Saturday at the 2009 Seattle Hempfest Part II - Ken Kesey's bus

Ken Kesey's Bus on Display

Saturday at the 2009 Seattle Hempfest Part I

This is Saad

This is Saad walking across the bridge to Hempfest 2009

This is the north entrance

and the sign in the sky that greeted us

So I took a right and headed towards Seely Stage

Backstage at Seely

Friday's set-up to the Seattle Hempfest 2009

Next step, Rachel Maddow

I have made the front page of BoingBoing!

Careers to Pursue When Yours Disappear

by Michael Dare

 

Some people lose their jobs because they always show up late and leave early. Some people lose their jobs because they called their boss an asshole. But there's a special category of people who lost their jobs because the job itself doesn't really exist any more. It just disappears, like those buggy whip manufacturers at the advent of the Model T, they produce a product that's no longer needed by any but the loyal few. They still sell buggy whips, just not as many. The masses have moved elsewhere. Here's a guide to other careers to pursue if you lost your job in such a manner.

 

PORN STAR

 

Considering how much free porn there is on the net, it's surprising the professional porn industry survives at all. If you're a porn star laid off because Harry Putz and the Prisoner of Asskaban laid an egg, there are surely a plethora of other ways to put your talent to use. You could virtually blow everyone on my Facebook FRIEND list, but that would only get you further friends, not further income. You might think about downsizing to a smaller audience and doing private porn films for a select clientele. Put the following ad in CraigsList: "Star in your own porn film. Select from our luscious collection of actors. We will come to your house and film you fucking them."

 

ROCK STAR

 

Considering how much free music there is on the net, it's surprising there's a single musician making a living. If you had a hit in the 90s, way back when people actually played CDs, you might have noticed you're not getting any royalties from the constant stream of downloads - at Limewire, Frostwire, and Pirate Bay - of your one-hit-wonder. You could follow the RIAA's example and sue your own fans, but I suggest the opposite. Make a YouTube video offering a buck to everyone who can prove they downloaded your song for free. Since that's virtually impossible, you won't have to actually pay anyone anything, and the resulting free publicity might get you a shot at being the opening act on a Vanilla Ice reunion tour.

 

PAY PHONES

 

The manufacturers of pay phones didn't sue the manufacturers of cell phones for putting them out of business because the manufacturers of pay phones WERE the manufacturers of cell phones. Let this be a role model for everyone put out of business by some new technology. Don't fight it. In the future, you'll just look like a jerk, and you don't look so hot now.

 

MUSIC OR FILM DISTRIBUTOR

 

We don't need you any more. We can make copies ourselves, thank you, no need to pay someone else to do it. Man, if you make money making copies of ANYTHING, toodle-ooh, the Free Barrier has been broken and those sonic booms you hear are your industry going bye-bye. Once I can receive MP3s and AVIs of music and movies directly from their creators, downloaded in minutes, what the hell do I need Netflix for? Waste of time and energy. I could be doing jumping jacks instead of running to the mailbox. But that's just home distribution, which once didn't exist, then became 50% of profits, and now is going to barely exist again. The future really is those big opening weekends, sitting in a crowd at a mammoth screen, where simple images take your breath away and you enjoy yourself whether you liked it or not. In order to make money, film and music have got to get you off your butt and away from the computer to an actual theatrical experience where you pay to get in. Everything else is public domain.

 

NEWSPAPER COLUMN WRITER

 

You used to crank it out for a paycheck. Now you just crank it out. No more editors telling you what to do, only readers and other writers, who are notoriously cranky too. Logic tells us if you want to support a writer, buy a physical copy of his book or magazine or newspaper or leaflet, stopping right short of Blog Post, where money never changes hands. Whenever you accept a compliment, accept the fact that compliments are pay, and thank you for reading this. If you pass it on, I get 10%.

 

http://www.facebook.com/dareland

 

 

 

 

 

 

Gilbert and Sullivan Rock and Roll in their Graves

I tried to get one of my kids to come with me to the Seattle Gilbert and Sullivan Society's new production of "Utopia, Limited," explaining that it wasn't opera, it was SATIRE of opera, making fun of the conventions of the day, but no go. They couldn't tell the difference which is a shame. The only thing that would get them into a theater would be an all black version of Music Man with Harold Hill gangsta rapping about trouble in River City.

