Thanksgiving Miracle 2018

It’s been some time since my last confession. Oh, I’ve sinned. But that’s not important right now…

My last blog entry is from June 19. The last day of spring. The next day was the summer solstice– the longest day of the year. Before I knew it, it was Thanksgiving.

It’s not as if nothing noteworthy happened all summer. But the weather was so fine that the creek needed swimming in. And swimming makes you hungry and you have to barbecue. Then all the festivals, and of course the World Series.

Bloggin’ aint easy…

But now I’m caught up, and all my pencils are sharpened. And I’ve been noticing lately in the blogiverse an alarming increase in the number of inane lists : 22 Things You Should Never Do Again After Age 50 or 9 Things Women Hate About Men’s Wardrobes or  5 Things Brian Griffin Taught Us.  So I’ve decided to compile my own inane list and get a jump on the holidays.

I give you: Eleven 2013 real estate miracles to be totally stoked about this Thanksgiving

1. Fleas cannot survive in temperatures of less than 37 degrees. I showed Judy and Andrew a house in Silver Beach in July when it was considerably more than 37 degrees, and after only eight minutes in the house, my buyers and I had dozens of fleas partying all the way up to our knees. We discovered the stowaways while re-shoeing on the front porch, and Judy inparticular absolutely freaked out. Not wanting to bring the scourge home to their own parasiteless pets, she spent twenty minutes flicking & brushing fleas off her calves before throwing her socks away and banging her shoes on the rail like she was exorcising the very Devil out of them. It was pretty gross. Needless to say, they did not buy the house….

2. Values are up. After bouncing off the cruel bottom nearly a year ago, prices in Bellingham proper have seen steady increases throughout 2013. A dramatic spike in April shot the median price above $300k and for a minute it looked like the market might be moving a little faster than was prudent (see: 2004-2007). But the Fed action (or relative non-action, depending on who you ask) of the early summer cooled our collective jets, keeping things down to a comfortable simmer that saw a new high reached rather nonchalantly by summer’s end. 

3. Ghosts “don’t move well.”  Like old dogs and most cats, ghosts don’t like to move when a house sells. But what happens when the house itself moves?

Columbian Exchange: moving day for the Van Zandt House

In 2010, the historic Van Zandt House was moved from its original location at 1717 Eldridge Avenue to a 5,000sqft lot in the 2400 block of Utter Street, six blocks away. The property had just changed hands from only its third owner in a hundred years to its fourth, and the new masters were more interested in the home’s commanding presence on the bluff above the waterfront than in the 3,000sqft shingled marvel that Dr. Euclid Van Zandt commissioned in 1902. So they gave it to a man who loaded it on a truck and moved it across the neighborhood.

The spectacle of a moving mansion drew quite a crowd, including two of the adult children of Allen family, who had grown up in the house. “It was strange to look up and see my bedroom moving down Broadway,” said Kathy. Her brother Terry added the house was “definitely” haunted. Peter Roberts of John L. Scott, who represented the buyer on Utter Street– the fifth owner in one hundred years– declined to comment on whether there’d been any bumps in the night since the house sold again just two months ago.

4. It is not too late to close a transaction this year.  I don’t know that it’s necessarily a “miracle,” but a paperless system like we have slowly built over the last 10 years means you can accomplish in a matter of minutes what used to take a day. Thirty days might not seem like much time, especially with all the Santa Claus and ho-ho-ho, and mistletoe and presents to pretty girls  going on. But if a buyer and a seller really wanted to get something closed before the corks started popping on New Year’s Eve– it would happen. I’d be happy to square you up with a lender, a home inspector and an escrow officer who could sneak us across the goal line for an endzone celebration both joyful and triumphant.

5. Moving van turn signals don’t turn off automatically. Most people have too much stuff to move in their cars. And few people (at least amongst my clients) can afford to hire Mayflower, either. So they end up renting a U-Haul and asking their friends to help. This is known in the real estate industry as “moving day.” Moving Day is a day all Realtors know to wear their best clothes and leave their own car motor running when they drop by with the pizzas. But once the truck is loaded and lurching between the shitty old rental and a buyer’s dream home, the blinkers don’t automatically click off once a turn is completed like they do in commuter cars. As a result, move-drunk people end up driving around with a blinker blinking quite frequently with no intention of making a turn. This makes moving vans very tricky to pass.

6. Money is still incredibly cheap.  My buyer David said to me in July that he was struggling with the notion of paying 4.5% for his new 30-year mortgage. And while it is true that 4.5 is more than the 3.5% he might have been able to get for one day six weeks earlier, it is still a ridiculously kind rate by historical standards. And you can still get it, in fact you can probably do a little bit better today. It seems like most of my 12 years in the business we’ve been saying “rates can’t stay this low too much longer” but at some point it has to be born out that rates can’t stay this low too much longer.

7. Bob & Dee Simmons are hosting Thanksgiving dinner. Referring to low interest rates and haunted houses as “miracles” is maybe a tad dramatic. But Bob & Dee Simmons cozy & rosy in their new home and expecting a full table on Thursday is nothing short of a stone Real Estate Miracle of the highest order. Check out the archives of this blog for their unabridged, unabashed story, but suffice it to say they are loving their new nest, quite busily slaying Irises, over-insulating the attic, and installing floor-to-ceiling bookshelves in the study. Dear readers, you have no idea how many hours were spent building these bookshelves in our minds and populating them with the Simmons’ volumes while touring scores of homes from one side of Bellingham to the other. And now the bookshelves exist in three proper dimensions, in a mid-century charmer on Toledo Hill. It is a bloomin’ miracle…

8. Our civilization has already peaked and we are quite doomed. This is actually better news than it sounds at first. Look for an expanded explanation of this glib & misguided proclamation in a later entry, but in the meantime it’s worth considering selling your home. Buyers are sensing the potential dusk of the free money referenced in miracle 6, and there is generally much demand for houses with windows, doors & roofs. Inventory levels are edging back up to six months, which is considered a balanced market. But the next month, known as “the holidays” and the month after that known as “January” aren’t probably going to see a ton of new listings. There is something to be said for standing tall or standing at all in a sparse market, where others have locked the keybox for the winter. Come the spring, we will see a rush of activity as sellers scramble to take advantage of the optimism that comes with that season. And spring 2014 could be brought on artificially early (regardless of the weather) by sellers wanting to beat each other to the punch. Why not beat them all to the worm and list your house for sale today? With me.

(bloggers note:  Alright, eight miracles then. Even if you were expecting eleven, eight is still a lot of miracles…) 

heated yards don’t sell houses

Having tiptoed gingerly into spring this week, the Real Estate season is officially open. With a couple of dry days strung together, the sounds of lawn mowers have filled the neighborhoods– and sellers are breaking out the fresh-cut flowers and shaking up cans of touch-up paint. It is, as we say in the business, ON.

First impressions are important, absolutely. But today’s buyer is ridiculously well-informed, and although the emotional impacts of an inviting entry and a show-ready interior are crucial, increasingly the energy efficiency of a home is ranking as a factor in buying decisions.

But what is energy efficiency and how is it measured?

Updated windows are an observable (if over-rated) sign. Insulation in the attic and crawl, of course. High-efficiency furnace, sure. But what about the little things– literally the little cracks– that allow a bottom-line exchange of energy that these bigger picture improvements don’t stop? How perforated is the house, and how much do these breaches cost a homeowner? 

Buyers can study the heating bills of their sellers, but those are deceptively subjective, based on user preferences. A home inspection can identify some areas with potential for improvement, but still these recommendations are not measurable.  If only there were some kind of standard that houses could be held up to– a system that buyers and sellers could agree to as a scientific absolute where evaluating energy efficiency was concerned.

Wait– there is!

As part of the Community Energy Challenge, Sustainable Connections and The Opportunity Council are offering a residential energy assessment which calculates an Energy Performance Score (EPS).  This standardized rating can be used as a powerful comparative marketing tool, essentially taking the guesswork out of a transaction in terms of a home’s energy efficiency.

The assessment is performed by one of the CEC’s Certified Building Analysts, after which a score is assigned based on evaluation of the home’s envelope and systems. The  lower the score, the more efficient the home. So you don’t want a score of a million. In fact the baseline is 100, so the farther beneath that mark the better.

The CEC menu doesn’t end there. A more thorough version of this assessment is also available for homeowners more interested in tightening up their homes with an eye toward longer term efficiencies and the corresponding savings against energy costs. These savings, resulting from completing CEC recommended efficiency improvements ranging from duct sealing to furnace replacement, have saved an average of $477 per year for Whatcom County participants.

Though the CEC has already done more than 1100 assessments since launching the program in 2010, the option to include an EPS was only introduced into the Northwest Multiple Listing Service in November. But already in the Seattle and Portland metro markets, homes making use of available Green Building MLS fields (including EPS scores)  have sold for nearly 10% more per sqft and in 20% less time on the market. And we know that what trends in Seattle manifests itself here eventually also. Widespread and effective use of the EPS in real estate marketing is making its way north and is sure to be popular in our green-friendly community. Currently, however, there are only 3 listings in all of Whatcom County with an advertised EPS. This system is going to be very popular, and we are quite literally on the ground floor. 

Energy efficiency may not seem as sexy as quartz countertops. It isn’t! But at only $125 for the EPS assessment and $195 for the expanded version, it’s not as expensive either. Sellers should still plan on spreading fresh mulch on the flower beds and putting some cookies in to bake before their homes hit the market. But knowing how tight a home is and what steps can be taken to make it tighter makes pretty good sense, too. List your home with me and I will gladly pay for an assessment. 

–tMdR

Baseball on the radio

Nobody cares about baseball anymore. The kids just wanna hear a good beat…

Oh, I’m used to it. It’s just that I don’t expect the chalk rubbed in my eyes this early. I don’t expect it on the first day of a seven-month season.

And not only do I not not expect it, I actually understand it. I don’t agree with it. But I do get it, intellectually. Baseball is a game starkly out-of-step with American culture. In a society driven by violence and 140-character presidential press conferences, most Americans don’t really have time for baseball. It takes too long. It’s too slow. It’s so fucking boring. There are no cheerleaders.

And so baseball is dying if not a justified death, then at least one that can’t be convincingly argued against. Once known as America’s Pastime, professional baseball is now not only the least-profitable of the ‘big three’ but also is probably not even in the big three at all. Major League Soccer is a much bigger draw in the North American markets in which it competes and even dim ol’ hockey—once discreetly considered the laughing stock of professional sports—is demanding more attention. Baseball is dying on the vine. The death is a slow one—almost as slow as the pace of its games. But it’s dying just the same.

Presumably we’ll find MLB under ‘More Sports.’ WtF is UFC anyway?

And on most days it’s just fine because there’s more room for me. Plenty of places to park and sit. An older, generally more-dignified audience without drunken wave-starters or violent visiting team bully fanatics. Fewer little kids coming down off sugar and screaming for their parents’ phones. There are actually a lot of benefits to being the fan of a dead sport.

Unless the media indifference is so comprehensive that you can’t even listen to the game. At that point, it starts to get a little limiting.

Again—I am totally accustomed to chasing baseball around the radio dial in the late summer once middle school flag football pre-season starts, because my local radio affiliate understands very well that the audience for any football game or show is much larger and more susceptible to target marketing than the dusty old baseball fan worn down and advertised numb after 100+ games.  This affiliate is contracted on some level to broadcast not only all Seattle Mariners games but also the other higher-profile baseball events of the season– including Sunday Night Baseball, the All-Star Game and the World Series (if not the entirety of the MLB playoffs). It’s surprising, however, how many of these events they do not end up broadcasting in favor of high school football, college football, NFL football or even the motherfucking NFL draft. KPUG actually pushes contracted live sporting contests to its flat-chested sister station in order to broadcast an indulgent, droning 48-hour circle-jerking sports business transaction, regardless of how well the baseball team is performing at the time.

The draft is in late April. Early in the season– but it’s an isolated event. The real football pre-empts are still months away.

But this is the first year I can remember Opening Day being spun off to lil’ sister, and the fact that it was in order to broadcast March Madness is just icing on the turd for me.

Forget sports. There are few cultural phenomena of any root that I loathe more than the Final Four. I oughtn’t get into it here, but I do dislike it even more than the football nonsense. That’s never before been out of envy, because I can’t remember it ever interfering. Until this year.

Still, I don’t blame college basketball. As much as I enjoy torturing my understaffed local radio station dudes, I can’t really even find it in my crackerjack toy heart to blame them. There’s no sense in blaming football—it’s too dumb to know or care.

And really, there’s no actual need to blame anyone. I don’t think anyone is intentionally killing baseball just to spite me. Not even the game itself is rooting for that. MLB is doing what it can to salvage a shred of its shrinking audience by speeding up the game and cranking up the walk-up music. The Russians aren’t involved, I’m sure. No: blame has no role in this pickle.

I just want to listen to the damned ballgame. And it irks me when it’s not there for me when I turn my AM radio on for the first time since October. And when I do actually find out where the Cascade Radio Group has hidden the broadcast, they don’t even play the pre-game show! As if 60 more minutes of Men At Work and Wham! is going to matter one way or the other to the casual ‘80s spitbubble rock radio listener at 3pm on a Thursday.

The average age of the modern baseball fan is 59. Incredibly, I am young for the sport. Hard-fought efforts by the league including limiting mound visits and kind of instituting a pitch clock have shaved

minutes off the average time-of-game. Ultimately does it make any difference? I doubt it. I still roll my eyes when a player walks to first base without four wide ones being tossed his way. It’s going to result in a 40-second reduction in the time of the average game? Big deal. Play ball.

I’m sure you’ll just be doing backflips to learn my dilemma is solved—ironically through technology. When I did turn on my radio at the top of the pre-game show hour Thursday and heard not the familiar French Horn fanfare of the Seattle Mariner’s pregame broadcast, but the braying nonsense of some aged-out jock analyzing some other jaggov’s analysis of a college basketball game– I did what I’d known for many seasons I should have done. I picked up my cellular telephone and downloaded the ESPN app. Ninety seconds later, I was listening to the soothing sounds of Shannon Drayer navigating the first of 162 pre-game shows as only she can. Now I’ll be able to just walk around my house with the phone in my pocket, and the game (and pre and post game shows!) will just follow me around as magic. No more turning on and off the five AM radios stationed strategically around my house and yard. I’ve gone wireless and I’ve got my local radio station to thank.

See you down the road when the internet get outlawed, fellas. In the meantime you won’t have Jeff Braimes to kick around any more…

We’re from England

I woke up in the middle of the night in the guestroom of my own house with absolutely no idea where I was. Groping around the bed, I eventually felt my phone on the nightstand. Squinting, I was able to turn on the flashlight, illuminating the framed Austin Hotel photograph on the far wall. Only then did I remember I was home…

Heck, I’d only been gone 17 days.

Maybe that’s what Europe does to an American’s brain– erases it. I sighed heavy and set the phone down, falling back into the pillow. I was asleep again immediately.

To be fair, it had been a long day– starting with a subway ride to the Barcelona airport before a flight to JFK, another to SeaTac and finally the punishing drive home to Bellingham, arriving just after 2am. I tried to stay alert on the last 20 minutes of that drive by calculating what time my body really thought it was, but that only proved to make me sleepier. I eventually made it, and tiptoed into the guestroom so as not to wake Patti– only to startle awake two hours later completely disoriented.

It was a killer trip. Like a dream, really.

SeaTac-O’Hare-Heathrow seems like a long time ago now. Longer than 18 days, that’s for sure. SeaTac was like a morgue with airplanes at 11:30 Sunday night with not only no open bars but not even a Hudson News awake. Dropping in to Chicago at dawn was a different story– O’Hare felt like Mardi Gras by comparison, with people jostling through with open cocktails and goosing each other in that godawful accent, the brilliant Monday morning light pouring in through the huge east-facing windows. The SkyScraper Bar was like a neighborhood tavern, seating about a dozen. Solid spot for a 2-hour layover.

“Pretty decent night in London,” the pilot said in his pilot voice as we began our final descent into Heathrow. I wondered what that meant and found out 90 minutes later after clearing customs and catching the Heathrow Express to Paddington Station. Stepping onto Chilworth Street– my first time on European soil– I was greeted by a steady rain. “Pretty decent?” I asked aloud. “Huh…”

Didn’t matter. More authentic, if anything. I was excited to be on the ground finally, and anxious to explore Ye Olde Londontowne. It was midnight, though, and the real conquest was going to have to wait till the morning. What I could use at the moment, though, was a drink. The bars were dark, so I ducked into a small market.

“Is it possible to buy a bottle of wine?” I asked the shopkeep, not noticing any alcohol of any kind in the store.

I don’t really know exactly what he said, but I did get the gist that it was too late to buy takeaway booze and that even the rest of the pubs would be closed soon. It was my first introduction to British English and the fact that just because you technically speak the language, you’re not guaranteed to comprehend through dialect.

People around me started breaking in to a trot as I was nearing the Tube transfer to Royal Oak, and I instinctively began to run also. The last thing I needed on this first night was to be marooned after the Tube stopped running. I made it onto the empty train, though, and rode the few stops to Maida Hill, which would be my home base for the next five nights.

Nearing the AirB, I happened upon the open London Food & Wine. Couldn’t hurt to ask again, I thought, and stepped up into the small, bright shop. Like in the other one, I didn’t see any wine– but asked the Punjabi gentleman who seemed to be the boss whether it was possible to purchase a bottle.

“Wine, yes,” he said, “only for you!”

He nodded to his colleague behind the counter and colleague asked me ‘red or vite?’ I said ‘red’ and he said ‘eight euro.’ I handed him a tenner, he changed me, then raised the metal roll-up door behind the counter just high enough to pull out a bottle of Jacob’s Creek red blend. He motioned for me to open my bag and then slid the bottle in.

“What do you do?” asked the bootlegger boss.

I turned back to face him, amazed at my good fortune.

“I’m travelling,” I said.

“I can see that,” he answered, eyeing my pack. “But what do you do?”

“Oh,” I said, laughing. “I’m… a real estate agent.”

“Oh yes, very good,” he said. “Market here very down. Much worry over Brexit. Where you from?”

I was delighted to have the opportunity to deliver my rehearsed response to this question so early in my trip. Little did I know I wouldn’t be asked again for a week, and never again after that. I looked left, then right, lowered my chin and whispered conspiratorially, ‘America.’

And that was it. He wasn’t impressed one way or the other that I was from the U.S. He didn’t make a grossed-out face, or roll his eyes or say anything about Trump. He didn’t pull an American flag out of his sleeve and wave it or light a string of firecrackers. He couldn’t care one way or the other– he was just making conversation.

“My name is Gulu,” he said instead. “G-U-L-U.”

I told him I was very charmed to meet him (I was) and asked if I could give him my business card, since he had asked about my profession. He accepted it and drew a six of clubs. He seemed pleased.

I found the apartment, opened the wine, drank half a glass, and fell hard asleep.

Every day is garbage day in London. But Tuesday is the morning they drag a dumpster the approximate size of Westminster Abbey itself across the ancient cobblestone courtyard behind my Maida Hill flat at 7am. It was a sound and volume I had never heard anything like. The beeping truck accepted the contents and made its way down the lane– but by then I was awake, after a mere four hours’ sleep. I knew I wouldn’t be able to fall back. I closed my eyes and prepared to rise. Then I woke up at noon.

Oh well, I’d needed the rest. I hadn’t slept since Saturday night in Bellingham, because I don’t sleep on airplanes. I hadn’t showered since Bellingham, either, or eaten since Seattle. So I showered and made myself a cup of tea to start my first day in the UK. I turned on the telly (that’s what they call television in England!) and opened the London Times that I’d bought from Gulu. I tried the crossword but couldn’t get more than a couple of answers. Cultural bias up the ass…

Teeth brushed and a pocket full of pounds, I descended the stairs to the street. I looked down the street, then up before turning down and then left at the corner. I had no plan, and every intention of getting as lost as possible today. Edie would be arriving tomorrow afternoon from Croatia, but today was all mine. I had no agenda whatsoever.

Eventually I struggled through ordering a cup of coffee in Bayswater and, after skirting Hyde Park, some fish ‘n’ chips in Mayfair. A pint in Paddington where there was actually Cricket on the telly. It rained lightly through the mid-afternoon, but by the time I’d looped round back to Little Venice, the setting sun was peeking out and the water on the canal was sparkling, sort of. It was quite a lovely scene.

After walking six hours, I was close enough to the flat to pop in for a glass of Gulu and a few more layers for my evening adventure. I got on the Tube a few stops to Soho, where I tried running down a bar called CroBar. Never did find the damned place. I wandered a few more hours, eventually grabbing another basket of fried fish and potatoes, not terribly much better than the first.

If it sounds like a fairly dull and uneventful first day in Europe, hardly worth writing down let alone reading through, that’s because it was. I had held high hopes for this day, unique in that I’d be solo and free to go where my whims took me. Unfortunately, my whims weren’t very skilled at navigating Google Maps and were generally unlucky when guessing in which direction to turn. Inevitably when emerging from a tube station, I would turn left only to discover later that the cool stuff I’d have hoped to stumble upon was mere meters to the right. This left/right guessing game would in fact be a theme for the entire trip.

