The Blue Pen Creeps Me Out

It's getting close to primary election time. That means it's time for one of my columns full of insightful and astute observations in connection with the Washington State Primary.

My first insightful and astute observation is that the Washington State Primary is happening at all. How's that for a kick in the pants? A while ago there were political parties suing Washington State for having a primary that let nonmembers choose their candidates for them. Then the members of those parties (called politicians) voted for us to have a new kind of primary where nonmembers could still choose candidates for their parties. Then our governor, a member of a party, told themselves that their first choice for a primary system was no good, and that left themselves with their second choice, namely a system that lets nonmembers of the political parties choose their candidates for them.

Here's how you do it: when you go to the polls, you lie and put down that you're a Democrat. That's because this is Seattle, and Seattle is a "blue" city, so your vote has the biggest "impact", vote-wise, if you are a Democrat. Or, let's say this was Bellevue. Then you would lie and put down that you were a Republican. I'm just so glad that the parties now have a primary they like, so they will quit whining about freedom of association and get back to doing politics and making all our lives miserable.

Speaking of politicians making our lives miserable makes me think of Mark Sidran and my second insightful and astute observation, which concerns the "Frankenletter" I received yesterday by email. That is the letter of endorsement for Mark Sidran for Washington State Attorney General written by Al Franken, my hero, sent to me from Al's very own personal email address alfranken@marksidran4ag.com. For those of you that haven't got one of these (maybe you aren't someone Al would know, like I am) Al Franken was a big shot writer and performer on Saturday Night Live who wrote a very funny book about Rush Limbaugh and who went to Harvard the same time Mark Sidran did, and who may or may not have once been in the same classroom with him. Therefore Al is endorsing Mark for WA State AG, even though Al lives in the Bahamas or the Azores or Malibu or someplace like that, and none of us really care who he thinks should be WA State AG, anyway.

My only insightful and astute observation regarding all this besides observing that I wish Mark Sidran had been a Yale grad, is that Mark and Al could have relieved themselves of a lot of that tension by renting a motel room for an hour or so, and that way I wouldn't have to think of the Frankenletter every time I think of Al Franken, my hero.

My third and final insightful and astute observation concerning the Washington State Primary, which will be held on September 14th, is that the pamphlets King County sent out to explain the King County ballots are way cool.

Right away the pamphlet is exciting for me because it has a freaky talking blue lady pen on the front of it, wearing a clicker on her freaking head. She is saying, "There's a change in our primary, not the General Election, just the primary." (I know she's a lady because she's wearing makeup and she has hips and her feet are microscopic. She's definitely someone's hot mama.) On the back page is the ringing endorsement of the Seattle Times, from their July 23 editorial, which said, "Ballots are more approachable than expected." That's what you need, ballots you can approach.

Hint: when approaching a skittish ballot, hold your hand out with your palm up and fingers extended. That shows it you mean it no harm and wish only to "pet" it. Then, when it smells the tips of your fingers, you can grab it by the scruff of its neck, pin it down, and fill in its ovals.

Just above the reassuring Times endorsement is this fantastic quote from Citizen Robert Marum: "No matter how you feel about the open primary system, your vote is too important not to take part in the election."

That's right Washington Staters, your votes mean so much, you should vote them. So don't forget to do that. Obey the freaky talking blue lady pen.

Dry Turkey

"Insert humor column here:" Oh, how those words mock me each and every fortnight. Every two weeks, rain or shine, in war or peace, in sickness or in health, with croutons or without, I must bring myself around to face that command, and comply.

But even clowns despair. Even Jerry Lewis must weep, even in France. Even Charlie Chaplin had to make Limelight. Even Pee Wee Herman had to have time-outs to... well, no, that's not a good example. But you get the idea.

It's my turn. I'm in a foul mood. I am probably coming down with a virus or two, most likely viruses previously used by Anitra "Oh no you don't, YOU gave it to ME" Freeman, who is just now recovering from bronchitis and who is no help at all. On top of that there's this war thing. On top of that, I've never been to Bora Bora. It was just Thanksgiving the other day, and the turkey we had was much too dry. Furthermore, I've never learned how to dance the Rhumba, a modern ballroom adaptation of a complex rhythmical dance that originated in Cuba. As if all that wasn't enough, there's this whole bleakness-of-the-universe business that comes up from time to time.