So I went by myself and thank god I did because this production rocks. No, they didn't add electric guitars to the orchestra pit, it rocked conventionally, by delivering a show Gilbert and Sullivan themselves would have totally admired. The material couldn't possibly have been served any better.

There's nothing shabby about this production at all. They art directed the hell out of it, the costumes and sets are colorful and extravagant, the choreography classic, and the performances universally top notch, so good that if I started rattling off the highlights, I'd have to mention absolutely everybody, who are all given moments to shine. It's an enormous theater and I could understand every word, which is quite a triumph considering the assault of verbiage in the parade of patter songs.

The plot, involving a primitive island, Utopia, that gets westernized by British corporations, allows the show to satirize all manner of old politics that turn out to be pretty much the same as today. Sly little updates to the lyrics made it all relevant and kept the audience in stitches.

With many subtle, and some not so subtle nudges, the show also points out the incredible influence Gilbert and Sullivan had upon Monty Python and the Marx Brothers, not to mention Stephen Sondheim, whose "Pacific Overtures" tells pretty much the same story.

Props to Sam Longoria who got me in, and served magnificently as the John Cleese of the piece. In fact, the only thing wrong with this production is Sam didn't have enough to do.

http://pattersong.org/

Greenwood Car Show

Ugliest Car of the Show

Nicest Car of the Show

I changed my mind. THIS is the Nicest Car of the Show.

and THIS is the Ugliest Car of the Show

My first experience using a Canon PowerShot, a camera the size of a deck of cards. Check out the quality of the video...

What I did this past weekend

I marched in Seattle's Fremont Solstice Parade with the Hempfest dragon.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
That's the Super Sonic Soul Pimps on the float.

That's me in the back.

Free "Happy Birthday"

by Michael Dare a few seconds ago

We, the public, wish to extend our Domain, called the Public Domain. Every extension of copyright is at the expense of the Public Domain. Corporations will extend copyright forever if we, the Public, let them trample on our Domain.

When "Happy Birthday" is sung in a film, should Mildred and Patty Hill get credit? Absolutely, they wrote it in 1893. Should AOL Time Warner reel in $2 million a year licensing the song more than a century after it was written? I don't think so. Let people post birthday parties to YouTube without the threat of a lawsuit from a mighty media corporation.

AOL Time Warner, as a public service, we ask you to voluntarily release the song "Happy Birthday" into the Public Domain.

Why Is This Idea Important?

In the real world, the internet has shrunk the length of copyright to a nanosecond, making it virtually immaterial. In the interest of expanding our Domain, we, the Public, wish to let copyright die or shrink to its original parameter of 14 years.

 

Idea # 3554Making Data More Accessible, copyright, song licensing, corporate control

 

http://opengov.ideascale.com/akira/dtd/6822-4049

Night Flight Shines

Threadbare production values still look pretty good in Night Flight

Book-it Repertory Theatre's latest production, Night Flight, based upon a short story by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry (best known for The Little Prince), is their first operetta, and a ground-breaking moment in the history of novel and theater.

It's not quite a musical. Unlike Les Miserable, there are no stirring Broadway numbers to go out humming. Strictly speaking, there aren't any "songs" at all. There are no verses or choruses. It isn't poetry set to music, it's prose set to music. They literally just "sing" the book to you in a sort of endless recitative, those musical moments in operas in between the songs where people "speak" in music. Traditionally, these are the most boring parts of an opera where you're just waiting for the next aria, but thanks to the extraordinary adaption by Myra Platt and Rachel Atkins, this production takes you places particular to theater, music, and the written word, a hybrid that's uniquely satisfying. If you don't want to read a book, you may as well have someone sing it to you.

The story is nothing particularly exciting, a footnote in the history of airmail delivery in South America, with bureaucrats trying to keep the mail on schedule while wives wait for their husbands to return through the storms. The production is threadbare, with pilots simply on top of ladders or scaffolding to signify flight. It all shifts the focus to the purity of the technique, the music and performances, which are all top notch. Every member of the singing ensemble has a moment to shine. The music from the Degenerate Art Ensemble's Joshua Kohl is impressionist tango, Ravel and Debussy filtered through the dance of Buenos Aires. It's melodic and soulful, the band and voices excellent, and one wishes for some repeats of phrases that would be catchy if you could only hear them more than once.

This production is at the incredibly beautiful Moore Theater, just up the block from the Pike Place Market, for a mere ten days. Fans of books and musical theater miss it at their peril as it genuinely breaks new ground. It's such a good idea that one cannot help but imagine a Kindle that not only reads but sings to you. Pick a book. Night Flight. Pick a voice. Mixed baritone and soprano. Pick a musical style. Tango. Go.

