Fun with maps

Glenn Beck and The Culture of Make Believe

Good Ole Glenn's show tonight was titled "Time to be Heard." Guess who he is giving a forum this evening? If you guessed conservative black Americans, then you get a ding-ding. After all, who is a bigger friend of black America than Glenn Motherfucking Beck. Find it and watch it, this shit is gold.

My plan is to try to convince everyone that if 2012 sees Palin/Beck v Obama/Biden, that we should all vote for Palin/Beck. Nevermind my feelings about the Obama administration, if Palin and Beck (or really either one) end up atop a major party ticket, then everything is already lost. At that point, we will be better served to facilitate the endgame than to continue participating.

Just sayin'.

Happy and all of that

I've been thinking all night, what would Jared do? We had this same thing weeks ago with the "what would Janice do?" How would they deal with their own tragedies? I can't speak to what Janice would say, but I know Jared would tell me to get fucked and not worry about what he would do and I should do whatever I want to. And I guess that is what Jared would do... And probably Janice, at least in spirit. Shitty pun. Too soon. Ya, probably.

I missed my brother a lot tonight, but I was comforted by the (somewhat) unexpected attendance of Nate and Hope, and the baby Carmela. The little Mellow Yellow is the only small ape that I like at this point, and I gotta admit that I kinda like her (I'd lay down in traffic for that little worm...)

Holy shit, the Doctors have given me heart worms...

You know, this holiday sucked a lot in a lot of ways; but if it was going to suck, I can't imagine better people to have a sad holiday with. Thanks all. Seriously. I don't hold it together without you. Thanks for everything.

"Jared left us last night for what I hope is a land of natural beauty, where he can hike, bike, swim, play music, surf, and laugh with Jen and others who've gone before him. My heart is broken - Jared was an awesome and loving son, and a good friend to me, to Devin, & to half the world, it seems. He loved life, he loved people, he loved family, and he especially loved Lynsey - life will never be the same without him. It was a priviledge to be his Mom, and know his friends, and to have shared 29 years of his life with him.
Thank you to all for loving him, and loving us - it's been a terrible and an awesome time, we couldn't survive this loss without your love & support.

Chris

We plan to have an informal memorial for the family, probably between Thanksgiving & Christmas. Next Summer we plan to have a large party to celebrate Jared's life and loves, here in the yard, with a band. We'll let everyone know as plans develop."

"Jared passed peacefully this evening. Today, as every day, he was surrounded by those who loved him.

Words cannot express how much I loved him, and how much I will miss him.

Thank you all for your love, prayers and holding.

Take care, Greg"

"Jared rested quietly as many friends and family came to sit with him and remember the ways their lives have been touched by knowing and loving him.

It's been wonderful to see everyone during these last weeks and it's been a window into Jared's life I might otherwise not have seen. Stories told, a gentle touch on his arm, a quiet tear, a whispered word in his ear - the tender gestures of love, respect and sadness that often only show themselves during a time such as this.

I have deeply appreciated this time with Jared and those who love him.

Take care, Greg"

"This is the hardest thing I've ever had to write. Jared's struggles will soon be over - he's not expected to live through the weekend. Greg & I are very proud of the young man he became, and feel honored to have known him for 29 years, and to have been so close to him and so much a part of his life, as parents, and then as friends. It's been an awesome thing to see the deep relationships he's formed with so many. It's been awesome to see him and Devin be such close brothers and friends, and so close to both of us and our spouses, when so many families are torn apart. He loved life, & lived it with gusto. And he loved people, and wanted them to gather together - what an honor for us to be loved and supported by all of you, and to see the caliber of people he gathered around himself. Life is just unfair. We love Jared with all our hearts, and we know he knows that, and knows how much you all loved him, and how proud we all are of him. It's hard to let him go, but unfair to try to keep him here. He's fought a difficult battle, and it's been against him all the way. I hope he'll be able to relax now, and enjoy his next journey, free of the hurts from this world. I envision him taking the boat to the Summer Country - green lands, snowy mountains, and blue oceans that go on forever, surfing and hiking and laughing and playing music (& probably drinking beers). Many thanks for all your love & support."

It wasn't signed, but I'm assuming from what I've heard that this is from Chris.

I don't know what to say or feel.

"Jared has been off all sedatives and pain meds since 7am, but he stopped responding to Neuro tests a couple days ago. His eyes are open, but fixed. His pupils sometimes dialate, sometimes not - depends on the time, I guess, and sometimes he blinks a little bit. He apparently feels no pain, and isn't fighting the breathing machine. Today he has a fever - about 101, despite being on antibiotics. They decided against the surgery to clear his lungs - it's too risky, especially with him in this condition - but his stats are ok for now, without it. Very, very bleak. They've spoken to us about Organ donation, and turning off the machines. They say the liklihood of a good outcome - 'good' in this case, meaning waking up, and having some semblance of "normalcy" - is unlikely in the extreme. I talked to Greg & we agreed that Jared wouldn't want that, but he would want a chance, for as long as there IS a chance - and we're not ready to make those kinds of decisions yet. There are too many cases where the "lost cause" patient has ended up recovering for us to give up this soon. We're all really down - as my neice put it, we've tied a big 'ole knot on the end of our rope, and we're just trying to hold on until Jared's ultimate fate declares itself. There is still hope, but these are very dark days...
Chris"

This is the last update from Jared's Care Page. Chris is Jared's mom. We should know more early tomorrow morning.

Damn

Ugh, I think I've finally got the swine flu...

And, my laptop needs a breathalizer. Or the very least the blog needs one.

And Our Heart Breaks

I met with on old friend tonight. I met with her really for the same reason that I've met with a couple of friends recently, which is to say that I needed someone to lean on. I'll spare you the dramatics and cut to the quick, I'm really depressed I have been intermittently looking for someone or something. I'm really uncomfortable with emotionally vulnerability, so it's been kinda awkward. Yea. What does Jen say? Blah blah blah? Is that it? Whatever that awkward turtle is, insert it forcefully here.

I get drunk and cry by myself. I listen to music or write words that no one ever sees and weep. I don't know how to console Scott or Katy. I don't know the words or the motions. I look at the people I love who are grieving and I've got nothing. My heart goes out, it aches, with the hope that our embrace will be comforting. But it never is. So I sit and observe their pain and they sit and observe mine and in our quiet moments we listen to songs and cry. And, frankly, it sucks.

I wish I could be more articulate than that.

The only thing that I can say is that I can't remember a time when I felt more alone.

Clarification

I probably need to stop writing in any sort of public forum after work and a few cocktails. I'm going concisely explain what's going on and what I am looking at going forward.

As I think I made clear in the previous post (even if it was the only thing...)that I bluffed my way into my job. I was not qualified. Period. Since getting the keys, I've worked diligently to feel qualified and I feel like I'm finally there.

What I also tried to articulate in the last post was that in the process of pitching my business proposal, I offered what I believed to be a conservatively optimistic estimate of sales figures. The numbers that I worked with were from the Monsoon Room after it had been open a year and well established. While the expenses are about what I thought, the sales have been significantly less. This has led the owner's to become impatient. How impatient? I don't know. I don't know if I'm too up in my head or if I'm seeing some ominous signs for my future at the bar.

Jared was hit by a drunk driver. This bears repeating. Another friend we think was drugged at the bar. Try as we might, drunk driving and date rape are situations that we can't avoid. And, quite the contrary, we facilitate or abet this kind of behavior in the sale of alcohol. It is, as I mentioned, an occupational hazard. I think these are hazards we all strive to avoid, but after doing our due diligence, we avoid looking at the obvious: We send strangers, friends, and family away with maybe one too many drinks virtually every night.

I've mentioned many times how much I work. I knew going in that it was going to be something that required most of my attention, but I really had no idea what I was in for. I don't do anything else. All of my creativity and mental energy goes into the bar. If I'm not working on new product or trying to find more efficient ways to get things done, then I am negotiating personalities or state/local bureaucracies. I get home or have a free day, I am out of gas. I sit on the couch and watch television. Not only is my life passing me by, I'm doing very little with that I am experiencing. Too much of it is lost to a drunken haze in the middle of the night.

