Dear brother
Hey Sean,
Sorry it took me so long to get this in the mail. It has been more hectic here than usual lately, trying to squeeze a Christmas season into half the normal time…
I have some other stuff somewhere that I can’t put my hands on right now. I did a lot of shuffling of shit this past year when Julie’s and my Mom was dying. I rented some cold storage and cycled some of my own stuff out that I didn’t need every day so I could absorb half of Mom’s stuff to sort & settle. I know I have some files and albums of various pictures somewhere, and they must be in storage. Not a ton of stuff, but there is one particular stash that has some Marlin fishing photos from Mexico that are pretty rad. I’ll get to that stuff before we get together in 2014.
There are a few things in here, though. Some hilights:
Keys, cuffs and tie tacks. I would give about anything to know what these keys went to. Keys are weird that way. These are cool—one has a lion on it and one has an eagle. They don’t make keys with animals on them anymore. A couple of cool pair of cufflinks and a brass tiebar with a seal I can’t quite make out—looks like ANA with a flying bird it. Some kind of bird-hunting thing, I’d guess
Crest—I don’t know what this medal is from. It certainly aint a war medal
Powerful Pete pocket screwdriver—for your Irish
Silver Cross—for your Catholicism. I am stoked to have found this, it wasn’t with the rest of this stuff and I had to dig for it because I knew I wanted you to have it when you told me about your Christian faith. This was in a box of my stuff, because I used to wear this, on a chain around my wrist. Lost it several times—once at an Iron Maiden concert—and it came back to me every time. Blessings…
Luger buckle—I remember this piece. I never saw Danny wear a cross, but I do remember him wearing this. I researched it and it looks like it’s only from the ‘70s or late ‘60s, but it’s bitchin’
Ferrari patch—it’s a Ferrari patch
Ticklish Boys—this is the original newspaper clipping of the dynamite incident. Again—it seems like this should be yours J
Silver spoon—I honestly don’t know if this was Danny’s or just Maggie’s. It belonged to one of them. Probably not old enough to be Maggie’s baby spoon, and I don’t think it was his baby spoon, either. But it’s old and it’s significant
Giants pennant—for your box of SF sports memorabilia. This was mine and it has to be from the very early ‘70s if not the late ‘60s
WATTS—this was my band later, after the metal band PANIC. Still pretty heavy and great guitar work on this. I don’t know if you have a turntable
Anyway, it’s been good getting to know you this year, Sean. I realize you have not only a tall mountain to climb, but a slippery summit to stay atop once you do get up there. I am pulling for you and am willing to help as I can. I’m grateful that you’ve been able to give me the space I need to get started on this relationship. As you know, I have overfilled my own life and struggle to stay balanced. I’m working on it.
Julie & I will get down to the Bay in the first half of 2014. Until then, stay clean and stay free. Have a good holiday season-- there is much to be thankful for, always.
Yours,
Jeff
Dear The Bellingham Herald
McClatchy
1601 Alhambra Blvd., Suite 100
Sacramento, CA 95816
Thursday June 9, 2022
To whom it may—
Publishing a daily newspaper looks hard these days. But I don’t think I can continue to pay a thousand dollars a year for the privilege of proofreading The Bellingham Herald.
Bellingham is a town of just fewer than 100,000 about 100 miles north of Seattle. You guys acquired the paper along with the other Knight-Ridder books in 2006. Fyi.
It’s never been a great paper, but it’s been our paper and that’s historically been worth the delivery price. Even when it didn’t show up for a few days and even when it began appearing on the parking strip and not the porch—there’s just something comforting about a morning paper where you may know someone in the obituary section.
But at $3.14 per issue, I cry uncle.
Maybe I’m reading this invoice incorrectly. I don’t feel like it was half this expensive last time I renewed. Maybe it was and I just didn’t notice because I was so rich at the time and now I’m so poor.
Either way, I think I’m out.
Regrets,
Jeff Braimes, Bellingham WA
Rick Sands 1964-2024
After 60 years of making everything he did look easy, Rick Sands slipped peacefully from this plane Friday August 23rd after a lingering pulmonary illness.
Rick was born in Puyallup on April 8, 1964 and grew up in Pierce County. He attended Puyallup High School where he lettered in baseball, starting at third base and hitting for both power & average. He graduated in 1982 before enrolling at Green River Community College where he majored in pointy shoes, charming the ladies silly, and rock & roll radio at the college’s 100-watt FM station KGRG. Rick quickly earned a drive-time slot, inviting listeners to sink in to the Quick Sands while spinning not only the hits of the day but also whatever he personally felt like listening to at the moment. The entire Kent/Auburn Valley was obliged to listen along.