MD

Tickets are available online at www.book-it.org or by calling 206.216.0833. Prices range from $15 to $35; opening night, all seats are $40 (includes party). Box office hours are Tues. through Fri., Noon – 6:00 p.m. (Tues. – Sat. during production). Tickets are also available online at www.book-it.org. Showtimes are 7:30 evenings, 2:00 matinees

Something free to do tonight

I won two free tickets to this. It's tonight. Not surprisingly, both my kids refuse to go with me. Anyone who wants to come along, just let me know.

Sing Sing

Saturday, May 2, 2009 - 8 PM
Single-ticket price: $33; $30 for subscribers; $20 for students


"Their voices united... hitting you with a wall of beautiful choral sounds." ABC Brisbane

Experience the musical traditions of the indigenous peoples of Australia, Papua New Guinea, and West Papua. Using song, dance, and video projections, a ten-member troupe of dancers and musicians tells the stories of Oceania both long ago and today. An exhilarating journey through the life and culture of these island nations.

Did you know? This touring performance takes its name-"Sing Sing"-from a Papua New Guinea expression meaning "large musical gathering."

Location

Meany Hall is located on the west edge of the University of Washington campus, just minutes from the NE 45th Street exit off I-5.

http://uwworldseries.org/artists.cfm?page=singsing

UPDATE: Saw it. Alone. It was great. Wish you were there.

Mystery Science Theater 3000 visits the 1962 Seattle World's Fair

If You're Gonna Kiss Me, Kiss Me There

Meet Me in Seattle (At The Fair) (1:39)

Seattle, 1962: The last successful World's Fair held in the United States is taking place, and organizers need music to spread the word. The call goes out to Joy and the Boys, and Meet Me in Seattle is born.

There's a reason why you can't write music that appeals to everyone, unless you're the odd genius who can pen an "Mmm...Bop" or "Macarena." When you try, you wind up watering things down to the point where they're meaningless. That's one of two problems with this song. It says nothing about the fair itself, instead serving up a "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" great-date theme, minus the baseball love or love for much of anything. To their credit, the songwriters did slip the marvelous double-entendre, "If you're gonna kiss me, kiss me there" into the lyrics, a lone conceit to songwriting skill handcuffed by the need for that elusive mass appeal.

The other problem with the song is the recording. By 1962 standards, this is dreadful. It sounds like the band was encased in an oildrum and miked from the outside. Audiophiles should note that this recording will likely reverse the magnetic fields in your Harmen-Kardon speakers.

In spite of all this, it's still a good bit of fun, and a nice reminder of the Fair. If you're feeling nostalgic, check out the Seattle Post-Intelligencer World's Fair Site, which is filled with historic photos and commentary on how the Fair shaped modern Seattle.

From http://blog.wfmu.org/freeform/2009/03/if-youre-gonna-kiss-me-kiss-me-there-mp3.html

They finally figured out how to make money with newspapers

The Seattle Post Intelligencer printed it's last issue yesterday, March 17. It cost 75 cents.

Today, one day later, March 18, the following ads appeared on Craig's List.

Last Post Intelligencer - $15 - (Seattle) pic

SEATTLE PI NEWSPAPER - $55 - (Lynnwood)

Seattle PI Final Issue - $35 - (North Seattle) pic

Final Edition of the Seattle PI - I have 50 - $1 - (Not price gouging)

Seattle PI final newspaper - $50 - (Port Angeles)

Seattle PI final printing - $25 - (Seatac) pic

I HAVE THE FINAL EDITON OF THE P I NEWPAPER - $1 - (SEATTLE)

Final edition of PI - $10 - (Dash Point)

SEATTLE P.I. FINAL EDITION - $15 - (OLYMPIA)

seattle pi - jerks - $1 -

last edition seattle pi - $60 - (sequim)

Final print edition Seattle P-I - $1 - (kent)

Final Seattle P.I. edition unopened - $60 - (Wedgwood)

Seattle P I NewsPaper Final - $50 - (Federal Way)

Seattle PI Final Edition Collectible - $50 - (Kirkland)

Last & Final PI...Lot of 5..... Pending Sale - $60 - (Everett) pic

and the following appeared on eBay...