Finally, if you're reading this then you probably know me pretty well. You know that I wrestled with how to best apply my resources to make my community, if not the world, a better place. I vacillated between going back to school and opening a bar/restaurant for quite sometime before the 1022 fell in my lap. I justified it in a number of ways, not the least of which was that having a spot for people to come together and enjoy each other's company while enjoying unique cocktails would be a good thing for Tacoma and Hilltop. I still believe that this is the case. I still believe that 1022 in it's current incarnation is good for the neighborhood. I am truly proud of not only the space and my staff, but also of the cocktails and culture of drinking that we promote.

Now that caveats are dispensed with, a 600 sq. ft. craft cocktail lounge in Hilltop (or probably anywhere) is not the lever with which I will move the world. What is this lever? I don't know. I have serious doubts about it involving children. Regardless of whether or not that is where I end up, I need to go back to school. I need to take math classes, a few science classes, then go from there. It has been my intention for a while to go back to school to initially study chemistry, which would dovetail nicely with what I do now if I chose to stay in the field or would lead nicely into an environmental science degree.

I suspect things are going to change very soon.

If I only could make a deal with god...

Well, here I am again. Nine months ago I was given the keys to 1022 and I gave a long, drunken, rambling account of how that came to be. Now I sit here in the middle of the night ready to give another drunken, rambling account, but this time it's in the shadow of the gallows, so to speak.

To make 1022 happen, I pitched an idea to the owners. In addition to the idea, they asked about numbers. They were clear and articulate that they have invested enough in projects that only break even, that they are ready to make money. And, yes, they have money. Enough to invest in projects...

So, I was pretty sure the project could make money. A little bit, at least. I had crunched the numbers and I thought...What I thought was really pretty irrelevant. Let's look at some facts for a moment, just for review:
- I "ran" the Moo for almost a year, but I really didn't do more than negotiate personalities, make sure the doors opened (and closed) everyday, and placed liquor orders from pre-existing par sheets.
- I wrote recipes and collaborated on a menu or two.
- I was reliable, worked busy shifts, and built up a clientele.

What I really did was be a lead bartender. I didn't do a whole lot more than that. Not because I didn't want to, but because that's all that she gave me for whatever reason. I realistically probably wasn't ready for more than that.

Fast-forward a year or so and I'm standing in front of the owner's of the building and the soon-to-be owners of the 1022 space and I'm bluffing, shucking, and jiving. I'm never dishonest, but I speak with more confidence about everything than is justified; I'm barely a bartender having worked very little high volume and a bit of "craft," if that's what you call what we did at the Moo. I present the numbers from the slower months when the Moo was up-and-going and present them as what we can do. I'd thought I'd factored in the Great Recession with my operating costs, I didn't figure that less people would show up...So, obviously they were into it, they gave me keys and money and here we are.

And here we are. And where we are is that I've felt that shadow of me bluffing myself into a position that I never had any right to be in. I didn't know enough about booze or service or the logistics of running a business to be given the keys to a place. Looking back in it now, it seems laughable. At that point in January, I knew as much about renovating, construction, and the daily grind of running a bar as I knew about elephant proctology. I didn't know how to work a power tool when I agreed to remake the place, much less a number of tools. I didn't know how to manage people, labor (hours worked plus about 20% on top to the government), liquor costs, where to source product, how to deal with vendors, what to do when...You get the idea. I had no idea. The most prominent signifier that I had no idea was that I was clueless about the extent of my ignorance. If I knew then what I know now, I wouldn't have had the balls to bluff. I would've probably still tried (because I'm that kinda guy), but I would've shot my own dick off. It would have failed. Completely.

And now today I find myself staring down the barrel of that grand bluff to make 1022 happen. I told the owners that it could make money quickly. It hasn't. We break even every month. It's a bit disconcerting how close the numbers come. Since we've opened the bar has paid for itself and that's it. We cover operating costs and whatever arises, but no more. We paid for the patio, we pay for whatever, but at the end of the day, it breaks even. It's uncanny...and it's also not good enough. They, the owners, love the bar and are proud of it. They respect the work I've put in to make it happen. At the end of the day, they count beans and 1022 has none. This leaves me, after spending 7 months working an average of 60 hours a week, looking over my shoulder. Breaking even in a brutal economy in a fickle market isn't good enough, the bar needs to make money. If it doesn't, I think I'll either be lop-offed at the head or cut off at the knees. Either way it's an unfortunate truth that leaves me less invested than I was yesterday.

I feel like I should have a picture of my Bitburger and glass of Strega for this last disclosure, but right now I'm far too lazy and tired to get out my camera. Janice's death and Jared's (what do I call it? Devastating injury? Catastrophic? Accident?)...injury has me putting things in perspective. And let's do that for a moment. I designed and orchestrate a great bar. In any market, it's a pretty amazing bar. It does craft and it does homey, neighborhood flavor. It is both elegant and comfortable. It is something that I will be proud of for the rest of my life. And, at the end of the day, it's a bar in a working class neighborhood. We serve booze to people and make them feel good. We create a space where people can come together and in the best of all possible worlds they have a human moment. But, we also have over-service and drunk drivers as an occupational hazard – and for those keeping score, Jared was hit by a drunk driver.

And now I am digressing a fair bit, but I have to wonder about levers and fulcrums. Is this my best place to stand? Is this my best lever? Is this my best fulcrum? Is this the best application of the gifts and privilege afforded to me? To create a place where people come together where the outcome is intoxication and the occasional drunk driving? The occasional date rape? Not to be too melodramatic, but these are the realistic stakes that we work with every night.

I think I've answered my own questions.

For Giggles

This is pretty fun. Cheered me up when I was stressing about the empty bar last night. Nice to know that old, educated white men aren't really being impacted by the "recession."

Insomnia lost the battle last night as I was finally able to sleep through the night. The price was that I also slept till noon.

Two Things

So, I guess it's fuck you insomnia. Ya, this shit sucks, eyes burn and now I'm totally exhausted; but whatever, tonight I sleep like the dead.

And this:
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Is this a soundcheck? Where is everybody? It's still fun...

Undead, undead, undead.

Insomnia

I've had only a few good nights sleep in the last few weeks, one of which involved a sleeping pill. I have no problem falling asleep, but I wake up after a couple of hours and then toss and turn for the rest of the night. For those of you not intimately familiar with insomnia, it leads to a certain fraying around the edges, an exhausted, pale view of the world. Suffice it to say, this sucks.

Ref. 71 and The Culture War

MSNBC is on in the background as I, bleary-eyed and exhausted, peruse the election results from last night. Well, Ref. 71 seems to have done well, but upon closer look there are troubling results. It seems to me that liberal urban centers foisting upon rural conservative communities moral decisions that are central to the culture war (no longer a debate...) eventually might come back to haunt us. This isn't to say that I don't think gays should have rights, ladies should be able to get abortions, or whatever. My only point is that it is not difficult to imagine a scenario where unemployment continues to rise and the sprawling strip malls that that wend through suburbs out to the sparsely populated rural areas becomes desolate, with businesses abandoned and boarded up, and haunted by angry, disaffected people. How will these people feel then when things like Ref. 71 are passed?

Maybe I am worrying too much. Maybe those who oppose "everything-but-marriage" should be not only dragged to water, but forced to drink. Maybe social change is affected by legislating something that people find reprehensible. I've been reading The Man in the High Castle after having read Plot Against America and I think that it's pervaded my thinking a bit. I've also been thinking a lot about a couple of influential books, Love They Neighbor and War is a Force that Gives Us Meaning. I worry that this country is inherently unstable due to a very large cultural divide. There is historical precedent for people scapegoating and villifying minorities when the societies are under duress. Will this happen here? I don't know. I do know that a trip into east Pierce County reveals a world distinctly different from the Tacoma's isolated city center. Likewise a trip south into Lakewood will do the same.