Here's another thing. Don't ever try to use your flesh-and-blood partner for a Muse. It never works. They'll talk too much or they'll talk too little. They'll try to take over from you or they'll bore you with their own whiny gripes about their own deadlines. Worse yet, they'll try to tell you how sick and tired they are, as if you have time for that.

Fortunately, I have never retired my one True Muse, Cindy Holly, Muse of Other, AKA Muse of Few Words. So I asked her what I should do here today.

"Well, let's see. You're depressed, right? And you're feeling desperate, right?"

"Right."

"Well, then, if I were you, I'd write about that."

"But what would that have to do with homelessness, or poverty issues, or the concerns of other marginalized peoples?"

"What wouldn't it have to do with them?"

I had to admit, she had me there. How many times, I wondered, had I been homeless, starving, desperate, and just a little bit sore at the cosmos? At least once or twice.

For me, what was so horribly depressing about homelessness wasn't so much the periodic hunger or the absence of a warm dry bed, or the fact that I didn't have money to replace the shoes I was wearing -- the shoes that leaked and kept my socks cold and wet all winter. No, what was so horribly depressing about homelessness was that Life Sucks and Then You Die, but unlike homeful people I had none of the usual means to distract me from that fact.

If only I could have been watching Señor Wences, instead of sitting in that alley forced to be aware that we as humans lack the means to become truly connected, or that the one most human thing we all do, which is to die, we must all do alone.

If only I could have been bowling and sharing pizza with some buddies, instead of scrounging the gutters for pennies unable to forget as I did so that the alternative to this un-asked-for life was and remains, as far as any of us really knows, only the eternity of oblivion that we can imagine as having proceeded all of our recollections, and in all likelihood will succeed them.

Surely I am better off even now, even in my depression, given that I may spend an evening watching the TV premier of The Phantom Menace, rather than spend my dark nights counting the number of stars above me that couldn't relieve the anguish of existence and dividing the total into the amount of my anguish.

Surely I am better off too, as I can now watch election returns, and can witness the political fortunes of Mark Sidran. Yes, now I feel much better.

Yo Mama Is A SUV

When I was six I knew that I would never lack a home. I could stay at my parents until I finished college. After that, I could always sleep in my spaceship, if necessary.

As I grew older, I came to realize that I was being silly. It didn't have to be a spaceship. It only had to be an all-terrain ground vehicle with a self-contained ecology. The ecology would include me of course. It would have a fully automated hydroponics system that would not only grow my food for me, but prepare it and serve it to me. If it weren't also a spaceship, that would be OK. It could be a time machine, for instance.

I pictured the thing being only half as long as the average camper.

My design didn't even call for a convenient door, because there would generally be no reason to leave the contraption. I imagined that I would have a television screen with which to communicate to the outside world. I could manipulate external objects with robot arms. Somehow all the books I might want to read would fit in the on-board computer.

My seat would recline to a bed. When I needed exercise I could pull a lever (all the best inventions were controlled by levers and large impressive dials in those days) and suitable exercising devices would appear at my hands and feet.

Eventually, I began to sense a crucial flaw in the design: there was no passenger seat. I came to realize that there must not only be a passenger seat, but there must be no levers between it and me. So I was finally led to appreciate the idea of a camper with a separate space for a bed.

Campers, and their latest incarnations, the SUVs, are not just alternative homes that can ease the suffering of the houseless, they are also archetypes. The security they represent is the security of the womb. I am sure that this is why so many American guys feel they have to have an SUV. They miss their mothers, in a physical way.

Clearly though, the homeless have especially good reasons to appreciate the camper. Lets say you live in Lynnwood, in a house, and the backwards government of Lynnwood criminalizes people who live in houses. Well, then, you're stuck. But now, suppose you live in Lynnwood in a camper, and the backwards government of Lynnwood criminalizes people who live in campers. Then you can drive to Bothell and wait for them to be backwards. Bothell is prettier anyway.

