fantagraphics, for whom he worked during his years in Seattle. Beasts & Priests is due out in December, and will probably not be suitable for just any coffee table.

I guess that’s the true test of a coffee table.

   --Callous French

 www.jimblanchard.com
www.comicartcollective.com

www.loompanics.com

www.fantagraphics.com

www.whatsup-magazine.com

Five Wild Dogs Shows That Changed History

Matt McCourt and the Wild Dogs were a huge influence on me in ways that I still struggle to articulate. I was first exposed to them on August 29, 1982 just 10 weeks out of high school. I went to see them every time they played in Seattle for the next several years. It was like religion for us, maybe even a cult.

Scraps of this consolidated piece were published previously in Denim & Leather by one of the other members of the cult. But this expanded summary was pulled together for Rusted Metal when it was published in 2020. These are the days of our lives…

No one who saw Wild Dogs play live was ever the same again. But whether a regional indi-metal band from the pre-internet age in a B-market could change the course of history has been the subject of much speculation. Until now...

5.  Wild Dogs, Metal Church, Slayer—Mountaineers Club, Seattle-- June 29, 1984

The Dogs were a Puget Sound skating rink favorite by this point, but this was an important show for them. Metal Church had a considerable headstart and Slayer was already Slayer. Wild Dogs had the most to lose or gain on this night. Matt had some brand new metallic spiked shoulderpads, and the show started off well with the band seemingly aware of the bigger stage & higher stakes. But then some bullethead jumped out of the front row and tackled Matt and instantly the singer was back at the bloodwrestling pit that was Lakehills. His eyes grew wild and he punched a heckler in the face and tore out a handful of her bleached hair.

Slayer went on to become one of the highest grossing bands in metal history.

4. Headbanger’s Ball—Overlord, Wild Dogs, Culprit-- Lake Hills. October 30, 1982

This was only the second time the Dogs had played Seattle after their stunning debut on the same stage just 62 days prior. The element of surprise was no longer a tool in their studded belt, but the Dogs came out and promptly re-marked their territory, pissing on every bush and lapping up the heightened expectations. Matt greeted us in the front row as old friends—banging our heads and shaking his fists, pretending to hang himself from the rafters above the stage. The energy was high and the line between band & audience was indistinct. “We thought Seattle was great before,” he panted famously into the mic, “but this is the best fuckin gig we’ve had!”

Actually, it was their fourth-best…

3. Wild Dogs, Shadow—Stargate, Fremont. May 6, 1983

Like the most colorful memories, this show teetered on the edge between hi-voltage rock and roll party and an all out blood turf rumble. Staged at a converted church beneath the Aurora Bridge, this was the first time our scene had ventured so far west. Away from the comfort of Crossroads, we were exposed to a much more urban & sophisticated crowd—namely real live punk rockers twisted on real live drugs. There was a weird energy to the setting, high on tension. The punks seemed to want to fight. We just wanted to rock. Shadow managed to complete their set without being eaten. The Dogs came on next, extending an olive branch of cymbal crashes and raw volume. When the punks’ eyes rolled back in their heads at the end of the set, we made a break for it and beat it back to the ‘burbs.

2. Wild Dogs, Lipstick, Shadow—Bellevue Community College

What kind of world did we live in during the mid-1980s when this type of whack shit could happen at a community college? We’d waited all afternoon for the band to show up at Kim Harris’ EasyStreet Records. When they finally did, we nearly pushed their van over sideways, all seven of us. We felt like we were celebrating a world championship.

We were. We were celebrating the release of the self-titled Wild Dogs debut— a world championship record of rock. Produced on Mike Varney’s Shrapnel Records, it was (finally) a 2-dimensional representation of the songs we’d been headbanging to at the Dogs live shows all autumn. We already had ‘The Tonight Show’ from US Metal II, but now here was the whole record. Ten songs. Autographed and ready to slap on the turntable.

 But first there was the show tonight. There were better actual performances, but this night Matt was dressed like Fred Flintstone with dyed black hair and a shredded orange shirt w/ black smudges. At one point, he leapt off the bass rig and landed on Paul Passarelli’s Jack Daniels bottle, badly twisting his ankle. He finished the set wincing in pain, but no less intense. Rock’s not dead…

1. NW MetalFest II, Crossroads—August 29, 1982

This afternoon changed my life. I’d just graduated from high school and had driven alone to LakeHills in my 1972 Impala. I had never been to a rock concert that wasn’t in a sports arena. I had no idea how to behave at an event like this.

There’s nothing like the first time. Wild Dogs were a late substitution on this bill and no one had any idea what to expect. They weren’t from Lake City or Juanita. This was only their second show with the classic lineup-- just a week removed from the NorthBeach debut with Varney’s band Cinema. Overlord had turned in a spirited performance preceding, and Culprit would make a strong impression later. But it was like a whole different filter on the room when Wild Dogs were on-stage. Most of these metal bands were 2-guitar attacks, but Dogs had this big farty bass and a shrill guitar on top and inbetween was this old, fat, insane maniac guy who I wouldn’t have looked in the eye if I’d seen him next door at the 7-11.

To be fair, Matt wasn’t old or fat, not really. He wasn’t 19 and 135lbs like the rest of us, though, and he was thoroughly insane. What made Matt McCourt such a compelling performer was his heart. He wasn’t sexy like Sinsel. He wasn’t mysterious like Van Liew. He couldn’t sing like L’Heureux. But he was just so pure and engaged and genuinely interested in sharing the glory. It was as if he’d been required to keep a long secret and was suddenly liberated—he wanted everyone in on it, to an almost evangelical degree. He was a mess—splashing with sweat and spit, eyeliner smeared like a panda, belly flopping over the wasteband of zebra spandex. He ran up and down the front line like… well, like a wild dog, looking for a break in a chainlink fence. He loved each us, his children, equally--  like a Wild God…

Yeah, we were pretty into it. We thought it would last forever—why shouldn’t it have? Imagine our surprise, then, when we found out that Matt had been kicked out of Wild Dogs! Replaced by the contemptible puffter John Tjeda, Matt was banished to Siberia, the band opting for a more-conventional, less ridiculous approach to heavy metal. In retrospect, the move seems obvious and justifiable. The eventual replacement Michael Furlong had a great contemporary metal voice, and Wild Dogs were a more marketable band with either of them in front. At the time, however, we were outraged and took it upon ourselves to sabotage our once-favorite band every chance we got.