So after more than 38,000 steps, I had little to show for my first day in London. Luckily every single other day of the entire trip was wikked awesome…

I didn’t sleep nearly as well that second night, but still rose optimistic about day 2. I’d be seeing Edie in a matter of hours after two months apart. She’d been having her own bitchin’ adventure: two weeks in Ireland, two in Northern Italy during Carnival, three on the Island of Sardinia working on a farm, and a week in Croatia. I wondered whether I’d even recognize my little girl after all her worldly experiences.

As I waited in the cavernous Victoria Station for Edie’s arrival, a lone busker worked over a menu of melancholy classics creating a perfectly bittersweet traveling soundtrack. “Stand by Me” on any day brings a tear to my eye, but on this particular occasion, in a strange land, preparing to meet my wandering daughter, maybe still a little sleep-deprived/jetlagged– the lone tear brought along its mates and I had a pretty decent little mid-day cry, standing alone in a bustling London train station, travelers whizzzing past me dragging luggage and looking down at their phones. When dude got to the call on me brother breakdown in “Lean on Me” I heard myself clapping in the right spot and I enjoyed a discrete giggle only an inside joke can bring.

Eventually Edie & found each other outside the station, and when I saw her I started running– almost getting creamed by a red double-decker. “The red ones don’t stop!” I shouted as I finally reacher her, and we shared a series of deep hugs with tears on both sides. She looked radiant– maybe a little sunburnt. Her voice was hoarse and she actually seemed taller. Her shoes were trashed. She’d been on the road…

Abbey Road

I shouldered her pack and we wandered toward Chelsea, starting up a lively, tangential conversation that did not let up until we parted in Barcelona two weeks later. On this first afternoon, though, we both just wanted something to eat, maybe a glass. A number of places were closed for that British siesta between lunch and dinner, so we eventually just slipped into one of London’s one beelion pubs and had a perfectly serviceable meal that fully took backseat to our animated discourse. After some browsing, we Tubed back to headquarters where I introduced Edie to her couch. She showered and though she was tired, I convinced her to rally for one more outing. It was a pretty long walk to Abbey Road, but totally worth it. We had the most famous crosswalk in history all to ourselves.

On the way back to the flat, we picked up some supplies and saw a fox. A real honest-to-goodness urban fox. Who’d have thought? I did not know London foxes were a thing.

Portobello Road

Quality sleep for both of us that night, and we got a decent start the next morning toward Portobello Road. Saturday is the big day on the Road, of course, but there are ample vintage shops on any old Thursday morning, plus the mind-bending Red Lion antique mall. We had a quaint brunch experience and eventually grabbed the front top seat on a double-decker bus to the British Museum in Bloomsbury. There was some cool scale historical art in there– huge, noseless Greek sculptures and Egyptian sarcophagus’ plus the Rosetta Stone and an interesting exhibit of ancient money.

We were pretty thirsty after that hibrow shit, so we walked up to King’s Cross in search of a refresco. The pubs in this neighborhood were overflowing with white-collar Londoners just getting off work. It was a completely mad scene, with punters (that’s what they call people drinking in a pub in England!) spilling into the streets– cigarette in one hand, pint in the other. Pub after pub, block after block. We’d been on our feet most of the day and at this point wanted to sit a spell. So we settled on a Mexican place which was also super busy but that did have two seats at the corner of the bar. Absolutely perfect.

Londoners:

• smoke

• drink beer

• when not drinking beer generally prefer gin to vodka and scotch to bourbon

• wear black

• … except the businessmen who wear high ‘n’ tight navy blue suits with brown shoes

• prefer cricket to baseball of course, but when supporting baseball they prefer the Red Sox to the Yankees

• really do say “cheers, mate” at every conceivable opportunity and sometimes even when it’s not seemingly appropriate

• don’t generally smile at strangers

Of course the main thing in London is not getting hit by a car. It seems simple to remind oneself  ‘they drive on the other side of the street’  but until you’ve walked 23 miles in two days, you don’t realize how deep your American bias really is and that it absolutely does endanger you as a pedestrian. I’m a jaywalker. I generally cross any street at any point if there’s not a car coming. But in England, your instincts can deceive you– especially if you’re jetlagged or maybe a little drunk. The streets are narrow and heavily parked and everyone drives a thousand KpH. I am actually very surprised more foreigners aren’t hit and dragged by tiny British cars more frequently. At first I thought it was kind of silly that painted on the ground at each intersection were the words LOOK RIGHT or LOOK LEFT. But, you know– that stuff did actually turn out to be useful…

Lots of Indian food in Mayfair, so we headed back down there after our Modello’s for some dinner. It was alright. London has not been traditionally known for its food, though it seems that’s changing. It is known for its healthy Indian population of course, and the curry houses that come with. There are tons of excellent Indian restaurants in London, apparently– we just didn’t choose one of them this night. We didn’t eat great in London in general, to be honest. The best meal I had was a bowl of Bulgogi from a street vendor in Soho on my way to Victoria Station to pick up Edie. Walking around that neighborhood on a sunny weekday morning, the delivery trucks double-parked and merchants jockeying for position was a very cool experience. Plus Bulgogi!

Edie pumping down the volume in Brixton

Almost any community looks diverse (less white) when compared with Bellingham. Most of the people vacuuming SeaTac Airport after hours on Sunday night were brown. Likewise the mix in Chicago was deeper than what I am accustomed to at home. And even the most-touristy neighborhoods in Northwest London feature startling diversity, not even including Chinatown or Golders Green.

But then we went to Brixton.

Emerging from the tube station stairs, it was if if we’d travelled to another country altogether. Though more than 100 languages are commonly spoken in Brixton, it is definitely the Caribbean capitol of London, with lots of reggae, lots of dreadlock tams, and lots of da kine. We had a delicious brunch at a jerk joint and wandered through Brixton Village and Market Row, a rich omni-cultural outdoor marketplace not seemingly expecting many tourists. Brixton Village featured small eateries, merchants of every kind, and a range of food markets including fruit stands, spice carts and live butchers selling still-dripping chickens. The browsers were shopping for dinner here, not souvenirs.

But we couldn’t hang around Brixton all day. We had to beat it back north of the river and check out the MEGA motorcycle rally in the shadow of Westminster Abbey!

To be fair, we didn’t realize that’s what we were walking in to. But clearing the doors of that Westminster Station, with Big Ben looming just outside, we were overwhelmed by the roar of motorcycles echoing through the corridor. Parliament was expected to again extend the Brexit decision that very day, and this rally– best we could tell– was a Veterans-for-Brexit motorcycle parade, with literally thousands of two-wheeled vehicles of every kind, from 50cc Italian scooters to Japanese crotch rockets to American Harleys. They were all cruising across the River Thames from the south, revving up their engines past Ben, curling around Abbey and through St. James’s Park. The route was lined with flag-wavers who looked vaguely familiar. Elizabeth Tower, which houses Big Ben, was entirely covered in scaffolding, undergoing four years of restoration work, and we weren’t going to wait in-queue (that’s what they call ‘waiting in line’ in England!) to go inside Westminster Abbey. So we decided to flee the red hat scene and make it down to the Ecuadorian Embassy to see if Julian Assange was home. We thought he was always home– that was exactly the point! But as it turned out, we’d just missed him…

If Londoners were very concerned about Brexit, it wasn’t obvious. Of course, the longest conversation I had during the whole visit was the one with Gulu after I’d been in-town for 45 minutes, and he did actually mention it. So maybe I just didn’t go deep enough with people. Most bartenders didn’t broach the subject in the course of pouring me a drink, and the red bus drivers were generally pretty busy driving the big red busses. I really had hoped to get into some conversations while in London, but the truth is that unless you strike one up, you’re not likely to get there. I’m generally a pretty good at chatting up strangers, but London seemed indifferent unless I really wanted to be that guy, which I didn’t.

London is cool. You certainly can’t do everything in four days. But the Tube works so great– it really helps to make a big city smaller. The weather wasn’t bad for us once Edie got there, and actually the lilacs and cherry blossoms on-display were the nicest blooms we’d see the whole trip. Crowds weren’t bad, and with the exception of the larger-profile tourist attractions, we didn’t wait in a queue the whole time. And other than a handfull of peace-keepers at the bike rally (real live Bobbies!) there was almost no police presence, which was quite refreshing.

I don’t know where London keeps its homeless, but they were not visible in the neighborhoods we were in. We didn’t go everywhere, of course, and we were certainly in some touristy locations– though not exclusively. But London’s core is a mix of commercial and residential uses. I don’t know if there is such a thing as ‘zoning.’ There are no vast commercial blocks without residences, and likewise there are no dense residential areas without commercial. It’s all very finely integrated. You can’t be more than a block from a corner market or a pub– it’s impossible, at least in the core. We saw a tent here and there and there was some old-school begging (different from American panhandling) but not much. In a want/want-not capitalist economy similar to what we have in the U.S., there’s got to be some people outdoors. But they’re not hanging around downtown…

On Saturday morning, we packed up and caught the Tube to St. Pancras Station to make our chunnel train to Paris. In the movies, it seems like Americans always board trains in Europe at the last minute, running down a platform and jumping onto a moving coach– blowing kisses to some weeping Euro Strange, waving from the platform. In reality it’s as gummy and chaotic as any American airport and we missed our train by a mile. No matter– there was another one 90 minutes later for a 30-Euro penalty. Paris has been there a long time. It will wait for us another 90 minutes. See you there…

of course I’m french

It’s impossible (pronounced impossible) to say whether I’d be a total dick if I were French. But I recently met every French person living in France and they were all total dicks.

Well, I guess that’s not entirely true. I really only met about six French people, and half of them were actually pretty nice. The other half were at least fair. But I saw a lot of French people being total dicks. Tons of them!

Shucks. To be honest, I probably would be a mass dick if I were French. I’d be slender and fashionable and I’d hold my cigarette just so. I’d be drinking a champagne cocktail and clutching my perfect baguette, even though I would be out of hands by now. The afternoon sun would cast a fanciful glow around me and my highly-evolved crew at our sidewalk table as a blind accordion player in striped shirt and pencil-thin mustache squeezed sublimely nearby.

And then I’d speak…

It wouldn’t matter what I said. I could say ‘come with me to the Casbah’ or even merely  ‘I just saved a ton of money on my car insurance by switching to Geico‘– and it would sound the same. French is such a moist, lyrical language– you just sound more fashionable and sexy speaking it. Read the phonebook. Please, read it again. Je taime…

We arrived in Paris at that golden hour late Saturday afternoon from our chunnel journey from London. The train had been a very pleasant and civilized experience with WiFi and a bar. It’s possible my guard was down a notch as we emerged from the soaring Gare du Nord station into the lap of Paris.

That light. Those smells. The tension and magic. The chaos of Paris!

Edie whirled a whirl and we high-fived our being in Paris. I remember that we were standing still and that everything else was moving fluidly around us, as if animated.

Edie punched up our destination.

We learned in London that I was a useless navigator and a generally more agreeable traveling companion if my phone was deep in my bag and my credit card was near the top. We had efficiently crafted an arrangement that enabled us move about without me having to switch from wifi to data to google maps to translation. Sunglasses off, readers on. Battery half-charged. Where are my safety pins?!

It was definitely in Paris that I decided my phone was at half-full battery, not half empty. The ability to read a Lonely Planet guide book or negotiate a paper map has been evolved out of us. But we don’t have to let reliance on our devices define or distract us! I felt after two days in London that my deference to my phone as travel agent was fouling my experience. So I put it away. Of course by that time, my 19-year-old daughter was there to navigate and empty my drool buckets.

Edie deftly guided us to our AirB and we cracked the code of the front door. We ascended the 107 spiralling steps to our top-floor apartment overlooking the magnificent Church of Saint-Bernard de la Chapelle to the east. The apartment had a sufficiently-appointed kitchenette and a brilliant library of European coffee table books & American classics translated to French. The linens were soft and there were plenty of pillows. But there wasn’t a square of toilet paper in the place!

No matter. We hadn’t come all the way to Paris, France to hang out inside. We hit the streets looking for soul food.

The lower Pigalle- Saint-Georges’ district was alive and buzzing with Parisians smoking, drinking and French kissing. Cafe after cafe was swamped with beautiful young people socializing on a pleasant early spring Saturday at dusk, spilling out of the doors and onto the patios. We were hungry– but the idea of having to order a meal in a crowded bistro in our broken French at the top of our lungs kept us moving along until we found a quieter little sushi place with an empty table. Hamachi in French is Hamachi; sake means sake.

Strolling back toward the pad afterward showed us more colorful doorways, more ornate wrought iron rails and more handsome locals. We were able to purchase toilet paper instead of paper towels (no bolsa) and we lucked into a very French experience in the tiny Rouge Bar only a few blocks away from our home base. A dozen regulars were seated around a large table in the back, singing folk songs and banging on various percussion instruments. One guy was plucking away on a kind of 1-string washtub bass type thing, and the group was taking turns on verses, joining in on the choruses. We had no idea whatsoever what the songs were about, of course– but we enjoyed a glass and the good vibes before collecting our TP and climbing the stairs to the apartment.

I’m not a great sleeper. Never have been. And when I get into a groove of insomnia, not much can wreck my flow. I had had some luck in London, and the bed in our Paris AirB was comfortable and the apartment quiet. I was exhausted. But still– sleep would not show itself to me on that first night.

At 4, I offered Edie the bed and took to the couch. I figured one of us might as well get some quality rest. At 6, I quietly dressed and slipped out into the hall. Shoes in-hand, I tiptoed down the winding oak staircase so as not to wake the neighbors.

Dawn was just starting to stir as I hit the sidewalk, turning north. The only sound was the gentle cooing of the pigeons, possibly startled to see me. It was clear and cold. (I’d checked the weather on my phone before leaving the 6th floor and learned it was 35 degrees on the street). Perfect weather for a morning hike in Paris. For some reason, “Looking Glass” by the La’s was playing in my head.

It was a fairly surreal experience to be alone in a city as normally abuzz as Paris: just me, my gradually shortening shadow and last night’s barf & piss. The cafes and bar tabacs were buttoned up tight. No busses. After 20 minutes I finally saw a garbage truck, but it didn’t seem to be picking up any garbage. Rather it was just kind of cruising as if casing the garbage. Eventually the peoples began to emerge– jogging, gymming, walking the dog. Texting at the wheel. All the same stuff Americans do in the morning…

I wandered north then west, slowly climbing higher into the picturesque Montmartre neighborhood. The peaks of the iconic Sacre’-Coeur came into view and I turned in their general direction, winding up and down cobblestone lanes lined with arched doorways draped in wysteria.

the Basilica of the Sacred Heart of Paris at sunrise

Upon reaching the travertine plaza of the Basilica– the highest point in Paris– all the air was sucked from my lungs by the breathtaking setting and view. The glow of the rising sun coming from the east illuminated the perfect domes of the temple, and the rest of Paris lay sprawled out to the south– ready for another busy day. There were a half-dozen other people out there also gawking, though most of them were paired up. It was a pretty romantic setting, after all. Suddenly I missed Patti and remembered her telling of her first experience in Paris where she’d felt a little gypped to be stag. The only other unmatched person up there was a bearded guy who positioned himself squarely in the center of the courtyard and proceeded to jump rope. It was odd…

On the way down the hill, I passed along a street with a number of butchers who were just opening shop. Cured and fresh meats were being unwrapped and hung out for display. Ice bins were being filled, sidewalks hosed down. On the curb in front of one shop was a metal shopping cart filled to the very top with huge bones (beef femurs?). It was the deepest collection of the biggest bones I had ever seen. I slowed and discreetly slipped my phone from my bag and snapped a photo from waste level.

It wasn’t discreet enough…

A butcher emerged from the shop as I started to walk away. He was agitated and confronted me, blocking my path.

“Supprime-le,” he said sternly. “Supprime-le!”

Of course I had no idea what he was saying. I shrugged out a no Francias and a perdon for good measure, but he just kept repeating ‘supprime-le.’ Eventually he mixed in some clarifying language which I guessed was none too flattering. But he always returned to ‘supprime-le.’

It’s painfully obvious now of course that he was demanding I delete the photograph from my phone. Supprime-le = delete it. But at the time I just didn’t get it, and at one point actually thought he might have been offering to snap a photo of me posing with the bonecart using my camera– for a fee. Can you even imagine?

Eventually, he was able to mime my phone out of my bag and point to the delete icon on the screen. I was quite embarrassed when I finally realized what he was getting at and of course deleted the image immediately. Supprime-le, my advisor… 

It’s ironic that I said to him “I’m sorry” in English as he turned to go back into his tiny shop. I’d been walking around all morning practicing the phrase I expected to get the most use out of while in Paris, that being ‘Je suis de’sole’ or I’m sorry. I’d been wandering around this beautiful neighborhood whispering I’m sorry to myself for hours, and when the perfect opportunity presented itself for me to show off my French, I totally dorked out and made a bad situation worse by apologizing in English.

Probably just as well. I learned at the end of our stay in France that in my attempt to shorten the phrase from what I understood to mean ‘I’m sorry’ to simply ‘sorry,’ I had lopped off the wrong half. So in Paris and through the south, I had been sheepishly saying ‘I am‘ when mixing salt into a cappuccino or fumbling with the money. De’sole = I am. Je-Suis = sorry.  Sheesh… 

I don’t blame the French for being resentful of foreigners. They have a pretty bitchin’ culture which they’ve been forced to share with the rest of the world for centuries. We’re learning in our modern age that it’s awkward to refuse immigrants and not economically feasible to discourage tourism. Any western joker with a thousand Euro and a passport can spend a week in Paris, displacing locals by soaking up AirB’s, clogging the narrow sidewalks and strangling the language. All the natives can do is roll their eyes and say supprime-le. Kinda hard to fault them…

I picked up some beautiful little pastries at a real live French bakery and some fruits at a sidewalk market and returned to the apartment to wake Edie who was still sleeping at 9:30. We got cleaned up and boogied to the insane Marché aux Puces de Vanves flea market. Row after row of overpriced old world relics waited on folding tables along the sidewalk. I wanted all of it, but settled for a short stack of souvenir 45s and a heaping platter of sauteed mussels. We made the very photogenic Canal St-Martin neighborhood next on our way to the you-know-what. You can’t go to Paris without visiting the Eiffel Tower, and it was of course very spectacular. The late Sunday afternoon sun was setting over the Seine as we strolled amongst our fellow tourists, gazing up at the 1000′ icon. The grounds there are very nice and you can buy a little mobile party if you are so inclined. Eiffel Tower: check! Oh, the Arc de Triomphe, too: check!

not Notre Dame

Monday morning brought vintage shopping in Le Marais en route to the Centre Pompidou. We’d been dissuaded from chasing the Louvre by more than one well-meaning domestic friend, and if you’re in Paris for 2.5 days, you can’t really justify spending one in the Louvre. At least I can’t. Three hours in the Pompidou was plenty. All the AC/DC and Thin Lizzy was on the 5th floor, which was where I hung out. The view from the rooftop terrace was spectacular, too, and actually proved a useful perspective in the planning the rest of our afternoon.

not Notre Dame

We exited through the giftshop and headed in the general direction of Notre Dame. It was well-past the lunch hour by this time, and we were feeling a little rummy with fabulousness overload in this picturesque neighborhood. Possibly a bit low on bloodsugar. Every corner we turned brought us face-to-face with a new architectural marvel and we would stand reverently in its shadow, gazing up and shaking our heads. “Wow,” we’d whisper. “Notre Fucking Dame…”

And it wouldn’t even be Notre Dame! There are just so many ridiculous buildings down there that you can mistake any one of them for Notre Dame if you haven’t been holding up a picture of Notre Dame with one hand for most of your life. The Paris City Hall is wikked cool! But yeah– it’s not Notre Dame…

By the time we actually did get to Notre Dame, we were just about wetting our pants laughing about all the buildings we’d mistaken for it. So we felt pretty bad when it burned down two hours later.

not Notre Dame

We saw no sign of the Yellowvests in Paris, and–as in London–observed very little sign of economic angst or presence of the unsheltered. There was the occasional sidewalk tent, and actually Paris did have what seemed like a fairly civilized network of doorway mattresses, almost like the Lime bikes and scooters. There was no apparent ownership– rather if you needed a place to sleep, you just flopped on an available mattress. Once you woke up, you moved on– freeing up the bed for the next weary Parisian down on luck.