Lynnwood's stated problem with the camper-endowed and other such homeless, is that they often relieve themselves in bushes. This doesn't prevent everybody in Lynnwood from owning campers and/or SUVs and polluting the air I breathe by driving them unnecessarily to and from work. Taking a daily crap in the air is still OK for Lynnwood, Everett, and Mark Sidran. Just keep it off the rhododendron roots.

Then there are people like Dave, whose real name is also fake. Dave is an old friend of mine who once made the mistake of morally opposing a war while people with guns were transporting him to it. They put him in the brig. After that his life sort of went downhill.

What makes Dave interesting, besides being a man of convictions, is that he is a whiz at creating shelter in deep forest, but his livelihood (recycling the cast-off toys of the middle and upper classes) depends on living in the city. So he would be a perfect candidate for a camper, except he can't drive.

But Dave shares the dream we all have for that mobile womb. He just has had scale his dream back to more of a rickshaw-like vehicle. He would build a home on wheels which he could physically pull from parking space to parking space as needed.

Such dreams are so powerful that they consume men like Dave, so that they spend years fretting over blue prints of the perfect home away from mother, and never demand more from society than that their dreams should be possible.

Acceptable Solutions For Our Time

We here at Real Change are very sensitive to the charge that all we ever do is whine about homelessness. Instead of proposing practical solutions that our city and county governments would find acceptable, all we ever do is write an occasional editorial calling for affordable housing, blah, blah, blah, treating people with dignity, blah, blah, providing services that cost money, blah, blah, blah.

So I’ve decided to rectify this situation, medically speaking. I’ve decided to set forth a number of proposals for solving homelessness, that are all calculated to be acceptable to our hard working local government officialdom and their deserving, fully paid-up, allies. Please feel free to refer back to that last sentence, frequently, as my brilliant ideas become confusing to you below, as they surely will.

My first proposal addresses the very heart of the homeless problem. And it won’t cost a dime. We declare homelessness to be a personal disorder. We get the Feds to go along. OK, that part might cost some lawyers’ fees, but you were spending money on lawyers anyway. This way they’ll be doing something productive.

Here’s the beauty of it: once homelessness is a disorder, everything we do about homelessness can be put down as therapy or rehabilitation. For example, you can put homeless people to work on contracted work-crews, and not have to pay them minimum wage! Because it would be therapy! The government gets the contract money, and gets to keep it, “to pay for other needed services.”

Have I got your attention, Heidi Wills? This kind of thinking is just your speed!

My second proposal deals directly with the chief complaint of all homeless people. They have no places to sleep. My solution is so effective that you will be able to present it as proof of your compassion. Hey, if they don’t need to sleep, they don’t need a place to do it, right?

So when a homeless person asks for shelter, instead we should give them methamphetamines. We can cure them of their need to sleep. OK, meth isn’t 100% effective, so we’ll still have to give them shelter every four or five days, but (do the math) that would allow us to get rid of half our existing shelter space!

Moreover, it would not be necessary to dump meth-crazed homeless people on the general public. As part of the meth-treatment, we could require the recipient to work on one of those work-crews I was talking about, until they come down. Then we could repeat the therapy as needed. I think you can see that the public benefits could be enormous.

Like all great solutions, the trick is making the problem solve itself. Of course all that meth will have to come from somewhere. Perhaps an arrangement can be made with the city’s police. Something like the popular gun-buy-back program. We could offer donuts to our cops for their hoards of meth. Hey, don’t tell me you don’t know what happens to unreported drug confiscations. Cops work long hours around the clock. Think about it. 2+2=4.

But eventually a city-owned meth lab could cheaply produce more than enough for all of our homeless, and also replace our cops’ stashes.

Once we have done so much to eradicate the problems of homelessness in Seattle, we will generate a new problem. We will make Seattle a magnet for homeless people all around the country, and the world. Therefore it would be irresponsible of me to make the proposals above, without also offering the means to prevent a massive influx of homeless immigrants.

My proposal is inspired by the great work of Mark Sidran. I could not have thought of the brilliant idea that I am about to explain, were it not for that giant of civic and social engineering. If I have been able to see further than he, it is only because I have been able to stand upon his towering head.