The echo chamber is reverberating with the meme that right is on the verge of a civil war between the Palin/Beck factions and the more centrist conservatives. I encourage everyone to spend a few minutes watching Glen Beck. I think it's important to understand under whose sway large swaths of this country have fallen. I think it's also important to understand the message they are carrying. I concur with Chomsky that these people - the disenfranchised that have found a voice with Palin/Beck - should be taken seriously. I don't know what that means, but I suspect it doesn't mean dismissing them as uneducated country bumpkins.

Our Friend

I keep trying to be strong, to quip appropriately and to express the appropriate moments of gravity. I keep thinking (I know...), what would Jared do? I'll be honest, I don't have the strength to be funny or to talk about Janice or to do anything. I can barely work and I feel utterly lost. Because, I can't help but think about her right now. And, frankly, it doesn't help. So, I'm lost. Drunk and crying alone in the middle of the night completely helpless and just...well, sobbing, listening to sad songs and crying. I am a utter, fucking mess. Everything I do everyday doesn't mean anything anymore. So, I get drunk and cry. I guess that's it.

Except, change is coming...

The Cathedral of Unreason

I wrote a really long post essentially justifying why Paranormal Activity terrified me. Bottom line, it was well done. It scared me silly. We can address why later.

And, the Sheriff told me that she'd sleep fine (which I'm skeptical about) because there were no iconic scenes. You know, the type that burns itself into your psyche. Crab walking down the stairs, blood spilling forth from elevators, rooms filled with curing human flesh. At first blush, PA was missing those moments. But, upon reflection, which I've had all day to do, I think it is actually filled with those moments of terror.

It's a good movie. For those of you who love your horror, it's a must see. Watch it so we can talk about it. Consider it an exorcism.

DMFJ

So, we went and saw old DJ the other night. Since the only people who read this were there, I'll spare everyone the recap (nice sweater!) As always, that asshole inspires me. He inspires me against my better judgment, he inspires he against my rationale self. That floppy haired, D&D-playing, non-dresser somehow makes me want to quit my job and blow up a dam (of course, then I'd go live under a log somewhere and play with baby foxes (kits?), live in harmony with nature...until a hungry bear ate me.)

I read his work and it changed everything. Now, I didn't and don't buy it completely, but I buy enough that I keep listening, I keep reading. Once I read the latest, I think I will probably have read more words by him than any other author. He has a way of framing ideas that are both disputable and inspiring. Who cares if he is inconsistent in his numbers for rates of sexual assault against women? If his most conservative estimates are close, it's still far too many. Who cares if it's not "90%" of the fish in the ocean? Say, it's 60% and it's only the large fish. That's still too many. Say there's not dioxin in "every" woman's breast milk. One is far too many.

Let's talk about what we can do. We can go and blow up dams(for shits and giggles - more shits that giggles, btw - google "number of dams in us"), take down cell phone towers, or lop off the heads of CEOs. The unfortunate thing is that this isn't The Monkey Wrench Gang and that they will kill or imprison us. We lose. One dam blown up, one dead white guy, one stupid cell phone tower down and that's it. They rebuild the dam; like the hydra, another CEO pops up in its place. We cannot win. Whether it means "getting there first with the most...," or "in war, they will kill some of us; but we will destroy all of them," we lose. We lose no matter which way you count it. Or spell it. Or sing it. Or dance it.

We can have well attended protests, beautiful and inspiring words, we hustle door to door to get out the vote. We lose. No one gets to a position to being elected without selling out, without being a corporate shill. That includes Obama, whose race occludes the fact that he is an agent of the status quo, and Clinton (both of them), who are agents of industry. They don't care about you, me, us. But this is old hat...

Let's talk about how this isn't a war to be won. Let's look at each other and be frank and honest. The war is lost. It was never a war; it was a slaughter. Any bloodshed that could have (maybe...) made a difference happened a century before we were born. Let us look at each other and admit that we are not going to change the world. Whether we are woofies or school teachers, bartenders or longshoremen. Yea, we can change a life here or there; we can work in a soup kitchen, or protest outside the SeaTac Mall (or Federal Way Commons - not ironic at all - or whatever it's called), or try to teach kids to read in our "spare" time, or we can do whatever, but what we are doing is useless. I'll spare you obnoxious metaphors about tweezers and sand. What we are doing amounts to vanity projects, to padding our social resume or appeasing our guilty consciences so we can go back to eating fast food at 3AM, smoking, porn, teen romance television, getting drunk, or whatever.

Full disclosure. More than you probably want to know (although it is a blog...), so if you don't want to go there, then click away.

Porn. Ok, so it was porn, smoking, and baseball. Now it's porn, football and eating meat. Which, after typing that out, sounds really gay...These are the concessions that I make that I am not proud of. I'll allow myself some porn erstwhile feeling guilty, not because I am watching porn, but because how the women are treated. I'm almost exhausted typing that because it's such a trope, but really, if you doubt it at all, then go to you porn and check that shit out. It's awful. Best case scenario, it's actresses pretending like they like to be raped. It's fucking awful. More than likely, it's a whole lot of women who have been assaulted, are sad, lonely, desperate, and don't even really know it. I remember reading Endgame when I was in Mexico and just wanting to hug the strippers or the girls pressing their tits into tourists faces. And like so many things, the feeling faded away with time. Now, porn.

But it's not ok. It's not ok to watch women get fucked, women who most likely have been assaulted early on (get there first with the most) and whose assault reverberates throughout their lives now reenact the violence for our carnal pleasure. Everytime. Every single fucking time I look at porn, whether I am out of mind (for whatever reason) or dead-to-rights sober, I think, "She's been raped." I know it in my belly. It's the same way I know it when I see it. Still, I left click until I find something that is not quite so disconcerting, take care of business as quickly as possible, then move on about my day. But, to be completely honest, I know what just happened. I know what I watched. I know what I did. It's despicable and I should be ashamed.
Lest anyone thinks that this is me being crazy about sex and all that, I have no problem with porn (eerily enough, the same way I have no problem with the death penalty) in and of itself; it's the knowledge that a fair number of the women participating are not doing so from an exhibitionist desire ("Yah, I totally want you to fuck me in the ass on camera so lonely, sad human beings can watch it on their computers late at night..." That conversation happens...), but from something far more unhealthy.*

Porn is bad. Porn is bad because of the probability or merely the possibility that these women are only doing this because they've been assaulted. Period.

Ever since reading DMFJ for the first time, I've been unable to reconcile any idea of resistance with the fact that I smoked. I was consoled by the fact that many other people who read him or felt the same way smoked as well. Janice died. That was the last night I smoked.**

I banged most of this out with ESPN on in the background. K gets whatever teen romance makes her forget her shitty day, I have baseball and football. I can do better. We can do better. Nate once challenged me to stop watching, listening to, and reading sports. In return, he would give up meat (except at the mom's, which is fair to middlin).*** I failed long before I had a chance to catch up to see where he was at. Progress not perfection, I suppose.

Here is what we do. We are all very busy folks. This makes dinners difficult. So we rally when we can. We get together, we stay in touch, we stay close. When we get together for dinners and drinks, we savor it and appreciate it. And.

And.

We make dates. Ya, let's have dinner and rally the troops. Let's get greased and talk politics. Let's scare our more timid friends and inspire those that are ready (it's happened already...). Let's also go shoot guns, take gun safety courses, and learn how to clean and maintain firearms. Let's go fishing. Clean and gut fish. Let's garden. Then we can have real dinner parties, the way it really should happen. Harvest celebration. Let's talk first aid, preservation techniques (see gardening). Let's have pickle and jam parties. Let's have stitch and bitch, all genders welcome. Let's talk self-defense. What do we do? Let's stockpile food and each summer, if the worst hasn't happened, tap into it for our camping. Then build it back up each year. Let's be creative about this. What's the worst that can happen? And in the interim, we can work to make our community better, our world better. Hell, we can and should challenge each other continually. We can be better than we are in virtually every imaginable way.