We did not have time to venture deep into the Left Bank. Our host neighborhood was described as Montmartre on Airbnb, but it was quickly obvious that this was fairly wishful marketing. Our neighborhood was literally on the other side of the tracks from the Montmartre in a neighborhood we later learned was informally known as Little Algeria. It bordered a bustling Bangladeshi neighborhood along the Rue Marx Dormoy where there were very few women visible at all, particularly after dark when the street vendors took over the sidewalks. On our last night there, we encountered a burgeoning race riot outside a grocery store that looked a little too much like Do the Right Thing with a large crowd of unhappy young men pushing up against the metal accordion fence of a small grocery. The shopkeep appeared to be evicting a representative of the crowd whose shirt was ripped and there was a lot of spitting and shouting. We totally valued being in an authentic neighborhood not seemingly catering to tourists. But this particular moment also seemed like a pretty good time to cross the street.

not even the Arc de Triomphe

We had ventured to the Republique’ neighborhood earlier that night, enjoying a drink in a Greek place and some snappy tappas at a little Spanish joint. It was late when we got back to the apartment and I turned my attention to confirming a roof for us for the following night in Lyon. We weren’t exactly walking into towns with our backpacks and looking for a place to sleep like in the ’90s. But booking this stuff only one night in-advance was an exercise in agility nonetheless. Edie & I had agreed not to over-plan, and short-notice reservations were part of this agreement. We’d done well in Paris booking this apartment from London and we fully expected to get as lucky in Lyon. But booking trains at the last minute can be limiting– and the only cheap seats left bound for Lyon the next morning were on the 5:50. We’d need to get up at 4 in order to make the train. So of course I didn’t sleep.

We got loose of the pad (at 4:20!) and down to the street to meet the only Uber we’d take the whole trip– as the Metro didn’t start running till 5am. Before I knew it, we were chugging gently through the rolling green fields of the French countryside– dotted with herds of sheep, tiny villages (always with a tall church steeple in the middle), and the occasional medieval castle on the hill. The coach rocked side-to-side as I watched Edie sleep from across the tiny train table.

Lyon is a cool town. But arriving at 8 o’clock on a rainy Tuesday morning, it didn’t seem like the locals were really all that mass stoked. Commuters trudged up and down the slick platforms, their umbrellas up and the corners of their mouths down. I hadn’t slept on the train and my eyes burned like fire. The toilets in the station cost .80 Euro, which I couldn’t manage to count. My left hip clicked with each step.

Edie punched up our destination.

We marched across the square in a steady rain and up into a network of narrow cobblestone lanes rising steeply out of the downtown. Five minutes later we were inside our building and climbing a limestone staircase open to the interior courtyard of the building, up toward the 4th floor flat. At this rate, by the time we reached Barcelona, we’d be on the ground floor! The key to the apartment was where it was supposed to be and it actually unlocked the door. I am always amazed when this stuff works.

This apartment was our host’s home. Her bills were on the desk, her laundry in the hamper. She was probably staying with her sister on the 2nd floor while I slept in her bed. We had just booked the place 9 hours ago. And not only was she willing to cut out on short notice, but she actually was kind enough to let us check in early. I would not have inquired about a mercy checkin if I’d known this was someone’s home. A lot of these places are vacant, like a sock waiting to be used*. But not always…

We rid our packs and took off our shoes and immediately fell asleep side-by-side on the couch. All I wanted to do right then was dormir, but I knew if I stayed down more than about an hour I probably wouldn’t sleep again for the rest of the trip. So I made myself get up after 90 minutes and put my shoes back on. I dropped back into the downtown and ordered a cafe creme’ deporto at a coffee shop in which I would become a 2-day regular. The rain had stopped and the sun was beginning to peak out. I sat on the stone steps of yet another fantastic unnamed church and pulled out my journal and pen. Good day, Lyon!

Large Sraight, Lyon

I woke Edie up at 2pm, this time with a bottle of white wine and some cookies. She’d had a solid nap and was ready to rock, as was I. We rolled a quick game of Yahtzee (I had packed dice) before cleaning up and getting back on the street. Edie’s Sunnyland homie Nick had just landed in Lyon the week before, beginning a similar study abroad experience to the one Edie had last year in Barcelona. We were meeting him at 6, so we had some time to kill cruising Lyon’s canals and crossing the quaint footbridges over them. There were statues built into caves on the other side and a huge cathedral looming on the hill. Our accompaniment for this segment was “Yeah Yeah Yeah” by Alice Cooper– a brilliant afternoon!

It was great seeing Nick. He’s one of my favorites of Edie’s buddies from home and he seems to really be digging his experience in France so far. We strolled around through the old town catching up, eventually selecting a Fine French Restaurant for dinner. In some foodist cultures, it is an honor to be seated by the kitchen. In this situation, we were merely being seated at the back of the restaurant. The 4-course experience involved much pointing at the menu. It was OK– not necessarily what I’d call fine… 

Unlike England, France is kind of known for its food. But much like England, our culinary experiences were not super fine. My general distrust for the internet makes it hard for me to shop for restaurants online. “Look, Edie– this one has quatre e’toiles. Only 80 more blocks!” I am much more-inclined to eat when I’m hungry and drink when I’m dry. Just like Bob Dylan. Sometimes the place that presents itself at the right time is killer; other times less. But Yelping our way around Europe is not what I had in-mind and Edie was fully in agreement. Whatever. We didn’t starve.

Speaking of Dylan, we missed him in Paris by two days. I don’t know whether I would have efforted to see Bob Dylan in Paris if our paths had crossed. But they didn’t. We also narrowly missed Teenage Fanclub and Lake Street Dive. And in London I missed UFO by three days! I definitely would have done whatever necessary to make that show had the dates aligned. And then Paul Raymond died eight days later. Timing– it’s universal…

Paris is known for its gothic cathedrals, its majestic river and quaint cafes. Lyon has all that stuff too, but without the mountains of garbage that you have to climb over in Paris. How anyone could think about dropping as much as a gum wrapper in that holy place is hard to figure– but I don’t think I’ve been in a dirtier town. I like a gritty city, but Paris is just plain littered and shat upon and that’s less romantic no matter how you look at it or in what language you describe it.

Being a less-common destination, Lyon may even be a skosh Frencher than Paris and we found it very usable. Divided by the Rhone River to the east, the Saone River in the center and the hilltop Fourvière to the west, Lyon is the 3rd largest city in France at a half-million people. Posing patiently above the old town is the sultry Basilique de Fourvière. It isn’t ancient– the current version was completed only in the very late 19th century. But it is architecturally stunning and the view over the city from the grounds is dizzying. We climbed up there on the sunny second afternoon in town, and Edie left from there to go meet Nick and his friend from school. I went inside the sanctuary and sat for a long time, staring up at the coved, tiled ceiling. I dislike organized religion in general and Christianity in particular. Catholicism perhaps most of all. But dang– those guys sure do know how to build a churchhouse.

I don’t think anyone was on-duty in the confessional by the front door, but I paused on my way out and considered spilling a gut anyway just the same. I wasn’t carrying anything particularly heavy. But I was sensing the impending mortality of this adventure, being at about the halfway point that day– England behind, Spain ahead. Struggling to be in the moment every moment isn’t really a conventional sin, but it is a hangup. And I thought that maybe if I could admit to a stranger that I was even thinking about the end of a trip from its middle, it might help me stay in the present more completely. I stood at the threshhold of the booth for a minute, pondering. Eventually I crossed the street to the gift shop and bought a postcard instead. They were playing Judy Garland and Gene Kelly’s “Ballin’ the Jack” in the shop, which made me feel a little better since it didn’t seem to have anything to do with France, Christ or redemption. I scaled back down the 800 stairs (yes, I counted) into downtown and got a glass of whisky at a cafe overlooking the river, feeling great. I addressed the postcard to myself and placed an Airmail stamp into the upper right corner.

The French don’t:

• Give a good goddamn about much of anything other than the French

• Wear berets

• … or any hats for that matter, except Yankees caps. Certainly no widebrim hats in any venue in Europe. That fashion phase has either not hit yet or else has well faded (probably the latter, huh?)

• not smoke

• keep cats

• busk

Very few street performers of any kind in France, actually, other than the occasional strolling accordionist outside the cafe– like the Mariachi’s in Mexico. I did happen upon the French version of the Dy Young Combo on the last night in Lyon, at a small wine bar in the old town. A pretty lady with her hair in a scarf was singing and dragging on a guero, accompanied by an electric guitar and percussionist. As soon as I sat down they launched into “The Girl From Ipanema” and I wondered if it was the first time they’d played it that set. Seemed kind of obvious…

On my way back up to the apartment, I peered into a doorway that had bar sounds coming from within it. There was no sign outside, but ducking down into the tiny, dark room below street level I discovered it was indeed a dank little bar full of wasted locals. French hardcore music was blasting from a small Sonos speaker in the corner and there was one vacant stool at the bar. I slid in and smiled at the bartender.

“Vin Rouge,” I said confidently, trying to be clearly heard by him but not overheard by the entire bar.

“I am sorry,” he said, in English of course and loud enough for everyone at the bar to hear. “I do not have any wine.”

“Oh,” I said, abandoning my attempt to French out. I noticed a chalkboard menu with Absinte halfway down. “Absinthe?”

“Sure,” he said, and poured me the cutest little shot along with a glass of water. “Three Euro-fifty.”

The place looked like the belly of a boat, where bearded slaves shackled together might sit and row to the beat of a whip-cracking coxswain. It smelled like it too. In the back corner, a thick sleeveless woman in her 30s was pouring beer on the heads of the others at her table. Two younger men jumped up and grabbed an arm each, returning the gesture. She shrieked in delight and sprawled across the table, toppling glasses and bottles. The men sat back down laughing and the entire ritual repeated. I had one more shot, but I don’t think that was the place I was supposed to be. I returned to the apartment, packed, and confirmed the AirB for the following night in Montpellier.

If Lyon seemed 15% Frencher than Paris, Montpellier might as well have been Gaul. It looked more Spanish than the other cities, with more palm trees and more white iron– like what I imagine Havana looks like (never been). But it was apparent immediately upon deboarding the train that we would struggle more with integration here. We were hungry so we muscled through ordering a ‘pizza.’ Meanwhile, Edie attempted to punch up our accommodations.

“This downtown area is showing up,” she said looking around before re-puzzling over Google Maps. “But the place isn’t…”

Life’s a Beach and then you smile– Carnon

As it turned out, the AirB was 20 kilometers away in a small seaside resort called Carnon. It was too remote to get any directions through Google Maps. We had an address and a general direction. So we got on a tram that looked like it might take us to Knott’s Berry Farm.

After some eventual third-guessing, we transferred to a bus then walked on our feet a mile and finally got into range where Google Maps would recognize us. The lovely & adorable host at our AirB was there to greet us even though we were three hours late, and she gave us a very detailed orientation of every system & appliance in the apartment– in French of course. We wouldn’t use anything other than the key and the beds, but it was nice to hear some more French spoken as we’d be leaving for Spain in the morning. Plus she gave us the total French cheek peck– un, deux, trois— which we had not yet observed being administered in the larger venues. So we got to cross that off our list…

Carnon also had a pleasant little sandy beach that we went out and sat on for a while. I was stoked to finally behold the storied Mediterranean Sea until I was reminded that it wasn’t the Mediterranean at all really, but actually the Golfe d’aigues-Mortes which was actually more contiguous to the Balearic Sea than the Mediterranean, yo. In any event, it was a sandy beach and there were a couple of guys kind of surfing out beyond the breakwater and neither Edie nor myself had had an aneurysm or even so much as a canker sore– so I guess I was feeling pretty alright about France as I scooped up handfulls of the fine white sand and let it run slowly through my fingers.

Carnon was a little like Ocean Shores and it closed up pretty early. Just as well. I needed to book a bus to Spain and a room once there, so my full attention came in handy. The next morning was Friday and not just any Friday. We shouldered our packs and retraced our path back to the Montpellier train station where we caught the 3:30 to Barcelona where Good Friday observances were already in full swing…

Seattle Mariners 2025

A pirate, an MVP and a promising young centerfielder are in a rowboat

Tuesday, October 21– Bellingham, WA 

Q: How far will they get before the boat fills up with water and they are violently dismembered by bull sharks in a froth of blood and salt, the rogue fibers of their musclebound torsos floating lazily down to the sandy ocean floor to be consumed nonchalantly by the least of the sea’s parasites—a murky ecosystem failure and decay.

A: Not as far as the World Series.

Along with the traditional offerings of just wait’ll next year and howabout them Hawks making the rounds this morning is a milky-eyed group meme of congratulations for how far the Seattle Mariners advanced this year– a resignation that not reaching the World Series is plenty good enough and that we should be not only satisfied but indeed proud that the team got as far as it did. This is a very PNW point of view, and showcases the low expectations for baseball and spectator sports in general in this region. Decades of losing have conditioned us to enthusiastically embrace 2nd (or lower) place, gleefully celebrating early-bracket victories as if they were championships. We’re just so grateful for a pause in the beatings that we can actually say with a straight face on the morning after a soul-sacking game 7 Championship Series defeat ‘only 112 days till pitchers and catchers! ‘

I wish I could see it that way.

another disappointing Championship Series

It’s not that there’s any shame in getting beat by a better sports team than yours. Especially in baseball and especially in October, when these series get stretched out over a long week. When you actually amortize the contest over seven grueling games, each with its own game within the game, with the innumerable plate appearances and recurring matchups and tangential storylines and super slo-mo replays & aerial photography, reverse-splits and the in-game interviews & miked-up umpires—it’s a fucking study. And usually there are enough chances for the better team to win. Just ask the Bad Lieutenant.

And yes of course the Mariners tasted success this season. For sure it was exhilarating to be one of the last three teams standing while all other baseball players were already golfing. FUCKING A RIGHT it was thrilling to have stolen along on Cal’s impossible, historic season. Certainly there is much to look forward to in 112 days.

But I guess what bugs me about this post season and what troubles me when I allow myself to consider 2026 is that as the diamonds got larger and the lights got brighter and the stakes got higher, this Mariners team did not consistently show its best self. In fact, it frequently showed its ugliest ugliest ugliest ass to the national audiences who hadn’t seen all that much of them to that point. That’s frustrating, because they’re better than how they played in much of the playoffs.

And it’s not just because my cousins in Boston watched the Mariners boot the ball all over the fuckin’ field in game 6. It’s not that Jeremy in the Bay laughed when they ran the bases like ladybug league soccer practice in 3 & 4. It’s not even when NYY Robert from Florida winced at some of the shockingly uncompetitive swings in all three. Rather it’s a combination of these boners and many more. Frankly, the team that stunk up much of the Championship Series was not a championship team.

And it wasn’t just the bleak nadirs of the Toronto series. There was breathtaking underachievement in the Division Series too.

“But we won the series,” will cry the apologists in teal. “We beat Skubal in an elimination game in front of a sell-out home crowd that stood and stomped for 15 innings. Everyone on Sports Center was talking about it!”

Oh, no doubt. That was a high-stepping October Friday night baseball thriller right there. But a series against these Tigers should never have gone five games to begin with. And this game needn’t have taken as long as it did. The Mariners had abundant opportunities to end that game in the bottom of every inning from the 8th on without using starting pitching that was supposed to be resting for the Championship Series. But they couldn’t do it. Inning after inning they just couldn’t score one runner from second base. Logan registered an inspired performance in relief for sure, but he never recovered—did he?

The statistical opposite of RLoB (Runners Left on Base) is execution. It doesn’t show up in the box score—there’s no quantifiable metric for it. Rather execution is the general capacity to move baserunners from first base (let alone second!) to home plate, and it is one of the things that separates good teams from very good teams. It is a combination of baserunning and situational hitting, including bunting.

Now, if you’re just planning on hitting a home run every time up, then of course it doesn’t matter– squander all the opportunities you want! But you can’t homer your way out of everything, as the Mariners found out last night.

The tenth man will sleep just fine over the winter, warmed by recollections of the Mariners’ spectacular 2025 stretch run that saw them advance farther into the playoffs than any other Mariner team in history. Tridents up!

I’ll wake up cranky, though, after an unsettling slumber– worrying that the end of the Mariners’ 25 season was flawed and ultimately futile. The Championship Series was cheapened by mental mistakes, mis-calculated pitching and terrible swing decisions. The Division Series took too long and wasted resources earmarked for higher callings. And the thrilling 17-4 late September run that moved the team not only into first place, but in fact into a position to enjoy a first-round bye? That was accomplished almost exclusively against sub-500 teams. The only playoff team the Mariners would face during that run would be the Dodgers, who—even with nothing to play for– made the Mariners look pretty thin in a 3-game sweep to close the regular season. The Mariners tiptoed into the playoffs when they’d previously been on a real rager, trouncing any last-place team that got in their way. Not ideal.

Fuck the Houston Asstros

No. If there’s one thing I’ll cling to this winter when the sun is unplugged and the tarp is on the infield, it will be the weekend in Houston. The one unqualified triumph of the second half of the season wasn’t realized in October at all, rather in the middle of September with more than a week to go in the regular. The Mariners barged in to Houston on a Friday afternoon having pulled into a tie with the first-place Asstros after an 11-1 run. With only six left to play afterward, it seemed likely the division would be decided between the two rivals on the field. And not just any field, either– but that crooked diamond in that backward town in that confederate state versus the orange villains we had all learned to despise so deeply. This was high drama and it was a perfect opportunity for the Mariners to choke like they had in so many Septembers past. One version of the script saw the Mariners piss away the crescendo of momentum they’d built over the previous two weeks—getting swept in Houston and losing out on not only the division title but in fact a post-season berth of any kind.

But that’s not the script that got played. In true fact, the Mariners dominated from the first pitch, leaving no doubt as to who the best team in the AL West was in 2025. Unhittable pitching from Woo, George & Logan. Multiple home runs from Cal. Speire’s gutty innings. Robles’ impossible catch. It was such a rewarding and dizzying thrill and I will cherish it always.

I wish that was the version of the team that had played the Blue Jays…

Rowdy Tellez, Donovan Solano and Dylan Moore walk into a bar

It boggles the mind to think that these three guys were Mariners during the same season that just ended last night. It seems like years ago! That gives an idea just how long a major league baseball season really is.

Lots of bit partiers come and go during a season. Guys get waived, traded, demoted and designated. No team ever finishes the season with the same roster it began with. That’s baseball. But it is interesting to note what’s washed ashore and flushed out with the tide over the course of a campaign.

I personally wanted it to work out for Rowdy, partly because I think Quick Sands would have loved him. Tellez had a playful personality and actually managed a pretty darned serviceable first base. He was also 6’4” and 270lbs and when he ran into one (which wasn’t actually all that often) the ball would go a long way. Rowdy homered in three straight games (including a grand slam in a 12-inning win) during an Easter weekend series win over the Blue Jays at that place Rogers Center.

But there wasn’t roster space for Rowdy once Luke Raley returned from the injured list at the end of June and the big guy was bye-byed. The heightened scrutiny at first base motivated Solano to subsequently crank up his program and he went on a tear, hitting .385 in 17 games in June. But the arrival of first baseman Josh Naylor at the trade deadline made Don Salon expendable and he was outrighted back to the Cheesecake Factory.

Those two guys were transients. They shared a role and soaked up some ABs during their relatively brief stays in Seattle. They had some moments, but Dylan Moore was a different story entirely.

Dylan Moore, thoughts arrive like butterflies

The longest-tenured Mariner (signed a month before JP Crawford), Moore was the epitome of a utility player. In his first game with the team– in Tokyo on opening day 2019– he entered the game in the 7th as a defensive replacement. The next inning, he drew a walk in his first at-bat as a Mariner before promptly stealing second. And then he just kept doing that for the next six + seasons. Whatever the team needed at that moment, Dylan could and would do. He could bunt and run. He could lead off or hit 9th—it didn’t matter. He played every defensive position except catcher and pitcher! He was such a versatile defensive player, he actually did win a Gold Glove for a utility player, which is baseballese for a guy who wants to play and win bad enough that he’ll play wherever the manager needs him to play and do it well. No drama.

I always thought that if Dylan Moore had gotten more regular playing time—more consistent at-bats—that he could be a star rather than the role-player he spent most of his Seattle seasons as. And he proved me right at the beginning of this year, hitting .385 in April and earning AL Player of the Week honors while splitting starts at second and third base while the Mariners were shaking their roster to see if there just wasn’t someone else better in here somewhere. Ultimately rookies Cole Young and Ben Williamson were brought up to fill the respective positions and D-Mo went back to spot starts, defensive replacements and pinch running. Without the rhythm so crucial to the art of baseball, his production plummeted and he was designated in August to clear a roster spot for Victor Robles, who was emerging from the injured list.

So long, Dylan Moore. I’ll miss singing your name in the stadium when they play “Even Flow.”

KNOCK KNOCK (who’s there?)

Josh Naylor—Lord, I can’t even remember what this team was like before Josh Naylor landed. I love this baseball pirate so much. He looks like a pirate and walks like a pirate, yet he speaks like a beat poet. He also runs like Fred Sanford! How did this guy steal 30 bases? Because he’s smart. He’s smart at baseball and he’s insightful, unlike most professional athletes. And funny. Whatever the fuck it was he was doing at second base in game 3 of the Division Series with those fake signals– I do not even know. It was like he was helping to land an airplane—no subtlety whatsoever. Then the goofy attempted breakup of the double play in the finale. The errant flip to Logan in Game 2— totally whack! It’s like jazz baseball…                                                                                                                    Not everything worked, like it doesn’t always in the improvisational arts. He made some sparkling defensive plays in the post, but also committed a couple of errors and was called out on the obstruction play. And like everyone else he had a few ugly at-bats.                       Worst of all his gaffes, however, was running in to an out at third base in Game 4 to ash a threat in the 6th inning with the Mariners down only three and the tying run coming to the plate. But I can forgive him that because he’s just my main main that’s all. Signing him will the the Mariners’ #1 off-season priority. Josh Naylor who? 