Sidran’s great genius was to realize that if life in Seattle were made miserable for homeless people, they would go away. I know, that sounds simple-minded, but it works! They did go away! They went to Los Angeles!

Trouble was, Los Angeles was worse! So they came back!

So you see, Sidran was right, but we must go further. We must out-Los Angeles Los Angeles. We must make Seattle a living hell for everyone who has to be outside.

Los Angeles has lousy air. We can top that. We can scrap Metro. We can have poisonous air and poisonous water in just a year. People living outdoors will start to drop like flies. Not that that will be the intent of the program. No, the intent of the program will be merely to encourage homeless elements to look elsewhere for comfort.

We already don’t let them sit down. Let’s not let them breathe. That should finally do it.

WTO Sucks Before It Happens

I hate ongoing events.

Everyone’s been wanting to know what’s my take on the WTO conference.

How can I have a take on the WTO conference? I’m writing this before it has happened!

Therefore I present you with a dozen or so things that haven’t happened yet at the WTO conference, but that would have really sucked by the time you will have read this:

Mayor Schell created an international incident when he performed his Charlie Chong impersonation for the benefit of the Ambassador from the People’s Republic of China.

The bad news: with motorcades of officials criss-crossing Seattle for five days, traffic became a nonsense word. The good news: now everyone knows what life under I-5 is going to be like in years to come.

The worst traffic jams occurred in Redmond, of course, as thousands of rented Mercedes Benzes clogged the streets on their way to the seat of the local government, in the hopes of cashing in on some Free Trade chips.

For no apparent reason, WTO officials announced in the middle of the conference that the WTO’s official name would be changed to the “Windows 2000 World Trade Organization”, for the foreseeable future.

Meanwhile, during a vote-gathering tour of the city, unleashed Sandpoint dogs urinated on Al Gore, expecting that he would be environmentally friendly. Instead, he kicked them all in their tender spots, thus permanently losing the support of the SPCA, ALF, PAWS, and PETA.

In a surprise visit to the proceedings, Muamer Qadhafy got no further than 4th and Cherry. Awe-inspired by the depth of the brilliant ideas of Mark Sidran, amazed by Sidran’s keen analysis of the reactionary behavior of improperly-indoctrinated masses, Qadhafy rushed back to Libya to teach his people his new understanding of the value of civilty, “Starbuck’s style”.

The admiration apparently being mutual, Sidran surprised no-one by declaring, “to hell with Giuliani, from now on I want to be thought of as the Muamer Qadhafy of Seattle” and began appearing in public in high heels and long dresses and encouraging others to do so. “It’s just one more way we can instill a lady-like respect for public decency and decorum”.

President Clinton’s unscheduled meeting with the Pope next to Rachel the Pig in the market ended in disaster when the Pope was struck by a stray airborne salmon. Fortunately, the world’s free trade was not significantly harmed, as the volume of Pacific Northwest fish exports to the Vatican has been negligible up until now.

In a sharp moment of public empathy, Deputy Mayor Tom Byers recalled that he once wore purple bellbottoms and wide belts and got yelled at by his dad for growing his hair long. “Therefore”, he said, “I really understand the problems that you people face on the streets.” Then he said, “No, seriously, you can have your tent city during WTO-- NOT!!! Ha ha, ha!”

The WTO determined that, henceforth, Boeing could only sell as many 767’s per decade throughout the world as the number of Taiwanese suspenders that may be sold per century in Des Moines, Washington. Luckily, since no reporters were allowed to learn about the decision, no one got their shorts in a bunch about it.

Wasn’t that massive earthquake awful? 9.9 on the Richter scale, who would’ve expected that? I hate being dead don’t you? Thank God for tent city, otherwise nobody would have survived!

And who would’ve believed that the apocalypse would have waited for the WTO conference? Wow!! Well, hey, now that it’s happened, what do you, my readers, think? Was it worth waiting for? How ‘bout those locusts? And are you satisfied that the rough places have been made plain? I sure am!! But please, let’s not do it again!! My rough places are raw!!