And in the meantime, if there's any question of what we can or should do, I would say rally around the family...




*This most definitely is not the word I want, but I'm going with it for the sake of expediency.

**On an edit of the last paragraph, I'd left a sentence that I'd thought read, "And I hope I'll never do it again." I read it multiple times and I had a subsequent paragraph that mas o menos responded to the idea of hope. Well, the actual sentence was lacking the never. It took multiple passes for me to notice. While sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, sometimes it's a cigarette haunting you.

***Give me the opportunity again. I'll both go vegan and throw down with the sports abstinence. If you got it in you...

A picture, well...

Yeah, that's green chartreuse and one of the Sheriff's beers. And I'm done. I'm so tired after working a shift then posting over at the 1022 blog that I'm falling asleep with a drink or two in my hand. But in the interim before passing out and finishing a few fabulous cocktails, I feel like I need to get in a few words...

It's been a rough few weeks. Down right shitty. I've been thinking about how to write about this a lot. I've been thinking about how to articulate my feelings and about who reads this. I struggled every night. Posts died (justifiably) on the cutting room floor. So, here I am. Here we are. Ready to do this.

Janice was amazing. There's no getting around that. No on is ever going to reveal one of her flaws that will change that opinion. She was one of those rare people that was beautiful. She was the type of person that was so genuine and kind that I would be embarrassed if I lapsed into sarcasm, cynicism or disingenuous behavior around her. She was one of the rare people that by dint of the quality of her person she demanded humanity out of the people around her. (There's going to be a gap between this sentence and the next that I'm not sure I'll ever be able to fill.) And here's where I need an aside to say that I knew her only casually. I never had the opportunity to ask her if she did this purposefully (which I doubt), or if it was merely a by-product of her being an amazing person. I wonder if I can stop crying today because of how beautiful she was or by my selfish loss of not getting to know her better. I can't explain why I break down every time I hear Asleep.

Really, having listened to the song again, I think I know why. You know when you meet someone who is better than you at something? For instance, you're on the basketball court and the other guy is obviously way more athletic; or the other girl is skinnier or prettier, or whatever; or you're sitting across from someone and they have a cold recall of facts that is vaguely inhuman; whatever it is, you've met that person that is better than you at whatever, painting, fucking, cooking, smiling. Janice was a better human than me and the majority of people I've ever met. Period. She was kind and gracious in a way that I always strive to be. She smiled in a way that I wish I could smile. Honest and easy, like she was happy. She was so kind and gracious that I took it for granted that she'd be around forever. I figured that I had a lifetime to get to know her. A woman as beautiful as her doesn't die a year after her wedding, weeks after she turns 30. I've cared for and loved people who've died by self-inflicted gunshots, cancer, COPD, and cardiac arrest. Her death was a tragedy. It was terrible and it shouldn't have happened. It's a testament to her person that I still cannot imagine this world without her.

I'm without a title

I bartend Monday nights now, which, not-so-coincidentally, is Industry night. So every Monday night all of my tips are going to a local charity. Everyone should come in for fancy cocktails, and all of you service industry cats who are coming in and getting hooked up, your cash is going to a good place...

For October, I'm giving all of my Monday night tips to the local YWCA. Given current events, I think that this is a great place to start.

Show up for a cocktail, throw some coins in the coffers. Drink for a good cause this time.

And thanks to Nate for returning the volley. This medium is important. Don't walk away now...

Assholes, Miscreants, and the Undesirable

Posted here because it's probably not the best on the posted on the bar blog...
Let's talk for a moment about 86ing people. This is something that I've never taken lightly as I have on more than many an occasion been that asshole, miscreant or undesirable in your bar (sorry Olympia and Capital Hill...if you were a bartender at one of the places and remember, then your next drink's on me).

More to the point since my days of brazenly drunken revelry are nearly over, I've only 86ed a few people from 1022 South. One because, after an obviously intoxicated woman lit a cigarette in the bar, I pulled her drink. The host of the party became quite angry and refused to pay a portion of their tab. So, that was that. I comped a portion of the tab and after the gentleman made a scene, I asked him to not return. The other far more interesting story was this evening. As I mentioned previously and in other places, we were busy tonight. We didn't set any records, but I was deep in orders for a while tonight (which, incidentally, makes me obsess about my mise en place, foot and handwork, and the general efficiency of my station). Get around to the end of the night where the bar's mas o menos emptied out except for a few regulars and locals. I pull drinks a few minutes before 2am and I go to the patio to pull the chairs in. One of the locals who I have a long history with (she's been trouble in multiple establishments) is shit-faced and decides to wander behind the bar. Not because she's curious, not because she's confused, but because she spies a beer on the back bar. I hear her say that she is going to go for it. I tell her in no uncertain terms that she can't go behind the bar as I stand in the doorway. She starts to shift and shuffle behind the bar while grasping desperately for the beer. Her drinking companion is trying to get her to leave to no avail. As she gets her hands on the beer and begins to drink, I've made my way across the bar and I take it from her. Before she got to the beer, as I was moving across the bar, I let her know that if she did continue and if she did drink the beer that I would 86 her. She continued, I took the beer after a single drink, then I let her know that she's not welcome back.

That transgression and a mouthful of beer rids 1022 of a person who has given me endless grief as a bartender at multiple establishments. Small fare for something that will pay off in the long run. I've wrestled with 86ing people, but this time is was clear and definite. I don't want my staff dealing with anything like this. Drunk people shuffling behind the bar to consume whatever open containers they can find is a great way to get shut down. And, it's awkward. And, unprofessional. And, it's gross. Sit on your barstool. Enjoy your cocktail. Then, when it's that time, go home. Don't shuffle behind the bar looking for one last sip. If that's how you gotta roll, then I'll happily introduce you to this fellow Bill W. His friends meet around the corner from us. You can work the rest out there.

For a little bit of levity

Things get pretty heavy here from time to time, so I thought I'd post something that both made me smile and reminded me of one of the few reasons why I like sports. Take a listen to the two links on Shannon Drayer's blog. Before you sigh and click away, give it a listen. Giggles are always fun.

My eye is twitching,,,

Why aren't we talking about what we need to do? What are we waiting for? Jen? Nate? I'm looking at you. Food, guns, first aid. Let's figure something out. The time is now. Rain barrels, water filtration, using grey water, growing high calorie crops in small spaces. Did I mention guns? Did I mention fishing? Seriously. No excuses. You both make more money than I do and I work more than both of you. Let's make this shit happen asap.

We are all guilty

The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation. - HWT, mister Thoreau for those not keeping score.
All that is necessary for the evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing. - probably misattributed to Edmund Burke, something of a badass.

We have a lot of work to do. And, base on the last few posts, I have some explaining to do...

Falling Down

I'm an angry person. Not in a marketable, sexy kinda way. I'm angry in the kinda way where when I start to let go the polite facade slips (see last post) and I'm no good in front of anyone. Like, not only am I no good in mixed company, I am no good in company. I am no good venting in front of "people who would understand." Because really, I'm that guy. I've always been. I remember my first girlfriend explaining that she broke up with me because I'm "angry with rocks." Yeah, a very insightful young lady saw to the heart of things. I'm bitter and angry. Like I want to, not yell, but spit, nigger, faggot, cunt. I want to burn down houses of the privileged middle class. Like everything in the north end. I want to send my neighbors to work camps to make techo-fetishists gadgets that I can by from the pawnshop after their families pawn them for taco bell coupons. I'm filled with an explicable amount of hate and rage. This is my caveat.