6. Wild Dogs, Gorilla Gardens (the infamous Mild Dogs show). February 2, 1985

Hartman took the x-acto knife to the flier for this show, flipping the ‘W.’ He made a half-million copies and papered the entire county.  How we even had the balls to turn up to the venue, let alone wait at the front of the line for the doors to open is beyond me now-- but suddenly there was Dean screaming at us. Not only did he did not share our zeal for the cut ‘n’ paste, but he seemed to be preparing to kick our skinny whites. Of course we used this opportunity to lobby for Matt’s return to the band, but Dean was having none of it.

“I THOUGHT YOU GUYS WERE OUR FANS!!” he bellowed in a very authoritative voice as a crowd gathered ‘round. Hartman and I, naturally, were in hysterics, the whole situation growing more hilarious with each passing moment. I don’t think we even went into the club, instead getting some Mooseheads and heading off to listen to Twisted Sister Ruff Cutts.

 7-8. Wild Dogs—Lynwood Rollaway, etc

Matt’s out of the band… The new singer sucks…Let’s gob him... hey I’ve got some acid… The Moose is Loose… Take this next exit… Never Gonna Stop! Who are these people? Pulling Tjada’s hair… Roadies are huge when they’re tackling you... Lynnwood Police, handcuffs, scowls... Mouthfull of blood—mine? Bad crazy… Craig Cook-- shut the fuck up and let me handle this… Glaring cops, listening to Craig Cook… Rubbing my wrists after the cuffs are unlocked, just like Pacino… Hartman split his head open on the monitor… taken to hospital... That’s why they plucked me out of the crowd, to tell me... Towering paranoia… Where is the hospital?

I don’t think it was the same night, but in my mind’s bloodshot recollection it feels like the same gimmick. I’m driving the same girlfriend’s ‘73 Mach I, but this time Hartman is in the passenger seat in a tuxedo & blackface and his brother is in the backseat with a bale of mushrooms. State Patrol pulls not only us over, but also Maryann & Gayle, who are following us, angling toward an exit. We’re all on the shoulder of I5—me, the cop, then Gayle’s Nova. It is Halloween. I do not have a driver’s license or a registration. It is not my automobile. I should not be driving. The trooper is inconveniently African American. He looks hard at Bret. Just as he is about to tell me to get out of the car, Gayle makes a run for it. Trooper slams his palm down on the roof of the Mustang and runs back to his car. He rumbles past me with lights & siren wailing, catching her in a quarter mile, just past the exit. I start the Mustang and slowly roll down the ramp, into the night. This kind of shit could not happen today. It was the mid-1980s…

So This is Blog

I’d been ‘working on’ launching a website for years by the time I finally pressed the red button on The Electric Kool-Aid Real Estate Test in June of 2012. I’d been hearing all about blogging but I didn’t really know what it meant. I still don’t. But I thought it needed an introduction…

Hello, Cruel World

So this is blog. Please don’t feel awkward. It’s not you—it’s me. 

For the first ten years of my real estate career, I’ve managed to avoid creating a website for myself. A website! Grammar school children these days assemble complex websites for their pets’ imaginary friends in between homework & dinner, and I have somehow failed for an entire decade to create or commission even the crudest of functioning models to support my high-level real estate practice. Incredible! Probably the most basic tool in the belt after a license and a business card, and for ten years the screen on the far end of my registered domain Braimes.com has featured an unflattering headshot taken during my first week in the business, accompanied by the message “Future home of Braimes.com.” For ten years this has been my internet “presence.” It’s an outrage… 

The good news is, ultimately I have prevailed! I’ve ignored the trend-- stoically not looking to the side—and at last the storm has passed. No one cares about websites anymore; they just want to look at something called blog. 

But what is blog?

Everybody’s doing it—the videogame industry is blogging; the medical marijuana people are into it; of course the fucking sports addicts have the blog now. I guess I’d better get busy on one, lest I miss the wave and have to spend another ten years deciding what trend to be on the back end of next. 

So welcome to my mid-day rambling Jeff Braimes real estate blog. For real people! I guess I don’t really know what I’m fixing to ‘blog’ about, but there are a few things I’m pretty sure I won’t be blogging about, including adjusted price-per-square foot, cumulative days on market, peekaboo views and at this price, it won’t last long.

Additionally, my stupid-head real estate blog will not involve the following principles, which happen to rhyme with blog:

My blog does not smog. Since my blog will make it possible for me never to actually speak face-to-face with another person ever again, I won’t have to use my car— thus cutting down on greenhouse gasses

My blog is not a frog. It is green, and it often makes croaking sounds (like my business). But it’s not a frog

Neither is my blog a dog. My blog will never bark or bite, though it might occasionally brandish its obscene drooling tongue & garbage-breath or maybe even hump your leg

My blog is not a clog. All of my blog’s shoes will have heels

My blog does not jog. They do not make monsters big or scary enough to make my blog run more than about a half-block

My blog is not in the Troggs. It will occasionally be Wild, but honestly...  click here

Seriously, I don’t know what to expect from this experiment any more than you do. I suspect in the coming weeks, I’ll post musings about how to move a 3,000sqft century-old house to a vacant lot down the street; what to do if you discover a baggie of antique Nazi currency in the basement of the home you just bought; how to get the listing on the refrigerator your neighbor is trying to FSBO (agents only, sorry layfolk); surprising a couple in-bed when you’re trying to show a listing (agents only, layers welcome); and whether Ben Kinney’s eye makeup makes his butt look big.

Until then, Real People, stay cool.

--tMR

Roosevelt School

I always cry at these things. I’m not usually the only one. I’m not even always the only sniffling dad. But normally, not ALL the guys are crying. And almost never the boys.

And while there might have been a dry pair or two—male or female—in the Roosevelt Elementary School multi-use auditorium at yesterday morning’s traditional last-day-of-school assembly, it was mostly not so much.

I’ve never seen anything like it.

I’ve been to a few of these events. Eight of these same ceremonies, to be exact—having had at least one student at Roosevelt every school year since Vincent entered as a kindergartner in the autumn of 2003. Add to these eight the dozens of Veteran’s Day ceremonies, choir concerts, Martin Luther King Day celebrations and play performances, and I’ve shed a proud tear or thousand on school grounds over the years.

But I’d never seen anything like this.

In fairness, it was a particularly touching show, anchored by a 15-minute slideshow lovingly compiled by the three outgoing AmeriCorps teachers, who had been honored earlier in the program with bucketfulls of tokens of appreciation. There was other housekeeping to do—the crowning of the year’s BoxTops collection winners, and the lengthy distribution of the district track meet awards. The slideshow was the straw that broke the kids’ tearducts, but things had been moving in that direction for several segments, ever since the faculty had started getting in on the act.