Get The Lead Out

This issue I want to talk about plumbinglessness.

I don’t want to talk about individual plumbinglessness but since I can’t spend an entire “column” talking about collective plumbinglessness, because I don’t know that much about it, I will talk about something closely related to individual plumbinglessness. Namely, the subject of Mark Sidran having relieved himself inappropriately.

Now I don’t really want to single Sidran out for this sort of discussion. I want to include prosecutors, and lawyers who have been prosecutors, like oh, I don’t know, maybe Henry Hyde, Asa Hutchinson, or that Hamilton Ham-Burger creep that was always sneering at Perry Mason. But on my way to including them I’d like to make an example of Sidran, in obedience to the Silver Rule (Do Unto Others As They Do.)

Let’s look at the record. Mark Sidran is a lawyer. Therefore he has a college degree. Therefore the facts indicate that Mark Sidran has been a college freshperson.

At this point, Mr. Sidran might, if he were honorable, immediately confess that he has relieved himself inappropriately.

Or, he might not. But I ask you, the reader, to use your common sense!

Not only are we talking here about a lawyer who has been a college freshman, but one who has a clear motivation to lie, until now, about having relieved himself inappropriately, because he prosecutes other people for doing so.

But let me suppose that you are not ready yet to accept that Mr. Sidran relieved himself inappropriately during the time that he was a college freshman, in spite of the overwhelming proof based on circumstantial evidence, guilt by association, logical surmise, and the fact that over and over again I have been talking about Sidran relieving himself inappropriately.

In that case, let me remind you that we do not have to establish any one instance of inappropriate relief on Sidran’s part in order to prove our case. It is enough to convince you that he has committed this act on at least one occasion, without actually having to specify that occasion.

I’d like to continue this discussion until you have all agreed with me in order to make me stop, but my space is up. Therefore I simply will remind you, my reader, of your wisdom, and encourage you to look deeply into this matter as you have always done in the past. And having looked deeply, come to know, deep in your hearts, that Mr. Sidran has relieved himself inappropriately.

So let’s talk about collective plumbinglessness. The first thing that I learned about this when I started studying it last night is that at one time all of Peoplekind were plumbingless.

In fact, the word ‘plumbing’ is Latin for ‘Lead-Pipes-R-Us’, and there was no plumbing at all until the Dawn of the Lead Age, which in turn had to wait until about twelve hours after the Twilight of the Get the Lead Out Age. So there was a long time, before that, that people had to relieve themselves inappropriately, for eons.

Even after there was plumbing it might have been better if there weren’t. Science now knows that the widespread use of lead pipes causes guys to wear dresses, have sex with their sisters, sleep with horses, and , eventually, to allow their cities to be overrun by Swedes, Norwegians, Finns, and Canadians. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

In fact Swedes and Norwegians did overrun the main city of the Latins whom I mentioned above, but unlike certain patronymic precursors of Henry Hyde, who had previously overrun it, they stayed (and he has had the gaul to complain about that?)

Well, anyway, one thing lead to another (Get it? Ha, ha: ‘lead to’!) and pretty soon no-one trusted plumbing anymore. So even though there was still plenty of lead to go around, everybody went back to doing it in the river for about a thousand years.

Why did they stop? Was it because some prosecutor stepped in and said, look here, these Dark Ages must end or you are all going to jail!? Or was it because people started to get the idea that plumbing was a good public investment after all?

Yes, it was. And there are still other good public investments that may yet be made.

The Truth Is Way Out There

Well, here we are again. It’s deadline time and I’m stuck, as always. I ask Cindy and she suggests “Write about why you are stuck.” I think, “Do I really want to talk about the X-Files here?” But I have nowhere else to go.

As I write this, Anitra L. “Net Mama” Freeman, fellow editor and proof that I am not the world’s biggest nerd, tells me that she wants me to get the following message printed.

“Mulder is a dweeb. He is a lovable dweeb, but he is a dweeb. And YOU, Scully, are an admirable woman in many ways. But you seriously need to enroll in a co-dependency program: ‘Woman Who Love Dweebs.’”