I was half in the bag when I got home tonight (shocking) when I decided to cook and listen to AM radio. Coast to Coast to be exact. They had some nonsense segment about the Ouija boards that got me thinking, free associating really, about mistakes that me make. And this leads me to this:
We excuse you men and women for entering the military when they are young and impressionable. Whatever excuses we use (poor families, lack of options, blah blah blah), we are comfortable using them for military service but not for other choices. Now, (another caveat) some of the people in my life who I care about most are ex-military. These people are the kindest, smartest people I've ever had the privilege to meet. Ok, so all of this being said, and here's where I went from Ouija boards, if someone is young and they make the mistake to join the military where they are obligated to kill poor, sometimes defenseless people a world away if ordered, then we forgive them. Because, you know, they did it for our country. Or they were cajoled, indoctrinated, or they didn't think they had any other options. Or whatever.

Now, if some dood is half (or entirely) wasted at a frat party and he fucks a passed out girl, do we forgive him? Or if he commits any of the other myriad versions of rape that occur, do we forgive him? What if he does it again? And again? what if he's an alcoholic and it only happens when he drinks? What if it happens enough that he gets the moniker "Date Rape..."? What if, what if, what if...

What if he feels like he doesn't have any options and he joins the service? What if he drops bombs on an Afghan village in pursuit of a terrorist? Google Afghan village, btw.

Moreover, so say we know someone who raped someone or who killed someone. What if he killed someone we know? What if he assaulted someone we know? It's so easy for us to quote Derrick Jensen, who is being fed peanut butter sandwiches from his mother while he pounds out jeremiads on keyboards manufactured by Korean children, while we go to rallies or tour the pre-industrial world on vacations that are exploications.

I'm so close to saying something that I can't take back. I'm that pissed. And not just at you. At me. Because when I go to sleep I don't see all of the shit I don't like about you. All of your selling out or buying in or hypocrisy or sophistry goes away. Because we're family and I love you. What doesn't go away is everything I've done or abide by; is everything that I've sanctioned by silence.

The best of us fail. And the best of us are guilty. What I wonder everyday is where that leaves us.

Customer service

I think about proper etiquette quite a bit. Those that know me know that I'm a sucker for social graces. These are the common courtesies that you give to people. Your greet them. You thank them. You are generally polite. It's been said about me (quite a bit...) that I'm not very nice, but I am very polite. Maybe this is why I've found myself where I am at professionally...

What I am interested in is the common courtesy due to the guests and the bartender in a bar. I had a moment this evening where I failed at my job. A young lady and her friend came in just as I was starting to get busy. Orders for craft cocktails are starting to stack up as we are making exchanging pleasantries. One on the the drink orders coming in, I politely asked for their ID's (people can name-drop common acquaintances or remark about how many times I've seen their ID's before, I don't care. It's my job. And. And! When the LCB did their sting at 1022 South, the young man looked just like all of the rest of you who are younger than a Joy Division album.) So, she gave me a bit of grief about carding her again and this and that while drinks are piling up. I'm trying to be be polite, talk to them about the bar, and figure out the most efficient way to build all of these drinks. Then after she finally shows her ID, which for her was a heartbeat but seemed like an hour, she started describing the “martini' that she wanted.

“Um...vodka. We want vodka martinis.”

No big deal. Throw some vodka martinis in the queue and I'll bang those out as soon as I can. But, I have to ask.

“How do you like those martinis?” Continue drink orders backlogging.

“Oh, well, do you have basil back there?”

Here is where I failed as a bartender. The gears in my head seized and I became that asshole. My response was totally inappropriate.

“No, I don't have any basil (anymore). So, you don't want a martini, you want a cocktail in a martini glass?”

Hem and haw, gibber jaw and nonsense ending with, “No, we want martinis.”

So, instead of being gracious and whipping something up, I obfuscated their order as my rail began to fill with drink orders. Not intentionally, mind you, I really wanted to figure out what they were looking for. I want every drink that I pass across the bar to amaze and/or mystify (it is Tacoma...) all of my guests. I want everyone to say something to the effect of, “This is my new favorite drink,” or for them to stop mid-conversation and ask me what they are drinking. Before you think I am insane, I've talked to cooks who work in open kitchens who've echoed the same sentiment. All of this being said, I'm not intentionally being an obnoxious prick when I was equivocating over what a martini is or is not. Finally, they agreed to try the special of the night (substituting vodka for tequila).

5. el Jimador reposado

1 orange juice

.5 raw ginger simple syrup

2 dashes kava kava

2 dashes Regan's orange bitters

1 serrano wheel

dash of cayenne

Shake and strain into cocktail glass half rimmed with Himalayan sea salt.

Real basic but with enough “stuff” going on to keep a casual drinker interested. By the time they agreed to this drink I was in the weeds. They had irritated me, so they weren't getting bumped forward in the queue, so they had to wait. It took probably 15 minutes to dig myself out after they finally decided. As I set up to make their drinks, after letting them know that they were next, the lady looks at her watch and they leave.

That's it. They walk out. The worst part is that I don't blame them.

Now, let's be clear. The type of thing we do, sometimes cocktails take a bit. I believe that artisanal work takes time. However, if I'd been more gracious initially, then they would've been less likely to leave. They were obnoxious, but I screwed up.

So, here we are. Next time they come in their first round is on me. Luckily, this time there's a mutual acquaintance so I can get in touch.

Caveats and rubrics out of the way, let's talk about customer etiquette for a moment. I don't want to get into the broader scope of how you comport yourself in public, how you treat people in the service industry, or any of that at the moment. I just want to talk about proper etiquette when dealing with servers and bartenders.

Get off your cell phone. Or go outside. Prepare to not be served if you're being that guy or gal. A friend once told me story about when she was working and an Italian restaurant in Seattle. She went to the table with multiple guests repeatedly and one girl wouldn't get off her cell phone. Eventually my friend took everyone's order but her as she continued to jibber jabber away. Finally, after the orders were put in, she got off her phone and became indignant. She asked when she could order. My friend cloyingly replied that she thought that the guest was going to call her order in.

We are not objects, sexual or otherwise. Don't treat us like such. I hear about how female servers and bartenders are treated and I am ashamed. You don't talk to me that way. You don't talk to my staff that way in front of me. Aren't you a little embarrassed? If not, then you should be.

Speaking of objects, while we are in the service industry, we are also in a trade. Be polite. Recognize us as we come to the table. We only want to facilitate your experience. We don't want attention for the sake of itself. We want you to have a good experience. It's difficult for us to do that when you won't acknowledge us.

If we are busy, then, trust me, we're sorry. The joint may not look busy to you, but we may have someone two tables over arguing about what a martini or a puttanesca is. If we are not gracious and respectful (this includes not making excuses for tardy service), then be angry. But if we are, cut us some slack. Please. Trust me, we'll make it worth your while.

The experience of going out is reciprocal. We take care of each other and it is predicated upon us being polite and facilitating your experience. In return, we simply ask that you be polite.

(Apologies for the cross-post at the 1022 blog)

And speaking of the madness, here's one for the road...

Akimbo record release at the Comet. So near the end...

Jesus

I have to stop. Or I have to slow down. Or I need someone or something to mitigate this. I am sitting here at 4 am obsessing about the industry. I've spent hours reading about how people make their bitters. I think about doing concept menus based on Velvet Underground records. I obsess about concepts and perfection in a world where I know, I know, it is unattainable. I'm half in the bag reading other people's resumes. I work a slow week and it clocks in around 60 hours. I eat, sleep, and breathe it. I am afraid that I am Ahab. What then?