Roosevelt is the only grammar school my kids have ever attended, so I don’t have anything to compare our experience with. But through informal research & observation, it does not appear to me as though every other K-5 administrator, faculty & staff has the level of enjoyment of-- and dedication to--their crafts as do Steve Morse and his team at Roosevelt.

Steve surely isn’t the only principal ever to have worn a tutu at school on a dare. Band directors shave their heads when their kids take State; coaches paint their faces for big games. There are Great teachers at every school in this country—mentors whose impacts on their students will truly last a lifetime.

But in scanning the faces on the risers as the faculty traded places with the student choir, I was reminded of what an amazing group this was. As they earnestly sang “I Hope  You Dance” as a final gift to their departing 5th graders, I paused on so many of them, fondly recalling the growth my kids had experienced in their care. The nurturing glow & unshakable patience of Karen Ottorholt. The grace & depth of experience of Kim Rutledge. The zeal & curiostiy of Russ Nuckolls, in whose classroom our kids had spent a combined three years. Terri McKee, from whom Edie in particular might have drawn the most confidence of any teacher she’s ever had at any level. But there were some missing faces, too. Gone were Pam and Janice, Tiffany and Donna.

But in pausing to consider each of these and other dedicated lifetime professionals, it occurred to me that it wasn’t just my daughter who was leaving this school—it was me, too! I’d spent a lot of time in this place. I’d ‘been there’ longer than many. I remember the first time I met the incoming 4th grade teacher Megan Thygeson at school—I thought she was a 4th grader! And now there she was on the riser— a faculty & student favorite— her future secure after several 11th hour contract rescues, gently rocking her 6-week-old baby in a front pack as she sang along with the rest of the faculty choir, this beautiful song about life’s opportunities and dancing when those opportunities present themselves.

I hope you dance. When you get the chance to sit it out or dance—I hope you dance…

And in the middle of it all—always in the middle of it—was Steve Morse. A year earlier, I’d looked into the fidgeting eyes of some PTA reg’lars outside the school when they’d asked if I’d heard about Steve. Ruling out what else their worried expressions might have meant in the humid split second that followed, I hastily hoped that he didn’t have cancer, but it sure was cancer. Prostate cancer. An early diagnosis in an otherwise healthy 52-year-old man, but still—cancer. School let out shortly thereafter, and then—nothing. I didn’t feel I knew him well enough to phone. No one appeared to know anything when I bumped into them at the supermarket, and it seemed morbid to chase information. Josie Estrada was officially designated interim principal. It didn’t feel right. We were apprehensive going into the autumn session, and we briefed the kids, who hadn’t heard anything, either. I braced for bad news every day. But none came.

And of course there was Steve on the first day of school, coffee cup in-hand and looking a little ashen, but still greeting everyone just like he had on so many September mornings past. Getting cancer these days doesn’t necessarily mean you’re going to die. We baby-boomers have grown up in the age of cancer, and are still adjusting to the miracles modern medicine have laced together where treatment & research are concerned. Of course people are still getting killed to death by cancer—at a rate of 20,000 each day. But the rate of not dying is climbing as well, and it seems like I have been personally touched by more success stories these past couple of years (including my own mother’s) than I have tragedies.

And ten months later still, on the last day of school, here was Steve Morse— looking his old self again. Before opening the teargates, the staff had given the students and parents (AND each other) a hearty laugh with their traditional re-working of a song from the spring musical, this year a drama-within-a-drama entitled Dear Edwina. Edie had shared the title role with her best friend Emma, and the two girls had been further honored by the opportunity to re-write the lyrics of one of the show’s songs “FrankenGuest” into “FrankenBoss” in which Mr. Morse played the role of a tyrannical administrator imposing impossible demands on his already-overworked staff, trying desperately to stay a step ahead of the budget ax and the goons from the State’s testing Gestapo. The skit was hilarious.

FRANKENBOSS—here’s the new math curriculum (throws stack of paper into the air)

FRANKENBOSS—where’d everybody go—to Haggen’s?!

FRANKENBOSS—I AM ALL POWERFUL!!

HE WAS A FRANKENBOSS…

I don’t know how many 5th graders (or  even parents, for that matter) realized how ridiculously funny many of these lines were. The body of the lyrics were written by Edie & Emma and were humorous to everyone; but Steve’s parts definitely came from him personally and were surely an inside joke to a staff that has stood behind him through some hard times and for whom he has stood up as well. There is a great mutual professional admiration amongst these educators, and it shows not only when they are exchanging a wink & a nudge on the choir risers on the last day of school, lampooning a principal gone mad upriver like Marlon Brando in Apocalypse Now when in fact he’s got the district & state and its “failing schools” list nipping at his shorts day in & day out. This faculty’s respect for each other and ownership of their callings shows every day in the classrooms & hallways of the school. Steve and his teachers genuinely care about each student at Roosevelt, as well as the families that support them. And this was never more apparent than during the stirring “I Hope You Dance,” Steve’s lyric sheet at his side, a proud captain singing the song from memory, his cancer in remission.

And after that, the piling-on of the slideshow. Sheesh… As the houselights came on afterward, I glanced around at a few of the parents standing or sitting nearby and it was clear there’d been an impact made on us. But like I said—that’s nothing new. What I was surprised to see was the knot of 5th graders in the middle of the auditorium clinging to each other through curtains of real tears. I’ve learned this past year that pre-teen girls have an appetite for social drama that often includes crying, but what was happening here as the younger grades peeled away leaving the graduating class to themselves & each other was a genuine display of hammering melancholy that was completely natural and not self-conscious in the slightest. Kids hung on teachers in groups, or hugged deep with classmates they might not previously have been that close with. This was not a cliquish group to begin with, but any subtle subgroups that may have existed seemed utterly dissolved as the 60 students moved around the group, greeting & consoling each other as the emotional pitch of the scene escalated. Noses dripped. Faces blotched. Lips trembled. The confident & matriculated had been thoroughly vaporized by this assembly, and they seemed quite uncertain of what in the world they were supposed to do next.

Eventually, they filed apprehensively out the back door of the building and into the glare of an all-school recess during which the weeping continued and in fact eventually began to spread to the underclassman of the school. Girls—and boys—of all ages bawling under the bittersweet weight of growing up. I’ve been to a lot of these types of events, and as a parent they just destroy me every time. But the kids, I don’t think the significance of these milestones really hits them until much later on, if at all—the privilege of perspective! But I’ve never seen a group of kids so caught in a moment, realizing AT THE TIME how important a move they were making, from being the biggest at a school of little kids to going to a middle school full of teenagers. They didn’t seem scared; they just seemed sad. They seemed sad to be leaving a safe place and heading toward an unknown. They’ll have each other next year, many of them, and some of these kids will be friends their whole lives. Others of them will probably move over the summer, and will never be seen again. What the future holds for any of these kids is completely unknown, and in that respect this is just another step in the great adventure.