When college life wasn’t quick enough, Rick packed up his rock & roll and took over iconic Tower Records, managing stores in Tacoma & Seattle. He was a natural for ‘the business’ with its hype & glamour. When retail no longer thrilled him, Rick left to get ever nearer to the source, taking a job at Polygram Group Distribution in San Francisco. Now instead of letting Ozzy in the back door for an in-store at Tower Mercer, he was driving Bob Stinson to Flint’s Barbeque in Oakland in his red Karmann Ghia.
Rick returned to the Seattle area in the early ‘90s, ready to settle down. He married a high school sweetheart and the couple bought their first home in Des Moines into which they welcomed the two daughters who would become the greatest among Rick’s many joys. He took out his earrings and slipped into a sweater vest and got his real estate license, quickly becoming a top producer in Southwest King County. He sold luxury Sands Castles to the elite of Normandy Park and Three Tree Point, joining their ranks eventually. The vanity plates on his black BMWs read SOLDOUT.
Ultimately even the hype & glamour of the real estate business lost its sparkle, and Rick quit the life to pursue a decades-long passion for food. He instantly established himself as a force to be reckoned in the Olde Burien food & drink corridor-- chopping at 909, pouring at 913 and curating a wildly-successful film series at the Tin Room’s jewelbox Tin Theater. He was the toast of 152nd and still is.
Even a long life is too short. Rick never got to see his Mariners in a World Series, and he was never (officially) elected Mayor of Burien. But Rick packed a startling amount of living into his 60 years. He was larger (and louder) than life: when Rick Sands arrived at the party, everyone knew it. He loved a large #1 Phó. He loved extra innings and pocket aces. He loved seeing a young British band breaking on their first tour of the U.S. He loved his dogs. But most of all, he loved his girls.
Rick is preceded in death by his mother Quick Jean Sands; his father Richard Henry Sands; Hopkinz & Rocco. He is survived by daughters Olivia Jean Sands and Sophie Sands; brother Willard Thomas (Diane); sister Mary Thomas Anderson; niece Gwen; nephew Charles and niece Alicia; girlfriend Vanessa Raney; and Red the toothless cockapoo.
Rick Sands could talk to any one about any thing and often did—always leading with those pale blue eyes. And not just waitresses and ticket scalpers. Not just rock stars and real estate developers. He could make the old lady ushers at the ballpark blush, and older men often called him Ricky. He could win over the fans of the other team. He was a fast talker, a slow pitcher and a generous charity auctioneer. He could make his hair do the impossible, always. He embraced sarcasm but was also infinitely sensitive & sentimental—a real softy. He made others feel good, and people just wanted to be around him. Rick Sands came from a small family, but he had a ton of friends across many circles. Some of those circles venned over; others didn’t. But no one who knew him ever met anyone else quite like him.
One thing Rick did not much care for (besides tomatoes on his sandwich) was a funeral. In consideration of this, a joyous celebration of life will be planned for 2025. Like as in the entire year: 2025 will be the Year of Rick Sands. It will be filled with story & song, laughter & libation. Stay tuned for dress code.
The family would like to acknowledge the excellence of care Rick received at Swedish Medical Center—First Hill during his final days. The staff—from the specialists to the custodians—were flush with grace and empathy, comforting both Rick and his loved ones during the most trying of times. Through it all, Rick kept his dignity and his humor. His laugh will be missed by many.
Wooden Nickels
I bought stereo speakers from a guy in a white van long before doing so was a punchline. Talk about your wooden nickels!
To be fair, I think they were pretty good speakers. I couldn’t say for sure, though, because I never plugged them in to my stereo. I couldn’t bring them home because I was supposed to be saving money for college and my mom would have hit the roof.
I drove from the Winchell’s parking lot to the bank and withdrew $200. I had to walk inside a branch of Rainier Bank because the ATM had not been invented yet. This was 1981.
The guy was waiting outside and he took the speakers out of the back of his van and set them in the parking lot. He counted the money like a pro and then without another word, he got back in the white van and drove away.
They were new, still wrapped in plastic. I don’t remember the brand. He said his boss at the stereo store had ordered too many pair and he had to get rid of them so he was selling them for way less than what they cost on the floor. I don’t recall that price. But $200 was a lot of bread in 1981. Of course they were hot, duh.
I put them in the backseat of my ‘71 Impala and drove to Larry’s house. He wasn’t saving money for college and his parents may not even have realized he was still living there at the time. Larry was the youngest of five kids and his folks were pretty much done hitting the roof about much of anything by the time he was in high school. We agreed that he would be merely fostering the speakers, but of course I’d never get any closer to plugging them in to my own stereo than I was right then, leaving Larry’s parents’ house in Redondo.
I used to set my beer down on them whenever I’d go over to Larry’s apartment years later. He had a nice stereo that sounded great with the speakers. They made good end tables for setting your beer on or else the white gnome-shaped ceramic bong that we referred to simply as ‘the gnome.’
We listened to a lot of Rush through those speakers, but Larry & Scott were into reggae too, and also the second Peter Gabriel record with ‘Shock the Monkey’ on it. That song sounded really good coming out of my speakers after an hour with the gnome.
Larry moved a lot. Like pretty much every year he would just move, seemingly for the sake of moving. His job never changed, nor did his roommates. He wasn’t moving up or down, rather he just seemed to be moving. I’d usually help him move and I guess I must have carried those speakers up some flights of south King County apartment stairs a few times while Larry was setting up his waterbed. I don’t think they let you have waterbeds in apartments these days, but this was the 1980s. Ed smoked tobacco inside, too-- it was like the wild west…
I don’t know why I bought the speakers. I obviously got sold hard by some slick fencer, but in my secondary ring of logic I don’t know what the fuck I thought I was going to do with the speakers. I had another year of high school and then planned to do two years at Green River Community College earning an AA before transferring to Western Washington University. I’d be living at home during the first two years and just because I was in college and just because I was an adult and just because I had worked in restaurants since age 15 and had my own money didn’t mean I could buy a $200 set of stereo speakers! It was just out of the question-- an unwritten rule. It was like a household code, and I knew it wasn’t worth the shrill hassle even though my regular speakers were so shitty. Nothing was more important to me at that time in my life than music, yet I suffered with my shitty stereo almost as pre-penance for some future sin I was certain to commit once I finally saved up all my tips and got to college. How perfectly Calvinist.
The home speakers I had in my car were so shitty they made the speakers in my room sound like the speakers at Larry’s. They took up pretty much the whole back window, these shoebox sized grocery store speakers, mounted to the rear deck behind the backseat. I’m sure it’s illegal to block your back window with home stereo speakers these days, just like sleeping in a waterbed on the 2nd floor or smoking inside. But again—a different time...
The top of that back deck was also covered in gold shag carpet just like every other surface in the car that wasn’t a seat or a dashboard or a headliner (though I did try to get it overhead). The carpet had come out of the living room when my mom had new berber installed, and during the 3-night simulcast of the Rolling Stones October run at the Kingdome, I pulled the seats out and laid the shag carpet in the Impala. The car had been sitting in the driveway for a year before I got my license and there were mushrooms growing in it. So I pulled the seats and peeled the stock carpet and scrubbed every inch of the metal chassis with bleach before cutting in the gold shag and bolting the seats back in. I thought I was going to be like a white Cholo, but ’71 was too late a model for hydraulics and my mom wouldn’t let me buy mag wheels or tires with raised white lettering anyway. So I just put the used house carpet in instead.
I didn’t care much for the Rolling Stones at the time and remember thinking that they were so old and irrelevant. Some friends were going to the show and I thought about it for about a minute before deciding to stay home and work on my car. But I did listen to KISW’s simulcast, in the garage with a bottle of bleach and a toothbrush. Of course I was wrong about the Stones and dearly would like to go back and confront that decision again. The Tattoo You tour, fucking god. But even Lester Bangs famously proclaimed them dead after Let it Bleed, so I suppose everyone guesses wrong sometimes…
Larry helped me move a lot, too, once I finally did get that Associate’s degree and transfer to Western-- right on schedule. So even though my moves were of a less recreational variety, they were still moves. And they weren’t two-milers, either-- rather grueling marches up-and-down I5, usually capered in the middle of the night after several hours of load ‘n’ gnome. I had a waterbed, too, and in those days it was still legal to sleep in it on the top floor of a 100-year old 4-story house on a hill in Bellingham. So Larry and I were both moving yearly, breaking down and subsequently re-assembling waterbeds each time.
What I did have that Larry didn’t were dozens of ticket stubs and 2” square pictures of Nikki Sixx and Phil Taylor clipped from pages of Kerrang! magazine taped all over the walls of my room, filling in the gutters between posters and record flats. And sometimes Larry would arrive to load me out and not only would I not have drained my bed yet, but I wouldn’t even have started taking down the wallpaper. Carefully, I would start to peel off the scotchtape loops on the back of the thin paper squares so that I could put the pictures up again in my next room. No wonder it was midnight before we ever got on the road.