Apparently, how Scully conducts her life is very important to Anitra, and Anitra is certain that her advice will reach Scully. The theory seems to be that some paranoid schizophrenic will read the above paragraph and pass it on to Mulder (all paranoid schizophrenics have Fox Mulder’s unlisted phone number - it’s a union privilege), in the belief that it contains a coded message. Mulder will then show it to Scully, in the hopes that she will be able to decipher it. She will.

But that isn’t what is making it so hard for me to write this month. After sharing my problem with Anitra, she is very alarmed. She says I mustn’t talk about that in public. There are people, she tells me, sad, unfortunate people, who haven’t seen the movie yet! She pleads with me not to spoil it for those miserable people who might nevertheless still find the seven bucks to see it, someday, in a theater.

I’m sorry. Tell you what though, I’ll give you all a warning - WARNING, INFORMATION ABOUT THE END OF THE X-FILES MOVIE FOLLOWS.

OK, you’ve all been warned. So here’s my problem. There they are, BOTH of them, lying in the ice and snow, IN ANTARCTICA, at the edge of this huge crater made by the unexpected take-off of a previously buried tremendously huge alien YOU-KNOW-WHAT. The snow tractor that delivered Mulder to this site is somewhere nearby, BUT IT IS OUT OF GAS. The evil conspirators who brought Scully to this chunk of ice ARE LONG GONE.

So how did they get off Antarctica? What’d they do, thumb a ride on the back of a passing penguin? Walrus, walri? In the very next scene they’re doing their almost-but-not-quite-kissing act in DC, under blossoming cherry trees! What?! Did Mulder dial up the Chief Engineer of the Enterprise on his cell-phone? “Hey, it’s cherry blossom time! Beam us to the Capitol, Scotty!!?” On a continent that does not yet have cellular phone service???

Oh, but THAT can’t be. I forgot that Mulder’s cell-phone would have been in outer space at this point, since he had carelessly dropped it inside the alien YOU-KNOW-WHAT.

SEQUEL ALERT!!: ALIENS have Mulder’s cell-phone! The fun only starts there!

Speaking of evil conspirators...

Let me get this straight... Paul Schell deeply CARES about the plight of the homeless, so long as they aren’t visible? So long as they don’t put up tents? “I LOVE you homeless guy, cause you sleep outdoors without any shelter and you will surely die at that rate, but thank you anyway good buddy! - for not putting that nasty protective tent up!”

Once again, Anitra gets into the act. She wants me to “remember the hamsters”, whatever that means. I remind her that Mayor Schell is on our side. Yeah, really! This is a man who would never beat a dead horse - he LOVES dead horses!

Maybe Paul Schell would like to negotiate with SHARE and WHEEL et al to agree that they may put their unhoused people on the continent of Antarctica. Just so long as they don’t put up any unsightly tents that might offend the eyes of those who may have voted for Mr. Schell, or that might do so in the future, or that might be artichokes.

“Tents are not only ugly, but they are a fire hazard. Snow is much safer.”

And, surely those homeless wimps can’t complain about being isolated, by being put there in Antarctica. For one, they’ll have evil conspirators everywhere around them to keep them company. For two, they will be able to get to DC within minutes (at cherry blossom time).

For three, Mark Sidran himself, renowned humanitarian, is prepared to provide the initial transportation at no cost to the general public (he can write it off as a campaign expense.)

Great, now my spell-checker is telling me to change “unhoused” to “unhorsed”. Some things make no sense, others too much. How’s a guy supposed to concentrate?

Me For Mayor

If you are reading this paper close to the beginning of the month, and if you've been paying attention, you may know that Seattle is about to choose a new mayor.

I myself discovered this fact just last week. Here's how it came to my attention: I was just minding my own business, using the computer to make joke pictures of Tim Harris, our Director. With my back thus turned, he and our production manager were discussing who the Real Change ought to endorse for mayor. They were both certain that there was no way we could endorse either of the two official candidates, so that we would have to endorse a write-in.

Who should we pick? Well, lets see, they thought , who's not here? Why, Dr. Wes can do it! Dr. Wes will do anything! And the next time they spoke to me they said I'd have about 600 words for that wire service article and oh, by the way, we'll be running you for mayor hope you don't mind. Mayor of what? -- I asked, naturally. Of Seattle, they said.