 It’s enough to make anyone cry. But smile too…

MidDay Rambler 6/22/12-2/3/16

There was a point in all of our lives when we didn’t have any social media. Mine was later than many, and I only reluctantly signed on with FaceBook in order to support my blog—The Electric Kool Aid Real Estate Test. My intent was to take over the internet with a home-made WordPress site on which I posted indulgent creative writing odysseys loosely-based in/around my career as a real estate agent. When the blog was largely ignored, I just started re-posting cat videos just like everyone else.

I didn’t have to fight off unwanted friend requests from high school classmates, however, because I had registered at FaceBook as someone named Mid-Day Rambler— the infinitely glib pen name of my blog. I endeavored to have social media and autonomy too!

But eventually, Meta came looking for me. They said that if I couldn’t show them a birth certificate proving my legal name was Mid-Day Rambler that they were going to kill my page. And as much as I wanted to find out what that even meant, I also feared there was useful content attached to the page which I didn’t want to lose forever. There was four years of musing posted there by now and I didn’t want to have to comb back through it and cut/paste everything I was too anal and sentimental to lose forever.

In the end, I conceded— agreeing to kill The Mid-Day Rambler and play by Meta’s crooked rules. But first I had to write an obituary.

MidDay Rambler, the mysterious and enigmatic internet complainer and real estate blogger, has died after a brief yet courageous battle with FaceBook. He was 1,369 days old.

Mr. Rambler’s death was confirmed by his Administrator Jeff Braimes (Decatur High School class of 1982) in a statement hailing Rambler as ‘a pants-down Ranter of the highest order. A real malcontent.’

Rambler burst onto social media on June 22, 2012 with a FaceBook post reading “New here. How do I work this?” which was quickly liked by seven people. From there it was directly to the roof of the WWW. Weekly posts were often read by up to dozens, illuminating such topics as Aldo Nova, gnats in the bourbon and Major League Baseball. Rambler was known as a prolific Liker and poignant commenter, often chiming in with an earnest we know about this or LoL.

MidDay Rambler leaves behind 486 friends and a selective index of liked pages, including Michael’s Rare Books of Bellingham, Yardsale Bloodbath and Put Cheap Trick in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. He logs out for the last time with 178 pending tag requests and 6 pending friend requests.

When alive, MidDay Rambler always maintained he was only on social media to support his business and creative ventures, and not to “understand what was going on in the world” or “stalk his children.” But in the end, the digital record will show he was every bit as fucked up as the rest of us LoL.

Rambler’s inconsiderable internet legacy will be carried on posthumously through his blogs. The widely unread Electric Kool Aid Real Estate Test will be maintained by the Administrator, Braimes. And sicblog.com, the digital companion to 2014’s best-selling 3-dimensional paper book [sic] was programmed by Rambler during his life to discharge pre-scheduled content into the moist, eternal blackness of the internet for years to come whether or not anyone likes it on FaceBook. In many respects, it will be as if MidDay Rambler had never died, let alone lived. 

Reactions to the surprise demise of MidDay Rambler are pouring in from the four corners of the internet. “Oh yeah that dude,” commented Scott Weller from Salem, Massachusetts. “He had me at sodomy,” recalled Bellingham’s Aaron Jacob Smith. “LoL,” said Julie Isenhart from Bellevue. “LoL...”

 In an email, presidential hopeful Bernie Sanders referred to Rambler as “a great American like you.” Comedian Louis CK called Rambler “a fathead” (which is actually a compliment in CK). Wilson Motors recommended a full 9-point service inspection and tire rotation. And calls to the ‘newsrooms’ of The Bellingham Herald and the Cascade Radio Group were not answered or returned.

How to Write Good

So I thought it might motivate me to write more if I attended a writer's conference. Actually, my wife thought it might motivate me to write more if I attended a writer's conference. My analyst agreed. So I took the first step toward attending a writer's conference— that step being thinking about attending a writer's conference.

After that I actually clicked on the link to the writer's conference registration page and read some of the bullet points and other blocks of type, but that got overwhelming rather quickly, so I closed the window and went back to merely thinking about attending a writer's conference. I was relieved when my phone rang, and even though I didn't want to talk with Sandra Salvo about her new listing on 40th Street, I answered the call so I wouldn't have to keep thinking about attending a writer's conference. The conversation was brief, but by then it was almost time for lunch, so I resolved to think more about the writer's conference later in the afternoon.

Next thing I knew it was Sunday.

My wife asked if I'd thought any more about registering for the writer's conference and I said yes, because I literally had thought about it. Then she asked if I had registered for it yet, and I said no but that I planned to. So after checking my email and vacuuming, I checked my email once more and then clicked on the registration page again. It was easier to get through this time because I'd already read most of it, and I easily  found the place where I'd left off a couple of days earlier. I got through it this time and minimized the form.

I found myself back at the thinking about the writer's conference stage. Even though I'd technically completed the reading the registration information phase, I didn't feel like I had the slightest idea what I would do or say at this conference. I opened my email and looked at my phone. I checked the weather.

Breathing a thin sigh I went to get my wallet.

Later that evening when I told my wife I’d registered, she was delighted.  My analyst seemed very encouraged also. Though I know it can't possibly work this way, a certain rogue part of me wants to believe that I can gain this type of enthusiastic approval by merely registering  for enrichment activities without actually engaging in them. Most of the time you can cancel registrations for a small fee, maybe $75. I could register for writer's conferences, business seminars, tax workshops, yoga retreats, and watercolor classes without ever actually having to attend them. Surely the resulting boost to my image would be worth a couple of hundred dollars a quarter! I don't need the skills or the experience— I just want that confirmation code!  Dragging the congratulatory email into a file titled enrichment or growth, I'd feel my confidence swelling and the admiring ( even envious! ) gazes upon me from all directions.

I can't believe no one's ever thought of this. If I was actually planning on attending a writer's conference or a firewalking seminar, this would be a good elevator speech. I’ll think about it…

So You Wanna Be a Real Estate Star?

When I was young, I never knew anyone who dreamed of becoming a Realtor. Back then, those aspirational occupations were still limited to stuff you could also dress up for on Halloween. The kids I went to school with generally wanted to be astronauts, quarterbacks and pirates when they grew up.