JP Crawford—This guy is infinitely lovable too. The longest currently tenured Mariner, JP has been a co-face of the franchise and has shown durability and resourcefulness. But he’s 30, and he did not have a great post, batting only .200 with 15 strikeouts. I was gratified to see him have such a great game 7, with a double, the motherfucking sacrifice bunt (the Mariners’ only of the post?) and that lyrical defensive play to start the double and crush the Blue Jay’s 5th. Identifying his replacement is something the team will need to start working on at some point next year, with the splashy extension he signed in 2022 expiring after the season. JP Crawford who? 

Dan Wilson—I liked Dan as a player and even as a broadcaster, but he’s not my favorite kind of manager. I was delighted when he replaced Scott Servais because I thought Servais needed to be replaced by someone. Anyone. And Dan has largely avoided glaring fuck-ups in his first full + season at the bridge.                                                                                Naturally there has been much second-guessing this morning about the pitching progression last night. Kirby out too soon? Woo out too soon? Bazardo instead of Muñoz? Unlike most of Servais’ moves in 22, I didn’t find fatal flaw with Dan’s choices this month. I think he got unpleasantly surprised by some guys who’d been nails all season long. But I don’t blame Dan for going to them or even going back to them. Sometimes the guy with the bat just hits the ball no matter where it’s thrown.                                                                          One thing that did kind of gross me out this year, though, was the staged ejection in Tampa. A big deal had been made about Lou being at the game, and when some bad strikes were called against Mariner hitters in the 3rd, someone in the dugout got rung by homeplate umpire Manny González. When Dan emerged seeking clarification, he too was tossed. But there was no fire in the thing at all, Wilson’s act was mild and inauthentic– an embarrassment. He looked like he’d just watched some A Eye YouTube video on how you argue with an umpire. Clearly the whole thing was for Lou’s enjoyment only. As much as I miss a good ol’ fashioned baseball argument, I could do without much more of this limp theater. Dan Wilson who? 

the author preparing to shave the good luck mustache Monday October 20, 9:14pm

The Trident—I don’t know if it’s because the team did actually hit a lot of home runs this year or what, but that tiresome fork didn’t bug me as much this season as it has in the past. Funny how winning changes things! While a lot of teams have done away with these dugout talismans, the Trident is still on the Mariner roster.                                                                                                                                                                                                            I do think they need some PR consultation where some of the other stuff is concerned, however. National media loves running stories about dark horse’s endearing B-market customs, but you can’t run parallel with the mustaches, the witches, the Trident and the shoes-on-the-head. Choose one and play it– but don’t expect national audiences to embrace every quirk, no matter how adorable. The Trident who? 

Eugenio Suárez—It was sure a gas having Geno back. I actually had goosebumps and a tearlette when I heard the story of him boarding the plane in Sacramento. I didn’t like letting that dude go in 23, and I’ve missed him since. Unfortunately, he stunk the fuckin’ joint up pretty good once back– at least on the field, more accurately at the plate. He was still great for attendance though, and I know he’s good in the clubhouse. But he was awful in the playoffs, striking out 18 times. It just looked like he couldn’t get back in the dugout fast enough so he could brush his hair. He had the two good swings in Game 5, but even a stopped clock is right twice a day. I assume there will be no effort made to bring him back for 2026. Eugenio Suárez who?

Cal Raleigh—What else are we even supposed to say? Are there any superlatives yet available? We all just sound like broken records trying to describe the juggernaut that was Cal Raleigh this season.

Like every player on this team, I would smile if he cut down on the swing-and-miss. I know striking out is part of power hitting, I just wish there was a shortened 2-strike swing that could be employed. For all of them.

He looked tired in the last two games in Toronto and some balls got away him behind the plate. Go figure. The Mariners will do well to find a way to rest him more regularly next season—whether he likes it or not.

I hope he wins the MVP but will understand if he doesn’t. It will boil down to how much value is assigned to the catching piece, obviously. Maybe that and stolen bases! Cal owns that advantage over Judge 14-12. To be honest, I would like to see him running less in general. It just cracks up the radio booth whenever Cal catches everyone off-guard and steals second. But no one’s going to be laughing when he pulls a hamstring or gets in some awkward collision at home plate when fucking Kris Negrón sends him with one out and a 3-run lead. The guy’s got a lot on his plate, maybe we can just cool out on the ill-advised baserunning risks in 2026. Cal Raleigh who? 

Right Field—I like both of these guys—Victor & Dom. But one of them needs to step up or get lost early in 26. Miserable posts, both of them– well sub-Mondoza. And that E for Vic with the laminated cheat card in his teeth was a bad look– as was his javelin suspension in August. Stewy Griffin was as ineffective as anyone in the black hole of the back of the Mariners’ post-season lineup and we need more from the position. Right Field who?

Rotation—The least of anyone’s concerns, clearly. It’s actually kind of shocking that the Mariners won 90 games with all the injuries and general underachievement of the young starters in 25. Castillo’s surprise season is regularly overlooked in discussions about Mariner pitching, but The Rocker was really good—super clutch. There’s no reason to think the starting rotation will not be wikked awesome again next season after the off-year in 25. Like many of the hitters, they weren’t good enough in the post– but there are explanations for that. Rotation who?

Julio Rodríguez of the Seattle Mariners— I have a complicated relationship with Julio. It certainly is not in my best interests for him to fail—yet I find myself being much more irritated when he does than I am elated when he succeeds. I’m not sure why I’m so critical of him. I don’t think it’s the actual money, but it surely has something to do with the expectations attached to it. The Seattle sports blogosphere thinks he’s the best thing since curly fries, but I believe he’s got a long way to go before he’s sharing any sentences with you–know-who. A super long way.

Everyone strikes out sometimes. Everyone hits in to a double play once in a while. Guys get caught stealing, I dig it. But this dude’s errors are more often mental lapses. I think Julio Rodríguez is the most vacant baserunner I’ve ever watched. Certainly the most relative to his reputation as a great baserunner. “But he stole 30 bases!” they whine. This is true. But there’s more to baserunning than stealing second. J-Rod is constantly getting picked off and running in front of ground balls when he should just freeze.

I also do not believe he is an elite defender. “But he’s nominated for the Gold Glove!” At the risk of being exposed as a heretic, my opinion is that he doesn’t make the really difficult plays and that he makes the routine ones look difficult.

Baserunning mistakes cost outs. Fielding errors, like the banquet offered in Game 6 (two by Julio) give extra bases to the other guys. They can’t be tolerated.

I do give Julio all the credit in the world for stiff-arming the All-Star Game, however. For a guy who admires himself as much he does, summoning the discipline to forfeit limelight in order to put himself in a position to do what should be most important (namely having the sensational second half he did) couldn’t have been easy. My cap is off for this bold choice. But I need Julio to play smarter in 2026, all year. Julio Rodríguez of the Seattle Mariners who?

Jesus Won— I find this team’s recent embrace of Christianity to be positively revolting. I’ve never thought it was a great look on any celebrity, honestly, but somehow it’s even worse on baseball players. The Latin American guys, I can cut more length—even if Geno laid it on far too thick more than once. But Logan? Where did this even come from? I’ve never observed it before and suddenly they are kneeling in a team prayer. I could do without this and will be writing a letter in the off-season, believe me. Jesus Won who?

Randy—This guy is a weirdo. I got a real close look at him at Spring Training, and he is a dark motherfucker. And no, I don’t mean that—he’s just super intense and unless he’s flashing that million-dollar grin then he’s just hard scowling. But I love that he throws 20 baseballs into the stands during the game. Other players actually throw balls to him in left field for him to throw to the crowd. It’s a weird tic.                                                                                                          But Randy had some real presence this season, and even if it wasn’t exactly the 2020 World Series, I loved his work on the basepaths this post and I like him in left. Randy who?

The Bullpen—I have appreciated that these modern Mariners teams have had strong and deep relief pitching. To me, a rad bullpen is even sexier than a great starting rotation. Particularly in the post season, it’s fascinating when the nameless gunslingers emerge from beyond the left-field fence to face certain hitters again and again. And not just the closers, but the set-up guys and other specialists too. Muñoz was good again this year– but he was far from perfect, with seven blown saves. Even the successful finishes often seemed to be an adventure for him. But Brash has settled in nicely to his 8th inning role and Bazardo & Speier had great years even if some of their luck ran out in the playoffs. With the hopeful return of Santos and Thornton next year, the bullpen should again be a strength for the Mariners. The Bullpen who?

Quick Sands, T-Mobile  Park 10/2/21

Quick Sands—I wasn’t even old enough to vote when I first started copying everything Rick Sands did, and we were friends for more than 40 years before he died last season. He taught me lots of stuff and made baseball cool for me again after a decade of estrangement, worshipping the NFL. We went to a million games together over the years, but never a World Series game. Matt and Evan and I took his voodoo stickers to spring training and I was looking forward to taking them to a Series game also. But the team ended up making too many fucking baserunning mistakes and missed the fall classic by 9 outs. Quick Sands would have scoffed at the just wait’ll next year optimism, mocking it as sushi-eating American League bullshit. But, you know—just wait’ll next year… Quick Sands who?

The World Series— By the time I’ve gotten to the bottom of this pompous protest piece, two games of the Series are downstream. Game 1 was a shocker. Like most people, I didn’t know if Toronto would even score a run let alone win a game. But the Dodgers haven’t exactly looked like the 27 Yankees either. Still, I like LA to win it all, maybe in as few as five. We’ll know more after tonight. I won’t be going to Game 4 tomorrow night, like I had hoped… The World Series who? 

Jorge Polanco—I don’t usually watch baseball on television. A 30+ year radio listener, I normally only see baseball on TV if I’m in a bar or a hotel room. I don’t miss too many pitches during a season, but I’m normally listening to them while I’m cooking or walking or puttering in the garage. So it wasn’t until pulling down a Fubo subscription this post that I actually got a good long look at that bug-eyed freak Jorge Polanco. Talk about your blank stares—I love this dude’s super-neutral shark act. You get absolutely nothing from him and then BOOM– he’s running slow around the bases.                                                                    The Mariners haven’t had a real DH since Nelson Cruz. I hope they’ll make an effort to sign Polanco, though he will likely test the market after a productive season. Maybe we should step up our efforts to circulate that blooper reel error of his in shallow right field during the Division Series. Dude not necessarily known for his D. Jorge Palanco who?

2026 SEATTLE MARINERS—Despite how sardonic and generally discontented I come off, I do think this team will definitely win the World Series next year. Of course, I always think the Mariners are going to win the World Series until the pitch on which they are eliminated for the season—even when that’s been in June. This year it wasn’t until the end of game 7 of the ALCS. And yes of course that is something.                                                                                                                      I do hope there’s a grown-up in the room at some point during spring training 26, however, who will motivate these boys to re-visit the some of the classics like catching the ball, throwing to the right base, bunting, and not getting picked off third. Home runs are bitchin’ but a bunch of balls taken smoothly the other way pencil out the same in the scorebook. I know it’s a lot to expect, but being a team that puts the ball in play (TOR25) sometimes has a better chance of winning a pennant than the team that hits home runs a lot but then can’t score after a leadoff double when the season’s on the line (SEA25).                    There is much to be optimistic about looking forward. The rotation should be as good as any in the game. They have stars under contract and with any luck they’ll sign another in Naylor. Hopefully Mitch Garver is playing elsewhere and that he takes Luke Raley with him. They may well have the steepest home-field advantage in the sport.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             But we can’t pencil in 60 for Cal again—he won’t be pitched to like he was for a lot of this year. Someone on the pitching staff is going to be injured and miss half the season. How are matters going to take shape at second and third base? Who knows when the best Julio Rodríguez is going to show up…                         A baseball season is a long prospect. It starts in early February and doesn’t end until November if you’re good. If you make sweet love to and impregnate your darling one (does not matter if you are married to her or not) on the first day of spring training, she might give you a son on the last day of the World Series. And there’s only three months of leave available before you have to get back in the dugout with those dudes that are all dressed the same as you.

As Quick Sands often said, baseball is mean…

you wanted the best but you missed it

Well– is that all there is to a fire?

Tonight, in the midtown temple where in many respects it began, the journey comes to a merciful end for the most-important rock band of my life.

I won’t be there. Not because I couldn’t be– although tickets are pretty spendy (starting at $500 and ranging up to more than $10,000). Rather, I guess I just don’t really want to be. After all, I didn’t bother attending when the remains of KISS lurched to within a hundred miles of my house three weeks ago, when I could have gotten in for a paltry C-note.

No, I believe I’ll sit this one out.  Plus, I already saw KISS on their ‘Farewell’ Tour almost 25 years ago. Fool me once…

Nothing I’ve observed of this self-congratulatory ‘End of the Road’ Tour has made me second guess my decision to not get involved. The advance social media hype has been forced and banal. The merch is shit. The VIP Packages are an outrage. And that’s just the stuff the band can control! Not till you drill down to the overlit and underfiltered cellphone fan footage do you really get even the faintest whiff of just how bad things have really gotten…

It hasn’t always been this way, of course. There was a time when KISS was everything they still claim to be—the Greatest Show on Earth. The window was brief, but still — four years is a long time to be The Best. But when you borrow against four great years for the next 46, then you risk ending up in default, don’t you?

It’s a long story.

Christmas Day 1977. L-R: Jimmy D, the author, Colin K and Sean K

I personally was late to the party. By my own math, I climbed aboard the KISS float exactly one week before the end of that golden age of relevance. It was Christmas Day 1977 and Santa had brought me my first record player. My parents, in reluctant coordination, gifted me the latest studio KISS album, Love Gun. There’s a lot more to the Christmas morning story, but I’ve told it (published it, even) so many times by now it’s starting to get on even my nerves. Surely it is boring you as well. So I’ll skip the tired details other than to say that from that day forward, I was as dedicated a KISS fan as there was– a completely different person than I had been previously. Like as in during the 32 minutes it took to play the album, I had undertaken a complete and wholesale transformation. (29 minutes if you excuse “Then She Kissed Me.”) For a month I listened only to the two sides of Love Gun until I got Alive II at which point I had six sides to rotate through. The 2-record greatest hits set Double Platinum came out in March and my collection grew to 10 sides. Mind you, not only did I not bother with records by any other artists– but I didn’t even listen to the radio unless it was waking me up for school. It was all KISS every single day of 1978 for our young Braimes.

Autumn brought the long-anticipated release of the solo albums– an ambitious project designed to extend the life of KISS Mach I. The scheme worked beautifully[1] as the four KISS-branded records were released simultaneously on September 18. Not having the bread to buy all four records at once, I struggled over which to acquire first. I chose Gene’s and was fairly confused by it. (I still am to a degree, although I listened to it intentionally this past summer and will say it makes a lot more sense in 2023 than it did in 1978). I saved my allowance and bought Paul’s record next. I loved it, and still do—probably the truest of the four to the established KISS formula. Ace’s record followed, and though it is universally considered the best of the four, it frightened me at the time with its references to drug use and general ne’er-do-wellism. I got Peter’s record last and though I have grown to recognize his as the best voice in the band (if not necessarily the best singer), I didn’t have capacity in my rotation for a jazz record at the time.

What I did have space for was more of KISS’ back catalog which I picked up one at-a-time, whenever I had the coins. I wasn’t hip to the concept of the used record store, so these albums were purchased new, usually at the music store in Sea-Tac Mall– the Brass Ear. My October birthday and Christmas were both good for an album or two and by the spring of 1979, I was about caught up. Just fucking swimming in KISS sides…

May 23, 1979 Federal Way, WA

On May 23rd I had four teeth pulled to make room inside my skull for my upcoming orthodontic braces. As I lay on my twin bed afterward with a mouthful of gauze and a headful of local, my mom walked into my room with Dynasty, released that day. It was the first album of new material that had been released during my almost 18-month tenure as a KISS fan. My mind raced with possibilities: nine brand new songs, written and recorded especially for me! I couldn’t get off the bed, so mom put the record on and left me alone with “I Was Made for Lovin’ You.”

It was a helpless feeling to be trapped inside my own drugged body, unable to reach the record player and lift the needle. Without the internet to provide endless advance scouting, I’d had no idea what to expect from the new album. It was being billed as The Return of KISS. Of course I had no way of knowing in that tender spring that KISS would spend the next 45 years ‘returning.’ It had not occurred to me in my wildest dreams that my favorite band would go disco. But here it was—the hard and truthful wax. Ace’s detached rendition of “2000 Man” followed, and I became even more disoriented. I didn’t realize it was a cover of a bad old Rolling Stones song, and thought it was just a bad new KISS song[2]. My head spun. I would come to appreciate “Sure Know Something” in later years, but on first listen I dismissed it as soft (it is) and Peter’s “Dirty Livin’” didn’t help matters any, finishing side 1. Having swallowed too much of my own blood, I barfed. The needle lifted automatically off the record, the tonearm reseating on its cradle– and my room went quiet once again.

From these challenged beginnings, my relationship with Dynasty has grown even more complicated over the years. It’s not a terrible record. But timing is everything, and the album’s arrival in my life was poor on both a micro (quadruple extraction) and a macro (disco sucks) level. At a time when older kids in my same grade were abandoning KISS, I was forced to stay home and defend them. Mostly to myself, but still: there was some heavy inner-negotiation going on in the summer of 1979. I was a long way from quitting The Life. But I also bought Live at Budakon.

Don’t worry: I’m not going to spend 500 words on every post-peak KISS album. There’s really no need. With a few notable exceptions[3], the work moving forward would represent an increasingly desperate attempt to re-capture the black magic of the 1970s. With each New Low, the band’s place in history complex would become more evident and shrill– all leading up to tonight’s drymax in front of 20,000 middle-to-late aged white monied yessers who wouldn’t be anywhere else…

II

Mervyn’s box, Burien. L-R Dennis G (in red), the author (Raiders coat)

My braces had been on a full year by the time KISS released the follow-up to Dynasty, the punchless Unmasked. In the meantime they’d been touring in support of Dynasty and a Seattle date was announced for November 21, near the end of the US leg. Dennis Gregg and I camped out in front of Mervyn’s in Burien to buy tickets when the box office opened in the morning– for a festival seating show that never even sold out.

We’d never been to a rock concert and had little idea how to prepare or behave once there. Mrs. Gregg had an uneasy look in her eye as she dropped us off at Seattle Center on the morning of the show, and we fell in line with a group of other kids outside the angular Coliseum. We were only 35 people deep, but by the time the doors opened at 6pm, we were several hundred heads back, closer to the fountain. The line crowd had grown older and increasingly unsafe over the course of the day and we were relieved to finally get out of it. We ran to the stage along with everyone else, but lost ground quickly there too. After shivering outside all day, it was suddenly very warm and smoky inside the arena, with red-eyed bile-breathed rockers pressing in closer than what we were comfortable with. Eventually we found ourselves practically back at the sound board. Scanning the tiered seats, it appeared all the good ones were by now occupied as well. Not knowing what else to do, we went and looked at the merch.

First concert. I had never seen a rock band play live. Not in an arena or at a harvest days festival or in a neighbor’s basement. My entire pre-conception of what I was about to experience was based on nine KISS albums and the live sequences from their made-for-TV movie KISS Meets the Phantom of the Park, the multi-camera high-def Hanna Barbara puff piece from mid-1978. I’d spent a lot of hours dreaming of what it was going to be like to finally see KISS live– time I might otherwise have spent sleeping or studying or at least trying harder to kiss Michelle Buckley[4]. But I imagined a KISS who were in-tune, wide awake, and puckering for me personally.

What I got, of course, was a stark disappointment. I’ve become quite skilled at enjoying rock concerts in the years since that cold November evening in the pre-Bezos arena. But that night, standing on my tip-toes at the back of the hall with contact cottonmouth, barely able to see Paul’s hair– let alone his boots– was a hard dose of rock and roll reality, augmented by my towering expectations. The shitty stadium sound bounced and farted, and the only member I could clearly see was Peter. He looked half asleep and in fact would be out of the band within weeks. I can boast that I got to see the original lineup with makeup in the 1970s—but barely. The dream was coming apart at the time, and though I didn’t yet have the vernacular to articulate it, I believe now that I sensed it even then…

III

by Jeff Braimes

I was still drawing pictures of the band[5] and collecting bubble gum cards as the new decade dawned. But my attention was beginning to drift. I bought Dream Police and even sidled up to my (younger) sister’s copy of Van Halen II (the first VH had been too strong for me when I heard it in a neighbor’s basement two years earlier– also an oft-related account that I won’t re-torture you with here…). I bought Unmasked on its release date in May with guarded hopes, but the record confirmed my darkest fears and was a sweeping disappointment. The band spent the year touring outside the country. Peter’s replacement Eric Carr had been confirmed and masked and it just seemed like things weren’t the same. They weren’t.