Enlarge

Seattle P I, Post Intelligencer Final Print Newspaper Commemorative Final Edition fresh off the press, unread

5 Bids

$13.50

Free shipping

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SEATTLE POST-INTELLIGENCER PI NEWSPAPER FINAL EDITION FREE SHIPPING VIA USPS MEDIA MAIL!

6 Bids

$5.50

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Seattle Post Intelligencer PI Final Edn 1863-2009 FINAL & LAST PRINTING SEATTLE POST INTELLIGENCER PI

6 Bids

$7.50

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2h 38m

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Seattle Post Intelligencer PI Final Edn 1863-2009 FINAL & LAST PRINTING SEATTLE POST INTELLIGENCER PI

5 Bids

$6.40

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2h 39m

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Seattle Post-Intelligencer 3/17/2009 Final Edition Seattle PI - Get Free Overnight Shiipping

$500.00

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Seattle Post Intelligencer PI Final Edn 1863-2009 FINAL & LAST PRINTING SEATTLE POST INTELLIGENCER PI

2 Bids

$5.50

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2h 40m

Note to Self...

Write a best selling book called "Marked Down," thereby guaranteeing endless variations of the following conversation will take place in bookstores across the country...

Customer: Is this book Marked Down?

Salesman: Yes it is.

Customer: How much is it?

Salesman: Twenty dollars.

Customer: That's what it says on the cover.

Salesman: That's what it costs.

Customer: I thought you said it was marked down?

Salesman: It is Marked Down.

Customer: No it's not.

Salesman: Yes it is.

Customer: No it's not. You're charging full price.

Salesman: This isn't a used book store. We charge full price.

Customer: Even if it's marked down?

etc.

Yes, that's "Marked Down," by Michael Dare. Specifically designed to be read. If this book doesn't make you laugh, you probably shouldn't have bought it.

Then again, my next novel will be called "My Next Novel," though it's neck and neck in the title derby with "The Arbitrareum," "The Fallback Position," "Mango Overboard," "The Clown," "The Man Who Didn't Vote for Obama," and "Please Don't Write Me," about a writer who pulls out all the stops, cranks it out like it's never been cranked out before, and ventures into unfettered territory heretofore only explored by those armed with drugs and a keyboard missing a period.

Let's say this is an autobiography of a fictional character who bears more than a passing resemblance to me. One can't be too careful these days. Not only are "non-fiction" writers being accused of leaving out the "non" by admitting to childhoods they never had, but "fiction" writers are having their novels used against them in courts of law as evidence of their propinquity towards violence. So what the hell do you do when you've got to vent but the ducts are plugged with maniacs who can't stand the truth unless it's disguised as non-fiction disguised as fiction? Since fiction is only non-fiction written in the third person, when you write about yourself and exaggerate, you've got to trust the words, whatever comes out, start with the facts and go from there, wherever the words lead you. You decide to invent a plot so you can justify calling it more than a blog but less than a novel, but who knows what it is, a deconstruction of deconvention, manipulating the keyboard to do your bidding. A diary.

Here are some facts from my past that are just coming out this week, written in the first person but changed to the third to make it more novelistic.

Noah once came home to find it had been broken into. Nothing was missing. Everything was just in a different place. The spoons were where the forks used to be. The toilet paper that came from the top now came from the bottom. Most mysteriously, Noah's box spring was on top of his mattress with the bed made perfectly. Who would do such a thing to poor Noah?

Noah found out it was Scott and they had a big laugh, but things like that have kept happening to Noah ever since, even when he's miles away from Scott, in another state, Noah leaves, he comes back, and things are different. Noah can't always put his finger on the specifics, but whenever he changes location, or returns to somewhere he's already been, he's absolutely positive this isn't how he left it.

All of which probably means my next novel should be called "Noah's Syndrome," in which Scott tries to kill Noah because he thinks it should be called "Scott's Syndrome."

You've got to write about yourself in the third person because it's too damn easy to be on your own side. You don't have to do anything and there you are. That's why Hunter S. Thompson invented Raoul Duke, though I now hate Hunter S. Thompson because he's the man who shot Hunter S. Thompson.

Can't be on two sides at once when it's you vs. everyone else. Will mankind benefit from your having written a best selling novel or will it just buy you a more efficient bong? Maybe a maniac will read something in chapter 27 that will inspire them to invent a car that runs on Republicans and emits truffles. On the other hand, that scene in chapter 6 in the kitchen of the French restaurant could encourage a maniac to hit a perfect stranger over the head with a wok. Take full responsibility for the ripple effect and you will go mad, never creating another thing in fear of what a maniac might make of it.