But these days– thanks I assume to a show called HGTV or something– young people actually point and say ‘I should do that’. I guess it’s hard to fault them. The actors are attractive with current hairstyles & fashionable wardrobes. They drive expensive cars and can’t be seen doing anything that looks all that impossible: mostly just a bunch of winking & nodding, gliding from room-to-room caressing plumbing fixtures and stainless steel appliances.

How hard could it be?

Well, having been in the business for 20 years I can tell you the answer to that question is not that hard. That’s right– on most days being a Realtor is actually as easy as it looks on the internets.

Not every day, of course. Some days you pray for a merciful death just like in any television job. But relative to the educational requirements & hard expenses—from a risk/value standpoint—becoming a Realtor aint none that too hard.

Still, most people do end up with a real estate license by accident. The so-called Dreamers make up a very small percentage of agents in any market. Most Realtors are there, nodding and winking, because their former job was outsourced or automated. They’re there because they can no longer carry full kegs or 60 lb. bags of cement more than a few steps. Or sometimes people just retire from another desky job only to discover they’d forgotten to develop any hobbies or other interests during their careers– so they re-enter the workforce just to have someone to talk to.

And all those paths are equally fine. Whether you’ve never been able to picture yourself doing anything different, or if you just ran out of other working links—welcome. Kindly slip off your shoes and let me give you a little tour…

So, how does it work? The path to a real estate license is clearly paved with these five easy steps:

• Destroy patronizingly simple pre-license education—CHECK!

• Destroy patronizingly simple DOL test—CHECK!

• Interview brokerages and choose a shop—CHECK!

• Secure headshots, business cards, website, sphere hump—CHECK!

• Vacuum car and sharpen pencils—CHECK!

Now what?

I am fully aware that only three paragraphs ago I said that earning a real estate license was easy and that the subsequent selling of real estate was also not difficult. Why then, you might logically ask with slightly arched eyebrows, are you spending more monthly on BMW lease payments and trade dues than you are earning via the mysterious puzzle piece known as the commission check?

 Yes, I might have been more clear. My apologies. Re-inventing yourself as a Realtor is easy. But surviving as one—actually driving live business to yourself (what we refer unselfconsciously to in the business as getting them in the car) is among the most dehumanizing and ego-scabbing things you will ever be expected to do in this or any other lifetime. The notion of succeeding or failing at it becomes that much more confounding when you recognize it is your livelihood—that success or failure could very literally mean the difference between not only Lexus & Hyundi, but also salmon & beans or even roof & tarp.

There are plenty of resources available across all known formats that address specifically how to accomplish this nearly impossible feat. I won’t waste the rest of the class’s discretionary column inches here, rehashing the actual technical techniques. I will, however, offer a few tips that I don’t think can be found elsewhere. Think of them as Real Estate Tips for Real People, or even an Episiotomy for the Soul.

• Get a nice car and some new socks. More than any other profession, a Realtor’s perceived value is linked to the automobile she/he drives. But it doesn’t matter what you park in the driveway if you don’t have clean, matching socks without holes. You will be expected to unshoe most of the time

• Don’t drive your car or wear socks unless it’s necessary. You want your clients—and competition, incidentally—to know you have a nice car. But showing up on your bike or on-foot can be a very powerful statement. ‘She has a rad car, yet she still walks!’ or ‘He has killer socks, but sometimes goes barefoot!’ are very powerful testimonials

• Get the worst website you can. In the early part of this era, something called a website was very important and the most-successful agents spent tens of thousands of dollars on development and in search engine wars. No one cares about that anymore. Now the only thing consumers believe are social media testimonials and reviews. Go to Russia and hire a teenaged troll. It’s easier than accumulating points domestically

• You’re Fucking Barretta. When I was just starting out, I put a note in my Nokia that told me I was fucking Barretta every time I opened the phone. Just like Mr. Orange. I didn’t really know what I was talking about most of the time, but visitors to my open houses often believed me ‘cause I was supercool

• Don’t hang out with other Realtors. If you want to engage in activity in which there is true strength in numbers, then do it on your own time. Push a boulder to the top of the mountain or storm a castle. But when you’re ‘working,’ get as far away from other Realtors as you can. There’s lots of opportunity for networking in the real estate business—avoid as much of it as possible. Your goal should be to be the only real estate professional in any bar you are in. I for one have never sold a home to another Realtor

• Re-define the concept of ‘your own time.’ There will no longer be any such thing as your own time. That doesn’t have to mean you work all the time. In fact, it can mean that you frequently don’t work any of the time. But just because you’re not working doesn’t mean you’re on your own time. When you have the opportunity to work, then work. When you’re new, you won’t have the chance to work almost at all, so enjoy that. Go to the gym, go to a neighborhood meeting, go to the bar. That’s where you’re going to meet your clients

That’s probably enough for today. Again, I welcome you to The Institute and wish you all the best– unless you happen to be planning on hanging your new-car-smell license in the bustling fishing village one hundred miles north of Seattle where I am already established [ed: Bellingham] in which case I will eat your beating heart before your dying eyes if you so much as share a four-way stop with anyone already working with me. Nothing personal– but this town’s already not big enough to support the Realtor factory in operation here.

Feel free to phone me for advice, though. I’ll take your call whereas many of your ‘clients’ won’t– at least for a while. It’s going to suck at first, I hope I’ve been clear about that. With patience, smart work and a lot of manifestation, however, you’ll eventually realize your real estate dreams. You’ll rescue the kitten from the tree, breath fire from 151 and yes—you’ll even be offered that handjob in the kitchen while Mr. Buyer is on the deck admiring the view, just like in the movies. But in the beginning you’re much more likely to slide down a muddy, ferny slope or have a knife waived at you by a naked renter whose landlord failed to notify him of your showing. It’s OK. Get some shuteye and get up the next day and do it again. You’re a Realtor. You’re fucking Barretta…

(Re-printed without permission from PMA Magazine from Seattle. Check them out: https://www.facebook.com/getthatpma/ )

Why I Still Root for White Guys Who Wear number 12

Disclaimer– this blog post has almost nothing to do with Real Estate  

These Seattle Seahawks are hard to dislike. And I am a very experienced disliker of Seattle Seahawks.

I’ll explain.

My family drove into Washington State on the nation’s bicentennial– July 4, 1976– from my childhood home in the Bay Area. The Seahawks played their inaugural game three weeks later, kicking off a hate affair that has lasted nearly forty years.
Before we left California, Uncle Larry held season tickets to the Raiders, and I spent many a Sunday afternoon in the early ’70s in the gritty bleachers of Oakland Alameda County Stadium rooting for one of the most colorful franchises in the history of organized sports. Raider football was my life, and even though they won the Super Bowl the year we moved to Federal Way, I loathed & distrusted my new home team nearly as much as I loved my old one.

