Belltown, Bye

[from 5/19/10]

Sometimes people suggest ideas for me for topics to write about. I usually decline, because, in Junior High, I was the kid who ruined every group project he took part in.

I don't have the kind of brain that is suited for team work. There is no "I" in team, I tell people. That's it then, I say, there's no "I", so, sayonara, team. My brain can't even handle the brain equivalent of relay races. My brain always drops the brain-baton, or manages to grasp it only to trip on its little brain-feet, and land "squoosh" on its little brain-face. Ruining it for everyone else.

So the fact that I have agreed to write on a suggested topic this week can only mean one thing: I don't have any better idea, and I'm thinking, we can all get a laugh out of how badly it goes.

This week's topic: Everything we at Real Change will miss about Belltown, after we finish moving to our new offices in Pioneer Square. As usual, when I say "we at Real Change" I mean "me," and anyone who thinks like me. In other words, "me."

I'm going to miss all-night dining at Steve's Broiler, which was my introduction to Belltown back in the Eighties. What a great idea, having restaurants open at 4 AM, so that the people who clean the toilets of America can eat when they get off work. And, hey, does 7th Avenue count? How 'bout that Doghouse?

I'm now being told by a small avian assistant that those do not exist anymore. So, never mind about them. Let's see, what else?

Well, of course I'll be missing the StreetLife Art Gallery at 2nd & Bell, where I painted during the entire Clinton Administration, achieving such artistic success that I could actually support myself on my earnings, so long as I had no rent to pay, and didn't mind if my shoes leaked. It died, though, during Bush's first term, so, never mind that, too.

OK. I'm definitely going to miss the Speakeasy Café, where I learned how to use a browser when 95% of all Americans thought "browser" meant "cow," or "deer," or "kangaroo." The Speakeasy Café, which burned down, is lately an empty lot. Never mind.

I'm going to miss the Denny Regrade Park, never mind never mind oh never mind, which I can't lie down now in, because I was deemed to be the wrong class by the neighbors so they asked for it to become a dog park, that, if I should lie in it, I should get my face slobbered upon, by a Rottweiler, and it'd serve me right.

I'm going to miss the fabulous famous Belltown Art and Poetry scene, especially the seven minute open mic opportunities at the Penny University which was razed never mind to make way for housing I will die not affording. Whereas the Commodore Hotel, which was across the street from the Penny U, was affordable nightly, on a good night, but never mind that, as Seattle needed one more parking lot more than it needed the Commodore.

I'm going to miss the Crocodile Café when we move to Pioneer Square. No, wait, never mind, I mean I'm going to miss the Crocodile pizza parlor.

I'm going to miss Crawford and Waage Hardware on Third. Imagine, a hardware store in downtown Seattle! Imagine hard, never mind with extreme prejudice, because it's hard to hammer a nail with a cowcheek taco, which is what you'll find if you look for Waage where it was. I don't think I'm going to miss cowcheek tacos, because they're on wheels and will surely come after me, such is my fate.

I'm going to miss Utne Reader's "7th Coolest Neighborhood in America" of the early 90s, the one that was dismantled in favor of high-rise apartments and condos about two years later, so no, never mind, I won't, because I already did the missing I was going to do, never mind.

Star Power

I am happy to report that great new opportunities for lucrative employment for us homeless people are opening up. I'm not talking about day labor, not yard work, not washing dishes, but something specific to the homeless, something we can, in principle, do better than anyone else.

We can play homeless people on TV!

So there I was hanging out at the Real Change dump, getting my ears blasted by 120 decibels of Critters Buggin, trying to get some writing done, trying to forget that I could instead be writing to a mere 60 decibels in a cafe if I just had enough money for a cup of coffee to justify my presence at one, when a call came from Magic Hour Films in Belltown.

They were doing an ad for United Way about programs for homeless youth and needed six older homeless types as extras in the ad. Could the Real Change to send some on over? "Why, sure, we could ask some vendors if they'd be interested. And Dr. Wes is here right now, we're sure he'd do it. Dr. Wes will do anything."

What a great gig! I was paid $10 an hour to wait 4 and a half hours until they needed me. While waiting we got to watch television, drink coffee, and eat sandwiches. They also asked us all to smoke, and to save up our cigarette butts in a cup, for props. No problem!

In fact the only problem that surfaced was that the film company expected that we would all be much more scary looking. As our director Holly said, after lining us up to look at us, "They're all so NICE looking!"

So, OK, maybe homeless people can only play themselves best *in principle*. Actors may still be required to get the stereotype down.

But I tried hard to oblige when it was my turn to be filmed. After all, all I had to do was sit on a step and root through the "props" while staring with annoyance at the hand-held camera as it was walked by, something that comes as natural as breathing. Took three minutes to tape it three times.

I'm going to see if I can't do this more often.

Non Sequitur

or Opus Marcus Sidranus

I'm not going to complain about Sidran,

though he's given me brand new reason:

He now wants to be given authority

to rid parks of rampant illegality

without bothering with due process

as laws and courts are such a mess!

What a truck-load of BS!

We elected him to make them work!

But, no, I'm not going to do it.

I'm not going to say he's a ____.

Instead I'll just change the subject, and talk to myself aimlessly -- as we crazy homeless people are apt to do, scaring the decent folks away from the city parks and sidewalks that belong only to them.

I am asking myself why I do this. Why do I write? After a few cups of reheated coffee, and a half-dozen cigarettes, the reasons slowly return to me.

1. Attracted to the wild lifestyle -- writers really know how to party!

2. To annoy politicians and collect fun hate-mail to show off to my friends.

3. Getting too old to make it as an exotic dancer.

4. But not too old to make it with "writer-groupies."

5. I've always enjoyed working with my fingers.

6. Why not? What's going to happen? That nobody reads it? If I don't write it, how are they going to read it?

7. If I didn't, Tim the Editor God would chase me away from this computer. No more reheated coffee.

8. "Uh, I can't attend your important meeting, I'm on deadline."

9. "I'm a writer" sounds better than "I'm chronically unemployed."

10. I was MADE to sit on my ass all day. This is my essence.