Hold On

I had a couple of instances this last week where I was concerned that some latent racism long hidden by liberal, white guilt was surfacing. The first instance was when I attempted to rescue a lost pit bull. I understand the reputation that pits have and they make me just as nervous as anyone. As a matter of fact, if I wasn't half in the bag by the time I found this thing on my lawn at 4am, I probably would have let it be. However, I was so I decided to make friends with the dog. Turns out this dog was one of the nicest creatures I have ever seen. Fast forward through me bonding with the animal and making all sorts of plans to keep him and incorporate him into our family to me being woken up by the mailman who, after Herbert (the dog) escaped from our yard, he rescued from the neighbors. It turns out that they were trying to kill the dog with bats, hammers, large sticks, etc. because the animal supposedly bit someone. Then they came over to my place with the assorted weapons looking for the dog. I had to call 911 (yeah, thanks for showing up TPD...Oh wait, you didn't despite me asking for help against an agitated, drunken group of young men with weapons). Eventually Animal Control showed up and took the dog away. This was the final straw vis a vis these neighbors. They are a blight on the block (other neighbors think so as well); the house is filled with people of various ethnic backgrounds; drug dealers and gangsters come and go; they sit in the yard and drink all day, throw trash in our yard, and then stay up all night listening to bad rap or rape-rock. Ok, so I'm done. I've long refrained from vocalizing any sort of judgment about gangster/urban/street whatever culture, but now I'm going to say that it sucks. It's bad for community, it's dangerous at worst and obnoxious at best. I'm tired of kids (yes, kids) hanging out all day next door dealing and consuming drugs, drinking, and playing terrible music at unbelievable volumes. I'm tired of the scuffles, arguments, and generally antagonistic nature of the entire house. I'm tired of the poverty and ignorance. Are these my poor? I think not. My liberal White guilt is no longer enough for me to rant incoherently about the iniquities of big business and consumer culture while remaining silent about the soul-sucking ignorance of the large majority of the poor.

Ok, deep breath. So, after the incident with the dog, I'm acutely sensitive to the brothers from the barbershop hanging out in front of the bar listening to loud music, smoking weed, selling whatever, and generally accosting nearly every single woman who walks by. I've had many conversations with a friend about how she can't walk or ride through the neighborhood without brothers yelling at her. Everyday it's a new story. It usually turns out that she ignores them or says something flippant or dismissive, which then aggravates the men leading them to become confrontational and insulting. Still, my liberal White guilt dismisses these things as "cultural differences," which now that it's typed in front of me is woefully condescending. I don't hold brothers from the neighborhood to the standards that I would any other civilized human being because they are black, listen to rap music, smoke weed, and are gangsters (literally). If all of the aforementioned were true, but it was a gaggle of white guys, I would have no tolerance. Jesus Christ, is this institutionalized racism at its worst? I consider myself a self-aware, progressive individual, but I haven't thought all that much about this. It certainly warrants more consideration.

Back to my point, I was sensitive already to the culture around the barbershop, so when I was leaving the bar the other day on my bike I had a problem with my deraileur as I was changing lanes. A guy leaving the barbershop decided to try to intimidate me by slowing down, pulling into my lane (I was in the turn lane), then basically threatening me. I stopped riding, handled the situation, then rode on. This kind of thing happens all the time with motorists of all shapes and sizes, but it just so happened to be a brother driving some ghetto fabulous car with nice rims. And! As he pulled away he was driving without hands so he could count his rather large roll of cash.

This got me thinking: is something like the barbershop necessarily good for the neighborhood? Previously, my liberal White guilt didn't allow me to ask those kinds of questions. To dare question whether a black barbershop belonged in a black neighborhood was to be part of the culture of gentrification, it was to be part of the Whiteness that makes me so uncomfortable. But after the incident, I began to wonder (not without some guilt) whether a business that also serves as a social spot for gangsters and drug dealers is really the best thing. I genuinely don't have a feeling either way. I'm not sure that a cocktail lounge where privleged, fixed gear, white belt wearing hipsters congregate is necessarily any better (or worse). What this last week did was provoke some rather uncomfortable questions about race and class that I haven't found any easy answers for.

What really inspired me to sit down and rant about my week was this: (h/t to Everything is Terrible).

Watching that made me nauseous. It's the milquetoast homogeneity of White culture that I am ashamed of. It's not just them; if you took the same crowd shots of the Apollo, I would be equally repulsed (as much as I'd let myself acknowledge it). I see previews for anything involving Tyler Perry and I want to shoot my eyes out. I also hate cars, specifically new cars. I hate shiny new cars with Abercrombie polo wearing would-be jocks with white caps askew who, along with their skinny-pretty bleached-and-waxed girlfriends, treat people in the service industry like a lesser class of human. I hate the lawyers and judges, real estate agents (Oh man, do I hate real estate agents) and property owners who "flip" houses. Middle aged, bourgeois white people. People who look like they shop at REI. Anyone who thinks it's hip to be ironic. The fucking Tacoma Police Department. You know what? Fuck you you fucking pigs for everytime you harass a bicyclist for not wearing a helmet but you don't come when called. It's 911. Get your ass out here. Fuck corporate financiers who rob everyone blind. Fuck you Matador bartenders. You should be ashamed. Fuck you you tribal tattooed, gauged ear, heavy metal woman beating rapist who malingers between Hell's Kitchen and every other shitty hard drinking bar filled with Rock of Love skanks, PBR, and grape vodka drop shots. Fuck you you fat lazy fucks waddling around Safeway looking for a Kit Kat bar. That's right. Fuck fat people. Look around at our culture. Seriously. Stop and look. Being fat is a crime. The amount of shit you have to eat to get this fat is staggering. Those faceless corporate monsters who are stripping the ocean of fish and wiping out the rain forest are doing it so you can have a $2.99 Grand Slam breakfast at Denny's at anytime, anywhere. Your bloated corpse inculcates you in every crime of this irredeemable culture from the war in Iraq to rampant deforestation to the incidents of sexual assault against women. If you stopped sleepwalking through life long enough to put the Twinkie down you might realize that your being corpulent is a crime. So, get fucked you fat ass.
.
Fuck you Christians. Get off my fucking lawn. Double fuck you Michael Bay. Fuck professional athletes who rape and murder without consequences. That includes you, Roethlisburger. You're not off the hook because you are the white QB. You're a fucking asshole. That motorcycle accident should have taken your career if not your life.

I'm fucking done. Over it. This world fucking sucks from the hood rats parked in the street who refuse to get out of the way to let cars pass to the smarmy fucking judge with the bluetooth headset who thinks he's the cat's meow. Get fucked. All of you.

Edit: Jesus, sorry guys. Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed. By that I mean the side w/o spell check or a dictionary...

Crash Course and required reading

I just finished watching Chris Martenson's The Crash Course (h/t to Nate.) This is the required reading Derrick Jensen's The Culture of Make Believe, James Howard Kunstler's The Long Emergency, and finally Alan Weisman's The World Without Us. Watch Martenson's Crash Course. Next time we meet for dinner, bocce, drinks, or to run, we are going to talk about what we need to do. Then we will keep talking about it. Now, you tell me what I should be reading.

The Coming Night

Those that know me know that I've wrestled with how I can best apply my efforts to either make the world a better place or simply benefit my community. In the end, I took the path of least resistance, stayed in the trade that I know, and the result is that I spend my hours, which stretch into days and months, running a bar. Before I continue too far down this path, I must offer the following caveat: I am proud of what I do. I work hard and have created a place in the neighborhood for people to come together, imbibe, and enjoy each others company. That is it. I work at what I know and I am good at what I do. Some friends are carpenters, some teach, and some push papers. I make cocktails. It doesn't change the world, but it does give people a bit of respite in the face of an increasingly ominous future. It is this future that concerns me this morning.