I, on the other hand, don't do that. Maniacs can make of this what they will, and if someone hits you over the head with a wok, don't blame me. I didn't know you were perfect.

Chapter Two: The History of Incompetence

Someone should really write a History of Incompetence but it won't be me, I can assure you. I'm not really the least bit interested in Incompetence or any of its children like Idiocy or Moronitude. These are things I try to avoid but which I can't help writing about when I stumble across them, like that guy in the freecreditreport.com ad who somehow got a job playing electric guitar at a Renaissance Faire because someone stole his identity.

Here's my problem. What you're reading right now was written before the piece above it in the blog, the one visitors to The Diaries read first. This makes corporeal adherence impossible. You can't write a novel in a blog because you'd have to write the last chapter first, and if you're trying to throw some Capote into the mix by writing non-fiction in a fictional manner, particularly as a personal diary, you're stuck out of time, like Billy Pilgrim, forced to add a modicum of Vonnegut, whether you like it or not, every blog is a Chrono-Synclastic Infindibulum. Thus deprived of the structural necessities of the novel, things like plot, motivation, and arcs, lots of arcs, what can you do with a form that makes you write your punchlines before your setups?

There are all kinds of things down below and up above that took place both before and after what I'm about to tell you. It is unfair to judge this blog based upon just this post. One must read some of the rest in random order, that is to say the order they're currently in anyway, to get a full picture. There are things on the blog I haven't sent out in email, though there is nothing in email I haven't posted to the blog except this one, and I might be lying.

Diaries are supposed to be filled with minutia

A random display case that sneaks up to goose yuh

so here's something trivial, short but intense

just don't expect it to make any sense

I got up, made coffee, read the Times, took note of the current political situation, looked for something to write about worth submitting somewhere, combed the classifieds for any furnished two-bedroom apartments for under $400 a month, all I could afford, which was as fruitless as combing the comics for anything funny. Cleaned the house in preparation for my weekly visit from Solid Ground to make sure everything's on the up and up, ship shape, on schedule. They had given me a list of all the cheap landlords and organizations (such as their own) that helped such as I, single parents without an income, rise from the street to the conventional, a place to call our own while my son finishes high school. The land line I've been supplied only covers local calls and there's no time on my pay-as-you-go cell phone, so I'm stuck with calling numbers with the local prefix only, which is still quite a few. More than 25 phone calls revealed answer machines where I left messages, secretaries who pointed me to online submission systems, and one solitary landlord who didn't have any vacancies and didn't really keep a "list" as such but she'd be glad to take my number anyway and I should keep calling back and perhaps, if I amused her enough, she'd really take note and offer me a hallowed interrogation.

Here, in all its glory, is how I have deciphered my scrawls from the Solid Ground crib sheet…

King County Housing Authority – Submitted application

Housing Resources Group – Called, no evictions

CADA – called and visited website, no evictions

LATCH – called, put on list, submitted application

CHHIP – called, left message

LIHI – called and visited website, not accepting applications

Delridge Neighborhood Development Association – number no good

SEED – called, left message

Mt. Baker Housing Association – called, left message, put on list for Starliter

YWCA – called, closed for applications

Archdiocesan Housing Authority – called, visited website, left message

Capital Hill Housing – called, left message

Housing Resources Group – called, visited website, no evictions

Mercyhousing.org – called, visited website, nothing available in Seattle

Pike Place Market PDA – left message for La Salle, others 62+

Pioneer Human Services – called, clean and sober program only

Plymouth Housing Group – called, visited website, left message

All this duly noted on the information sheet from Solid Ground, full of checks and underlines and numbers and arrows and code, M means I left a message, A means asked for application, etc., but it wasn't good enough for Solid Ground, who wanted a separate list they could take back to the office and verify everything on the list, that I actually DID contact all those places, that I wasn't just LYING about it, which in this case would have meant they would have left ten messages on the ten message machines I left my messages on asking to verify that I left a previous message.

Wow. Never would have occurred to me. What if they respond to me but not to her, or worse, vice versa and I'm left homeless because an overworked secretary at an overworked agency trying to provide shelter to the poor makes a mistake taking notes from an answer machine that gets 100 messages a day?

Two steps forward, one step back, one step forward, two steps back. The dance of the new millennium.

