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.

Fidel Castro 8/13/26 – 11/25/16

Revolution is a fetching ideal for those who can afford it. But as uncomfortable as DJ Trump makes me, I am still probably a little too cozy to-- you know-- 'take up arms' or whatever you guys call it. Not as so in Cuba in the late 1950s.

Whether 50 years of Castronomics elevated the high of the average Cuban is, incredibly, still unclear on the Monday after his death was cheered in Miami and solemnly mourned in Havana. As confounding a figure as has ever pounded a podium, Castro made a career out of thumbing his great nose at the omnipresent hovering United States, brushing off assassination attempts like dandruff. He in turn treated his lesser adversaries to much more effective brands of merciless retribution. It was Fidel's way or the highway-- a highway often stocked with hammerhead sharks or lined with firing squads.

My mother's future husband Arthur Bender was a 20-year-old sophomore at Rutgers during the holiday break of 1959, and with a few more days to kill before returning to the books, he and 3 buddies piled into a car and drove down the eastern seaboard to some stockcar race in Sebring, Florida. Back then you could just do shit like that on a whim. One thing similarly led to another and before the boys knew it they'd taken a dare flight from Key West to Havana where they stood amongst the cheering throngs as Castro's freedom fighters rolled west into Havana atop the very tanks that had vanquished the forces of the previous badass dictator, Fulgencio Batista.

But even revolutionaries like a good photo gag, and a few of them paused to yuck it up with the young Americans on their way to the Havana Hilton. Stick em up, Yankee...

Americans can say what they want about Fidel Castro, but it is worth noting that we just elected Donald Trump to be our president. It's unlikely he will be 'in power' for 50 weeks let alone 50 years, but with comparable morals and only a pale fraction of the conviction, intelligence and personality of Fidel Castro, he could really leave a lasting mark.

Bob Simmons 6/18/30-6/15/19

The civilization lost an MVP this week. Bob Simmons has been my hero since the day I met him, and I know he's cast a similar spell on many of us. The man did everything well, but perhaps nothing was as lasting as when he'd clap you on the shoulder, look you deep in the eye and say "Gee, it's good to see ya." You always knew he meant it, because Bob weren't no bullshitter.

He was of my parents' generation, but he never seemed old to me. He had the curiosity of a child and the enthusiasm of a teenager; the knowledge of a grownup and the wisdom of an elder. I learned of his death on Father's Day-- ironic, as I felt a stronger connection to him than to any man in my blood family, my own son excepted.

It was an honor to serve as his & Dee's Realtor. Not because being someone's Realtor is so great, but because I got to spend so much time with them! For eight years we looked at houses in Bellingham. Sometimes not for six months at a time while Dee was trouncing cancer. Other times we'd see three houses a week. For eight years! The distinct & exclusive pleasure of driving the streets of Bellingham with Bob & Dee was mine. "We'd better see it, Jeffer," Bob would say. And we would...

The first one hundred + houses weren't right. But somewhere in the first third of that second hundred homes peeked the bashful but very earnest home on Toledo Hill where Bob left his things before going to the hospital and ultimately to hospice to die on the 62nd anniversary of the marriage to his very beloved Dee. His grandson was married bedside with Bob's only son officiating. You just can't draw it up any better than that...

As if Bob, Dee & I weren't spending enough time together in 2013, they graciously sat for a series of interviews to inform a two-part blog entry spotlighting them as my favorite clients of all times and nominating them for greatest love story of all times. DISCLAIMER: this first entry has more real estate detail in it. If you hate real estate, kindly skip to the second entry which is more about Bob & Dee. I re-post this only to demonstrate my affection for this grand couple and for Bob Simmons in the wake of his passing.

I'm sure he'll get some good sun in that great pea patch in the sky...

Mick December 2012—July 2019

Hello family and very close friends. Some grim news from BraimesWorld. We wanted you to know without having to tell the whole internet that we've lost our stoney cat Mick Mars.

He'd been missing a few days and Patti I walked with some fliers only for a block in two directions Monday night. A neighbor from across the alley phoned yesterday to say he'd discovered the remains of a black cat in his yard on Friday morning.

There've been coyote sightings in the neighborhood and there are always racoons. We gave Mick as proper a burial as possible in the backyard. I think if you'd given Mick the choice between his freedom and his safety, he'd have taken the freedom.

Mick was preceded in death by his mother Scout and is survived by his sister Razzle of the family home in the 2600 block of Ellis Street, Sunnyland. He was one of the famed Sunnyland Cats-- a yawner and an ear-scratcher and if he'd worn socks (he didn't) he'd have worn them high because he didn't much give a damn about anything. He will be missed...

Razzle December 2012— February 2024

Just a limited audience note to say that Patti and I had to let go of Razzle today. She lived a charmed life and realized a death to match-- with a sudden diagnosis, brief struggle and dignified passing in the arms of her deepest admirers.

All pets are special, but Razzle had a certain verve that made her a favorite of friends and strangers alike. Pedestrian commuters would veer many blocks out of their routes in order to drop by and pay their Razzle tax on summer days when she would lay lazily in-wait at the end of the concrete walk. Indeed, it seemed at times there was a waiting list to pet Razzle. She had a wide network of acquaintances that Patti and I knew nothing of-- a secret life!

She loved family, fire, and laps-- and would sit in one until the metaphoric cows came home. She never met a real cow (as far as we know!) but didn't seem to mind the deer. She did not have patience for mammals her own size, namely dogs and other cats-- with the exception of her late brother Mick. In her youth she would hunt and kill all manner of neighborhood rodents, birds and snakes. She ate them, too, sucking out the eyes and brains of her victims and bringing the tiny trophy skulls home for us to fuss over. She also enjoyed the occasional scrap of mild cheddar cheese.

Razzle was always an indoor/outdoor cat, and though she did not have free range these past 5 years (once the raccoons figured out how to use the cat door), she lounged and toileted outside until the very end. We were comforted that she wanted to be outside as much as she did these past 5 days, despite the foul weather. It seemed she was trying everything she could think of to sooth the aching in her kidneys. But in the end there was nothing she or we could do. That's just how it goes with pets sometimes. Eventually...

She was one rad cat. She is missed already

Rick Sands 4/8/64-8/23/24

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.