The teams were instant rivals, of course, playing in the same division (most of) those first 25 seasons. And spectacularly awful as they were in those early days, the bumbling black-shoed Seahawks would often rise to supernatural stature when facing the Raiders, staging breathtaking upsets. Seattle won 4 of the first 5 meetings, in fact, against variations of the Raider squads that dominated Super Bowls XI and XV. Oakland (and later LA) managed only a 4-game advantage over Seattle for the entire 20th century, with the teams’ two post-season contests split down the middle– one win each. Bear in mind the Raiders won three Super Bowls during this era, while the Seahawks largely languished in their own feces like the expansion team they were. Still, they proved a nagging burr in the saddle of the Silver & Black, much to my historical chagrin.

At school, I was subject to a vast array of Monday morning asskickings: spiritual and literal, not to mention financial. Twice a season I took every bet offered to me– brashly giving points and talking shit. Countless Monday mornings taunted, poked and shoved in the hallways— a fistfull of dollar bills in my hand and a tear in my eye. I suffered for my Pride & Poise (the Raider motto before Just Win, Baby) and my resentment for the popular Seahawks deepened.

Fast-forwarding to 2015, I could give two shits about either team or the sport in general. I made a conscious decision to get off not only professional football but also professional basketball in 1997 when I found myself reading hockey box scores in the morning paper. Kicking at home allowed me to continue to enjoy baseball without guilt while staying out of rehab. It was good timing, of course– aside from their accidental appearance in Super Bowl XXXVII, the Raiders have been starkly awful since then. Poetic that they have bottomed out just as the Seahawks have risen to what some are starting to call a Dynasty.

It’s a bit early for this type of labeling if you ask me, as good as this team is playing. You need more than consecutive Super Bowl victories to have the D-word slapped on you, and I’m not sure this same Seahawk squad takes the field next season, regardless of what happens in Arizona. This team has secrets— and even Pete Carrol’s pandemic bright-side howdy-doos aren’t enough to obscure that. I get the feeling the Seattle locker room is not very awesome, and during the first half of the season it looked like those distractions were going to cost them not only a repeat but maybe even a .500 season. But I’ll be damned if they haven’t pulled it together and stopped playing down to their opponents. The defense appears to be all it’s cracked up to be and the offense continues to not fuck up enough to win games. I don’t think either of the AFC teams have a chance against them and I don’t like the Packers’ chances in SODO.

As much as I’m grossed out by the military/rape culture and economics of the league, I still do enjoy the game itself— and will occasionally look in on the post-season contests if I don’t think anyone can see me. So I know that all three of the other quarterbacks still eligible for immortality are white and wear number 12. I am only rooting for them because they don’t play for the Seahawks, who you will recall I detest. It has nothing to do with the fact that they’re white, and I only named this piece what I did to see if I could get you to read it. If you are still reading, I will reward you presently with some thoroughly inane statistics about white quarterbacks who’ve worn 12 in the Super Bowl: 

More than half of the Super Bowl MVPs have been quarterbacks. Of those 25, 7 have worn 12– far more than any other position or number. Another 7 number 12s have won the game but not the award. Only 9 defensive players of any number or position have ever been MVP (10 if you count the Cowboy split in XII). One special teams player has taken home the hardware, and the rest are all guys who get fed the ball from the quarterback.

It’s a quarterback-centric league and it always has been. Very few teams have won let alone lost the Super Bowl with even an average Joe. And while Russel Wilson aint Joe Montana, he’s also no Joe Pisarcik. He’s accurate, athletic and smart— and he plays within himself. I want so badly to dislike him, but he makes it really hard. Off the field or on, he’s just not going to show you his butt by trying to board an airplane with a loaded handgun or certainly by punching down his girlfriend. 

I didn’t like Beast guy until I saw that video on the internet, and I respect the fact that he tells the league to get fucked with regard to media obligations. I didn’t like Richard Sherman after his post-game spasm last year either, until I learned what a thoughtful badass he was the following Monday. I didn’t like Bobby Wagner because he plays for the Seattle Seahawks, but dude reminds me of a less murdery Ray Lewis and seems to always be near the ball. Pete, Kam, KJ– I’m doing everything I can to dislike and dismiss them. But they’re making it really hard… 

So forgive me if I can’t join you Twelves. I’ll be rooting for a different 12– any different 12. I don’t care what color his skin is— I’m more interested in the color of his jersy…

Oh, and check out my new listing on Alabama Hill! 

tMdR

Mono Men, Green Frog

The Mono Men aren’t a band anymore, but with a good enough excuse every seven years or so, they can be persuaded to throw down a shit-hot hour set of garage rock antha. Estrus Records kitten Carl Ratliff’s recent 40th birthday presented just such an opportunity. The Green Frog was selected as a venue, and tickets for the rare event sold out on-line in 19 minutes.

 Opening the show was Portland’s Fireballs of Freedom, another band who frequently marinated the stage of the storied 3B Tavern back in the Estrus heydays of the 1990s. Next was poet Chet Weise who during that era fronted the Quadrajets and the Immortal Lee County Killers. The air in the room was moist with anticipation & perspiration when the Monos finally mounted the stage just after 11pm.

 Without nostalgic introduction the band bucked into the title track from their 1990 debut Stop Draggin’ Me Down and the room came fucking undone. Bellingham didn’t always know what it had in its own frontyard back in the day, but the appreciation level was sky high as the Mono Men worked their way through the first phase of the show, featuring songs from the first album as well as the first single Burning Bush. Unlike last time there was a good enough excuse to put the band back together, the lineup included original second guitarist Marx Wright, who also co-founded Estrus with Dave Crider back in the late 80s. Former 3B owner Aaron Roeder on drums and Ledge Morrisette on bass, yep.

 Chronologically appropriately, Marx handed his guitar & vocal duties off to John Mortensen as the band shifted into songs from the Wrecker period. Beer was flying by this point, the Monos steering through ‘Watch Outside’ and ‘Testify’ before gearing down low for the fan favorite Kim Salmon-penned ‘Swampland.’

 You wouldn’t know these guys hardly ever even saw each other, let alone rehearsed. While it is true that most of this catalog has only three chords, the material seemed fresh yet familiar, spirited and relevant. And really fucking loud. The songs were tight, yet the atmosphere was relaxed-- except for all the sweating and screaming and fist-pumping. The scene was kind of a rock ‘n’ roll high school class reunion with a lot of hugging between old friends who don’t see each other enough. A bracket of songs from 1994’s Sin & Tonic signaled the end of the set proper.