When good people do bad things for good reasons

and by good people I mean all people. We're all good, and when we do bad things for good reasons, we're not bad, just misguided, by family, by friends, and by eternal rivers of crap from the media.

Someone stole my son's laptop. Yeah, it was at least half his fault for leaving it outside on the back patio, but the other half of blame must certainly be bestowed upon the one who lifted it, whom I am tempted to call a scumbag just because it feels good.

A plan had to be worked out to get it back, and for that you need a little back story.

For the first ten years of his life, my son Max (now 15) was raised far from civilization, beyond the reach of even city buses. He absolutely had to take the school bus home or he'd be stuck in town, so he never got to hang out after school and make friends. This hermit-like existence was fine for me, I just wanted peace and quiet to write, but it was bad for him, especially if you believe that half what they teach in school is YOU MUST OBEY, so social educational is half the reason for attendance. Max missed out on the social.

Now that we've moved to an actual city, Seattle, not just a city but a GREAT city, he's going out of his mind on the social end. He's never been able to simply invite friends home after school. Now he can't stop, there are lots of them, and since we moved into a pretty cool place, they keep coming back. Many of the regulars I've gotten to know, and I've ended up enjoying the social life too, making friends with teenagers, what's not to like.

Then Buster came back from a one year journey to Louisiana. Can't blame him. I myself must have left home at least two or three times till it took. He's 21, I've missed him, good to have him around, and he too has been marveling at the quantity and quality of the new friends Max has made.

In my new role as manager of a community center, I've had to lay down guidelines, no smoking in the house, everyone gone by 10 on schooldays, when I'm in the living room, I'm in charge of the TV, no eating from our refrigerator, that sort of thing, but it's become complicated by some friends who turn out to be homeless and want to crash on the patio. I've said no, not because I'm heartless, but because once that snowball gets rolling, it could turn into a landslide that buries us. There simply isn't enough room and neighbors have already complained.

Then Buster's laptop was gone. Yeah, one thief can ruin the whole thing. I consider shutting the whole thing down. I told Max "Someone wasn't just walking by and happened to come onto the patio in our backyard. Since everyone here has been invited, that means someone has invited a thief. You might not know who did it, but you know who invited them. Here's your assignment. We will either get the computer back or I will get an apology from whoever invited the thief, and I have no problem calling the cops."

The next day, a whole bunch of people from school showed up, some invited, some not, all hanging out in the backyard. I asked Max who they were. He said some of them he specifically DIDN'T invite. I said "Invite all the people you're sure about, your actual friends, into the house." He invited them in and I knew them all, good kids, glad to have them around. The rest were outside. I opened the door and told them "You guys have got to split, and don't come back unless you're invited," purposely not mentioning the computer, letting them figure it out by themselves.

It must be pointed out the computer is completely useless to anyone but Buster. There's nothing on it but music, retrievable, and his personal writing, irretrievable. It has no bottom, the CD drive is busted, and the fan doesn't work, so it can only be run while sitting on top of another full sized fan or it gets too hot and turns itself off in one minute. No pawnshop on earth would touch it and worthless to whomever took it, that's how theft goes, the stolen item worth more to the victim than the thief trading on their misery.

This morning, the laptop was there on the doorstep. I presume I will never know who took it, though Max might. I also presume this was some sort of game or power trip and not the work of an actual thief. Somebody convinced them to give it back. They did a bad thing, then a good thing. Maybe they had a good reason. Maybe they had a bad reason. Maybe they would have kept it if they could have sold it. I only know I must have sent out the right messages because this is the right ending.

Type away, Buster, type away.

Ode to the Bathroom at the YWCA

Oh bathroom at the YWCA, why do you treat me this way?

            Downtown Seattle

            Up the block from the McDonalds

        In all your splendor

You know I just want to use you in all your normality

            Your two toilets

            Your two urinals

        It makes me quiver just to think of them

I look forward to our liaisons with tender anticipation

            Why do you make me wait so long?

            Why do I have to give you my Washington State driver's license  before you let me tinkle?

        You've got room for four.

Surely there' s room for me at urinal #1

            While someone used toilet #3

            Why will you only let in one at time?