James Howard Kunstler over at Clusterfuck Nation does good work. His book The Long Emergency is a must read. Kunstler writes about how our Culture of Leisure and Happy Motoring is predicated upon easy access to cheap energy. This is going to end sooner or later (all signs point to sooner...), at which point what happens to the suburban sprawl, planned obsolescence, and the general toxins and detritus left behind from 60+ years of rampant consumerism? Look around you at everything that is plastic. “Except for a small amount that has been incinerated...every bit of plastic manufactured in the world in the last 50 years or so still remains.” (The World Without Us, Weisman) This plastic, a large portion of which ends up in the ocean, concentrates pollutants in the environment and as it degrades enters the food chain at the smallest levels. Now, just so we are clear, these are compounds that have a shelf life greater than the Pyramids of Giza and the Roman Aqueducts. These tiny pellets and everything that we make out of them has an expected life that is measured in terms of a geological scale. Say 100,000 years. To put this in perspective, 100,000 years ago we were living caves; we were far from the only bipedal hominid; and (although still contentious), we (as Homo Sapiens) began our mass exodus from Africa. Your cell phone, plastic bag from Safeway, and potentially the majority of the buried newspaper in landfills, could be around long after our art, philosophy, and science have been reduced to dust and ash. Our great legacy will be sun bleached plastic and garbage that has reduced to the size of krill food and, the elimination of biodiversity that is being called the sixth great extinction, the Holocene extinction. This anthropogenic event promises not only to be a dark legacy of our over-consumption, but also promises to make it much more difficult for us to return to a sustainable way of living. Even after we kill each other in the streets as we run out of energy, fresh water and food; even as the coastlines rise and displace or kill millions; as the era of mass production ends and we are left with a wide swath of aggrieved, unemployed peoples looking to scapegoat someone (always the Other...); even after desertification, floods, malnutrition, AIDS, obesity, and cancer wipe out large portions of a soft, artificially-supported population; there still might not be enough for those who are left. Those that live into the Long Emergency may look out upon a world that resembles more McCarthy's The Road than Mad Max. Those left will rummage through the great wastes of the 20^th century culture looking for things that will help them grow or catch food, capture or filter water. I-pods, digital cameras, laptops, 20 pairs of shoes, and $12 cocktails will be revealed for the decadence and luxury that they are. History will not look kindly upon us as we rearranged the deck chairs on the Titanic whilst talking about how to resist as the world around us ended. Already we enjoy too much at too small a price to us and too high a price to everyone and everything else. Our sporting events, muscle cars, personal electronics, fast food, and Cult of Convenience come at a price. That price is the degradation of environment, the loss of biodiversity, the subjugation of peoples half a world away, and endless background noise of wars that we no longer (or ever did) understand. Our enemy is the Other (be it the Terrorist kind or the Faceless Government Bureaucrat); we wonder why they hate us or why they send poor, brown children to kill and die for us as we listen to NPR podcasts on our techno-fetishist accoutrement while riding our ridiculously expensive bicycles (because we're Green!) to political rallies protesting the cause du jour or the bar to get drunk, get laid, to be seen. In this way, the literate, angry, rational among us are worse than the fat, burger-eating, nose-picking, reality show-watching, shuffling, gray mass of humanity; we have a moral responsibility not only to affect change directly and to resist constantly, but we have a responsibility to lead our lives by example. We have no room for laziness or excuses like, “Progress, not perfection!” How many people have died in the name of progress? How many die each day as we assuage our guilt with the petty, insignificant acts that have come to define resistance? Eat vegetarian, ride a bike, go to a protest, plant a garden. These First World choices are not enough. Do more and get ready, for night is coming. Watch the unemployment rates around the country, especially in impoverished areas. Watch what happens when a country that has moved from manufacturing “things” to a “service” based economy reacts to contraction that is permanent. What is optional resistance now will be a matter of survival soon. It will start with people pissed off because they can't have the Blue-Ray deluxe edition of the new Michael Bay explosion montage and end with people pissed off that they can't cheaply procure white fish (or any other sort of fish, which should be a luxury item) that was caught in the Great Lakes and processed in China. I fully believe that our way of life is so unsustainable and will end so abruptly that I'll dispense with the rest of this rant about broken I-pods, green Chartreuse, and the regular reoccurence of these fits in my life. We all read the same books and listen to the same podcasts. You know what has gotten me particularly agitated. I'm going to go finish my book, take some valerian root, then fall asleep with the tenuous hope that tonight is not the night that my neighbors kick the door in or simply burn my house down. Tomorrow I'll think more on how resistance is no longer an act of self-congratulatory idealism, but the groundwork for survival as the lights dim.

Edit: I'll learn to like paragraphs when I learn to be coherent. First things first. Sorry.

Staircase

Since the bar opened in the last week of March, I've been trying to take mental health breaks. These are generally constituted of me being out of cell phone range from an hour to a day. It is a good exercise in patience; I fret and pace about what is going on, but I have to let go and enjoy whatever it is I am doing. With that, here are some pictures from the weekend spent at Staircase and hiking Mt. Ellinore.

The first pic is from the ascent to the summit of Ellinore. Before we reached the ridgeline, there was this staircase that went straight up into the mist.

The next pic is on the same staircase behind us. At some point we were above the trees hiking through rocks. Given that we are all pretty soft, it was intense.

The next pic is of pea climbing through rocks where the trail had disappeared. Last year we tried this hike in June and the summer path was snowed over. We made it to the chute, but probably about a third of the way up we turned around. I was committed to making the summit this time despite there obviously being no view...

The last few pictures are from what can only be called a stroll after Ellinore. They are both of the Staircase river that flows into Lake Cushman. The last one is on a giant felled tree across the river from our campsite. Serene, beautiful, exactly what I needed.

Ah, music...

O dear Siren, I haven't heard your call in quite sometime. I stopped thinking about music before I stopped playing having been burned and hollowed by years of playing. I was exhausted; I had nothing left. I started playing not to become a rockstar, to play arenas and get blowjobs from groupies, but to play small venues with a devoted group of people who were into the punk rock, DIY thing that had me driving to Canada to watch Botch and Harkonen play in a cafe in the nineties. So I did what I did between Carmenzito and The Assailant and I haven't looked back (very much) since. Until this weekend.

It started at work when a couple of old Tacoma musicians sitting at the rail were geeking out about music. It started with one of the going on about how the music on MJ's Thriller was so fantastic. He was playing air drums while singing the guitar parts with (to be honest) a puerile exuberance. His friend humored him until it was his turn to geek out about Helmet's AmRep records. Eavesdropping on their drunken euphoria sent me spinning off into a Neverland where I started playing music again in a heavy, indie, noise-type band that was some hybrid of early Helmet and Jesus Lizard. The feeling lingered until the end of the night when a young kid who'd seen the assailant came in. We ended up talking music with the conversation coming around to the old Paradox (U-District, not Tacoma...) and The Edge of Quarrel movie. I went home sad and nostalgic that night...

So, tonight, Independence Day, I ended the social part of the evening talking for an hour or two in the kitchen with Liza's new bf, a nu-metal guy who vaguely understands DIY and hardcore/punk, but has toured and knows what it means to play loud music then get old. The night ended with K putting on 20 from Colera and Liza and her bf indulging us for about 1/2 the song. Nevertheless, I teared up as I thought about how it was the last song I ever played live. So, I'll try to avoid the semi-turgid prose and give you a few snapshots:

I honestly don't remember this show. We played so many at Camp Nowhere and eventually they were all packed to the rafters and some sort of nuts. It was so hot and close, these were the types of shows that got me into this. Maybe we influenced somebody there like Botch did at the Velvet Elvis did for me. It was what I wanted shows to be like. This pic kinda sums up the goofy, crazy energy that was at every show.
I want to say the funny thing about this pic is...but really there's so much. I'm drunk on a balcony in an apartment in the center of Paris in between the Iranian and Chinese embassies explaining to Rye where the bruise and knot on my head came from (basement show in the Latin Quarter where, packed to the rafters, Nate's drumset keeps moving and I held it in place as people spilled over me the entire set. At one point Jon cracked me in the skull with his head stock.) That same night in that same spot Ryan broke down crying because he was so happy. He couldn't believe that he was on tour and had just played an amazing show in Paris. All of these cute French girls crowded around to comfort him because they couldn't understand why he was crying...

Our last tour was rough. We did mas o menos 5 weeks with Elphaba around the country. As bad as it was (it's the only tour that does not shine in the flattering glow of memory), there were still great moments. We played an awesome show in Detroit, but really we played the same whether it was 10 kids freaking out or ninety. This pic kinda sums that up for me. It was a long day and not a lot of people, but I remember it because it seemed so quintessential...