Nor would they ever be again. To be fair, it wasn’t all KISS’ fault. Yes: of course the band should bear partial responsibility for going as soft as it did. They deserve to be discredited for writing empty songs and recording them without any guitar, and for adding too much color to something that had worked so well in black, white and silver. But KISS didn’t invent capitalism. As much as they embraced it, the system for bleeding artists dry had been in-place for centuries before it voided KISS. Regressing commercially simply is not a viable design in show business, and with too much advice and too much coke and too much promise of even bigger payday, most mercurial artists do eventually shred the envelope before losing ground and being abandoned– first by casual fans and ultimately by their true bases. Some recover eventually, surviving to reinvent themselves and return to making good art that is self-satisfying and occasionally even commercially sustainable. But as often as not, the sensitive creative is cast aside to root in its own past until the money runs out and they’re forced to hit the fair and casino circuit. KISS took a third route, which was to forge ahead, subtly adapting to prevailing trends while still pretending to be who they’d always been. Occasionally it worked[6]; more often it didn’t. Mostly it felt hollow and cheap to those who knew better.

Finally, I’ll accept my share of the blame for KISS sucking as bad as they have for the past 45 years. Arriving as late as I had, with the band’s creative peak already eclipsed, I probably yearned too fiercely for my own glory era. The signs were everywhere for me to disembark and cut my personal losses, but I couldn’t help myself. Instead, I sat on my bed listening to Dressed to Kill as summers slouched away unnoticed. I refused to take any version of no for an answer. I believed (at least at first) that there was still something left in the tank for me and I did not look to the side. I wanted the best. But the cruel truth was that I’d missed it.

IV

I oughtn’t be so cynical. KISS Rules—I hope that much is clear. The essence of the band still burns in my heart and in the hearts of so many I call brother. Alive! still sounds menacing turned up loud. Page 98 of the coffee table book still gives me chills. And I could watch the Winterland footage[7] all day and often do.

Gene at Winterland, 1975

That’s probably what I’ll do tonight, actually—watch Winterland. The B/W BGP footage from early 1975 captures the band at its apex, playing every show like the Garden. The hung-up cartoons that would squat in the personas later have not yet been born– and it’s just the hungry, unvarnished KISS in all its sinister, stainless glory.

No, I don’t think I’ll watch the pay-per-view simulcast of tonight’s finale. Live footage of the gaudy facade the band has been dragging around on this 5-year hospice victory lap has become increasingly painful for me to look at: the video poker aesthetic of the pyro and sound; Gene’s jowls soaking up more and more makeup; Paul’s increasingly self-righteous raps[8] and withering voice. It just makes me feel gross.

The stream is only $40– a drop in the bucket compared to the fortune I’ve spent on KISS in my lifetime. Not only me, but also my loved ones. My parents at first of course, but later my sibling and girlfriends, eventually my wife and even my children have spent unimaginable sums of American money supporting my KISS habit. And not just on records and concert tickets. Not just posters and magazines and t-shirts and belt buckles. But all of the lunchboxes and comic books and wastebaskets and transistor radios and field guides, the sleeping bags, knee socks, Colorforms, electric toothbrushes, Halloween masks and non-alcoholic wines. The action figures, good Christ—all of the action figures! I wanted them all, and for entire decades I endeavored to keep up.

the Vincent Blackshadow, Christmas morning 2000

But shortly aftetr at the turn of the century I made a vow to stop paying Gene. I wrote him a letter on real paper telling him so! And with the exception of purchasing one copy of Sonic Boom, I’ve honored that vow. The record was being exclusively marketed by Walmart (another reason to ignore its release) and the owner our boutique record store refused to poach a copy for us, despite my offering a large premium. So ten minutes before closing time, Vincent and I literally ran to the back of the Walmart (the only time he has ever been in one, to my knowledge) and plucked a copy. We were back in the car in six minutes.

Of course it wasn’t really worth it.

the Vincent Blackshadow, November 15, 2009– Seattle Center

It was interesting to watch Vincent wrestle with Sonic Boom, the first album of original material released during his tenure as a fan– indeed during his lifetime. At age 11 he had already mastered not only KISS’ entire body of work but had in fact had already stomped through a Van Halen phase, an AC/DC phase, and even the first of several Alice Cooper phases. He was a deep, rounded hard rocker already– but KISS still held a special place for him, as it had for me. Sonic Boom was in some respects his Dynasty, although I believe it is safe to say that not only were his expectations more realistic, but also that his safety net was more accommodating. He could always turn to Thin Lizzy and Cheap Trick whereas I had no such safe harbor in 1979. His risk paled by comparison, and it was comparatively easy for him to roll his eyes and move on.

Generally speaking, my son has shown far greater resilience and good humor regarding the curdling of KISS than I have. Like me, he’s long since lost interest in the regrettable current condition of the band, but was genuinely gleeful in his embrace of nostalgia when we attended the Alive 35 show in 2009 (with free tickets—in case Gene is reading). In preparation, we listened to all the early records and watched the Houston 77 tape[9], and we both climbed into makeup day-of-show. Secretly I worried whether he would have a bad trip like I had my first time which incidentally was in the same building 30 years earlier to the week[10]. He knew Santa Claus wasn’t real; he knew Paul was wearing a wig and that Tommy Thayer was playing lead guitar. But I’ll be damned if he didn’t sing along with every song and clap his hands. Because that’s what rock and roll is all about. I doubt Vincent is writing a spiteful 5000-word essay tonight berating the band he would gladly have died for most of his life.

What he is doing tonight, hopefully, is taking the L-train from his pad in Brooklyn to Mid-town to make December’s rent busking for the variously intoxicated pilgrims marching to MSG, anxious to memorialize the occasion by spending as much money as they can on this night of nights. Vincent can play and sing pretty much any ‘70s KISS song, and in many respects has spent his life preparing for the opportunity to be part of this story– a modest but mighty dust spec on the great, garish clover that is the legend of KISS.

V

I imagine there’s a growing part of both Gene Simmons & Paul Stanley that can’t get this night over with soon enough. Despite modest historical side projects– in and outside of music– KISS has been the duo’s identity for 50 years. It will surely be bittersweet to say “KISS loves you GOODNIGHT” for the last time. But between being forced to cancel three of the final six shows due to Starchild Flu and the unflattering press surrounding his puzzling trans comments plus Gene’s complaining about cell phones– the bitter might just well be eclipsing the sweet as the painted wagon limps ever closer to the finish line.

Without much historical regard from critics, KISS has always held its fanbase aloft. “We serve at the pleasure of our bosses,” Gene is fond of saying, “the people in the seats.” Those bosses are in-turn fond of believing that people who don’t like KISS simply don’t understand KISS. But even at $1,000/head, this endless gauntlet of meet ‘n’ greets has got to be wearing on the two co-founders.  Tommy Thayer & Eric Singer have been over it for a long time– those two just want to pick up their final paychecks and clock out. No one wants a photo with them anyway. But Gene and Paul are obliged to pause and pose with every fool with enough money to buy a package. And it kind of sounds like it’s starting to get to them.

They are in their 70s now, and there’s certainly something to be said for the level of commitment necessary to continue being KISS for this long. I guess the grown-up in me questions the motivation. They’ve made the money. They’ve unmasked, re-masked, re-united and broken back up so many times even a fan like me has kind of lost track. They’re in the motherfucking Hall of Fame. What more is there to prove? Every person in the developed world has been offered the opportunity to see KISS and they’ve either done so or else opted out. The band was never designed to be for everybody[11], yet it seems like they haven’t been content to hang it up until we’ve all cried Uncle.

I’m generally not big on extending credit for merely ‘still doing it.’ There was a lot of that patronizing jive last month when the Stones released Hackneyed Diamonds. “They’re 80!” Fuck that. As far as I’m concerned, you either play good and look cool doing it[12] or else you invite scorn. I actually kind of like the new Stones record, and it’s probably easier to be the Stones in their 80s than KISS in their 70s. Plus pull-dates are soft. Best if used by Christmas Day 1977 is merely a suggestion. I’ve eaten well-expired canned goods without getting botulism and I bought every KISS record up to Asylum. But enough is enough…

Is it, though? Is tonights’s 2 1/2- hour blowout really the end? They have bid us adieu before, remember– more than once. Will we learn later that this is merely the final tour and that one-offs or even residencies are fair game? Will Gene and/or Paul finally retire from the band, to be replaced by younger mortals who will step into the makeup ala Singer & Thayer? Gene & Paul have been threatening this for years, after all. And even I have to admit that an immortal KISS with re-perpetuating members isn’t a horrible idea. It’s worked for 007. And getting some new creative blood into roles of influence might just be the trick. It seems obvious that the current regime is out of fresh ideas. But there are kids out there who are still full of songs. KISS as a brand need not be dependent upon its biological fathers to continue to propagate.

I don’t know. I probably wouldn’t be so hard on them if they weren’t so damned easy on themselves. Now that I’ve gotten some of these grudges off my chest, I guess I do kind of do wish I was there tonight. The anticipation in the air. The curtain falling. The actual heat from the actual fire. The green light and red blood of “God of Thunder.” A broken guitar. One last melancholy blast through the pulsing solo section at the back of “Black Diamond.” The confetti. The encores. The gratitude.

Let me go. Rock and Roll…

Watts vs. Brazil

Don’t ask them how, but WATTS recently did a ten-day tour of Brazil, and What’sup’s very own Callous French dragged along with the band through South America’s biggest country, to document the madness. Here is the first in a three-part epic of sickness.

I could draw worse assignments.

It’s not every loud, clumsy rock band that gets a chance to tour Brazil, and not every aging “journalist” that gets an opportunity to accompany them. So when WATTS invited me along on their conquest of the 3rd world, I scribbled out a quick will and started brushing up on my Spanish.

The Spanish didn’t turn out to be too helpful, as the national language in Brazil is Portuguese. But I was comforted on several occasions by the fact that my signed will was folded neatly on my desk at home. As it turns out, Brazil is in South America, about fifty thousand miles from Bellingham, Washington. And there were definitely a couple of times when I thought I was going to have to use my feet to get home.

The trip was sponsored by the mysterious head of Monstro Discos, Fabricio Nobre, an Estrus fanatic who wanted the Mono Men but settled for WATTS. In addition to re-releasing the band’s 1999 album, booking the tour and arranging for “sponsors” to cover travel expenses, F would serve as an invaluable interpreter/babysitter/drinkingbuddy throughout the tour. We would test him perpetually, starting with not getting off the plane in Goiania.

We’d known it was going be a hellish trip-- almost 30 hours door-to-door including the crippling layovers-- but we hadn’t counted on the Bonehead de la Americana move we would execute in Belo Horizonte, where we accidentally disembarked when we were supposed to have remained on the plane. All six of us. Without ever considering for one moment that we were dangerously separating ourselves from all our checked baggage & guitars, all of which proceeded stoically to Goiania without us.

In retrospect, we should probably have been more intimate with our itinerary, which, upon reexamination later clearly showed that we were to remain on the aircraft. But this revelation came sorrowfully late, and we were left to lie upon the floor of Belo Horizonte International while Nicole, the only English-speaking attendant at the TAM Airlines counter, diligently booked a series of alternate flights and a taxi to take us 50 kilometers across town to the domestic airport, basically a bus station w/ airplanes.

This cabride was to be our first time on non-airport Brazilian soil, and appropriately, the driver spoke no English. This did not deter (King of America) Dave Crider.

“What are they building?” he asked in a raised voice that was already starting to take on the hint of a Latin accent. “What is the name of the cow?”

The cabby would only shrug, making the rest of us very uncomfortable, as there was no spare room in the tiny KIA for shrugging, with 7 of us plus carry-ons. Immediately upon leaving the airport property, the slick asphalt road had dissolved into a leopard print of pits and pots. Our driver sped directly down the middle of the 2-lane road, which wound up-and-down, side-to-side through green fields, the occasional spray-painted cinder block village popping up like images in a shooting gallery.

Now, we needed a half-hour cramped taxi ride at this moment like we needed hepatitis. We were midway through our second day without sleep already, and at least A.Dog, me & fuckin’Braimes.com were reeling pretty good from closing down the flight from Miami the night before.

“There is no more wine,” had said Leona, using most of the English she knew.

“How about a scotch & soda, then?”

“I am sorry,” she’d said, smiling, making her way back to the attendant’s cabin where the rest of the flight crew was sleeping. Christ, everyone else on the flight was sleeping except us three and maybe the pilot. We’d been playing liar’s poker, and Dog had a huge pile of dollar bills on his fold-down tray. We beat the service button like a drum.

“Johnny Walker?”

Eventually they stopped answering the buzzer altogether, and Dog retired to the lavatory to stretch out for the last two hours of the flight. They were happy to be rid of our rummy American asses when the plane mercifully touched down in Sau Paulo at 6 a.m., Brazilian time.  

Customs can be a pressure cooker, but usually only when returning to the States. Lily-white American contraband generally is not of great interest to the balance of the world unless there is money to be made from the confiscation of it. Drug traffic is obviously heavier going north, but if you come swishing through with a box of 45s, priced, they’re going to want their cut. The entourage cleared customs without episode—all except for fuckin’Braimes, who hadn’t even reached customs before dude was screaming at him in Portuguese. There was a form distributed on the flight that was supposed to be filled out and presented prior to customs, and Braimes, in his drunkenness, thought it was an all-star ballot. So he wrote in Daryl Strawberry and returned it to the stewardess, who was probably all-too-happy to dispose of it for him, knowing what showing up to the counter without it would mean. It took 20 minutes for an English-speaking airport employee to be summoned to hold the confused singer’s hand through this first gauntlet and to customs, where he had considerably less trouble.

Dig, we were en-route to a foreign land. Being naïve Americans, we assumed everyone in Brazil would speak English. We could not have been more wrong. The fact is that most Brazilians speak no English. Some speak some, and a few speak English very well. Had we known this, we might have drilled on some Portuguese, but as it turned out, only Chris Watts had bothered to download and rehearse any phrases that seemed useful. “I have broken my glasses,” “my gums are bleeding,” and “what do you have in an egg dish” were a few that he practiced in the airports, rolling his R’s like a Fred Flintstone strike in a pre-historic Brazilian bowling alley.

At first blush, the only sane one in the group appeared to be the enigmatic El Morto. I would find out otherwise very soon. I should have had an idea as to the depths of his depravity when he got in the van in Bellingham with a dufflebag of disposable outfits, individually wrapped & labeled w/ the date he intended to wear them. When he got up in the morning, he simply unwrapped the day’s package and dressed, not looking to the side where yesterday’s clothing was concerned. El Morto would leave a trail of once-worn shirts & shorts strewn across the enormous country of Brazil. By the time he arrived home, he would have only the clothes on his back and ass.

It would be 38 hours before we eventually stopped moving-- eight airports, seven planes, two taxis, and a whole lot of drinking & giggling. I felt as though I had already toured the world on the handlebars of a dirt bike, and we were only just now crouching into the starting blocks.

Next month: tage ov you are panz!   

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.

oh shit it’s march

Oh, shit– it’s March.

I should have known this would happen. It’s the same thing every year: New Year’s, recovery, resolution, resignation, Super Bowl, February– March!

I loathe March. Nothing good happens this month, ever. The weather in February is always interesting, and March always just sucks. “Spring” begins on the 20th, but we all know what that means or doesn’t mean. No legal holidays. No illegal holidays, unless you’re Irish. College basketball all over the place– GROSS!

I adore April, but it doesn’t start until four weeks from Saturday. I need to figure out a way to get through March…

How about a real estate party?

Normally March is too early for any serious real estate dance parties, but this year could be different. The anticipation in the air is palpable as buyers continue sharpening their nails in preparation for the inventory that seems on the brink, week after late-winter week, of breaking loose like a pinata full of houses and condominiums and airplane bottles of Fireball.

Earth to sellers: buyers are screwing themselves into the ground, psychotically motivated to buy your house as long as it has a roof and a toilet. They’re not particularly interested in your touch-up painting. The guest bath vanity is fine. Don’t worry about spreading new beauty bark. Leave the photos on the fridge– the buyers don’t care. They just want to buy your house, possibly for more than it’s actually “worth”. Who are you to stand between them and the dream of home ownership. Let them buy!

Remember when the wet paper bottom of the housing market fell out and our economy seized up and all the banks turned their pockets inside out and pretended they didn’t have any more money? Remember when the smarmy executives all took off their pants and put on barrel cloaks? Well, that was seven whole years ago! This is like a completely different era: unemployment is down, the stock market up, top hats for all my friends! Two lobsters each!

Any beating we took in Whatcom County in terms of home values during the whatchamacallit was like a hickey compared to what most of the country absorbed. If we lost 20% between opening day of the 2007 baseball season and Christmas Day 2012, we’ve made it all back since then. Sellers who wished they’d pulled the trigger in 2006 have gotten back to where they were plus some. It’s time to let bygones be bygones and trade some real estate deeds!

Maybe this is the year where March actually does come in like a lion…

–tMdR

(Blogger’s note: Pay no attention to the illiterate orange man behind the curtain. This is actually a subtle re-write of a post from March 1, 2015. Much has happened since then, but the inventory crunch is the same. If you’re selling there’s never been a better time. If you’re buying, there will never be a better time. Call me if you want to talk, I’ll walk over…) 

Stop making sense

My wife almost never drinks tequila with me anymore. But last night, in observance of not only my birthday but also the 4K re-issue of the Talking Heads concert movie masterpiece Stop Making Sense, she joined me for a shot of the Cabin’s worst.

It’s a bit of a stretch to call it a tradition, but it is an absolutely true fact that agave has played a role in the respective movies of us watching that movie. In 1985—separately– we both attended one of those fabled showings at the Fairhaven Picture Show a year after SMS was originally released. High on tequila. She prefunking with Bruce at her apartment above the Prudent Penny; me at Mark’s cabin in Mud Bay with a fifth of Two Fingers when it still came in the black bottle.

The film was great, of course. Same as it ever was…

It was also actually nice to have a day off from baseball. This year, my birthday fell on the MLB taint between the regular season and the post. The one quiet day on which no games are played.

To be honest, Sunday was a day off from baseball for me, too– even though all teams played. I’m a fan of the Seattle Mariners and I almost never don’t listen to their game on the radio. But I didn’t on Sunday– even though it was one of only two games that meant anything on the last day of the season. To be clear, it didn’t mean anything to the Mariners, as they had been detached from post-season consideration only hours before in a Saturday night stinker before a sold-out crowd at T-Mobile Park. They were in fact that last team to be slapped with a scarlet E– and the Texas Rangers celebrated their own playoff berth between the mound and first base as Mariner fans furiously wadded up their scorecards and tossed them on the ground next to the trash can because the trash can was already filled over the brim with other wadded up dreams and there wasn’t any room left on top for even one more tiny ball of paper with the 2023 on it.

E stands for elimination.

Saturday night’s contest wasn’t particularly high on drama, that last meaningful game. Its final score (1-6) and the Mariners’ ultimate fate (E) didn’t sneak up on us this September, after all. It’s been that kind of stretch run– a slow, seeping bleed.

No sir– the egg laid by the Mariners Saturday night with the season literally on the line shouldn’t have surprised anyone– it was merely the latest failure in a stretch dripping with eggyweg.

The club was in 1st place atop the American League West on September 1st after an historic August. They then proceeded to go 11-17 the rest of the way, and 3 of those wins came against the remains of the Oakland A’s. September was a test not only of the physical stamina it takes to survive a 162-game baseball season– it was also a measure of heart. High-character teams rally late in a game or a season; lesser clubs swing and miss…

Aaron said he was glad just to have a pulse at this point in the year. I said a pulse wasn’t much consolation when we’ve been promised a boner for ten years.

JUST WAIT TILL LAST YEAR

The 2022 season was a riot, of course– and a very high bar indeed. Making the playoffs for the first time in more than two decades was intoxicating, and actually advancing in them was even wilder. The mid-October division-round shiv thrust into the Mariners’ ribcage by the reviled Houston Astros was heartbreaking, and I genuinely missed a lot of those dudes during the long, cold offseason.

But this year was a stone drag and it’s confounding to ponder the reasons why. It’s not merely failure to make the post-season. The record was only two wins shy of what felt like a championship romp last year. So what was the difference?

On-paper, with few exceptions, the 2022 Mariners and the club currently vacationing were laid out very similarly: great pitching, bloodless offense, good defense, bad baserunning. Bit players come and go. But for the most part, the leading roles on this team were played by the same guys as last year.

The difference in the two seasons isn’t something that necessarily shows up on baseballstatsuptheass.com. And it doesn’t necessarily have everything to do with talent (though it may have something to do with effort, or at least how that effort is applied). In a word, I guess, the team in 22 (and 21 for that matter) had soul. Call it magic, voodoo or even luck if you want. But this year’s team didn’t have no rhythm, if you ask me.

It’s easy to explain away rhetorical inquisitions or statistical anomalies when discussing baseball, because you can always just say ‘that’s baseball.’ It’s like saying ‘infinity’ or ‘because I said.’ It simply can’t be argued:

Q) How does the best team in the sport lose even one game to the worst?

A) That’s baseball

Q) How can a team win nearly every close game one year and lose them all the next?

A) That’s baseball

Q) If there is a God, why do little kids get leukemia?