        Creating a constant line

Waiting for someone to come out

            Someone who may be doing something wrong in the bathroom

            We understand

        Junkies shouldn't use drugs in public restrooms

            We understand

            You used to be open and free

        Fulfilling your function

            A facility for four

            For a busy office

But now we've got to get a key attached to a piece of plastic

            To let ourselves in

            And while we are in you

        No one else may enter without the key they possess

In tribute to the minds behind this Bizarro World policy

            If you don't want people to do drugs in the bathroom

            What you DON'T do

        is let them lock the door

A policy

            meant to stop something

            it actually ends up encouraging

        Where've I heard that one before?

 

MD

 

Good social workers

Sarn Saechao is a prince. He' s my DHSH social worker and he has gone out of his way to help me out. When the times were tough, when I faced homelessness, he performed above and beyond the call of duty while adhering to the rules precisely, providing genuine social service and doing nothing less than his job. He's a social worker of the highest possible caliber.

Henry Gillon is fantastic. He was my first worker with WorkSource. He got a look at my résumé, realized it was a special case, and helped me work my way through a system that was completely foreign to me. Knowing what I was capable of, when he combed the job listings as part of his daily job, he would always let me know if there was something up my alley. He never talked down to me, was completely sympathetic, and did his job professionally and compassionately.

I tell you this in case you think I've got it in for social workers. I don't. Every social worker I've had contact with in Seattle has been helpful, courteous, and professional.

All but one, the hideous atrocity, Hazel "Mussolini" Borjal, the pathetic imitation of a social worker written about below.

Seattle's Most Incompetent Social Worker

Hazel Borjal

The bureaucracy. A social worker half my age on a power trip. The impossibility of explaining things to the unintelligent. That's what life has been like. Thanks for asking.

In order to get cash aid from the government these days, you've got to jump through hoops, I know that, but my current hoops are so asinine they boggle the mind.

My social worker, Hazel Borjal, a swarthy toad of a woman with a loathsome air of superiority, works for the community jobs program out of the downtown YWCA. Through this program, I have a superb community job refurbishing computers at InterConnection. But there's a glitch. She says she will throw me out of the program if I don't also attend classes. Education is part of the program. I must attend. The classes they offer are no more advanced than beginning typing. How to use a keyboard and mouse. How to conduct yourself at a job interview.

Beginning internet. She could get me out of this. She won't. The nicest thing I can say about Hazel Borjal is that she is not a douchebag since, after all, she does not make your girlfriend taste better after using her.

Here's how my "education" has gone so far.

My first class was with Aziz. It was about how to find work. He's smart and funny, a journalist and publisher with a day job. When he found out I was a publisher and journalist who knew more than he about what he was teaching, he threw the class open to question and answer with me and the class. It was actually fun. Everyone learned something but me.

My next class was beginning keyboard. The teacher couldn't help but notice I wasn't paying attention and was pissed off. [a deliberate split infinitive for you grammar geeks] I asked the teacher to please just give me the final exam and leave me alone. They showed me some sort of typing program they had on the computer. I immediately started typing at my standard 60WPM, clickety clickety clack, and people in the class who were struggling to get past phase one of learning f, g, h, and j, got up to stand behind me like they'd never seen anyone type that fast before. It was a curious experience to be entertaining people with my typing, not my writing, which I'd always considered to be pretty much the same thing.

The teacher asked me what I was doing there in a typing class I obviously didn't need. I told her my social worker said I had to attend. "Why?" they asked. "Because she's incompetent?" I said. I blurted out a little of my history. "You know more than me," the teacher said. "You could teach this class." They complained about the social worker wasting both their time and mine. I spent the rest of the class in the back reading a newspaper.

My next class was beginning internet. The teacher couldn't help but notice I wasn't paying attention and was pissed off. [IBID] I asked them to please just give me the final exam and leave me alone. There was no final exam. I opened up a browser on one of the class computers and showed her one of the dozens of websites I've designed. "These are pretty good," they said. "Why are you in this class? You obviously don't need it." I told her my social worker said I had to attend. "Why?" they asked. "Because she's a sadist?" I said. I answered a bunch of questions from the class, and from the teacher, who asked me to fix their computer. The teacher complained about the social worker wasting both their time and mine. I spent the rest of the class in the back reading the newspaper.

In order to attend these classes I have to take a bus from my home to downtown Seattle. Takes an hour. From there I have to take another bus to InterConnection where I refurbish computers for five hours in order to get paid by the program. If I go to InterConnection without going to the class first, I don't get paid. Then it's another two busses to get home.
"Just use the computers in the class to do your work," I hear you scream. Can't happen. The computers have filters that won't let through any blogs. You can only do online job search. I looked through the list and there wasn't a single one I had any experience in. I applied for every single one. What the fuck.