 “This is the part of the set we like to call ‘you asked for it,” snarled Crider as the band launched into a punishing 2-song encore of ‘Slammer’ and ‘Wimp.’ And then it was over. At least for here; at least for now. It’s a bit of work to put this together for one 60-minute set. Expect to see the Mono Men in a Latin-speaking country near you later this year.

 Callous French

Machine Animal Mach II.5

With machine-like precision and animal magnetism, Machine Animal has entered Mach II. Actually, Mach II.5.

 Anthony ‘Beer Bunny’ Navarro, also of Bellingham deuce The Second Hand Suits has replaced Bill ‘Beard Bunny’ Anker on drums. Anthony makes lots of intense faces when he plays, and will use with his hands when necessary. Kind of like a drum machine animal.

 The band has also gone to a platoon system for fat strings. Original bassist Vincent Blackshadow will represent the band east of the Continental Divide. Chris Coyle, the easy-breathing leader of Sir Coyler and his Asthmatic Band (Seattle) will hold down the west coast basslines.

 Dave Crider and Zack Van Houton will continue shotgunning beers and finishing each others’ sentences. “This new lineup gives us more flexibility plus way more intense faces behind the drums,” said Dave before Zack added “Sharks are rad!”

 The whole thing started in 2016 when Dave & Zack got drunk and a turn-up contest broke out. It was like a rock and roll arms race—extreme guitardation. A rhythm section was added and made things even louder and more retarded.

 They liked the name Animal Machine, but something wasn’t quite right. They all wanted to be the singer, so they made a rule that no one wasn’t the singer. The songs were so fuckin’ dumb. Just dumber than dirt. Dumber than that horse you fucked. Bonehead rock. Inspired by some of the dumbest 70s hard rock & glam rock songs and bands, the dumb just kept getting dumber. Dumb and loud—like an animal.

 Shows. Shirts. Shit. Shinola. The skull-numbing down-dumbing Live in Wreck b/w Devil Woman single on California’s Valley King Records. The beards and bunny suits. The beers and balloon animals. A lifetime of decibels tamped into one year.

 The first year…

 Actually, Machine Animal works better than Animal Machine… 

Machine Animal is:

Zack Van Houten (Black Beast Revival, Machine Animal) Tele, vox

Dave Crider (Mono Men, Watts, DT’s, Machine Animal) SG, vox

Vincent Blackshadow (Sweet Invicta, Machine Animal) bass guitar, vox [Mid-west Div]

Anthony Navarro (The Second Hand Suits, Machine Animal) drums, vox

Chris Coyle (Sir Coyler and His Athsmatic Band, Machine Animal) SG bass guitar, vox [West Coast Div]

The Culprit Spring, 1983— I Was There

(Orginally published in Denim & Leather #3  [Summer, 1983] re-printed here in a discretely-revised version)

 When they returned recently from recording their debut album in California, Culprit seemed anxious to get back in front of their loyal fans, and a blitz of shows commenced. The first back was at Lake Hills with Ten Minute Warning and Kidskin on March 12. Culprit debuted two new originals at that time that will be on Guilty As Charged, which should be out on Shrapnel Records in a couple of months. The new songs are "Tears Of Repentance" and "Steel To Blood."

Then they did a show at Astor Park on April 12. That was the first time Culprit had played an over-21 club, and for good reason; the vast majority of their fans are not properly aged. "We don't like playing bars," Culprit frontman Jeff L'Heureux told me, "but record company people just won't come to see us at Crossroads." That show was opened by Legacy and Overlord and the cover was only $1. Three great bands for a buck! I borrowed an ID, traded my spikes for a Speidel, lowered my voice and headed for Astor Park. I passed the picture and DoB tests but couldn't match the signature and was promptly shown the sidewalk by the biggest Iranian bouncer I'd ever seen. The show sounded great from the alley.

Culprit then opened for Rail in Wenatchee, for Q5 at Crotchroads and also rocked the High School Drags at S.I.R. (Seattle International Raceway) - all in two weekends.

But one of the best Culprit shows of this mythical season was at Natasha’s in Bremerton on April 8. Andy & I made the 6:10 ferry and stole some Hamm’s beers out of the back of an open pickup on the boat (Hammscam). The show was opened by Equus from Port Orchard and SATO from Burien. Sometimes at these shows you have to sit through one, maybe even two baby bands to get to the headliners, but not this time. All three bands were killer! Equus filed an all-cover set that included tunes by AC/DC, KISS, Motley Crue and a wicked version of the Beatles "Helter Skelter." SATO was up next and proceeded to sing about Satan for a half-hour. A little bit of Satan is tall fun, but these guys go a bit overboard. The funny thing is that they don't need to. There's so much talent in this band that they hardly know what to do with it all. They've got 30 fast fingers in their string section, particularly bassist Mike Starr. Their singer and drummer are excellent too. Maybe they just need an exorcism…

By the time the two openers had finished, Natasha's was pretty full. There were a lot of rivetheads there, but it seemed like they were mostly local and more likely "going out to Natasha's," than "going to see Culprit." No matter-- Culprit let them know they were there-- and blew more than a few unsuspecting Bremerton locals into complete oblivion.

Playing an 11-song set consisting of the nine originals from the album plus two of their stand-by covers, "Radar Love" and "Jailhouse Rock," Culprit killed. The vocals of Jeff L'Heureux were soaring as usual, and he gave his cords a good workout on songs like "Players" and "Ice In The Back." The Germ is so versatile—as strong in the lower ranges as he is in the higher ones. Scott Earl was his usual bindle of heavy metal energy. As electrically charged as his bass, The Bitch always seems on the verge of bursting into flames, his level is so high. Somebody should hook him up to a generator-- he could power the whole town. Bud Burrill, sported a Motley Crue shirt and was ferocious behind the drums, laying down a marching beat on “Steel to Blood.” Kjartan Kristofferson was in the grips of a flu bug that had already made its way through the rest of the band, so John DeVol handled most of the leads. But despite Kjartan's mild handicap, the pair was unbeatable, producing the searing leads and blistering riffs that have become their trademark.

Culprit is a very promising band. They are great showmen, skilled at working an audience. They are master musicians. Their sound is complex, precise and polished but also super aggressive with a razor steel edge, very unique in a genre that is rapidly homogenizing. Their material is solid and presents a cohesive sound. Still, none of these individual components seem to pin down the excitement of a Culprit show exactly. There's something about how the visual image and the music just all come together and click. Loud. You have to be there, I guess. And I was...

