I've mentioned the decomposing rat on the sidewalk, but today, jaywalking in front of my house, I noticed another dead rat, flattened in the street. Dunno how long it's been there, because it's close to invisible — just about the same color as the asphalt, and the blood is long gone. It's flatter 'n a Pop Tart, too.
Look both ways before crossing the street, kids. And rats.
For no particular reason, I rode a bus to downtown. Checking up on the area, I guess. Many years ago, I lived in downtown Seattle, and while almost everything there has changed for the worse, I was looking for the good old days.
I used to buy sandwiches at that corner. Had lunch in that restaurant when it was called something else. Lived up that street, and later lived down another street.
CRANKY OLD FART #268 leftovers & links Saturday, Jan. 28, 2023 |
I have lived a few lives, been to some cities, seen some stretches of despair, but I've never seen anything quite like Seattle's Third Avenue. People walk there, but 95% of them are bums, and the rest are wary locals waiting for a bus, or visitors from out of town regretting it, or private security guards.
It's a mortal wound that's bringing down all of downtown. A few blocks away, a movie multiplex closed a week ago, along with a giant prestige shoe shop, because the hell of Third Avenue sucks everything into its sphere of decay and degradation.
Of course, it doesn't have to be like this. We choose it. With a fraction of the funds government wastes on kickbacks and the military and perpetually widening the freeways, we could make cheap but livable housing available to everyone who needs it.
Imagine, a support system — so nobody, no matter how crazy, would choose to wander Third Avenue.
But, nah. Instead of raising taxes on millionaires by 1%, we'd rather have tents on the sidewalk, dangerous streets in an ugly city, and people in misery until they die.
When I lived in the slums of San Francisco, there were often street preachers babbling into microphones to blast entire neighborhoods with the gospel of Jesus. It's boring and annoying, and using microphones is simply rude. Jesus never used microphones.
Seattle doesn't have real slums, to my knowledge, and I haven't seen many street preachers, thank God. There's often one or two at the bus stations, but they don't have microphones, and don't even preach — they just stand there, with a tall rack full of Jesus literature. Can't much object to that.
But outside of Mrs Rigby's Diner last Saturday morning, there was a street preacher on the sidewalk, wearing a suit, preaching into a microphone, in Spanish. There was no crowd listening. Nobody walking by even slowed. Everyone ignored him, as they should, but I couldn't. He was standing only about twenty feet from my bus stop, preaching angry and amplified.
Not speaking Spanish I don't know what he was saying, but to me it was a declaration of rudeness, so I started chanting at him, "Bullshit bullshit bullshit," wishing I knew enough Spanish to say it in his language. No translation was necessary, though. It pissed him off, and he leaned over and twirled a button on the box at his feet, making his sermon even louder without requiring any further effort on his part.
In an argument, that's cheating, ain't it?
With my bus half a block away, I went full Max Von Sydow with a memorable line from The Excorcist, "The power of Christ compels you!" I shouted it at him several times, and uh, quite loudly. Surprising myself with my loudness.
He shouted louder, too, all of it aimed only at me, and veins were throbbing on his forehead. It was so splendid, I was having such a good time, that I hesitated, and seriously considered not getting onto the bus when it pulled over.
But if I'd stayed, I would've stepped closer to him, and who knows, he might've taken a swing at me or me at him, either of which would make things too complicated for a Saturday morning.
So I got onto the bus, took a seat, and waved the preacher goodbye with my middle finger.
Here's a recurring dream that hasn't recurred in half a year or so, but last night's was especially detailed and vivid. My wife Stephanie was back, explaining that her death had all been a mistake. She'd never died, and our lives together were going to resume.
I woke up believing it, happier than I've been in years.
Only I was here in this house, in Seattle, 2,000 miles from where she'd died, in a room with none of her dialysis equipment or supplies. Was her kidney failure a mistake too? I seriously wondered for a moment. It took longer than it should've to realize again that she was dead, and start re-grieving.
The more common dreams of her are much better — dreams where we're on a date, riding the Merrimac Ferry in Wisconsin, or the cable cars in San Francisco, or just relaxing at home and talking, maybe canoodling.
More of those dreams, please, and fewer of the 'mistakes'.
News you need,
whether you know it or not
• Five black cops beat a black man to death in Memphis
All cops are bastards, and once hired, any black police officer is effectively blue, not black.
• Climate change is increasing the risk of a California megaflood
• Let's feign surprise at 'news' that William Barr was corrupt as Attorney General
And let's also pretend something will be done about it.
Mystery links
There's no knowing where you're going
• Click
• Click
• Click
Clicks ahoy
• The once-in-a-generation opportunity to remake downtowns
• 5 things you may not know about the Challenger shuttle disaster
• Japanese baseball, a 150-year journey of transformation
• What would happen if you tried to hit a baseball pitched at 90% the speed of light?
• Alec Baldwin didn’t have to talk to the police. Neither do you.
• Is this tomorrow: America under communism!
• The food expiration dates you should actually follow
♫♬ Mix tape of my mind ♫
• Ninety-Nine Revolutions — Green Day
• Some Humans Ain't Human — John Prine
• Wild Signals — John Williams
Eventually, everyone
leaves the building
1/28/2023
Now the street preacher looked so baffled
ReplyDeleteWhen I asked him why he dressed
With twenty pounds of headlines
Stapled to his chest
But he cursed me when I proved it to him
Then I said, “Not even you can hide
You see, you’re just like me
I hope you’re satisfied”
Oh, Mama, can this really be the end
To be stuck inside of Mobile
With the Memphis blues again
From "(Stuck Inside of Mobile With the) Memphis Blues Again" by Bob Dylan, Copyright © 1966 by Dwarf Music; renewed 1994 by Dwarf Music
Thank you for remembering Victor Navasky, longtime publisher and editor-in-chief of The Nation magazine. I came across Victor through his magazine and through the columns of Calvin Trillin, one of my favorite writers. Trillin repeatedly told the story of becoming a columnist for The Nation and negotiating his compensation with "the wily and parsimonious Victor Navasky" who offered Trillin compensation "somewhere in the high two figures". Trillin, though semi-retired, is still with us, alive and well in Greenwich Village, New York. Victor Navasky was on our side.
ReplyDeleteJohn