I've talked about this show a lot this weekend. I didn't want to play it as I've always stubbornly resisted bar shows. I gave in to Ryan and Casey and I'm glad I did. It was the Akimbo record release show and one of our last. It was everything that I wanted out of shows. The place was packed, everyone had fun, and frankly, it reminded me of Europe.

I sit here now with a glass of bourbon reminiscing bittersweetly about it all. About how much has changed. How I work differently now. How my friends are half a world away or they work for me. About how I balance a checkbook and plan vacations. About how I worry about the future, my health, and my relationship. The Assailant was the apex of my youth where I didn't give a shit; I would quit any job or leave anything to play music, tour, to do it. Now, I work 60 hours a week running a business. Now I try to save money not to tour, but for the simple fact that I feel like I ought to have money in the bank. I don't write, I don't make music. All of my creative energy pours into the business and its management. My mental energy is drained by managing talented but willful personalities. I bring the same monomania to business that I brought to music, but with much different results. Ultimately, I am constantly exhausted and unsatisfied.

The Victory Garden

I started gardening for the first time last year when I was out of work. Inspired by the convolute ramblings of Derrick Jensen a my own dissatisfaction with my life in general, I spent last summer working at a DIY bike shop and a community garden. Here I am a year later, still unsatisfied, by trying my best to make it work. Here is a little documentation of the work at home. This first pic is of the bed that is mas o menos devoted to tomatoes and basil (purple and gree). There are a few Walla Walla sweet onions and a potato going as well. I moved the peppers (Anaheim and another hot type that I don't know that name of) over to the bed with the corn. The soil here is fantastic as we composted in the box all winter, added a bit of top soil, then called it good. I must say that in a lot of ways I am pretty lazy about this kind of thing; I simply threw all of our organic matter in the box without worrying about turning it too much or really doing much of anything. The worms seemed to have taken care of everything for me.

In this bed we cut the sod, added a bit of organic top soil, then put the corn, sweet peas, artichoke, and greens in the ground. A bit later I moved over here volunteer potatoes and squash.

Finally, over behind the beds where the soil appears to be the worst, we have planted more volunteer squash and potatoes, strawberries, and a blueberry bush.

So, we have soil of varying degrees of apparent health in each spot. It will be interesting to see how each group does. Philosophically, I think that getting the plants in the ground is the most difficult part. After that, it simply requires watering, occasionally weeding (although I keep this to a minimum as well), then enjoying the fruits and vegetables. Of course, everything could die, at which point I will been proven wrong about the amount of work required...

Mise en cinema

There's a great post over at IO9 about why these fake films within films are great (ostensibly because their absurd nature and obvious badness would deter anyone from making films like these...) Aside from the CG being bad and it being generally hackneyed, there is something disconcerting about this clip:

George Simmons in "Re-Do" from Justin Long

The Evolution of a Muppet

In the late fifties and early sixties Henson was hired to do these commercials for Wilkins coffee. I'm not sure these are any less disturbing than the Wachowski-esque video game violence of modern television and cinema. For your viewing pleasure:

Enterainment Tonight, sorta

For those of you who haven't seen it. And for those that forget, here's the younger Phoenix brother doing his best Andy Kaufman:



Here's the thing about Phoenix, I think he's staging this whole thing. I think he's going to meltdown his career, grab a bun ch of headlines as a lunatic, then whatever. My only problem is that I read a while ago that he's having a friend film this entire thing for a documentary(?). Welcome to the desert of the real, my friends.

tentwentytwo south

As a few you know, I've been working sometime on a new bar. It's been part political wrangling, part salesmanship, and frankly, a good portion of luck (of course, I assert that you mas o menos make your own luck...). I've had and continue to have a crisis of conscience about running/owning a bar. My thinking is this: bars/pubs/lounges are good for communities when they promote people coming together, talking, and enjoying each other's company. When the bar promotes getting drunk or watching television or fucking in the bathroom, it's not good for the community; which is to say that one can do any of the above things and have a great night, but if it's the establishment's goal that the patrons do them, then something is wrong. What's happened is that I have the opportunity to build an establishment in my neighborhood that will be here when I'm gone, that can be a fixture, a place where people come together and enjoy and imbibe.

The quick and dirty on the background is that I worked for Laura at The Monsoon Room for a long time. I ended up managing, which is when I started to become the face of the place. Almost a year in, Laura made it mandatory that I go to a group therapy session with her. It was everything that I hate about crystal-sucking, dream-catching nonsense. I processed for a day, then wrote a resignation letter where I stepped down as manager, but I stayed on as lead bartender. Things continued to be weird until Laura hired the wife of the man who assaulted K. I asked her not to only because I didn't want him around the bar. She refused stating that it was business. I quit that night.

While I managed I worked mas o menos 60 hours a week. Part of the reason that I did this was that Laura covered for me while I went on three (four?) tours, two of them as long as six weeks. The other reason was that I felt I was gaining valuable knowledge, that if I wanted to be in this business, then this was an opportunity to learn what succeeds and what fails. I did it, I learned a lot, and when it was no longer cost effective, I walked away.

I should describe my time there to put this in context. The quick and dirty is that I made more money then I ever have. I was tipped in drugs and girls offered to blow me in the bathroom. I know it sounds melodramatic, but I felt like a rock star. It was ridiculous, but I got caught up in it. I drank for virtually free, I made a lot of money, and people treated me, well, let's say strangely because I was the bartender.

After I left I was angry with Laura for what I perceived to be her throwing me under the bus. I felt like she wanted me out, but she was too much of a coward. Looking back on it, that was probably the case. The woman she hired that led to me leaving quickly washed out like most of her hires. Maybe she wanted me out because I was becoming identified too much with her business (she didn't bartend at all), or maybe because she didn't like me (I think she tried, but we never really clicked - moreover, I think that we never actually liked each other), or maybe it was ultimately a business decision and nothing more. What matters is that I was gone and I wanted to see her fail. I kept an eye on her business, I watched what she did and how business increased and decreased until a year later I was working elsewhere and thinking about getting out entirely (grad school, teaching, farming, et al) when I received a phone call from a friend asking me if I would run the place if she lost it. Then another person asked me. Then another. Here's how it happened (I know I shouldn't air other's laundry, but I feel that this ties into my story as well, so here we go...):

Laura replaced me with a nice guy who had never before worked in the industry (see and beverage, hospitality). If I recall correctly, he was driving a forklift at the time. He does a good job all things considered, but the place begins to spiral out of control. For most of this time (and when I was running the show), Laura refused to bartend, to work in her own bar, despite the fact that labor was killing us. Eventually she did go back to work, but the damage done. It all came to a head when the guy who replaced me was caught serving minors. The LCB pulled the bar's records, found them to be not in order, and promptly shut it down. While this will sound like merely a clerical oversight, it is indicative of a systemic problem with how that business was run. Laura broke ties with her original business partner three or four months after opening. She then changed the name of the LLC that owned the bar. A year or so later she went fishing for another investor (her original business partner financed the entire bar), which is where my friend came in. I drank the Kool-Aid and now he's out roughly 40,000. In the process of all of these wheelings and dealings, she never transferred the liquor license over to the new LLC. We had stayed of the LCB's radar up until that point, and I honestly think it would've been a clerical/admin thing had they not been caught serving minors. It didn't matter in the end, they shut her down. Without a source of income, she eventually (I think she might always have been...) was behind in rent. It so turns out that her landlord(s) are my current boss(es). They asked me if they kicked her out if I would go in and make a craft cocktail bar. I agreed and they gave her a pay or vacate; she didn't pay and signed over the entire bar for back rent. Now, maybe my current boss(es) would've done it anyway, but I suspect that knowing they had someone to turn around the space fast influenced their finally getting tough with her.

Alors, here I am. The point of this really, really long preamble is that I am going to document the experience of opening a bar. I have the skeleton in place and she walked away from virtually everything, so I don't need to buy a lot of bar tools. What I have to do is some renovating so it doesn't look like the same space and I need to write a menu, hire a staff, and make it run. This is what I'm going to document here.