A) That’s baseball

Last season, we M’s fans got to do a lot of knee-slapping when saying that’s baseball, going 36-24 in games decided by one run or in extra innings. This year we were 29-32 including a dismal 6-14 in extras. Very few hardy-hars this year in close games. This team just did not have the same nose for late-inning money. It’s thrilling to win games late and often makes a team seem better than they actually are. But losing late sucks a big one and certainly makes a team seem worse. Shrugging and saying that’s baseball only goes so far…

THE BLAME GAME

Last year I blamed manager Scott Servais for the Mariners not winning the World Series, specifically for what I saw as his mis-management of the bullpen in the post. (My shrill and indulgent rant is still available for review by scrolling down a few lines and I won’t re-torture anyone here). I haven’t softened on my position re: Servais and would still fire him right now if I weren’t too drunk to drive down there and do it in person. Scott didn’t have a post-season bungle this year, so a true comparison with last season really isn’t possible. But he’s a fuckin’ bum and a poor motivator, or else his team would not have had a losing record in close games.

Who I do blame this October is the despicable cretin Jerid Kelenic. I’ve always regarded him as an insincere twat– a douchebag prima of the primest order. Understandably, he’s never seemed very popular with his teammates, and I was surprised when he wasn’t moved at the deadline last year– but there must not have been much of a market for him at the time. To his credit, he came into spring training with what appeared to be not only an overhauled swing but also a new attitude. He spoke at length with the media about having worked on his mind and spirit as much as his body during the off-season, and he seemed to have an almost zen-like approach to hitting that translated almost immediately to success at the plate. Instead of striking out swinging for the parking lot, he was making contact and taking the ball the other way. The hits piled up and eventually the power followed. On April 12 he hit a bomb half-way to Cleveland in a 5-2 victory over the Chicago Cubs at Wrigley Field.

Though he’d cooled off by late June, he was still producing and playing a serviceable left field. But then came the 9th-inning 9-pitch at-bat against Minnesota closer Jhoan Duran on July 19. With two runners on and the Mariners trailing by 3, Kelenic struck out swinging before returning to the dugout and kicking a Gatorade cooler, breaking a bone in his foot which would sideline him for 7 weeks. The team was at .500 at the time with a record of 47-47.

But here’s the telling part: instead of buckling, the Mariners responded by going on their best run of the season. They shut the Twins out 5-0 the next day before embarking on an impressive 34-17 tear which included two separate 8-game win streaks and the 21-win August. Once Kelenic returned to the lineup on September 15, the club went 6-9 and looked bad doing it.

How is that not a curse?

MAKE THE GRADE

Now that I’ve complained about shit I don’t truly understand– firing a guy with 50 years in the business and waiving one of the club’s prized prospects, I will hand down judgement the rest of the organization. SKIP TO RECIPE.

Ty France. What on Earth happened to Ty France this year? Don thinks he was just too fat, and it did seem as though he’d put on one or two. But he played well in the field and was

much more durable than last year, appearing in 158 games. His performance at the plate was a huge disappointment, however, after being such a reliable bat in 2022. He didn’t walk, he didn’t hit in the clutch and he didn’t homer. All other meaningful numbers were way down, too– except for Hit-by-Pitch which soared from a team-leading 21 last year to a gaudy 34 this season, the most in the major leagues by far. C minus

 Teoscar Hernández. The loss of Mitch Haniger in the off-season stung me at first, but the truth was that he hadn’t been on the field much in 2022– a trend that continued this season in his new venue of San Francisco. Teo by contrast was dependable, playing in 160 games for the Mariners. And even though he struck out way too much, he did post 26 homers which was the second-highest total of his career. Plus that face-first catch he made during the last homestand was bold AF. He’s a free agent in the off-season and guess I hope the club finds a way to keep him. B plus

Starting Pitching. Pitching has been the strength of this team for a long time, and this season was no different. The rotation, including ace Luis Castillo, didn’t finish particularly strong, unfortunately. But the starters were what kept them in the games they won and the future continues to look bright with the emergence of Bryce Miller & Brian Woo and the maturation of George Kirby & Logan Gilbert. There’s no telling whether Marco or Bobby will return, or what the farm will produce. But this season’s rotation was an improvement over the solid starting class of last year, and that is saying something. A minus

The Pen. If the starting rotation was 15% better this year, the bullpen equalized it. Still a solid group and a strength of the club, the pen wasn’t as deep or dynamic as in 2022. When closer Paul Sewald was dealt to Arizona at the deadline for three no-names, I was the only person I knew to say good riddance. I’d been totally grossed out by his pre-game ‘exit’ interview with Shannon Drayer two days earlier in which he declared himself better than Dennis Eckersley, practically referring to himself in the third person. Fuck that guy I said at the time. I thought Andres Muñoz was ready to step into the alpha role and that Matt Brash would fill in behind as the set-up guy. Turns out I was mistaken, and Muñoz was not automatic as the closer, struggling with his control and demonstrating a vulnerability not previously visible. And as much as Topa, Spier and Saucedo rose to their respective challenges, they weren’t no Murphy, Festa and Steckenrider. B plus

Julio. This should probably be a separate essay, but I’ll try and keep my comments brief. I could not agree more with Matt that the impatience with which the club– and the league for that matter– have rammed Julio Rodríguez down our throats is an outrage. Baseball is desperate for fresh, fly grinners to grow (or at least maintain) its long declining fan base. And I’m delighted that we have a promising multi-tool player to hang some future on. But he’s been rushed to the spotlight since day 1 and he hasn’t always responded. Yes, he had a great sophomore season (in the end) and we all know his August numbers. But the fact remains that he was 8th in the American League in strikeouts (175) and only 21st in homeruns (37). All other meaningful offensive statistics were down from his rookie season and he was terrible in September– failing with runners in scoring position time and time and time again. I love that he steals bases, but do not like when he gets picked off first or runs behind ground balls at second. The fact that he finished the season batting .275 (34th in the AL) is a testament to how well he hit after the break because he had a dismal first half. His appointment (not election) to the All-Star Game’s flatulent Home Run Derby was a joke and an affront to any dignity that pompous contest has remaining. (But the hometown team needed a representative who would goose TV ratings– even one who’d only hit 13 homeruns in games that mattered to that point). B

JP Crawford. Just take the previous graph and reverse it: JP had a gem of a season, rising well above his already lofty expectations. The only Mariner to really have a flawless campaign. Did he make the All-Star game? No. Will he win the Gold Glove? Probably not. Is he the face of the Seattle Mariners? Nope. It’s a bit of a stretch to say he don’t get no respect, but he certainly does not get the attention he deserves– with Julio absorbing so much love just over his left shoulder. All JP did was drive opposing pitchers insane in the mind by grinding out at-bats, single-handedly driving pitchcounts up while leading the AL in walks. All other relevant offensive stats were up as well, most notably his homerun total which skyrocketed from 6 last year to 19 this season. He is a Gold Glove-caliber shortstop, a great interview and a leader in the clubhouse. I’m beyond relieved that we have him locked up for many seasons to come. A plus

Cal Raleigh. If the pitching on this team is good, a portion of that credit lives with Cal. His pitchers trust him, and he’s a leader on and off the field. Last year, with fairly average numbers, he was elevated to Folk Hero status based on his ridiculous timing– seemingly always delivering in the clutch. This season– despite most of his offensive numbers being slightly up– Cal did not seem to have the same presence at the plate, that same timing… But I’ll take 30 homers out of my switch-hitting catcher if he manages the pitching well and leads the league in runners caught stealing (with shorter base paths). A minus

Designated Hitter. The DH-by-committee hasn’t really worked out, like Oz said. Let’s face it: in this particular age of baseball, teams intending to compete need a feared brute who’s going to get the guys in front of him better pitches and who can still hit for power with the pitches he sees. And he doesn’t have to do anything except hit. He doesn’t really even have to be an athlete! This year the Mariners conceded 600 at bats to guessers like Mike Ford. If there is a #1 off-season priority, it is a power hitter to plug into this slot. It’s not called Designated Hitter for nothing. D

Baserunning. It frustrates me when the Mariners fuck up on the bases. I don’t mind getting thrown out at second trying to stretch a single. That’s just aggressive baserunning. But getting picked off first and running behind ground balls are mental errors. The Mariners were #2 in the league in getting picked off first. It also seems to me that Manny Acta doesn’t even know who he’s waving in sometimes, as France and Suarez are out by 5 steps at the plate with alarming regularity. It would also be great if someone could get a bunt down some day, but I know that is asking a lot. C minus 

The Trident. Someone with guts and authority needs to hurl that fucking stick into the sea. It was cool for a minute when other dugouts had homerun gimmicks like that but few teams are playing that anymore. And when you’re 11th in home runs but 2nd in strikeouts you shouldn’t be allowed to accessorize. F

Trader Jerry. Speaking of authority and guts, I’d hate to be in Jerry Dipoto’s Keds right now. I generally approve of Jerry and recognize that his role as a diplomat caught between ownership and the fans and the players is entirely unwinnable. But that’s baseball. I believe the moves he’s made have improved the club, even if the progress has been slow. But you can’t go to the podium the day after elimination and use the kind of language he used in fansplaining why the Mariners aren’t in the playoffs. Part of his job is PR and he just can’t underthink important messaging like that. Seriously, Jerr… B for results D plus for form

The Booth. I haven’t had TV since the 1980s and only ever listen to the Mariners on the radio unless I’m in a hotel room or a bar. But I listen every day. As a result, I know the radio guys pretty well– and I think there’s a divide growing in the booth. In addition to saying last year that I would fire Rizzs if I had the authority, I said I thought there was a pact between the younger guys—Goldsmith & Hill—and the graytooths Rizzs & Simms. Less a pact than a series of alliances, I guess. There’s normally only two hot mics– but the system for who is on them during any given inning continues to puzzle me. There doesn’t seem to be a pattern, almost as if the pairings are determined at random by a coinflip during the commercial break. It’s super obvious that the two age-matched pairs are more comfortable with each other. But without the den mother Rizzs in the front seat of the station wagon, Goldsmith and Hill will often riff to depths that are hard to return from; like the game is not the most important thing happening. It’s all jazz riffs about soft-serve ice cream and video games, with a ball game being played in the background. Not that old dudes can’t lose focus occasionally, especially in the mostly-empty Oakland Coliseum. One of my favorite moments of the season was hearing Rizzs and Simms arguing about 78 rpm records vs 33s one night during a series against the A’s when Jake Swolinski had walked up to “Gimme Shelter.” It was weird to hear Rick Rizzs– King of the Honkeys– waxing about what a classic the song is; one of the hardest, most menacing songs of all time. But then again there were only 3800 people in the stadium, so someone had to say something. (It still wasn’t as cool as Colabro quoting Zappa, though…)

I don’t know what happens on the TV side. I heard Blowers got vertigo or something and that he’d been out of the booth for a while. I haven’t heard his Blowers on Baseball segment on the radio since before the break, so maybe he’s laid out on his bathroom floor. Someone please do a wellness check on Mike Blowers. B minus

Rules. It took me about three games to get used to the pitch clock. I was a little scared at first, though, aint gonna lie. On opening day, it felt like Rizzs was rushing, often unable to finish his thought before the next pitch was delivered. But I think that was because he was trying to say too much, it being opening day. Once the broadcasters settled into the new timing, I did too. And I haven’t given it another thought all season. Game times are way down which is great. I don’t know whether abolishing the shift has led to more offense, and I don’t know if the bigger bases have led to more runners on them. But it all felt perfectly fine. For some great perspective on the new rules and the state of the game in general, I highly recommend Mark Leibovich’s brilliant July essay in The Atlantic.  A

2024. Shucks, I don’t know. It’s easy for players to bitch to the media about management/ownership when the team fails. To be fair, the Mariners are in the bottom third of payroll while they rest comfortably in the upper tiers of income. They have a wicked cool facility that was publicly-funded. And their lily-white sushi-suckin’ PNW fans who are already accustomed to overpaying for food, drink and parking are super happy to support them, with the team ranking in the top third in the major leagues for attendance.

It’s a yidda bit chicken or egg. If the team wins, will ownership escalate spending in order to win it all? Or is the team doomed to languish at .543 while ownership realizes greater returns on safer investments elsewhere?

Jerry’s being crucified publicly this week for how he answered some fairly routine questions. But what the actual answer is is the trickier riddle. Because improving this team in 2024 won’t come from the prized farm system. It has to come via trade or a high-leverage free agent signing. Let’s hope we’re not at an impasse.

There certainly is a core of young, talented, signed players. But there are holes in the roster, no doubts. Beyond the DH, but we could use a fierce left-handed reliever, a major league second baseman and a left fielder (if you move Kelenic for value as I believe the clubhouse has said it favors). Brent said he doesn’t think the Mariners will win a World Series while Dylan Moore is on the roster. But there’s more role-playing going on than just DylMo.

What if this current team takes the field largely unchanged next season? They might win 54% of their games, which is what Jerry says dynasties average. But the Mariners achieved that this year and didn’t advance. How loud will be the whining if the 2024 Mariners aren’t better than the team currently golfing.

Shucks, man. It’s easy for the players to bitch about management/ownership when the team fails. But when you’re two games back playing the team in front of you, and you come to the plate in the 5th and then again in the 8th with runners in scoring position all series long and you strike out on bad pitches then maybe there’s some responsibility to be born by the ones who actually play the games.

What now? October is my favorite month: my birthday at the front, Halloween at the back and MLB playoff baseball nearly every day in-between– some days with 4 games in a single day. But for the first time in many years, I’m not particularly excited about this postseason. It’s not because the Mariners aren’t in it, because that’s been the rule for two decades. But I guess I don’t really like any of the remaining teams all that much. I don’t like their uniforms and I don’t like their stadiums—factors that are important in the post because I do normally manage to take in some TV games in a bar or a hotel room. Only 5 teams out of the original 12 post-season teams play baseball outside– the other 7 have domes or retractables and those just don’t look the same on TV. Lucky for me, all 5 of those teams advanced in the first round so now it’s 5-3. Most of the parks are modern, with only Dodger Stadium older than me and and I can’t root for that team. So I guess my heart’s with Baltimore. How about they beat the Braves in six.

See you in February…

thank you for your servais

Scott Servais has watched a lot of World Series games on TV. A baseball lifer, he has probably watched more than a thousand post season games in his 55 years. As a kid and later as a big league player, he surely dreamed of competing in an October Classic. Once his playing days were over, his fantasies would have turned to coaching on the biggest stage the sport has to offer. In recent years, as a big league manager on vacation, sitting alone on the couch with his hands tucked in the top of his sweats, I imagine him joining the conversation of the television broadcasters as starting pitchers heroically emerged from the bullpen on two day’s rest and relievers were stretched to unimaginable limits. Second-guessing pitching changes aloud to no one in particular, he would count the days until he himself might have an opportunity to fail as spectacularly as he did this week with the whole world watching.

When that stuff works, you’re a genius; when it don’t, you’re a bum. He just didn’t have enough patience, which is ironic (yes it is) because Scott Servais has been a very patient man.

Baseball requires patience. Getting through a 6-month season, not to mention a single solitary game (18 inning affairs notwithstanding) requires superhuman zen-like patience. Baseball is slow fun, and not for the easily distracted. But to amortize that standard-issue endurance over a 20-year rebuilding odyssey is really expecting a lot.

Trader Jerry Dipoto

Of course Servais has only been on-board for the last 7 years of the 20-year plan. And to be fair, the club has stuck to the schedule for the most part– with Trader Jerry’s constant tweaking. Among the most intoxicating moments of the 2022 season, in fact, did not take place on the playing field at all, but rather over a cellphone in the back seat of a moving vehicle as the Mariners proudly declared themselves buyers at the trade deadline in late August, taking home the bazaar’s most coveted prize in starting pitcher Luis Castillo.

And despite how utterly demoralizing the last series of the season was, there was no doubt much triumph and bootie realized this year: a second consecutive 90-win campaign and a playoff berth for the first time in 20+, duh; the emergence of a gold glove caliber switch-hitting catcher who would rip more regular season homers than any catcher in Mariner’s history; a thrilling 14-game winning streak; the starbirth of a 21-year old rookie with power, speed and charisma not seen in these parts since you-know-who; young pitchers as far as the eye could see, maturing outing-to-outing, seemingly before our very eyes; the unimaginable delight that was Eugenio Suarez; 13 walk-offs; the best defense in the league; and a bullpen that impossibly seemed deeper & craftier than last year’s crew, despite lacking a designated alpha closer.

Still, with some fairly freak exceptions, no one the club could be relied upon to hit with much consistency. Ty France had a great first half, and the team hit the ball out of the yard in August. And like last year, they certainly had a flair for the dramatic, which sometimes makes a team appear as though they’re better offensively than they really are. The fact is they were a below average offensive team with only two other clubs ranking lower in team batting average.

What a galling and ironic bummer then, that from the first at-bat of their first playoff game in 20 years, they would actually hit well enough to advance to the ALCS and that it would be Servais’ shocking mis-management of the club’s strength that would betray it and send the players golfing while the Houston Astros celebrated between the mound and second base on the Mariners’ home diamond.

Remember when Scott was just sitting on the couch in the dark dreaming of managing in the post season? Well, that’s where he’ll be for the World Series again this year.

What use is it to have the best bullpen in the sport if you only ever give the ball to two guys? It was like a sick game of keep-away from a rested corps of brilliant relievers– quality arms just rotting on the vine, while Servais again went to Sewald and Muñoz when he didn’t have to. Certainly handing one of those two studs a baseball late is a great feeling for any baseball coach—they’d both been breathtaking all season long. But Servais continually dragged them out of the roles in which they had been effective. There may well have come a time in this post season, had the Mariners advanced, that those two would indeed be called upon to expand their respective comfort zones. But forcing them to do it so early burned them both out and stole any drama that might have been in it for higher-leverage situations later.

GAME 1, Toronto– Friday

As far as I’m concerned, the trouble started here. Castillo had been brilliant, pitching into the 8th. Do you need Muñoz there? If you’re planning on leaning on him all post-season, why not rest him on Friday and call on any one of your other perfectly wicked right-handers to get the last five outs, not knowing how much higher-stakes relief you were going to need on Saturday. Or Sunday.

“We just needed to slam the door and win Game 1 at any cost,” many would undoubtedly say, in Scott’s defense. Really? You need to stretch Muñoz out over two innings in the first game of the post with a 4-run lead?

GAME 2, Toronto– Saturday

Bobby didn’t have it in Game 2

Bobby Ray didn’t have it like he frequently didn’t down the stretch. Servais did what he said he was going to do if Ray got into trouble which was go to the pen — likely to Matt Brash if it was early. It was– and Brash came in and cleaned up nicely. Why then, is he gone after one inning? This is not game 7 of the World Series! The kid has been a starter and has starter mentality and stamina. Get a couple innings out of him. What’s the rush getting to Sewald, in the 5th? As it turned out, Sewald was off (huh) and things got worse. But I just don’t see how you don’t leverage Brash Matt in that situation. Instead you still have to use Muñoz and ultimately Kirby who you ought to have been saving to start later in the tournament.

The way the offense rallied late in game 2 can’t be accounted for. It was one of the most fantastic baseball games I’ve ever listened to and in some ways emblematic of the season as a whole. One impossible turn after another– fluke base hits dropping all over the place, a dramatic home run, wild pitches, all of it. It was like a delicious reward for all the other average or even boring innings we log as everyday fans all season long. The true essence of October baseball! But it doesn’t mean I wasn’t extra relieved that they didn’t have to play again on Sunday, because Servais had already used Muñoz two days in a row, once for two innings.

FUCK THE HOUSTON ASTROS

It is so wonderful to be cheaters cheating all together!

This seems like a pretty good time to bitch about the Houston Astros. I haven’t despised a professional sports franchise this much since those early 90s Buffalo Bills teams with Jim Kelly & Scott Norwood. I disliked the repeat Blue Jays in the early 90s too, because I didn’t like Labatt’s Beer (or Canadians) and Labatt’s owned the club. But these Astros are a different level. I dislike the word hate, but I hate their city and I hate their state. I hate their stupid cheater ballpark with its 315’ American Legion leftfield porch and toy train and I hate their fuckin’ uniforms. But most of all, of course, I hate the fact that they used technology to cheat and won a World Series because of it and that there’s no mechanism to negate it. I hate Alex Bregman and Justin Verlander but most of all I hate Jose Altuve. GOD I hate that guy. Part of it’s because he and they are so good, of course—but most of it is because they went to grotesque organizational & technological lengths to gain an indisputable advantage over their opponents and it worked. Yu Darvish is still pitching in this post-season (Padres & Dodgers tied at 2 in Game 4 as I write) against his old team. Darvish was the Dodger who got beat in game 7 of that 2017 Series that the Astros won by cheating, and his life (at least career) is totally different than it would have been had he won a ring with a Game 7 victory. Plus he’s Japanese which probably makes the dishonor worse. So instead of that glory, he’s a footnote. It’s so much worse than steroids. And there’s no asterisk.

