Olympic Lessons: 2 Sound of the Street: 3 Crab Cake Love: 4 Cult Film Memories: 5
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pring is on the way, which means street construction work is about to resume. This time, it’s on Third Avenue between Virginia and Cedar streets. The Seattle Department of Transportation (SDOT) will build concrete bus bulb/curb and sidewalk extensions at bus stops along Third. They’re intended to eliminate the need for Metro buses to pull in and out of traffic. The city will also build new curb ramps, install new bike racks, and improve street lighting. You can expect the usual temporary lane closures, parking restructions, and what SDOT calls “moderate” construction noise.
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In other street-construction news, Washington state received a $30 million Federal grant to help rebuild the infamous “Mercer Mess” in south Lake Union.
The City of Seattle is holding a series of public meetings in March entitled “Creating a Great Central Waterfront.” None of the meetings are being held anywhere near the waterfront or adjacent Belltown. The meetings are hosted by the City’s Central Waterfront Partnerships Committee and the Department of Planning and Development, and will discuss ideas for “safe, attractive and inviting new public spaces on the central waterfront.” The closest this show gets to here is on Thursday, March 4, 7:30 p.m. at the Miller Community Center, 330 19th Ave. E.
“Love, Peace, Planet—Belltown” is an evening of networking and promotion for neighborhood merchants. It’s Thursday, March 4, 6-10 p.m. at Salon Ciba, 2301 1st Ave. At the event, motivational speaker Kevin Givens will discuss the value of local business networking. Jeff Newsom of the environmental group AShirtBag will give away save-the-Earth gifts, including “Tree-in-a-Box” kits. There are also demonstrations of hair trends, massage, health and beauty products, clothes, and art photography. For more, email cindy@salonciba.com.
The medium-rise condo development at First and Bell that had been called the “Alex” during construction is almost done (about a year later than originally expected). And it’s been rechristened the “Volta.” The name change is part of a repositioning of the project. With a glut of residential projects on the market, particularly at the higher price points, Volta’s developers have opted to install more standardized finishes and to charge less than they’d planned to. Units now start at $299,950 for a onebedroom unit. A sales center will open at the site in April or May. See VoltaOnBell.com for details.
Clark
As we await the launch of Seattle Sounders FC’s second season, our city’s at the intersection of an international soccer sex scandal. Ann Corbitt, an aide to City Councilmember Tom Rasmussen, admitted to the British press that
she’d had a one-night stand with visiting Chelsea soccer star Ashley Cook (then-husband of a UK reality-TV show judge). It took place last July, in Cook’s room at the new Four Seasons Hotel. She either gave or sold her confession story to Rupert Murdoch’s paper News of the World, complete with what Publicola.net called “numerous salacious details about her encounter with Cole.” In response, Belltown’s 5 Point Cafe offered $3 “Ann Corbitt Cheap Shot” drinks in the last week of February. They contained vodka, rum, cranberry and pineapple juices, 7 Up and soda water. ≤ –CH
Because the world needs you now.
Robert Taylor, author of the book I’m Spritual, Not Religious, is coming to Belltown to speak on spirituality as a “Common Ground for Global Engagement.” It takes place Thursday, March 18, 7 p.m. at at Antioch University Seattle, 2326 6th Ave. The free program is part of Antioch’s “Global Issues and Perspectives” lecture series.
THE CHERRY BLOSSOMS ARE SHOWING UP, WEEKS AHEAD OF SCHEDULE. Nice.
Seattle Landmark. The nomination’s part of the center’s ongoing plan for upgrades to its buildings, which seemed so futuristic when they opened 48 years ago. Even more intriguing is the name of the Science Center PR official who sent us the announcement: Crystal Clarity. (If only more publicity had that...)