When I got home, I checked my email. One had written back, asking me some question about my experience, but I couldn't reply because I didn't know which job it was or what kind of experience they were looking for. I only knew my credit writing Animaniacs probably wouldn't help.

Of course Hazel, Miss Brain Glitch 2009, doesn't care as long as it looks like I'm looking for work, no matter how futile. I try to explain to her that I can only look for work from MY computer, where I've got all my email and archives. She doesn't care. She thinks I'm lying, that I just don't want to go to school, like all her other clientele of crack addicts and pregnant teenagers. She complains I'm asking for some sort of special treatment, but I think everyone should get special treatment. There's no cookie cutter solution to everyone's problems. Yeah, many people on Welfare need to get their GEDs and education is important, but my 40th high school reunion is coming up, I'm a professional with a serious 30 year career who's hit hard times like everyone else, and my problems can't be solved by teaching me to type.

There are other people at InterConnection who don't have to go to class, but the Glitch absolutely refused to explain why they're getting special treatment.

Got a book in the mail this week. It's a textbook from the University of Mississippi, Jonathan Demme Interviews, that includes my LA Weekly interview with him in 1984 for the film Stop Making Sense. The book didn't pay anything but I can put it on my résumé and honestly say from now on that I've written part of a college textbook. I showed her the book. She wouldn't even take it and look at it. The first words out of her mouth, I swear to God, upon being confronted with a client who writes college textbooks, she asked me if I'd considered another career, and repeated her claim that I needed to take a typing class.

Next month Microsoft is laying off 5,000 workers. I can only assume that upon being confronted with one of them, she'll insist they take computer classes. Next month, the local daily paper the Seattle Post-Intelligencer is going under and thousands of journalists like me are going to be out of work. I can only assume that upon being confronted with one of them, she'll insist they take courses in how to use a keyboard and mouse.

Those journalists, upon being confronted with such idiocy, would be pissed off. Chances are they would write about it. Chances are someone would print it. This could be a PR nightmare. Good idea.

So I'm thinking about vengeance. Vengeance is good. I'm a journalist. I'm willing to be a nightmare.

I once met the grandson of Daryl Zanuck, a famous Hollywood mogul. Andre Hakim Zanuck ripped me off to the tune of at least $25,000. In order to prevent anyone else from being taken in by him again, I posted his picture to my website with a warning, saying don't get involved with this guy, he's a liar and the biggest asshole on earth.

Something mysterious happened. It went viral thanks to DIGG and STUMBLEUPON, which had interesting results. To this day, if you type "biggest asshole on earth" into Google and hit "I'm Feeling Lucky," Andre's picture comes up.

Cool.

Now I know how to do it.

So I'm thinking something like "world's most incompetent social worker." Oh sure, there are probably social workers more incompetent but who gives a shit, this is vengeance we're talking about and I feel devious. For the rest of eternity, if she loses her job, applies for a new one, and they Google her name, up will pop my story of what an incredible idiot she is. I can make it happen. I can fuck her up like she's fucked me up. You can do it too, to anyone you hate, especially if it's someone with a weird name. I've looked up Hazel's name and the only thing that comes up is a six-year-old rape victim in the Philippines who probably won't be Googling themselves any time soon.

Okay, she's an incredibly minor league asshole, bossing around street derelicts and the homeless without a care in the world for their actual needs, just pushing paper, a brainless automaton, not even worth writing about if she weren't taking out her idiocy on me. And she's not even as incompetent as Chief Justice Roberts, that MAJOR league asshole who blew Obama's oath. Maybe she's only the most incompetent social worker in Seattle, but I'm too lazy to go up and change the subject.

My goal? Anyone who goes to Google, looks up "fucktard," clicks on "I'm feeling lucky," Hazel Borjal comes up.

Or I can tidy up this splendid piece of spicy vindictiveness, remove all the slander and fucks and such, submit it to her superiors and request an administrative hearing. The only other person in the program who doesn't have to go to class, the one Hazel refuses to talk to me about, is a black woman who is just as puzzled as I am at Hazel's irrational behavior. I can claim racial and sexual prejudice since race and sex seem to be the only differences between our two cases, other than the fact she hasn't written any college textbooks.

Yeah, it's a fucking rant, I said I could type 60WPM but no, you wouldn't believe me. It's the only thing I can do about the situation. Thank God I'm a writer or I'd kill somebody.