Fuck Dusty Baker 

Even Dusty Baker. I always loved Dusty Baker. Everybody did, which is why he was the only guy who could lead the Astros out of that dark corridor of blood cheating after they fired AJ Hinch. Everyone was like “… yeah, but Dusty…” Well, I got over that, rooting for a team in the AL West. I actually dipped a toothpick into the Nutella and left it out on the cutting board for Patti to find Tuesday afternoon. Fuck Dusty Baker…

GAME 3, Houston—Tuesday

I haven’t been to a place as dark as Tuesday afternoon for a long time. What a difference nine innings can make! The start of the game felt to me like the start of game 1 in Toronto, exploiting a pitcher you expected might dominate you. Base hits and free passes piled up and Verlander’s pitchcount rose. The Mariners appeared in complete control as Logan Gilbert was solid, leaving with a lead in the 6th. Again, Brash was first out of the pen and this time it’s not even a complete inning pitched, rather 2/3. Muñoz again is called on to pitch in a low-leverage situation and gives up a lead-narrowing homer.

Andres Muñoz, animal

How much can you expect out of one guy? Andres Muñoz might be my favorite player on this team—not just because he throws 103 w/ a 91mph ‘slider.’ But also because he’s such a peach. When I first heard him interviewed, I thought he sounded like Latka– a supersweet kid jazzed to be having this incredible experience. He didn’t know any of the canned jock phrases and just spoke from his heart with the innocence of an immigrant and the heart of jaguar. I love that he’s from Mexico and not from PR or the DR and he’s just my main man, that’s it.

After a shaky start to the season, he locked in and quickly became a virtually unhittable setup man for Sewald. But he was always a one-inning guy. He could give you one two days in-a-row, but never more than that. So when he was asked to face 26 playoff batters spread over five appearances in a week after he’d already pitched 65 innings during the season, well, he wasn’t as good was he? He was dominant in game 1, clearly toying with Blue Jays hitters. The next day he seemed tentative, pacing the perimeter of the mound, the team out of mound visits (solid management there). And then in game 3 as all Hell was breaking loose, he was genuinely vulnerable as Swanson, Festa & Boyd looked on. And then instead in comes Bobby Ray.

Of course this is the move Scott Servais will be remembered for. Giving Bobby the ball on two days rest after his worst outing of the year to face the second-most feared hitter in the American League is the move most will remember as the turning point in not only the game but also the series. Servais had a left-hander in the pen in Boyd (and one in Seattle in Marco). Instead he chose to drag Ray out of his role and insert him where he did not belong and the result will go down in history for those who give a damn.

basil fried rice

I’d like to say I don’t blame Scott. I’d like to say that after all those games on the couch dreaming of iced arms and bloody socks, that making a risky high-stakes post-season pitching change was a privilege he’d earned. I would like concede that the analytics were solid and that, though unorthodox, handing Ray the ball was a wise move. I would like to stand behind my guy and say all that, but I can’t. I do give a damn and I can’t say that.

I couldn’t say almost anything at all for 24 hours after that pitch in fact. Before Alvarez had crossed home plate, I’d hurled my cap and hissed an oath— crossing the living room from the porch and stomping into the basement where I pulled the covers of the spare bed up to my chin and stayed until after dark. Patti got some Thai food and I picked at some basil fried rice before going back to bed, sick in my guts over losing a baseball game in which I had not even played.

GAME 4, Houston—Thursday

By Thursday I was at least verbal again, but I still didn’t have much appetite for the game. I hadn’t looked at any baseball media Wednesday and didn’t even listen to the two National League games because I couldn’t take a chance on hearing those ESPN douchebags mentioning the Mariners’ epic collapse from the day before. I skipped pre-game and tuned in just before first pitch, well out of my own gameday routine.

My hopes were low. I believed any opportunity to prevail over the Astros was only going to show itself once, and briefly. Chasing Verlander early and O-fering Altuve where not gaps we were going to get a second chance to exploit. I still felt good about Luis, and I knew we had strong arms ready in the pen. Not that Servais still had any inclination to use them, letting Castillo throw more than 100 pitches for the second time in as many starts while the right-handers in the pen chewed and spit. And then who does he finally bring in, after leaving Castillo in long enough to surrender the lead? Muñoz, of course.

And here’s the hell of it. Here’s the piece that burns my butt as much as anything else. With his Big Guy on the mound in the bottom of the 8th and the Mariners trailing by only one, with two outs and Peña on first– what does Servais do? Without a base open, he motherfucking walks Alvarez to put a runner in scoring position. And of course Bregman singles that run in.

Why are we even doing this in the first place? Why are we even bothering to play the games? Isn’t this the situation that all true competitors long for? These matchups? Scott’s ridden this guy hard and practically exclusively for a week, asking him to the do the impossible time and again. And then you get down to the point where the season is almost literally on the line and you’ve got that guy on the mound when the Astroturf Monster comes to the plate setting up the epic showdown that everyone wants to see and you walk him? With a runner already at first base?! If you were going to do that, why wouldn’t you have done it the game before and let Sewald (or another game right-hander) pitch to Bregman? It’s stupid.

GAME 5, Seattle—Saturday

T-Mobile Park, October 2022

What can be said about this game? The patient baseball people of Seattle had been rewarded with a home playoff game for the first time in 21 seasons and you can’t say we didn’t make the most of the pageant. Oversold out. Beautiful Indian Summer day. Felix throwing out the ceremonial (caught by Franklin Gutiérrez!). And then an 18-inning pitcher’s staredown. Two entire game’s worth of outs without a run scoring. Couldn’t hardly script it any better than that.

Well, actually you could. You could write in a bottom frame homer by any one of a number of guys. They all had their chances, literally a whole second game’s worth of at-bats. Patti thought Servais shouldn’t have run for Suarez in the 9th, but I didn’t have a huge problem with that. Servais was playing aggressive, trying to win a baseball game. Who could have guessed we’d miss Gino’s bat for that long? I thought for sure they’d walk it off in the 9th.

But they didn’t. Not in the 10th either. Inning after inning the relief pitching came through—most of them in their first appearances of the post. Ultimately it was the left-hander Murfee who gave up the only run of the game on a homerun to the guy you always had to retire because he was batting in front of Alvarez. But no runs through 17? I’ll take that all autumn every autumn and I didn’t have an issue with any of Servais’ moves, although in reality he didn’t have many choices by that point, did he? He ended up stretching Brash out finally, and it looked like he wasn’t going back to Bobby if it had gone to the 19th.

But the fact remains that the Mariners didn’t score for the last 18 and in fact the last 23 innings of the season. Also ruefully emblematic.

PLAYING THE GAME THE RIGHT WAY MY EYE

Sweet Lou Piniella

One of the unfortunate results of the introduction of instant replay in baseball is that there’s nothing to argue about anymore. The historic antics of MLB managers furious about blown calls were what made baseball unique. You never saw a basketball coach take off his tie and vein-up in the face of a referee over a missed foul. No football coach ever sarcastically covered the near sideline with dirt to make his point that the opposing receiver was out-of-bounds when he caught the ball. Hockey coaches don’t tip over nets to protest icing calls. Nope—baseball was the only sport in which frequently overweight late-middle aged men wearing the same uniforms as their players would regularly go berserk on the field surrounded by four smirking umpires with whom he’d probably share a drink later at the hotel bar. It was high sports theater, starring malcontents named Lou, Earl and Billy.

Anymore someone might yell a magic word from the dugout in protest to the strikezone and once in a long while a manager will get rung. Sometimes he’ll emerge from the dugout for a few heated words, ‘getting his money’s worth’. But largely this entertainment aspect is gone from the sport, in favor of getting the call right. And of course there’s something to be said for that– but at the same time, I miss the human element. And I dread the day when even the strikezone is no longer determined by an imperfect man, but rather a billion-dollar specially-programmed perfect computer machine.

One thing that can still result in some old-fashioned baseball fun though, is the beanball. The hit batsman is part of the game and always has been. Pitchers must pitch inside to be effective, and some batters (the good ones) crowd the strikezone more than others. And in this battle for the plate, sometimes a guy gets hit by the baseball. Usually he rubs the spot where the impact was made and jogs to first base without any further discussion. But if he’s already been hit once that series, or if one of his mates got hit yesterday, or if one of his pitchers hit one of their guys the inning before, well then maybe there is some glaring. Even some words. At this point the catcher usually makes a point of getting in between the pissed off batter and his own pitcher, but if things go much further than that then guys are going to start coming out of both dugouts and eventually the bullpens. There are rarely any real punches thrown in baseball ‘fights’, and usually order is lazily restored and the game moves on. But not always.

The Mariners have been involved in a few of these over the years, like every team has. (I was sitting down the first base line at the Kingdome the night catcher John Marzano punched the Yankees prized whiner Paul O’Neil in the face at home plate. Epic…) Seattle was in one this season, in fact, in that shameful mess in Anaheim. That was a predetermined decision to throw at our guy, a situation where the Angels actually changed their lineup on gameday so that their starting pitcher could afford to be ejected after throwing at Jesse Winker. It was a little heavy-handed on Angels’ manager Phil Nevin’s part, because the whole thing was in reaction to an inside pitch to Anaheim star Mike Trout the night before—a pitch that wasn’t really even that close. Trout made a big deal of it and so his manager was naturally obliged to back him up and that meant throwing at a Mariner the next day.

Angels manager Phil Nevin, kind of a nitz

I don’t blame Nevin for that, really. Who I do blame is Scott Servais—for not responding. Every pre-schooler knows two wrongs don’t make a right. But in baseball, sometimes you just have to knock a fucker down. And Servais going to the podium after that game and saying ‘we play the game the right way’ is just lame.

An even better example of this weakness on the Mariner manager’s part goes back to the Astros. For starters, I believe that Jose Altuve should be hit routinely in the wallet on the first pitch of every game, just based on the bullshit cheating jive detailed above. But when you have a chance to really send a message but don’t because it’s not the right way to play the game, then I have a problem with that.

In case you forgot what Jose Altuve looks like if you ever have the chance to bean him

It was the last day of July and the two teams were facing each other for the final time in the regular season. As usual, the Astros had gotten the better of the Mariners over the course of the year, and not only had Jose Altuve not been hit in the ass with the first pitch of every game, Mariners hitters had been knocked down a conspicuous amount by Astros pitchers, including prized rookie Julio Rodriquez getting hit twice in the same spot in consecutive at-bats a few weeks earlier. Now the last game of the year between the two teams was going into extra innings.

(One of the other new neutering rules in baseball since Covid is that extra innings begin with a runner at second base. Ostensibly this is to save pitching staffs from being overworked, but it’s at least in-part an effort not to overtax the short attention spans of American sports fans spoiled by the speed and violence of professional football: 9 innings is already a lot to expect– no sense in chancing more than 10.)

Anyway, to begin the bottom of the 10th there was an automatic runner on second base and Jose Altuve happened to be leading off. With first base ‘open’ it was a logical move for Servais to intentionally walk the dangerous Altuve in order to set up a double play, pitching instead to rookie Jeremy Peña. In what was likely to be the very last inning of 19 games between the two division rivals, Scott Servais had a dream opportunity to hit Jose Altuve with a fastball right between the letters. He was going to walk him anyway. But instead, he put him on first base non-violently, Peña hit a basehit in the gap, and the Astros walked off the Mariners off 3-2.

MANAGER OF THE YEAR MY ASS

Terry Francona, American League Manager of the Year 2022

I don’t have a vote, but if I did I would not cast it for Scott Servais for American League Manager of the Year. I absolutely would have last year, when expectations were lower and Servais had not yet had a chance to piss and shit himself in the playoffs, like he did this year. But you only get one chance to sneak up on people. Terry Francona did a killer job this season with an even younger club in Cleveland—a squad that rose above the presumed division champion Chicago White Sox and which took the October-mad New York Yankees to a 5th game in their ALDS. In their first year as the Guardians, that is the team who made the biggest late and post-season impression—not the Mariners. In my opinion, Scott Servais should feel lucky to still have his job, let alone be anointed as the best boss in the league.

NO MORE HOLY SMOKES

And while I’m at it– sitting here in my underpants eating ice cream and cleaning house– I’m firing Rizzs too.

When Dave Niehaus dropped dead at his barbeque during the offseason of 2010, I knew this day would come. The club had been working Rizzs into a more prominent booth role for several seasons, in anticipation of 75-year-old Niehaus’ imminent retirement if not unexpected death. As a radio listener, I couldn’t imagine Mariner’s baseball without Dave. But in the end, the transition I’d dreaded so acutely actually turned out to be fairly smooth– and it wasn’t long before I was hanging on Rizzs’ every word the same way I’d relied on Niehaus.

Rick Rizzs is a great broadcaster. A baseball man and a radio man through and through, he’s a true pro with lightening reflexes, a smooth voice, and a deep knowledge of and respect for the game. He has decades of experience, and when he breaks in at the top of a broadcast or the bottom of an inning, I feel safe—like a loyal friend is watching out for me and that even if the team loses the game at-hand or ultimately falls short of winning the World Series again, things are going to be OK. I know the inflections and patterns of his voice as well as I know my own.

Rick Rizzs, 68

But he’s also very old-school. He comes from a genre that never—under any circumstances—has an overtly negative thing to say about anything or anybody. And I really believe that sometimes you just have to call a fig a fig. Eventually, the euphemisms get old, and Rizzs’ bottomless brightsiding has started to really get to me– especially this post-season when balls were dropped. In fairness it’s not the play-by-play guy’s job to call out managerial fuckings up, but I guess I’m just growing weary of what an insufferable honkey he is.

And there’s youth behind him. I think Hill and Goldsmith are great together and Sims is incredible too of course. Even Blowers was in the radio booth for a lot of the post, which was odd because he’s always been TV only. It’s actually a bit like the pitching staff in that they have all this talent and it’s hard to get everyone enough innings. I don’t know what their system is or where guys go when it’s not their turn on the mic. But there’s a lot of shuffling that goes on in the Northwest Chevy Broadcast Booth. And it seems like maybe the crew is one voice long.

I may well be imagining this, but I actually think that Gary Hill and Aaron Goldsmith have a bit of a plan for forcing Rizzs out. Occasionally it’s all three of them on hot mics and those two guys are like mischievous kids riffing on some abstraction while Rizzs plays the heavy, bringing things back to the action on the field. Sometimes they’ve strayed too far off-topic and he’s right in reining things back in. But more often than not he just sounds like somebody’s mom warning them not to make him pull the car over. I swear I have heard them plant shit in his path that he struggles with, like video game references that he doesn’t know how to respond to, while they yuck it up ungodly. It’s 2-against-1 and he ends up sounding dated.

And he absolutely has lost a step where his calls are concerned. It was the same for his mentor during Dave’s last few years, where he’d break out a SWUNG ON AND BELTED on what turned out to be a fairly routine fly ball to right. Failing depth perception. Transposed ballparks, wrong guys in the lineup, 1 out not 2. Patti actually corrected Rizzs on a count in the second wildcard game “it’s 3-1, not 2-1, Rick” she said, absolutely correct. I can’t imagine a harder job than being a baseball announcer, and as I say—I have the utmost respect and reverence for Rick Rizzs. But, you know, if it’s up to me? Gold Watch.

Julio Rodriguez, 21

Dipoto can stay. I think he’s kind of a patient genius and has steadily built this club into the contender it is. Pragmatic development on the farm and a few free agent signings, but with a couple of notable exceptions, the deals he’s made have not been huge. It’s like success by a thousand trades, each one making the team 2-3% better seemingly without much notice. And then fairly abruptly after 5 years of quiet dealing, you’re super good.

One thing Jerry deserves the spanking machine for, though, is letting Julio into the All Star homerun derby. Whether it was his decision directly or whether that too falls to Servais—someone needed to hike that idea as soon as it was hatched. We oughtn’t have expected the kid himself to do it. That’s not his job. He’s 21 years old and a sudden darling. He’s going to say YES to any idea floated his way because he’s flattered and confident and hungry. But one authoritarian or another needed to tell the league thanks but no when that idiotic plan was broached. It’s a lame contest in the first place—typical of the general dumbing down of the sport. It should be a bunting derby. But putting your prized prospect into a situation where he’s going to swing his wrist swollen trying to hit 30 home runs in 3 minutes is just poor management. Julio got some screentime and that certainly didn’t hurt his and thus the Mariners’ brand. The national media finally had a face to add to their collages, legitimizing the club’s continued existence. But it wasn’t good for the team, as the kid sat out sore a week’s worth of games after the break, a stretch in which the Mariners went 2-3 in close games. It’s easy to shrug tough losses in July, but one or two of those games going the other way might have made a big difference in how things played out in October. It’s about seeding.

BUT WHAT DO I KNOW?

I should be ashamed of myself, banging on Scott Servais, Jerry Dipoto and Rick Rizzs. I don’t know fuck about shit– meanwhile these three have 100 year’s experience working in the game. As a paying fan it is my luxury to critique if not criticize, however, and not only is it (mostly) in good fun, but I also recognize no one’s ever going to read this– especially the manager, general manager and the voice of the Seattle Mariners.

And it was a good year. When you play up or down to your competition, the game is always close and that makes for late-inning drama, night after night. It’s a talented young core of players who genuinely appear to like each other and who seem committed to winning in Seattle. 2022 was no 1995. But it was a good year…

I do have a couple of concerns about the future, however:

• Left field. This position has been a struggle in Seattle practically since Tom Paciorek left. I assume the Jessie Winker experiment will be abandoned and I don’t think that cunt Jerid Kelenic is the long-term solution, either. Hopefully Jerry can get something for him. I was surprised he didn’t have value at the deadline this year
• Robbie Ray. He did not finish strong, including his poor showing in the post. We’re committed to him for several seasons, but I’ve never trusted him entirely and we’ll need a solid left-hander if Marco is on his way out
• Marco Gonzalez. He truly is a bulldog and gutted it out this year even when every pitch of every outing seemed like such a struggle. It made me feel bad that he was left off the post-season rosters and that’s not a great sign for his future
• JP Crawford. His contract extension at the start of the season was a feel-good development for the team, guaranteeing his excellent presence and glove in the lineup for years to come. It would be awesome if he hit better than .243
• Kyle Lewis. What on Earth has become of Kyle Lewis and will he even be part of the future here? What about Justus Sheffield? Or Evan White?

That’s probably enough for today. I need to tune in Game 3 of the ALCS so I can hear Jose Altuve ground out, extending his 0-21 hitless streak. Go Mariners!

walkin’ spanish

Edie got home tonight.

The last time I saw her was a month ago in Barcelona as I was tiptoeing out of the 17th floor AirBnB we’d rented on our last night in that magical city.  I’d given her a peck on the cheek as she lay sleeping in a tumble of blankets on the couch before slipping into the hall to wait for the elevator. My backpack was cinched up tight and my other two carry-ons were bulging with souvenirs. Edie cracked the door of the apartment just as the elevator doors were opening, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes and waving a last goodbye. My heart swelled then farted as I stepped in, blowing her a kiss.

See you at home…

She’s dug some more crazy sites since then. After sleeping a bit later in the highrise condo, she lashed her own pack tight to her tiny shoulders and headed back to the core of the city to spend a last night with her friends there before making the respective scenes in Granada and Valencia, eventually passing back through Barcelona on her way to Budapest. That last link unfortunately took two days because she missed the flight out of Barcelona and was forced to endure punishing half-day layovers there and in Lisbon which please appreciate is not between Barcelona & Budapest, not even close. By the time she made it to Hungary she was not only hungry, but pretty darned sick. She saw a doctor who recommended she drink some water and stretch, and she rested a couple of days before getting evicted from the hostel and fleeing to Krakow with Joao from Brazil. From Poland, they hitchhiked through Slovakia on their way back to Budapest where Edie caught a flight to Heathrow and ultimately to Everett by way of LAX.

And that’s really not even the half of it. But I’m not going to hijack her stories. You can read them on her own blog…

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Barcelona Cathedral, Good Friday

We first arrived in Barcelona at 5pm on Good Friday. Born and raised on the West Coast of the US, I don’t know what it’s like to deal in a culture dominated by any religion stronger than Consumerism. Walking into Barcelona’s very catholic Gothic Quarter at peak hour on Good Friday was like a strange dream.

The plaza of the towering Barcelona Cathedral was packed with worshippers, and a procession wound through the crowd toward the wide front steps that lead to the lower square. Robed priests marched slowly at the procession’s head, chanting and waving the incense. Behind them, hovering above the heads of the crowd, drifted a lifesize crucifix. On the anniversary of his execution, the wooden Jesus rocked gently side to side spreading the faithful like Moses parting the Red Sea. (That was Moses, right?)

Anyway, the April evening sun was dropping in the general direction of Bellingham, and the narrow canyons of the Gothic Quarter were in shadows. Processions were converging on the Cathedral from multiple directions, and it was in these tributaries that the really whack action was percolating. Long rows of robed, hooded figures lurched silently through the ancient streets, paced by a single snare drum. It was one solemn parade. Floats laden with flowers and fruit and a glass-eyed statue of Mary atop were carried by-hand by dozens of miserable sinners with something to prove on this redeemingest of redemption days. Never mind that they looked like the Klan in their tall, pointy hoods with eyeholes cut out– carrying crosses and torches. Each group had its own colors, like marching bands from rival high schools– black, red, purple and of course your classic White. Many dragged elaborate networks of chains from ankle irons, their bare feet chafing on the cobbles. TGiF, man. That is some penitent shit right there…*

We had initially been anxious to locate our hotel and rid our packs, but the macabre proceedings pretty much froze us. Plus then we couldn’t figure out how to cross this river of repentance!  Eventually we began to move upstream, in the opposite direction of the flow. We were looking for a place to cross, but the parade seemed to have no beginning. At one point the route veered left, so we cut right and tried circling around. But we only ended up further upstream and still blocked. This is where we fought off our first pickpocket.