The Pacific Science Center has applied to the City to nominate its campus as an official City of
Pat Russell, Psy.D., 2008; Psychologist, First Place School
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MISC BELLTOWN MESSENGER #77 • March 2010
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NDER ‘COVER’: This month’s special SIFF Cinema screening of Lynn Shelton’s $5 Cover: Seattle (a series of music and drama shorts made for MTV.com) has a $12-$15 cover. In other news, the cinema is a world of make believe. HUMMING ‘TAPS’: The Chinese backed out of a takeover deal, so GM plans to shut down Hummer. The NYT says the brand sold only 265 vehicles in January. Without the vehicle that most blatantly iconified Bush-era macho posturing and material waste, what will the Pike/Pine hipsters use as an all-purpose symbol of ridicule against the hated evil Mainstream America?
Oh yeah, there’s still Wal-Mart. For now. THE NEW NORMAL?: In a recent issue of The Atlantic magazine, Don Peck ponders what could happen if high unemployment for the non-rich sticks around for years to come. I’m old enough to have seen that very thing around here, during the Boeing slump of the early ’70s. What happened was a lot of emotional depression, a lot of moving away (Seattle proper lost about 10 percent of its population), a lot of depressed home values, and, eventually, a lot of entrepreneurism, as desperate folks got up and tried to rebuild their lives with or without a paternalistic big employer. THE RACE IS ON, SERIOUSLY: You already know about the hit blog/book Stuff White People Like. It’s a gentle satire on the ways and mores of the upscale NPR/Starbucks/REI subculture. One guy named “Macon D� has taken the same premise, cut Clark Humphrey out the funny business, and created a serious examination of modern ethnic attitudes. As he explains, “I’m a white guy,
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trying to find out what that means. Especially the ‘“white’ part.â€? His site: Stuff White People DO (stuffwhitepeopledo.blogspot. com). Entries include: “force people of color to bring along racial baggage during vacations,â€? “think of ‘hot’ women as white women,â€? “wonder why there’s no ‘white history month,’â€? and “seek authenticity.â€? THINGS I’VE LEARNED FROM THE OLYMPICS: • Curling really is the greatest game of all time. • Belltown’s own Apolo Anton Ohno is in line to replace the disgraced Tiger Woods as the champion all-around ad spokesman for everything. This does not, however, mean very many people will care about short-track speed skating between now and the next Winter Games. • I can see why the Intl. Olympic Committee chose to add more “x-treme-yâ€? events and not to add women’s ski jumping, even though I disagree with the decision. Why simply stick on an extension to a legacy Olympic sport when you can instead grow your young, hip, edgy, more marketable side? • The whole thang’s a fiscal disaster for the Vancouver and B.C. governments. But the province’s zeal in attracting the Games is un-
Clark Humphrey’s
MISC
derstandable if you know how that place works. Over recent decades, successive provincial leaders have staked their political careers on “megaprojects,â€? big govt.-subsidized development schemes that invariably funnel money from the taxpayers to politically-connected landowners and construction firms. The Olympics are simply the biggest, costliest megaproject of them all. • NBC’s coverage sucks because the network’s stuck in a coverage model invented decades ago by ABC sports exec Roone Arledge. He operated from the premise that too few Americans intrinsically cared about these sports, so instead he’d put on a drama serial. Pretaped profile pieces turned these athletes into instant celebrities (even if, in real life, they were often bland workaholics). Armies of videotape editors would slice-n’dice the competition footage into “shows,â€? carefully timed to draw and keep the biggest possible mass audience for the longest possible viewing time. But we’re not in the three-network era anymore. In the age of cable + Internet, audiences are fragmented into little pieces based on shared intense interest— such as those who are intensely interested in winter sports. The more you care about any of these events, the more you’re disgusted by what NBC does to them. I LIKE TO THINK I’M MORE OF A WIDGET, MYSELF: There’s this guy named Jaron Lanier. He was part of some of the earliest virtual reality research, as he’ll repeatedly tell you.
Clark
2
AN UNKNOWN CINERAMA MOVIEGOER provides aid for hungry pigeons.
Now he’s rebranded himself as a cyber-skeptic. While he insists he’s no Luddite, he sure talks as if he thinks everything wrong with modern society could be traced to the Internet, to its imperfect technologies, and to its even more imperfect business models. He’s compiled some of these screeds into a book, You Are Not a Gadget. It’s subtitled “A Manifesto,� but it’s less of a single structured argument and more of a package of rewritten magazine essays. In them, Lanier blames the collapse of just about all old-media businesses on the Web’s inability to command a price for content. He blames what he calls the sameness of modern pop music on the bad influence of discrete synths and samplers. He blames lousy software on open-source collectives that just
“Corporate music would end up in a recursive death cycle.� can’t innovate the way individuals and strong-leader groups can. He blames 2008’s economic collapse on inscrutably arcane “investment products� that could only have been devised with the aid of advanced computer technology. He blames what he calls a devaluing of the individual in today’s world on Web 2.0 sites’ obsession with collective anonymity, with turning humans into abstracted collections of likes and associations. I’m not convinced. Yes, the legacy ephemeral-media businesses (broadcast TV, radio, newspapers, magazines, and so on) are in huge trouble. But the whole concept of the mass audience, upon which these businesses had relied, has cracked, probably irreversably. The Web has only some of the blame/credit for this. Apple, Amazon, and others have proven people will pay for content delivered as electronic bits, under the proper circumstances. I be-
lieve the iPad and machines like it will only help commercial e-media grow. Meanwhile, the decaying remnants of the big record companies (there are only four of them left, none US-owned and only one (Sony) still tethered to a major corporation) continually try to stuff the musical genie back into the broken mass-market bottle. They promote decreasingly distinctive works, issued under the names of professional gossip-mag celebrities. In the 1980s, folks such as Sub Pop founder Bruce Pavitt predicted corporate music would end up in a recursive death cycle. It’s happened, and it ain’t pretty, but it was inevitable. Open source software didn’t grow out of mistaken techno-hippie idealism, as Lanier claims, but out of mainframe-era computing administrators who shared pieces of code as a professional courtesy. From the start, it was all about insider geeks helping find better ways to solve existing problems. So it gives us insider-geek tools like LINUX and better-mousetrap stuff like the Firefox browser. If the truly innovative tech stuff always comes from individuals and top-down groups, as Lanier alleges, it’s because that’s where the make-a-name-for-yourself incentive is. As for the financial bubble, Lanier’s closer to where I believe the mark is, but still misses it. The fatal link to the reckless speculators wasn’t from Internet technologies, but Internet business models. A decade after the first dot-coms arose, large swaths of business and most of finance had adopted dot-com mindsets. Enron was only the first prominent example. We can make millions, billions, fast! Not by old slowpoke returnon-investment models, but by devising really clever schemes and then selling them as hard as humanly possible—no, even harder. The whole of the global economy was wrested by the same smirky tall white guys who’d given us such surefire success stories as Flooz.com, Kozmo.com, and MyLackey.com. And then comes what I see as Lanier’s most important allegation, that being online is degrading what it means to be human. No. It’s really the marketing business that wants to either lump us all into an undifferentiated mass or to wall us off from one another on the basis of demographics and buying habits. Social media, at their best, help humans reconnect to one another on other bases—political/social organizing, religious/spiritual questing, shared cultural memories, or just being alive and having something to say. ≤ miscmedia.com
BELLTOWN MESSENGER #77 • March 2010
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CLARK HUMPHREY reveals the secret to First Avenue’s success
Bar Wars: How Belltown Won
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hate reality TV. I watched one episode of the first Survivor when that aired to see what all the fuss was about. Instead of being “reality,” it seemed even more tightly edited than a regular TV show. You never really got to see anything happen. There would be about 30 seconds of some kind of action, but constantly intercut with studio interviews from the
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participants explaining what was happening, as if they felt the viewing audience was too stupid to figure it out for themselves. Hmm, did they have a point there? I also watched the final episode to see who won. There was Susan Hawk proudly announcing her vote would go to Richard Hatch (making him the winner) over Kelly Wigglesworth, and getting really mean about it. Why, I thought, do you want to show off your most unpleasant side to a nationwide audience? Clearly, this wasn’t the TV genre for me. But such shows have proliferated like a virus. And they’ve really elevated touchy/feely-ness to a new level. Now, you’re supposed to be comfortable with exposing all of your innermost secrets to the world; if you’re not emoting, you’re not being “real.” You see this on talk shows too, of Gillian G. Gaar course. People scrabbling for their 15 minutes by proclaiming such inanities as, “I slept with my mother’s boyfriend — and his son!” This setting up of instant intimacy has frequently left me feeling uncomfortable. Especially now that people are increasingly picking up cameras to document the drama in their own lives. Is it really necessary to have to share everything about your life? Are there some stories that shouldn’t be told? All these thoughts kept going through my mind as I watched the documentary Prodigal Sons, which played SIFF last year, and will play SIFF Cinema March 5-7 and 10-11. The film tells quite a story. It recounts director Kimberly Reed’s journey back to her childhood home in Helena, Montana. The first twist would be sufficient for most films: Kimberly used to
s Elliott Bay Book Co. prepares to leave Pioneer Square a business neighborhood without an “anchor tenant,” the Square’s major retail industry, big rowdy bars, is also in decline. The J&M shuttered altogether (it’s rumored to be reopening under new management as less of a bar and more of a cafe). Others are rumored to be in trouble. I remember the glory days of the Square’s nightlife scene. I remember that milieu’s signature street sound. You’d stand in front of the pergola around midnight on a Saturday. You could hear, from five different bars, five different white blues bands, each cranking out a mediocre rendition of “Mustang Sally,” each band slightly Clark Humphrey out of tempo with the others. It was a cacophany only avant-garde composer Charles Ives could have dreamt up. That scene was already waning before the infamous 2001 Mardi Gras melee gave the Square a bad PR rep. Fast forward almost a decade. Today’s loci for bigtime drinking are Fremont, Pike/Pine, and especially Belltown. Belltown’s bar scene has its own signature street sound. It’s the arhythmic clippety-clop of dozens of high-heel shoes trotting up and down the sidewalks of First Avenue. Creating this sound are
many small groups of bargoers, small seas of black dresses and perfect hairdos. These women, and their precursors over the past decade and a half, are the reason Belltown won the bar wars. In my photo-history book Seattle’s Belltown, I described the rise of the upper First Avenue bar scene: “After the Vogue proved straight people would indeed come to Belltown to drink and dance, larger, more mainstream nightclubs emerged. Among the first, both on First Avenue, were Casa U Betcha (opened 1989) and Downunder (opened 1991). Both places began on a simple premise: Create an exciting yet comfortable place for image-conscious young women, and the fellows would follow in tow (or in search).” To this target market, the Square was, and would always be, too dark, too grungy, and too iffy. The condo canyons of Belltown, in contrast, were relatively clean (if
“Belltown’s bar scene has its own signature street sound.” still barren) with fresh new buildings and sported (at least some) well-lit sidewalks. The state liquor laws were liberalized later in the 1990s, lead-
ing to more and bigger hard-liquor bars. Casa U Betcha and Downunder gave way to slicker fun palaces, all carefully designed and lit, with fancy drinks at fancy prices to be consumed while wearing fancy out-on-the-town clothes and admiring others doing the same. And, aside from the occasional Sport, nearly all these joints sought to attract, or at least not to offend, the young-adult female market. You’re free to make your comparisons here to the high-heeled and well-heeled fashionistas of HBO’s old Sex and the City. I’d prefer a more local comparison, to Sex In Seattle. In case you don’t know, that’s a live stage show that’s presented 17 installments since 2001. Its heroines are social and career strivers, less materialistic and less “arrived” than the Sex and the City women. And they’re Asian Americans. As are Sex In Seattle’s writers and producers. As are a healthy proportion of the clientele at Belltown’s megabars these days. These customers want many of the same things Belltown residents want. They like attractive, clean, safe streets with well-lit sidewalks. They may make a little more noise outside than some of the residents want to hear. But we’re all in the same place, geographically and otherwise. ≤
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be Paul, a star quarterback in high school. But Prodigal Sons goes further. Though home movies show then-Paul and his brothers growing up in an all-American setting, it turns out there’s much more going on beneath the surface than one would guess. Which brings us to the second twist: the film’s main story isn’t about a small-town reaction to a former high school jock’s sex change, but rather Kim’s relationship with her own family, especially her estranged older, adopted brother Marc. Kim is hoping her visit can help the two to reconnect. