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!

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

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

An open letter to Haggen’s Food & Pharmacy

An open letter to Haggen’s Food & Pharmacy:

We’ve been through a lot together, Haggen’s— but I’m leaving you. This time for good. Don’t try to follow me.

You still pretend to be a local store, but you’re really just Albertsons with a green logo now. I know the grocery business is cut-throat, but the noncompete nonsense keeping that Birchwood location dark is criminal. For-profit food deserts are not OK, especially now.

I’m changing my pharmacy to the no-name place run by friendly immigrants down the street. I’ll get my produce from the Co-op (real community), my meat from Carne (humane) and my Pop Tarts from WinCo (solid employment practices). You’re odd out.

Not that Albertson’s Inc. is going to fold because I’m not shopping with you anymore. But you might check my numbers. I’ve been buying wild in your stores for 20 years even though I knew it was wrong. Casual overpricing is one thing; exploitive neighborhood freeze-out is another.

Tell Joe Albertson that if he lifts his hex off Birchwood I’ll come back. Meanwhile, I gotta go break up with WECU now.

Farewell.

Jeff Braimes, Bellingham

Dear The Bellingham Herald

Call me old-fashioned (or worse) but I have trouble starting my day without a newspaper. It's not so much for the actual NEWS-- most of that has already been published electronically-- rather I guess I just like the PAPER part of it. Coffee just doesn't taste the same absent the smell of ink and pulp.

But not for $3.14 per day.

Unless I'm reading this statement wrong, that's what McClatchy thinks I'll pay for the privilege of proofreading the Herald. I've said it before, that publishing a daily newspaper looks harder every day in our realtime information culture. Dailies are folding at a startling rate and it's impossible to build an argument disputing the trend. The morning paper has lost its relevance and will soon be something only your parents remember with melancholy-- like ashtrays or rotary phones.

But it's still a drag.

I have to eyeball my computer enough for my job; I don't want to do any more recreational screening than I have to (he said on Facebook). But every minute I have to spend reading Gallagher or the local obituaries on-line is one more minute spent sitting on my ass at my desk or slumping into my phone. And neither of those things go well with breakfast.

But I can't continue to justify a thousand bucks a year for what the Herald has become. Sometimes I think maybe I'm the last subscriber-- that they're just hiking my rate up to get me to not renew so they can stop printing one copy a day and driving it to my house, flinging it onto my parking strip on the way to their real job.

It used to arrive on the porch.

The Cascadia News is great, but only weekly in 3 dimensions. The Seattle Times is a real newspaper, but I can get that news elsewhere. It's the local stuff I'll miss. Still, I just don't think I can afford it anymore. So long, Herry. You've been grand…

Happy Father’s Day, Mom

I used to send my mother a Father’s Day card when I was in my 20s. I was between fathers at the time. And though the notion that Mama Tried implies that Mama failed– a greeting card seemed appropriate. It was.

Mom didn’t fail to be as good a father to me as she could. But she was pretty busy also being my mother, so it couldn’t have been easy. Single-parenting in the 1960s, can you imagine? There were no apps for that kind of thing.

What mom failed at historically was picking husbands. Some of those men were perfectly fathery figures to me, and in fact one of them was my actual father. But their primary roles should have been being mom’s husband, and in these roles they fell short of the household expectations. Huh.

My father father was not ‘cut out’ for the domestic life, something that might have been obvious to anyone other than a glamour-blind girl in her early 20s discovering the intoxicating nocturnal playground of North Beach in the late 1950s. Danny Braimes was ten years her senior, and one hell of a bartender in a golden age of pouring. They both wore white in their wedding at the Presidio, then drove to Ensenada back when you could still just do stuff like that. I was born 18 months later. By the time my sister arrived two years after that Daddy was well out of there.

To be fair, he came back one weekend a month to pick us up and take us to the zoo or museum or to the Sizzler. I don’t remember if it was every month, but mom never bitched about him being a deadbeat or anything. It doesn’t mean he wasn’t one, it’s just that mom didn’t want us to suspect as much, which is the highest possible road available to any single parent.

I didn’t know him well. I was just a kid and he was one of those strong mid-century men who probably didn’t know what to say to kids. We went fishing. And although we never went hunting, we did go shooting. Once on an overnight at Lake Berryessa I hit a couple of tin cans in a row with the Ruger Mark II, and Daddy said if hit one more I could have the gun. Like a lot of things, he probably hadn’t really thought this through, and he must have been pretty relieved when I missed the next can, because dropping me off on Sunday night with a handgun wouldn’t have set well with mom and I don’t think he’d have bothered welching on his deal with me. I can still smell the sweet underbrush & olive trees of the Napa woods, the acrid garnish of gunpowder floating on top. In the modern era, of course, the boy would have been given an open-ended series of second chances sufficient to knock the can off the stump and claim the prize. But this was the early 1970s, and instead my father just shrugged and zipped the pistol back in its holster, lighting a Marlboro.