Larry drove a little red Mitsubishi pickup. Many years later—at the beginning of a real move, from Washington to California—he would drag the truck all the way from Kirkland to Federal Way, ‘towing’ it behind the U-Haul but with the parking brake on. So, you know, new tires in FW! But long before that, on one of our midnight drives south from Bellingham, my knee itched. Larry and Scott are big guys, each 6’+, so I was always stuck in the middle of the bench seat when the three of us rolled in the Mitsu which was fairly often. We were listening to Peter Tosh and smoking pot like it was going out of style, which, as it turns out it wasn’t-- but we couldn’t have known that at the time. Here we were, these three honkies car-trodding down I5 in the middle of the night with all my stuff in the open bed of the pickup and my right knee is still itching even though I had already scratched it. I’d scratch it and then forget about it but then eventually it would occur to me that it still itched. I started to worry that I had smoked so much ganja that I was becoming paralyzed, so I wiggled my toes and was relieved to find they still worked. I tried scratching my knee again.
“Why do you keep scratching my knee?” Scott laughed, and I looked down to see myself scratching Scott’s left knee. This is something we used to call stoney baloney.
I don’t know if I thought the speakers were a good investment or what. Even if they were a screamin’ deal (I’m sure they weren’t) it wasn’t like they were going to appreciate in value like a traditional investment. Like if I paid $200 for them on a Wednesday afternoon and by the time I got them to Larry’s they were worth $207? If Larry kept them long enough and we didn’t spill too much bongwater on them I’d be able to sell them someday for half-a-million bucks? Unlikely. While it’s true that with the escalating wealth disparity in this country, the ponderously rich are buying wine they don’t intend to drink and comic books they have no interest in reading as ‘investments’ because they’re so fucking bored trying to spend their money conventionally—these speakers would likely never be seen as conventionally collectible.
Talk about your wooden nickels…
Karate Church
We didn’t really give a fuck about shit in autumn of 1986. We were college students in the pre-internet age. Ronald Reagan was in the White House, but we felt like we were in charge in Bellingham, and in a lot of respects we were.
It was easy to find your way home drunk when you lived at 1111 High Street. Plus right next door was the sub-iconic Karate Church, home to the Bellingham Karate Academy. We named our band Karate Church and tapped the keg. Eight of us lived there (John slept in a walk-in closet) along with a drape-climbing tabby named Fuckstick. We took out what the University called ‘institutional loans’ and bought half-ounces, which we grammed out. It was a good system.
Karate Church had some original tunes but mostly we played junk rock covers and may have been the only band ever to cover Zeppelin and the Misfits equally straight of face. We played ‘Nice Boys’ by Rose Tattoo before Guns ‘n’ Roses, and could go Dead Boys to Beastie Boys in the matter of a half-set.
I invited my future wife to a party at 1111 the first time I ever talked to her. I’d been waiting to meet her for a year already and finally just approached her to tell her who the fuck I was. She knew who I was. She did not attend the party.
Anyway, most of the windows in the house were broken at that party and we were evicted the following week. Incredibly, I was able to find a room in a house up the street and moved my waterbed and all my records up there for the last quarter before I graduated. I was already in Panic and pretty anxious to get to Seattle and start doing some serious headbanging-- but Karate Church was a very pleasurable & socially profitable way to pass the spring of 1987.
Karate Church still stands. I get cottonmouth every time I drive by it, feeling a bit like someone in witness protection. You can’t go back…
Melody Way
“How much does the melody weigh?”
Rachel Cinders asked herself the question again as she stepped off the 74 into a deep puddle at the corner of 43rd and Densmore. It had been one of those days.
“How much does the melody weigh?” she continued asking as she walked the final six blocks of her 45-minute commute in a steady rain, the guitar case in her hand growing heavier with each step.
“How much does the melody weigh?”
By the time she reached the apartment, Rachel still hadn’t arrived at an answer. But she was tired of trying and tired of asking. Rachel was just plain tired. All she wanted right now was a drink.
Before she could get her key in the lock, the door swung open and there was Dominic with that very drink held over his head. On his face was a euphoric grin that traditionally had meant trouble for Rachel.
“You did it, baby!” he exclaimed, handing her the wine and picking up the guitar. “Congratulations!”
Rachel had no idea what he was talking about, but she was so grateful for the glass in her hand and for not having to carry the guitar another step that she collapsed back against the wall of the corridor and closed her eyes.
“I did it,” she repeated. “Awesome…”
Dominic kissed her cold cheek and disappeared into the apartment. Rachel was surprised to find him home at all, let alone with dinner started. The apartment smelled like Bangaluru. From the kitchen counter Dominic picked up his own drink and spun to face her, again raising a glass of red wine over his head.
“To American Idol,” he said triumphantly, pointing his chin in her direction.
Rachel stood in the entryway of the apartment and stared at her lover. He had got to be kidding.
“Oh, wow—great,” she said, summoning as much enthusiasm as possible, which wasn’t much. “Did they call or something?”
“I got the email this afternoon,” Dominic said, taking a sip of his wine. Rachel could see one empty bottle on the counter behind him, next to an open second. Dominic had been home for some time, preparing a celebration.