As promised, Guilty as Charged came out later that year. I couldn’t wait to put it on. I’d seen the band a dozen times by then and knew their songs very well. The record, of course, was a crushing disappointment. The performances were solid, but the sound was awful. Toy guitars, ladyfinger drums, no bass. I’d come to love these songs in the communal magic of the live skating rink experience: punishing volume, suffocating temperatures, all the fuckin’ headbanging. The sting of sweat and the smell of barf on Scott’s breath. Trying to replicate those powerful feelings by listening to these tin can recordings was discouraging at best—utterly defeating at its worst. There were OK shows ahead and a couple of new songs later on, but the writing was on the wall as far as I was concerned. Let’s go, move it….

Dear The Seattle Mariners

Jeff Braimes

2610 Ellis Street

Bellingham, WA 98225

Seattle Mariners

T-Mobile Park
1250 First Avenue South
Seattle, WA 98134

                                                                                                                          Wednesday, May 12 2021

To whom it may,

 I’m a 30-year radio devotee and a former season ticket holder. I’ve celebrated many memorable events at T-Mobile Park and before that the Kingdome. The sounds of Mariner baseball are the audio soundscape of my kids’ lives, the broadcast playing in the background of every summer night of their childhoods. I am genuinely true to the Blue.

 But I am super bugged by this year’s Billy Graham Association ad campaign. As a fan, I have the luxury of not having to balance the team’s budget in a climate of diversified sports consumption in general and baseball’s shrinking popularity in specific. But honestly…

 Where is the separation of Church and Sport? The UGM campaign is near the edge, but their message is at least one of inclusion. However, the sin scaring of this BGA campaign is fully not OK. Put your hand on the radio and pray with me? Where and when is this? It does not sound like the Pacific Northwest in the modern era. This sounds like bible belt radio evangelism of the 1930s to me— a time and place in which non-whites and non-straights were not welcome, or worse.

 Is this really the association we want? I do not believe this message is one that is embraced by baseball fans in the Northwest.

 Please pull these ads at once, even if it means having to tighten the rotation of the revolting EMQ campaign more than it already is.

 Very sincerely,

Jeff Braimes, Bellingham

Dear Puget Sound Energy

Puget Sound Energy
BOT-01H
P.O. Box 91269
Bellevue, WA 98009-9269

                                                                                   Monday February 8, 2022

To Whom it may,

 I know you guys have a monopoly and don’t really need for me to like you in order to stay in business and turn a profit. I also know that any ‘company’ with more than about one employee these days actively endeavors to make it nearly impossible for a customer to use the telephone to engage with a live person on the other end of the line. PSE is certainly not unique in this way.

But contracting to wigged out fear pushers from your root customer service line is an astonishing new low.

I had billing question that required more insight than any of the dozen FAQ canned answers would provide. So I dug deep into the PSE website and found a customer service number and dialed 888.225.5773. The recorded voice told me that if I was over the age of 50, I might be eligible for an exciting new offer and that I should press 1. As much as I normally enjoy exciting new offers, I really just wanted to solve my billing issue at the time. So even though I’m over 50, I pushed 2. I was immediately disconnected. I lolled and called back, this time pressing 1 so I could at least get on with it to billing.

I expected I’d be subjected to a taped exciting new offer loop while I held, but instead went straight to Jessica. At first, I thought maybe I’d dialed wrong from the start because she didn’t announce herself as Puget Sound Energy, but rather from someplace called Lifeline or something. Jessica proceeded to launch into a speech about how now that I’m over 50 I’m probably going to fall and I should have one of those buttons to hang around my neck. I’m not paraphrasing, rather this is exactly what she said. I tried to get a word in edgewise, politely at first like I always do-- but Jessica would not yield. Eventually I tried interrupting her and finally shouting over her but she did not look to the side. I had to just hang up.

I tried again and this time pressed 1 but did not have to deal with Jessica again. So I don’t know if this is something you’re testing, or if you just sell a certain number of calls to these types of bullies but I guess I’m asking you nicely this first time to stop. It’s gross.

Very sincerely,

Jeff Braimes, Bellingham

USPS Dave

This window closed; call it a career. 
My main man Dave from the downtown Bellingham post office clocked out for the last time today, slipping quietly into retirement about an hour after this photo was taken. I don't know how long he'd worked for the USPS. I don't know if he ever walked a route or even what his last name is. Still, he was a person in my neighborhood. 
Dave handled hundreds of pieces of outgoing mail for me these past three years alone. Stack after stack of [sic]s but also the softball to my niece, a Beaver Inn baseball cap to M'ster and the hideous black rubber pompadour wig to my Godson Mark Jeffrey on the occasion of his graduation from high school. Dave never commented on these unwrapped items, instead faithfully advising me of my shipping options and diligently locating a place for the mailing label-- even when the "package" was a cribbage board or an ordinary river rock with someone's name and address written on one side. 
I'm so goddamned angry at my government right now. In times of peace, quasi-government agencies like the postal service might seem more like Big Brother. But this afternoon in my dusty & dated neighborhood post office, the winter afternoon sun shining in through the open door, Dave seemed more like a favorite uncle-- bound for a great adventure. Best wishes in retirement, Dave. You'll be missed... 

If Ferlinghetti reviewed The French Dispatch

The delicious chore 

                        that is 

                                     Wes Anderson’s new film

                                               The French Dispatch, so much like its 

                                                                             rich 

                                                                            and 

friendless predecessors with their gameboard chase scenes 

                                            and 

ponderous panning, equally 

     past bit parts & lineless leading roles

                                         offering Oscar-worthy performances 

                                                                                      using 

                                                                                        only 

                                                         their eyebrows and posture. 

With a gallery of 

  rogues  

so familiar but for the straightjackets and 

                         misplaced American 

                    accents not even compensating let alone over-compensating dragging on a                                                                                                                     cigarette. 

Homage upon endless homage 

                                     concealing 

Inside Artworld jokes that no one gets 

                                     within their 

                       Vanquished Folds, drunk on mouthwash 

 smuggled in by naked jailers standing statue-still through monolog upon endless monolog 

                                                                  with the visual phonetics 

       of a dreamscape 

    that flips forth-and-back 

              from color 

                  to 

      white-and-black… 

Mr. (W)Right and co-consipirators with names like 

              Roman, Hugo and Jason Schwartzmann

banging pans and pots in the echochamber of Andersonian 

                                approach avoidance, 

   vignettes of formalism shot long and slow and so close  

                                   that no one can tell if it is 

                                                                                     brilliant 

                                                                                           or 

                                                                                  not brilliant. 

Except the part where Tilda Swinton says the mad young artist 'tried to fuck her’ (after he’d decapitated two bartenders with a meat saw) is funny 

                                               because 

      she is wearing some false teeth that make her talk funny and it sounds more like ‘vhuck’... "