I called him Daddy and still refer to him as such. Little kids often call their fathers Daddy, and if the relationship doesn’t mature, neither does the tag. I don’t know what his other offspring referred to him as. There were others after and maybe before me, but I believe my relationship with him was more developed than any of the others, such as it was. Just lucky I guess! I was in college when he died, sick & alone at a group home for the sick & alone outside Santa Rosa. By that time I already had a second ex-father.

Mom met Bill Murray (not that one) in 1975 and, after a year’s vetting, married him at the Mormon church on Ludeman Lane in San Bruno. I wore a green tuxedo like the rest of the males in the wedding party and I gave mom away. There was a reception in Aunt Susie’s backyard on Linden Avenue afterward with foamy champagne punch. From this vantage, Bill looked like a good fit– father and husband-wise. But springtime perspectives can be deceiving. After uprooting and migrating to someplace called Federal Way, Washington, it was learned that Bill and mom were not all that compatible after all. They divorced in 1983 after a couple of painful separations. Bill wasn’t great with money.

He was a very good “father” however. He coached my sports teams. He took me to see Maynard Ferguson. He told me he loved me. He did love me, and I loved him, too! Though there was never any talk of legal “adoption,” I did eventually begin to call him Dad. Not Daddy, just Dad. Bill was 6’4” and probably ran 230lbs in those days. He was terribly handsome with a flap of skin that drooped over the outside corner of his left eye which made him look like he was always listening to you very intently. After the divorce, I didn’t see him much, and when I did I called him Bill. I left for college.

Bill gave me my sex talk in August 1977, when I was still calling him Dad. He used the tits on my Farrah Fawcett poster to make his point(s) that to be interested in TV stars’ tits was perfectly natural. I didn’t really learn much about sex during the conversation, but did come away with a vague sense of relief that the furious masturbating I was doing in the direction of that poster was a dance every boy on the block was doing and that it was OK with Dad (Bill) and my Mom.

Bill liked big band jazz and would have a scotch & water with mom when he got home from work, but I don’t think usually more than one or a short two. He usually had a Kent between the massive fingers of his left hand, though—he was the first left-handed person I ever knew, or at least the first left-handed person I ever knew was left-handed. The last time I ever saw him was at my wedding, which was kind of weird because my next “father” was there, too.

Mom met Art Bender in the early 90s at a piano bar on Brown’s Point. He’d recently separated from his wife– the mother of his two biological and three adopted children– and was taking what seems in retrospect like a well-deserved breather. What he was doing in a piano bar in Northeast Tacoma I’ll never know. He couldn’t hear or sing a lick, even then. But there he was…

Mom introduced us not long after. By a cruel twist of scheduling fate it happened to be Father’s Day weekend, which was awkward for everyone since no one present was the father of anyone else present. I might actually have realized sooner than Art that I would soon be referring to him as my mother’s husband (not really my father). In any event, he divorced his wife soon after and married my mother on Independence Day 1992 in Aunt Susie’s backyard, this time in Reno. I sang “The Rose” at the bridal party’s request and then we all went downtown to play cards and get wasted.

Unlike Mom’s first two husbands, Art liked to drink. He could drink a bathtub full of bourbon and often did. I never observed it affecting him, and I don’t think it bothered Mom at first either. Eventually, however, pretty much everything Art did bothered Mom. They drove to Arkansas after the wedding and stayed there for about five years before Art was offered a transfer back to Federal Way. He took it so they could both be nearer their grown children (ahem) and they bought the house on Steel Lake in 1996. They proceeded to wait patiently for grandchildren which arrived presently in the form of mine and my sister’s kids. Mom died in the house on the lake 15 years later, married but not what you’d call happily.

That morning Art stood crying in the hallway outside the bedroom as the undertaker and his assistant zipped my Mother’s body into a black vinyl bag. Art wasn’t much of a cryer or a revealer of much any emotion, which was one of the things that had driven my Mom crazy while she was still alive. I’d only ever seen him cry once before, on the night of his adopted daughter’s death. It was as if he saved up all his emotion in between these momentous events and all the accumulated tears sprayed out like in a cartoon.

Art is an old widower now, living quite contentedly with hundreds of channels. We see him regularly, the only grandfather my kids have ever known, though he is not my father. I call him Art, always have. My sister used to sometimes call him “Pops” but I think that was mostly for Mom’s benefit. Now she mostly just calls him Art also. He’s a very good person. He was always good to Mom and he’s always been good to me and my family. Like a father you might say.

My mother was like a father to me, too, for much of my life. She always tried to do what was best for everyone, not just for herself. Whether being more selfish would have worked out better for everyone is hard to say from here. She tried, though—and in the end that’s all anyone can ask.

Happy Father’s Day, Mom…

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