Bless his heart, she thought, hanging up her coat and scarf in the hall closet. Auditioning for reality TV shows had been Dominic’s idea. And though she knew exposure was a key element in the career of a singer-songwriter, she held a much different view of the genre’s integrity. Rachel’s tepid reaction to the news that she’d cleared the final round of auditions and would actually be cast as a contestant in the upcoming season of the popular television series was not lost on Dominic.
He set his wine down on the dining room table and took Rachel in his arms. “I know it’s not your favorite, Rae” he said softly, kissing her first on the lips and then down her long neck. She wrapped her free arm around his shoulders and closed her eyes. It was, in fact, among her least favorites.
Pulling suddenly away, Dominic went to the stove and stirred the curry. “But you gotta trust me on this, babe” he said, pointing a wooden spoon in her direction. “This is going to be really good for you.” His head tipped back. “American fucking idol!”
What was agreed between them was that Rachel had the stuff to make it. Though she had only been writing music since grad school, she was a gifted songstress. Unlike the other musicians in the couple’s social circle, Rachel didn’t have a weak leg. She could sing, play, write and perform—a four-tool natural who stopped people in their steps with her songs, whether on a stage or when busking on the sidewalks of Seattle’s trendy neighborhoods. She was tall and beautiful which didn’t hurt. But she was also smart and funny, educated and poised. She was meant to be a star. But it’s a long way to the top if you want to folk and roll—something Rachel’d been finding out since forsaking her career in academic administration in order to pursue music full-time.
She sat wearily on the edge of the couch and pulled off her long leather boots. The couple’s black cat Cicely jumped into her lap as Rachel settled back into the cushions and reached for the iPad on the end table. Dominic watched her as he shook the broccoli from the colander. He’d learned that continuing to drill down into the details of the today’s email would only serve to cool his artist girlfriend on the idea further. He poured himself another glass of wine instead.
Initially it had been them. A handsome, harmonizing couple with acoustic guitars, they had worked hard for three years gigging and recording under the name Blue Wind. Unlike Rachel, Dominic had been playing music his entire life and had never known another passion. But also unlike her, he was an average player with a nasally singing voice. His songs betrayed his desperation to be relevant; his talent did not match his desire. Where Rachel’s music sounded effortless, Dominic’s strained. It was obvious to everyone-- including Dominic-- that he was holding her back. And though they still played an occasional open mic together, their emphasis was now on Rachel’s solo act—she as the star, he as the producer.
When the rice was done, the couple dined by candlelight, opening a third bottle of wine and carefully avoiding the topic of American Idol. They ended up in bed early, in a twist of sheets, discarded clothing scattered in a path from the dining room. Through the half-open bedroom window, the sound of tires swishing down the wet pavement of Wallingford’s backstreets provided a soundtrack to their curried lovemaking. Afterward, as Rachel lay purring across Dominic’s chest, her red hair spread out like fire, a tune formed in her mind and she climbed aboard it, humming along.
“How much does the melody weigh” she sang in a whisper as they slid to sleep in the quieting dark of the room.
Rachel could not have known that the Wednesday night vegetarian dinner in February would be the last one she’d enjoy unspoiled by American Idol for nearly a year. Dominic weaned her onto the process as gradually as he could, but there wasn’t much time for romancing the details, with conference calls and emails, pre-press interviews and psychiatric screenings cueing up almost immediately. And contracts! So many contracts Rachel’s red head spun. Dominic dealt on as much of it as possible while she was away in an effort to keep the apartment an American Idol Free Zone. But each day seemed to bring some new corporate requirement-- another legal meeting, another set of documents to sign. Indifference gave way to regret and quickly to resentment, as Rachel found herself being asked to devote more and more focus to an idea she hadn’t loved in the first place. Her outlook on the business darkened. Her sleep was disrupted. And worst of all, the songs that used to flow from her so easily stopped coming altogether.
“If they want me on their stupid show so bad,” she asked again, in a meeting at the home office of their attorney Neil Stussman, “why can’t I do it the way I want?” Stussman and Dominic exchanged a here-we-go-again look as the lawyer set down his pen.
“Rae, we’ve been through this,” said Dominic patiently, reaching for her hand. “The rules for the first three rounds are clear: you have to do a cover song. Please let’s not work backwards on this...” Rachel withdrew her hand and shoved it in her coat pocket, glowering. Dominic glanced at Stussman. “Anyway, I thought we decided you’d sing ‘Because the Night.’”
They had. Rachel’s haunting version of the Patti Smith song was part of her regular repertoire and the network producers had already signed off on it. In Dominic’s mind it represented the minimal artistic concession. Rachel wanted to perform one of her own compositions. However, it was—as they say in the business— a non-negotiable.
The days passed slowly for Rachel as Dominic deftly prepared for their final descent into Los Angeles. He trained the temporary replacement for his position at the downtown marketing firm where he was a junior partner. He booked the flights and ground transportation and briefed the cat sitter. He stopped the newspaper and mail.
He didn’t know how long they’d be away. If things went “well” by Dominic’s standards, they could be in Los Angeles as long as ten weeks. If things worked out the way Rachel secretly hoped, they’d be home eating sushi in a bubble bath together by the weekend. Dominic packed for his version.
“You think the beige lace top or the black silk blazer with these fire tights?” he asked, holding all three garments up for Rachel’s consideration. “I figured you’d wear the suede boots with this outfit either way. Maybe the pashmina scarf...”
Rachel was lying on the bed dressed in cut-off sweats and a stretched-out FBI Academy t-shirt. At the moment, she didn’t care if she ever changed clothes again.
“That’s fine, dude,” she said vacantly, scrolling through texts with one hand while stroking Cicely’s smooth back with the other. “I told you whatever you think is fine...”
Dominic tossed all three pieces into the open suitcase. Though he was starting to get a little stressed out himself, the excitement of the trip was still driving him. He was living vicariously through Rachel, he knew that. They referred to this opportunity as “theirs” but Dominic knew the score and was fine with it. Still, it hadn’t stopped him from undertaking a makeover of his own, including a hip new pair of eyeglasses and a bold haircut, going short for the first time in decades. He agonized over his own wardrobe as much as Rachel’s as he packed for two. He wanted to do her proud. Dominic cast a tender glance at her from across the room as he matched her loose socks. He wanted this so badly for her...
Rachel sat on a moulded plastic chair in the makeshift greenroom of the American Idol set on a Thursday in October, lightly strumming her tobacco Gibson Hummingbird. She was not watching the previous contestant sing Aretha Franklin’s “Respect” on the wall-mounted monitor. She didn’t need to. Rachel had a secret.
Dominic paced in the aisle behind the chair, filling and refilling a crumpled plastic cup from the water cooler in the corner. Occasionally he offered Rachel a cup, and she would only use her eyes to point to the one she had already accepted from him, sitting on the table next to her. He was a nervous wreck.
She was not. Since shortly after arriving in LA, a warm calm had descended over Rachel. Had Dominic not been so preoccupied with his own anxiety, he might have been comforted by her contentment. Rachel had a secret…
As “Respect” gave way to applause, Brenna the intern entered the room and told Dominic it would be three minutes. His eyes widened. Rachel continued lightly strumming her guitar.
“Baby, it’s time,” said Dominic as if she were about to be led to the gallows. He came around in front of the chair and squatted down before her. He drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly.
“Now-- don’t forget on the second chorus, the empha—“
Rachel stopped strumming and placed her right index finger against Dominic’s dry lips. She held it there long enough for him to realize she had something to say. He settled to his knees and listened.
“Baby,” she said leaning in toward him, “Have I told you lately how much I love you?”
Dominic smiled and attempted to proceed with his coaching. “That second chorus…”
Again Rachel’s shush.
“Dominic I love you so much,” she continued. “All I want is to be with you. I’m so grateful for everything you’ve done for me here and at home, and I plan to go out on that fake stage in 90 seconds and make you proud of me.”
She stared into his dark eyes and smiled—the first genuine smile he’d noticed since February.
“Be here when I get done, OK?” she said. And with that, she kissed him and stood up from the chair. Brenna led her through a series of doors, talking into her headset as they drew nearer to the sound stage. The cool shadows of the wings gave way to the blare of the set lights as Rachel stepped confidently through the curtain and toward the television cameras that were about to record the most obscene violation of “Because the Night” ever performed.
She took her place on the 3-legged stool in front of the microphone stand, smiling easily as she answered the scripted questions from the judge’s panel. Everything went as it had been rehearsed through the intro of the song. But when the singing began, it was clear that Rachel Cinders from Seattle had a secret and that she intended to tell it.
Some critics say lyrics aren’t an important part of contemporary music—that people don’t really listen to them. But even if most people don’t know what the words to a song are supposed to say, they usually do know what they’re not supposed to. And Rachel was singing a version of this song that you weren’t supposed to—especially on TV.
The lyrical reference to “need” in the first verse became greed. “Stand” became banned, “disguise” disgust, and-- of course-- “undercover” was reborn as motherfucker.
Uncomfortable looks were exchanged between the judges and floor director as she approached the chorus:
Because the night belongs to lovers
Because the night belongs to us
Don’t give a damn ‘bout American Idol
Please Dominic, just take me home
Discomfort behind the cameras gave way to horror.