The farther we’d gotten away from the Cathedral, the more secular the crowd had become. There were some seriously authentic local believers pushing up against the fence at the church—but the deeper we got into the reaches of the Quarter, the less it seemed like Easter and the more it seemed like Bumbershoot. The crowd got younger and drunker and less-Catholic, and there were more phones held aloft stealing video of what was intended to be a very serious & purposeful religious demonstration. We ducked out of the pedestrian stream and into an ornate arched doorway to regroup and to ask Edie’s phone where in the hell our hotel was.

“Whoa,” I heard her say, as soon as she’d shouldered out of her pack. “That was weird…”

I was taking off my own pack and pulling out my water bottle. That’s literally all the time it had taken for two young men to grasp the shoulder straps of Edie’s day pack and start to walk away with it. She’d essentially watched them pick it up just inches from her and had grabbed the nearest strap before they were so much as a step away.

They shrugged and let go, disappearing nonchalantly into the festive mob. They didn’t run. Edie said she saw them later, and they’d gazed at her as if to say ‘OK, you win the first round…’ It was very Spanish.

The Hotel Continental was right on La Ramblas directly across from the Font de Canaletes. I don’t know if it was originally a prison or a tire store or what– but I don’t think it was built as a hotel. Eventually we navigated the Escheresque network of staircases and checked in at the mirrored front desk. Our 4th floor room had a balcony and an ashtray and two twin beds pushed together. We opened a bottle of white and called Patti to let her know we’d arrived safely in Spain before showering and changing into our eveningwear.

The Gothic Quarter. Never having been to Europe before, I totally dug London and of course Paris France is priddy neat also. But I fell hardest for Barcelona, and nowhere is the identity of this mysterious city on more authentic display than in the old centre. Sure, it’s had plenty of facelifts– some as recent as the 1970s. But the original spirit and function of the district is apparent to the extent you can almost still smell it. There are plenty of gargoyles and grotesques and fountains and menacing iron gates. Just the narrow carless streets and dark arched alleys are enough to give a visitor the essence of the place. Paris is gray. The streets, buildings, people and skies are gray. But Barcelona has so much rich brick and tile and color—it seemed very alive by comparison…

It was getting dark as we emerged from the Hotel Continental looking for soul food. The Good Friday night throngs flowed to and fro along Las Ramblas, the vendidors hawking everything from bottled water to Catalan flags to those propeller boomerang things that zoom 60’ in the air. It was a festive atmosphere quite unlike the somber mood back nearer the Cathedral. These folks were not nearly as bummed out to learn of JC’s death—they were here to partay.

Choosing a tapas restaurant in Barcelona is like trying to find your favorite tree in the forest. We walked by a dozen before ducking in to one that looked nice. They’re all nice! The dark & dashing waiter was appreciative of Edie’s excellent Catalan and she ordered us some plates, among them probably the best scampi I’ve ever had and I’ve had a lot of scampi. I loved that Edie was enjoying seafood, as she never did as a kid. Funny how a few months out of your comfort zone can adjust your tastes…

We left the restaurant with full bellies and a corked half-bottle of white and proceeded to continue exploring the ancient quarter. Lots of shops & bars were open, but in fact many were not– and we would discover that a lot of stuff either was not open at all during this holy week or else regular business hours were even more irregular than normal. Ah, the riddle of Spain!

We finished the restaurant takeout wine and Gulu’d another. In fairness I should say that I finished the wine and secured another. It was fun to have a glass with Edie here and there throughout Europe, and I got a kick out of her never being carded because carding isn’t a thing in Europe. But in reality, Edie didn’t usually have a drink even at mealtime, and on this particular night it was me who was drinking la parte del leon of the wine. Perhaps this fact was apparent, as it was about this time that we fought off our second set of Barcelona’s finest.

We were meandering down yet another charming calle when two jovial young men in their late teens approached on a bicycle—one at the wheel, the other in-front on the pegs. Edie & I were having such a good time, and as the boy in-front jumped off the bike it was apparent that he too was having such a great time tonight in Barcelona! Presently, he engaged me in a kind of playful dancing game, as if he were trying to steal an imaginary soccer ball I was dribbling. I was stoked that we were both having such a killer time! I looked down at our dancing feet and in the amount of time it took to do so, there were three more of his adorable, smiling friends also playing the playful dancing soccer ball game except that they were also digging their hands into my pockets and clawing at my bag. They weren’t trying to steal an invisible soccer ball.

Despite my relaxed state, I quickly realized what was happening and spun out of the dance circle, gripping tight my shoulder bag that contained my phone, money, journal and wine. Just as quickly as the gang had materialized, they were gone–folded silently back into the shadows of the Gothic Quarter in-search of some other tipsy chump. This victory was mine, but I wouldn’t venture into the streets of the city again all week without the flesh-colored moneybelt I’d promised Patti I would wear in Barcelona. The city is known for its pickpockets for good reason. They’re not violent or particularly aggressive—they don’t smash & grab. But they are clever, not to mention cute. We left the city leading 2-0, but we’ll be back some day and I’m sure they’ll be waiting for us…

el Mercado

Holy Saturday commemorates the day Jesus lay in the tomb between crucifixion and resurrection. Even I know that. No better way to observe the occasion than to trip around the Gothic Quarter some more and visit the renowned MACBA Skate Spot at St. Jordi. Later we walked through the Mercado de La Boqueria. I wasn’t in the market for fresh swordfish or fresh eggplant or impossibly fresh poultry or fruit or cheese or ox livers or cockscomb. But if I were, I’d have been accommodated– with each stall specializing in one unimaginably fresh delicacy or another. I’d watched some fairly primitive live butchers in both England and France. These Spaniards were cutting animals, too, but there was not a drop of blood or fleck of membrane to be found. It was the cleanest working market I have ever seen– a veritable temple of sanitation.

Reluctantly we left the Quarter mid-afternoon to find our AirB in the Lesseps neighborhood just few Metro stops away. We ended up later by someplace called The Family Segrada or something, so we stopped there and walked around. But it was under construction, like The Pirates of the Caribbean sometimes is, so we didn’t go inside…

Closed for Construction

Easter Sunday in Barcelona was super fuckin’ windy. We’d been watching the weather for a week, and the forecasts for Barcelona had consistently featured those little animated blowing clouds, indicating wind. And sure enough, a strong breeze was blowing in from the south on Easter Sunday– and when a strong wind blows through an old city, you invariably get a lot of grit in your eyes and hair.

After a cappuccino and a quiche in Vila de Gràcia, we caught a Metro then a bus to the base of Tibidabo where we boarded an ancient cable tram that labored us to the top of the mountain—the highest point in Barcelona. It was even windier up there, and my hat blew off and across the plaza. Edie’s hair flew around her face like claymation and after staring at her for a long moment, I took a picture because I knew it would last longer.

Oh my heck, were having a such a great time. It would be a bold-faced falsehood to say that I hadn’t worried just a little bit before the trip about whether Edie & I would be compatible traveling companions for two full weeks. I knew were were going to be jazzed to see each other and that we’d be taking in some thrilling sites. I knew she’d been having a killer adventure and that she’d be relieved to have me paying for stuff after fending for herself for ten weeks by the time I showed up. But I totally was not prepared for how well we would travel together and for what an absolute riot we would have every step of the lengthy journey.

Ours were very close quarters. She went out with local friends a couple of times in Lyon & Barca, and I went out to see the Hammersmith Odeon on that last night in London. But otherwise, we were pretty much in the same immediate airspace 24hours  for two full weeks including usually sleeping in the same room. And we could not have gotten along any better. We felt like walking at the same time. We felt like eating at the same time, talking at the same time or just being still and not talking at the same time. We had some very meaningful conversations but other times just laughed and laughed at the most inane nonsense. Practically until wetting our pants, we laughed.

But standing so small in front of the commanding Temple Expiatori del Sagrat Cor on the top of a holy mountain on Easter Sunday, I again felt the nagging of trip-end anxiety from somewhere inside me. By this point, I was halfway through the last leg. I’d be getting on a plane in a mere 72 hours and going back to grody ol’ America. Edie would remain in Europe for the last push of her mad season, but I’d be back at home sorting souvenirs and going through photographs, trying to put the Trip of a Lifetime into words. I still am.

Snapping out of my melancholy daze and resolving there wasn’t a moment to waste, we blasted back down the mountain through the ivy & cacti & scrub pines as fast as the cable tram would take us, which wasn’t actually very fast. First stop was Easter Brunch, which we presently conjured in the form of Sangria & Paella in the regal L’Antiga Esquerra de L’Eixample neighborhood. Sunday is laundry day in Barcelona, and Easter seemed no exception. Every balcony in the district had colorful garments draped over the rails drying, many with the Catalan flag underneath like a tablecloth.

Easter Brunch

We’d walked the sands of Sant Sebastia in the dark on Friday night, but hadn’t beheld the marvel of the sea in the light of day yet– so we followed the gritty breeze toward the mighty Mediterranean. Along the way, we fought through the vendors of La Barceloneta, selling everything from sunglasses to jewelry to visors and knock-off Adidas’s and Louis Vuiton [sic] handbags, laid out on blankets. Block after block, blanket after blanket. Each city had its version of these bootleg vendors all selling mountains the identical merchandise for one Euro. There’s something odd and perhaps even ironic about the Senegalese selling Eiffel Tower keychains made in China. Truly a global transaction. How there’s enough of a market for as many of them to be out there hawking is beyond me. Still, there they were.

Jardins de les 3 Xemeneies

Beyond Vendor’s Row, we finally reached the beach. The tide was so far in that it looked like the surf was crashing right up to the seawall. All beaches are made of sand and salt water—but they’re not all the same. The Mediterranean Sea is different from the Pacific or the Atlantic. The sand is different for one thing. Not fine like Mexico or Florida– more coarse like at Tahoe. The water was the same color as the steely sky, and it was still super windy. The parasailers or wind gliders or wave stealers or whatever you call those insane maniacs were just flying all over the place, catching the tops of waves and sailing 40’ above the surface. There were a couple of little kids wading in the shallows, but other than that everyone was dry and mellow, sipping ten-Euro Mojitos and kicking the soccer ball (a real one). We sat and stared at the breakers for while before snapping a selfie and moving on. The clock was running.

I could have spent a week at the Mercat Port Antic just off the marina, with its tented booths overflowing with silver, brass & porcelain. I’m a sucker for an antique mall in the toddling Pacific Northwest, let alone the old world where there’s been something of a headstart. Some genuinely antiquated stuff in these booths, and as in France I fondled much of it but ended up settling for a couple of skeleton keys that I talked the vendor down on just as he was starting to pack up his collection for the night.

Next was the incredible Jardins de les 3 Xemeneies graffiti park. Barcelonans like their spray paint but there seem to be some unwritten rules observed where muraling is concerned. Churches generally are off-limits. I did not see any spraypainted dogs, cats or taxi’s. But a lot of the rest of the city is covered in beautiful urban murals. So much color and style and scale. I don’t know how good it is for the environment, but it’s pretty striking to look at. They also really like stickers. Doorways and light poles and parking meters and street signs are skinned in layer upon layer of stickers. Edie & I didn’t have any spraypaint, but we did get into the sticker act a bit. Not knowing if I’d be able to find the traditional PAAS easter egg dye kit in Spain, I bought one in Bellingham and packed it along. We had dyed a half-dozen eggs the night before, and I’d brought along the little sheet of stickers on our epic Sunday ramble. So in Jardins and through the Ciutat Vella we left our mark. Ours were subtle and humble contributions, but we got a pretty good kick out of behaving like natives. So European!

Happy Easter!

We’d been walking all day. We’d collected a few souvs and our daypacks were bulging. We Metro’d to Lesseps for a quick break and a change of shoes. Like Uncle John used to say, ‘take five if you’re tired; take more you’re fired.’ We didn’t have time to rest long. In an hour, we were back on the street. We hid the Easter eggs on the way to the sushi restaurant on the other side of the neighborhood. It’s not as if sushi is a traditional Easter meal for us. We just both felt like sushi and it was excellent.

 Edie left from Lesseps to meet a couple of friends. I tried to Gulu a bottle of wine, but luck was against me this night. I got pretty lost walking back to the apartment, the neighborhood quite deserted by midnight. I eventually found it (yes: I am not still wandering in Barcelona looking for a rented apartment) and crashed out pretty hard. I had 10am tickets for the Museu Picasso in the morning.

I don’t know much about art. I know what I like, as they say—but I don’t know a lot about real art. I dug the 5th floor of the Centre Pompidou in Paris and there were some rad busts in the British Museum in London. I’ve been to the Met and the Moma in NYC and I love the alligator pit in Golden Gate Park. Actually, I guess that’s an aquarium. The point is, I can look at art in a coffee table book. If I’ve got 4 days in big city, I have a little trouble spending even half of one inside nodding at art that could be anywhere. I’d rather watch locals buy meat or sit on a park bench and eavesdrop on the conversation of a couple of suited, smoking old men who look old enough to have drank with Dali. Even if I can’t understand what they’re saying. I just like watching people.

That said, the Picasso museum was pretty cool even though everyone was staring at their phones because that’s how the guided tour was administered. Not the little earbuds like some places. I didn’t buy the tour, and it made it feel kind of weird thinking everyone was just wandering around bumping in to each other checking their Instagram.

Edie had spent the night with friends and was supposed to meet me down there, but she didn’t. So I wandered around the Quarter for an hour after breaking Pablo trying to get to the bottom of my souvenir list: ashtrays crafted from aluminum cans, musty old novels en Espanol, airplane bottles of absinth, tiles from the tile store. I was getting pretty thirsty by this time, but everything was suddenly closed.  We hadn’t spent a weekday in Barcelona yet, so I wasn’t sure how extensively siesta would be observed. But the neighborhood was fairly suddenly not open, and only then did it dawn on me why. Eventually I found an open Indian restaurant and ducked in for a half-carafe of sweet red and a hookah.

 A little bit light-headed, I got back on the cobblestones for a leg of the trip I’d been dreading—the preparation for departure. I needed some kind of bag to use as a second carry-on and secured 20-Euro duffle with BARCELONA on the side for 15-Euro. I grabbed a slice of pizza and snapped one last selfie before ducking into the Metro station at Las Ramblas, bound for Lesseps.

(What wasn’t closed during siesta, or at any time at all throughout all of Europe was KFC. By far the most-popular American icon of any kind was the Colonel—more popular than Ronald McDonald or the Burger King or even the Starbucks mermaid. In terms of garment logos, hands-down the most common was The North Face, maybe because the Europeans still thought it was winter even though it was 60 (Farenheit). Levi’s, Blundstones and Doc Martens were also very popular. But the Colonel was King– no contest…)

Additionally, Barcelonans:

• Smoke but also vape

• Busk

• Wear pale pink leather jackets (the ladies, at least…)

• Root for the Los Angeles Dodgers in baseball

• Use the code ‘coffee shop’ when soliciting marijuana

• Guess that I am Italian (twice) or Mexican (once)

The fact that anyone would think I was from Mexico or Italy underscores one of the most pleasant surprises from my trip: that Europeans are not terribly fascinated by Americans or by extension particularly aghast at what is going on in America. Like Flava Flav, they got problems of they own– those strikingly similar to our problems here.

In bygone eras, Americans had probably walked through Europe wearing stars & stripes and dishing out high-fives– dignified members of the Greatest Generation from This Great Nation. By this late hour, I wore a maple leaf lapel pin and kept my voice down and they still thought I was Italian. In any event, Europeans couldn’t give two shits about Donald Trump– a fact I was quite relieved to learn.

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You can’t see Barcelona in five days. We’d tried– but headed south & west toward our final flop in the airport-convenient La Marina del Prat Vermell neighborhood Tuesday mid-day we encountered the stunning grounds of the Museu Nacional d’Art de Catalunya and I arrived at the grim realization that there would be much left unseen this trip. We used the Metro, a surface bus and eventually our feet to reach our final AirB. The key was buried in a planter outside and we wearily rode the elevator to the 17th floor.

 I had fallen hard for Barcelona. In London I spoke the language. In Paris, there were some sites I expected would change me, as Paris does. But Barca made my heart race from the start. Her brick, her domes, her tile florets. The iron! She is a saucy dama with many pockets. I imagine one could live inside her for an entire lifetime and not solve her. I was there for five nights and haven’t stopped thinking about her since. But I don’t know anything– I’ve not been almost anywhere. If I spent five nights in Bali or Berlin or Bermuda, maybe then I wouldn’t have such a boner for Barcelona or even be stoked to live in Bellingham.

Selfies en la Parc

The sun hadn’t been out since that first evening in town, but it shown brightly that last late afternoon as we climbed up through the viaducts of Parc Guell. Antoni Gaudi’s seed is of course smeared lasciviously all over Barcelona. I’m glad he built the stuff he did–somebody had to. But I guess other than marveling at the pure zaniness of it, I kind of prefer the more traditional Spanish stuff. We didn’t see all the Gaudi buildings in Barca, but we saw several representative works. How it even stands up is a mystery, actually—it looks to have been made with paper mache or Bondo, not sticks & stones. It’s as if Dr. Seuss had designed a Playmobil castle. For my money (and of course merely gazing at architecture is often free) the Palau de la Musica Catalana or the Arc are more pleasing. But to each their own…

 Descending from the Parc, the realization that I had less than twelve hours left with Edie was starting to set in. We were standing on a crowded shuttle weaving its way down the steep hills around the parc, and both our heads rolled from side-to-side with the lurching of the coach. We were just spent. But we had one more destination — one which I’d been anticipating since leaving Bellingham. The restaurant Can Maregarit had been recommended to us by the all-knowing Gottleib Cardini and I’d actually reset my Google password en Espanol earlier in the day in order to make a reservation—so we were going!

 We made the Poble Sec neighborhood via Metro in plenty of time for our 21:00 reservation and closed on the location on-foot. The neighborhood did not look like where one would expect to find a internationally renowned eatery, but we kept plodding—hungry by this time and thirsty too. Thinking earlier that we were headed toward a fancy-shamncy destination, I’d suggested Edie wear the best clothes she had left. And those weren’t that great. Her scuffed-up trekking boots, torn cargo pants and a stained peagreen sweatshirt was the best she could do at this point in her 3-month backpack. I hoped the maître d’ would seat us.

We stood on the sidewalk regarding the building. Surely, there must be some mistake. The street had the right name and the numbers above the splintered wooden door were the same as what we were searching for. Google Maps congratulated us on having reached our destination. But this couldn’t be it…

We tentatively cracked the door, peeking inside thinking it might be somebody’s house or even a garage. There were candles burning on the crooked wooden table in the center of the room, and three huge dusty wine casks loomed along the right wall. We stepped in and looked around, our eyes adjusting to the light, even dimmer than the dark sidewalk. The space smelled like the fourteenth century.

Presently a very small yet authoritative older gentleman appeared and asked (in Catalan) if we had a reservation. Edie responded (in Catalan) that we did—for Braimes, a table of two at 21:00. He consulted the ledger on a side table for quite some time before nodding. He invited us to take a seat at the table before disappearing again.

Momentarily he re-appeared and strode to the wine casks, beckoning us to follow. He then informed us (in English) that the first cask was red, the second sweet white and the third strong white. He gave us both a small straight glass and elegantly demonstrated how to use the tap on the cask by filling a third glass for himself. He raised it in our direction, then disappeared again. Edie pulled herself a glass of the sweet white; I chose the strong. We sat back down.

We were alone in the cavernous foyer. The rough-hewn raftered ceilings were 20’ high and the floor was of ragged brick. The high windows were opaque from years of candlesmoke and the table hadn’t been wiped off since it was built. We had arrived…

This was the perfect time for me to break down in tears, telling Edie how proud I was of her and how much I’d valued the opportunity to walk with her these past 15 days. She was so capable, so resourceful and courageous. I could scarcely believe that the boisterous toddler I’d played balloon games with a mere seventeen years ago was the same poised young woman interpreting for us in Spanish and navigating every public transportation and accommodation through three countries. Her hair was starting to dread and her boots were a fucking mess. But she glowed strong in the dim, dank light and she too shed one as we sipped the homemade white and reflected back on the high times of the past two weeks.

the sweet white

The meal, of course, was completely insane. The menu was a tattered page without prices, barely legible. I ordered lamb chops, and Edie—on Cardini’s recommendation– had the rabbit.

“Dad,” she asked, peering at her plate in the candlelight, “is this the rabbit’s face?”

“Dude,” I said, pouring myself another small straight from the decanter of strong white on the table, “I’m sure they don’t cook the rabbit’s head!”

Edie discreetly forked the rabbit’s head toward me and I saw if not its floppy ears then at least its obvious jawline and rabbitty row of rabbitty incisors. And of course we just laughed and laughed. An it was delicious.

Nine hours later I was on a Metro headed toward the Barcelona Airport. Doppelgangers had presented themselves throughout the journey, but on this last hour in Europe I found it strange that Kim Reeves would be sitting next to Tom Isenhart with Jason Wheeler standing near the door.