Now I am told that this means I have to have a platform. We're sure you'll come up with something, they say. OK, well then here is my platform. These are my solemn promises to you the Seattle citizen should I be elected mayor.

1. If you have a complaint I will actually meet with you and hear it, once or twice. Maybe. If I feel like it. Lately I've had a cold.

2. I will cash my paychecks promptly and without complaint.

3. I will not maintain a house in a foreign country. Or, if I do, I will not spend much time there.

4. I will create a photocopy of my butt on Mayor's office stationary and send it to the City Attorney's office, and I will include an attachment to the effect that it is the view of the new mayor that the City Attorney's face is not a sidewalk.

5. Just for a hoot, I will propose laws designed to restrict the hours that homeful people can be on downtown streets. When people object, I will say, "Well, they have homes to go to, don't they? So why should we have to look at them?" When people still object I will laugh insanely and lock myself in my office for days.

6. When downtown businesses offer money to get their way with City Hall, I will politely decline it, reminding them that the City's policies are to be determined by its citizens at large and are not on an auction block.

7. Inauguration day: beer and pizza for all!

My slogan: "Let the vegetarians feed first. Then, while they're at it, we'll move in!"

Speaking of moving in, Operation Nightwatch and friends got out at 3am on the 24th for their annual count of Seattle's homeless.

As usual they only counted those who'd passed out in Seattle's "living room".

Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining. I know that the Count is important and supplies a lot of useful information. For example say I want to camp in the Pioneer Square area. Consulting the tables I find that 77 of the 108 street people found there on the night of the 24th were either in public parks or under roads or bridges. Not one was found in a parking garage. So for a quiet restful night's sleep I should head for a parking garage, that's where the privacy is.

But, seriously, I won't be sleeping in Pioneer Square at all, because I don't want to be anywhere that I can be so easily spotted. By Operation Nightwatch, by the police, by thieves, or by anyone else.

When I have slept outdoors, I have always done so outside of the areas that are included in the count, because they get too much traffic, and I have made myself as invisible as possible. So invisible that I don't believe I could ever have been found by anyone who failed to trip over me. And that's the way most of the homeless people I know go about it.

But precisely because we make ourselves invisible we are never counted. The public sees only those who either don't care about their own privacy or who are in no condition to hide themselves effectively.

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.

Beer, Not Guns

At the recent Urban Rest Stop Panel Discussion, it was asked, "How may we bring the homeless ... spiritually into the general community?" Being homeless myself this is a little out of my jurisdiction. But if you ask "How may we bring the NON-homeless spiritually into the general human community (including the homeless community) ?" I would have an answer. I could call upon all the homeless to take part in the `ADOPT A NIMBY!' program.

The idea of `ADOPT A NIMBY!' is simple but effective. As wayward NIMBYs are identified each becomes eligible for `adoption' by a volunteer homeless sponsor. The sponsor only commits to writing `their' NIMBY at least once a month. Personal visits are encouraged but not required; we at `ADOPT A NIMBY!' understand that not every homeless sponsor can comfortably meet with NIMBYs. But it has been shown that as little as one letter a month from a homeless person enables most NIMBYs to identify spiritually with the homeless, and thus rejoin the human race as a whole.

Due to high demand, certain eligible NIMBYs on our list can not be exclusively adopted. For example, everyone wants a piece of Norm Rice these days.

Speaking of NIMBYism:

Mark Sidran, Seattle's City Attorney of No-Sitting Ordinance notoriety, reportedly now wants 40-ouncers of beer banned from the shelves of some city stores. One morning, as I drank my 1st coffee of the day at the Counter Culture Cafe in Belltown, they were playing a Johnny Cash CD. This is the result:

So You'll Ban My 40-Ouncers, Mark?

(Look for it on Johnny Cash's next album!)

NOTE: I do not personally drink 40-ouncers in public nor do I endorse such
behavior. Like most people I drink 40-ouncers indoors.

So you'll ban my 40-ouncers, Mark?

