Metal Gateway

Super stoked for my good friend Brian Sibley and his new podcast Metal Gateway. Each week Brian interviews a different used-up rivethead about how they first got into heavy metal. Lots of interesting historical discussions ensue.

Episode III lands today featuring a particularly chafed piece of spent metal trash.

Pass it on!

Listen to METAL GATEWAY here.

Read (& Buy) My Novella

I know we’re not supposed to write novellas. My friend Jeff G has some tips on how to keep a short story from turning into one. I should have paid closer attention.

“This,” he said of ignoring his advice, “is how novellas happen.”

To be fair, I wasn’t in my right mind. I had Covid 19 in the spring of 2022 and was confined to the attic where there’s also a bath and my writing desk. I had a pretty good fever going on day 2 and didn’t want to waste it, because I think unusual art can be wrestled from fever if you’re lucky and don’t expect too much. I started writing a story that had been on my mind for years. It was actually a true story, as told by a friend. I didn’t know many of the details, so I used what I did know and began to apply some shading around the edges to fill in the rest.

By the time my fever broke, I had 20,000 words-- almost none of them true. It had turned fairly unexpectedly to fiction and it kind of wrote itself. I was really only reacting, and was as surprised and offended as anyone by the developments.

The central event of the story, revealed in the first chapter, is truthy. The rest of it is recklessly embellished and in fact outright made up. Likeness to any person living or dead is coincidental. For the most part. You know who you are…

Like a Nepenthe is not really a mystery, though there is some intrigue. It’s definitely not a love story, though there is some affection and also even some actual sex. Amid the despair that permeates most of the story, there is hope—and in the end perhaps even some genuine redemption.

Several of the characters are young adults and as a result it sometimes reads like YA. But there’s also more cursing and bong hits, drunk driving and littering than in conventional YA, so I’m claiming my own genre. I am planting my flag in YFA!

In addition to the unsafe modeling, there’s also some spare use of vocabulary that we no longer use today but which was common in 1977 when the story is set. That’s just how people talked back then. They smoked indoors, too! I should know: I Was There. And though I wasn’t driving with a beer between my knees or smoking in the dentist waiting room when I was 12, I was there-- taking notes. I’m a Boomer after all. By three months. I was born this day in 1964.

If we were together I’d let you pick up lunch. If we’d already eaten, I’d suggest you buy me a drink instead. Not gifts so much as courtesies, issued on one’s birthday.

But we’re not together. So all there is left for you to do for me is read my stupid novella.

Not today though! I wouldn’t ask that. You can read the first chapter today, however. On my birthday, as a courtesy to me.

Register for my SubStack. That’s how I’m going to publish this story. I’m going to post it on SubStack, one chapter at a time. So you don’t have to read it today even though today is my birthday. You can read it tomorrow or the next day if you want.

It’s easy and free to register for by following the link below. I don’t think you’ll get tortured too much by SubStack, if you’re someone who worries about registering for stuff. It’s not the dark web or the deep state or the black sabbath or whatever the fuck it is you call it. It won’t ask for any sensitive information and it won’t ask you for money. It might offer the opportunity to give me money, but please don’t do that. If that option appears, just click on NOT NOW or CONTINUE AS GUEST or DEADBEAT CHICKENLICKER or whatever the opposite of PLEDGE is. You can buy me an ice cream sandwich or a lap dance next time we’re together. For now, I’d be super stoked if you just registered and read the first chapter. It’s 2000 words and should take you less than 10 minutes.

I’ll be in Canada if you need me for anything. With the exchange, I’m only like 52 up there.

--jb

(You can now purchase the whole novella in convenient PDF format, by clicking here.)

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.

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!