“They can’t touch us now,” Rachel sang passionately as the song rounded the last verse, headed for home. “Now we know what a melody weighs…”
When it was over, the audience applauded because that’s what it is programmed to do. But it was clear the judges were not amused, and as Rachel strode purposefully through the backstage peeling off clip mics and deflecting the disbelieving stares of the crew, she smiled a knowing smile-- no longer burdened with her secret. She’d told it. And though her confession would never be shown on television, she’d told it just the same. Her version.
Through the labyrinth and beyond the greenroom where the next contestant sat gawking, Rachel made her way, guitar in-hand, two uniformed security guards following at a safe & silent distance. And at the end of hall, under a green EXIT sign at the door to freedom waited Dominic, smiling widely, the tears still in his eyes. He pushed open the metal door that read emergency exit only and as the alarms began to ring, the lovers stepped out together into the brilliant sunlight of the Southern California afternoon.
Water too Wet
It was OK I guess.
The beds were comfortable but I didn’t sleep very well. The towels seemed brand new, but they were blue and I like white towels best in vacation rentals. The weather was hot and the pool felt good to swim in but your hair always looks bad later after it dries. Plus going inside to get more beer in wet shorts always makes you cold because the air conditioning worked pretty strong. There was plenty of propane in the barbecue, but we didn’t get enough oysters so we had to cook some of those frozen hamburger patties and I always eat too many of those because they’re so small. The patio was cracked and Auntie Patti stubbed her toe twice. Also the can opener didn’t work!!!
The house was pretty big and there were lots of board games— not that we played any, instead sitting around drinking beer and talking about the people that weren’t there. I’d rather play board games.
Kim & Caleb were nice, and he came right over to fix the stereo but he was wearing a black cowboy hat and I don’t know if he’s an antifa or not.
But yeah, it was OK I guess. Lots of parking. Two stars.
Joe the Barker
Just in time for the holidays, this happened.
A Papa Murphy's pizza restaurant in Bellingham, WA teamed up with a local job placement service to re-assign and elevate a popular disabled neighborhood panhandler, creating a win-win-win situation for the ages.
Joe B. made a decent supplemental living for years working the southeast corner of James and Alabama Streets in Bellingham's up-and-coming Sunnyland neighborhood with a cardboard sign that read NO DRUGS. In October, thanks to the creativity of a forward-thinking caseworker, Joe was handed a W2 and issued a uniform and a foamcore arrow sign advertising Papa's famous pizza dough (baked fresh daily). Joe’s territory hadn't changed-- but everything else had.
"It seemed like an obvious application," said Isaac Fornettes, Joe's case manager at Service Alternatives a social service that specializes in job placement for the disabled. "I approached Papa Murphy’s and they were very receptive. The rest was easy."
Haven Cole, manager of the Papa store in Sunnyland Square hired Joe on the spot, after an hour-long interview.
"Joe had a lot of questions," explained Haven smiling, suggesting Joe was as much interviewing her as the other way around. If she is trying to conceal her pride in having Joe on her staff, she's doing a terrible job of it. With deep, expressive eyebrows, a medusa, and earlobes stretched from tapers, Haven beams when talking about her star barker. “Joe’s got a big heart,” she said, shrugging. “Why wouldn’t you hire him?”
For his part, Joe is very committed to what he’s doing, putting that big heart on display every shift. Throwing himself into his work with seemingly little regard for his rotator cuffs, his curb crackles with energy. Crouching and leaping, Joe cycles through a routine of moves, but favors one he calls steering wheel-- a vigorous side-to-side shimmy guaranteed to grab the attention of even the most distracted driver. Sometimes he dances. Often he waves. Occasionally he sings, changing the words of folk songs to incorporate pizza, signs and cars. But mostly, it’s steering wheel for up to four hours at a time.
“As long as it works,” he says, punctuating the statement with a finger in the air.
Originally from Arizona, Joe moved to Washington State ten years ago in search of better healthcare. He is very open in discussing the automobile accident and the resulting brain injury that has stunted his physical and non-physical development. Joe was two years old at the time of the accident. He’s now 35.
Relaxing in the subsidized apartment where he lives alone, Joe indeed has questions. He wonders why people would be interested in reading his story. The drapes in his apartment are drawn against the late afternoon sun shining over the traffic on I-5 just outside the window. It is the Tuesday before Thanksgiving and the windchill outside makes it feel like it’s about zero degrees. The heat in the apartment is turned up very high.
To go with his questions, Joe has plenty of answers, and he doesn’t mind being asked stuff. His responses generally start out low, then crescendo in the middle as his engagement in the topic builds, before tapering down and concluding where they started, almost in a whisper. His favorite pizza is the 5-meat, which he takes with Diet Pepsi. The smore dessert pie is pretty good, too, for $5. Plus he gets half-off after his shift, so it’s only $2.50. Even I can easily divide $5 in-half, but Joe is very good with numbers, quickly recounting to the minute his last four shifts and effortlessly calculating their corresponding gross pay. He also has a deep knowledge of the WTA bus system and can tell you most any stop on most any route.
Joe doesn’t drive. He “tricks” traffic by walking King Street under Alabama. He’s well-known in Sunnyland and can be seen on his way to work or the bank. His previous straight job, before he was with Service Alternatives, was filling soap bottles at Brambleberry Soaps, also in Sunnyland. Joe likes his current position better, saying the soap job was “boring, after all.”
And while he admits the Papa Murphy’s job pays better than panhandling (a term he & Isaac both use freely), he does not look back on it as a negative chapter in his life. In fact, he may actually still keep it as a hobby, though not in Bellingham.
“It’s been rewarding to watch this transformation in Joe,” says Isaac. “But he was a bit reluctant at first to give up panhandling. He knows he has a presence in the community now, though, and that he can’t have both.”
Joe explains how he apprenticed under an experienced panhandler who still works Sunset Square. At the time, Joe would wander the sidewalks in front of the smaller shops flanking what was then Cost Cutter. But The Master taught Joe how to design a sign, always being careful to include NO DRUGS and/or ALCOHOL. Joe also learned to take a perch on the corner, where the automobile traffic was. But since the Sunset corners were crowded, Joe struck out on his own, staking his claim on James Street, where he stayed until falling in with Isaac & Haven late this summer.
Next time you pass Joe on the corner give him a wave or a shimmy with your wheel. Better yet, pull in to Papa Murph’s and grab a pie. Tell ‘em Joe sent you!
Do peeves make good pets?
How many peeves are we allowed to keep as pets before they’re just peeves? And what’s the difference, anyway? Do Pet Peeves get to sleep on the bed with us while the general population shivers outside or in the garage? Are some peeves domesticated and others feral?
Pets of any variety are comforting. They love us unconditionally and are generally free of the bullshit hang-ups that render the relationships with our upright companions so frequently intolerable. Whether we keep dogs or cats or snakes or goats, many of us are more invested in our pets than we are in the seemingly more primary relationships in our lives including the ones we flog with our spouses, children and parents.
But where is the line? How much is too much—how many too many?
Every neighborhood has a “crazy cat lady.” No one visits her because her furniture & cutlery is coated in a film of silky dander and the whole place smells hard of piss. Cat lady’s house is usually too warm inside. The mewing is unnerving.
Robert Stroud was known as the Birdman of Alcatraz, despite the fact that he was not allowed to keep birds on The Rock. And although he did raise hundreds of canaries and author several well-respected books on Orthonology during a prior sentence at Leavenworth, the dude was evil & insane. A poor model.
Plenty of dog owners not only dress their best friends in garish sweaters & hats, but often don complimentary or even matching outfits themselves. This is not OK. Not OK.
So who is to say how many peeves I can reasonably keep as pets? Is the peeve police going to come to my door? Are my neighbors going to turn me in? Should I be more careful about the kind of loose assertions I make on social media?
I don’t much give a damn. We’ve all got our hangups, and sometimes it feels good to vent. So whether I have room in the kennel for all these peeves or not, I’m not sure. But here are a few of my favorite peeves, otherwise known as the kind of shit that just drives me crazy.
stuff all over the floor. Not too many things that aren’t always on the floor belong there. Furniture and rugs go on the floor, and shoes can too. Towels, coats, pencils, guitar picks, cereal bowls, cellular telephones and eyeglasses do not
motorists yielding to jaywalkers. Stopping your car in traffic and encouraging someone to step off a curb is not the responsible or compassionate thing to do. It is the stupid-head thing to do. It puts you both in danger
when people don’t talk good. Our language is deteriorating before our very ears. While the low expectations of the internet are certainly contributing to this regrettable trend, mis-use of words like irony & literally has been going on for years as well as any use of conversate, supposably or irregardless
plus when people write bad. There/their/they’re; too/to/two; your/you’re; then/than; could have/could of; alot/a lot; than/then etc etc etc
“everything happens for a reason.” This heavyweight challenger of all copouts is second in its numbing lameness only to the milky-eyed reference to “God’s will.” It’s true that things happen for reasons. But those reasons are that someone drove drunk, got cancer, or didn’t pay their taxes– not that a divine entity threw a lightening bolt like a javelin in order to facilitate hard personal growth or otherwise “test” someone to whom an unthinkable tragedy has occurred. Shit happens by cause-and-effect and raw chance, not because we have lessons to learn. We may learn them– but that’s not why shit happens in the first place
cat turds in the houseplants
LOL
broken bottle of Michelob
That’s about it. Pretty much everything else is fine with me.