So I can't drink them in the park?

Then you oughta get this into your head -

I know what I'll be doin' instead:

I'll just get me two 22's Mark

and I'll name them each after you.

I'll just buy me two 22's

that's what I'll do.

Before I go on, let me clarify, that that's BEER not GUNS - I don't want to be your next Jason Sprinkle, thank you.

So then you'd ban my 22's, Mark?

So I can't drink them in the park?

Well there's something you need to hear, Mark -

I'm not as helpless as I appear

I'll just get me a 6-pack of beer, Mark

that's 6 twelves for 72.

I'll just buy me a 6-pack of beer

that's what I'll do.

So you'd ban my 6-packs of beer, Mark?

So I can't drink them in the park?

Well there's something you need to get straight

- and next election'll be too late -

When the homeowners can't buy beer, Mark

they're gonna blame it all on you.

And they'll cheer as they vote you out

that's what they'll do.

We're Outta Here!

Homeless people are literally leaving Seattle by the busloads. In the past two months nearly four thousand have left by Greyhound, bound mainly for East Coast cities. The departures have been coordinated. They leave daily, each bus carrying away up to fifty homeless men, women, and children.

Some pay their own fare, others have their fares paid for them, generally by national organizations dedicated to homeless causes. Chief among these is the American Homeless Union. Recently the Seattle head of the AHU, Phil M. Hand, explained the ongoing exodus this way: "Basically around December or January we all began to realize that we really weren't wanted here in Seattle. And we're not masochists, OK? I mean, we've been working hard for years at making this city a real haven for our folks, but if Seattle isn't into it, we can live with that."

Further details are sketchy. The rumors among street people (what's left of them) are, as always, incomplete and unreliable. What is certain is that the departures began near the end of January and coincided with a number of setbacks for the homeless in this city. There was the recent reclearing of the "Jungle" along I-5, and the so-called sweep of the Municipal Building encampment.

But worst of all was the resistance by local merchants to plans to expand laundry and shower facilities at a few downtown service-centers. As one Belltown alley resident put it, "I always knew no one wanted me around when I was dirty and smelled like a sewer. But when I saw they didn't want me clean and smelling like a rose, either, I really got the message! It is personal, isn't' it? So right then I spent my welfare check on a ticket to Pittsburgh. I'll be gone by tomorrow."

The repercussions of this mass exodus cannot be understated. Most of Seattle's homeless-advocacy groups have already ceased to function, even though the last busload of homeless isn't expected to depart until mid-April. These groups include SHARE, WHEEL, and Operation Homestead. Several hundred social workers formerly employed by service agencies throughout the city have already been laid off.

But in addition to the expected, there have been some perhaps unexpected consequences of the sudden scarcity of homeless. For example, at City Hall, everyone from Norm Rice to Mark Sidran is complaining about the long waits for cab rides.

It seems that as many as one-third of all Seattle taxi drivers have been homeless and are now driving elsewhere. Dishes are piling up unwashed in even the best local restaurants, houses are going unpainted, and overgrown backyards are remaining so. Non-homeless residents are experiencing more muggings and burglaries than ever, now that gangs don't have easier targets to victimize.

Gay-bashing and race-related violence is on the increase again as "bum-bashing" declines. Dumpsters are overflowing with recyclables throughout the city. Seattle is awash in aluminum cans, refundable bottles, reparable TV sets, and stereos.

Corner rose-vendors have vanished and with them half the street musicians. And many service-industry businesses are discovering that they can't afford to pay the higher wages demanded and required by rent-paying and home-owning citizens. To help with these and other problems, the city has established special consulting hotlines. Anyone concerned may request assistance or further information at 684-8200.

Naturally, the Real Change homeless newspaper will not be unaffected. "Sure, we'll keep operating for a couple of months," said Timothy "Make My Day" Harris. I mean, we've got donations coming in, and we've got our subscribers and our advertisers. But let's face it. People are going to catch on."

"With no vendors and nothing to write about, what are we going to do? Well, I'll tell you what I'm gonna do! Get the hell out of here! That's what!"

Perhaps he'll head for Pittsburg.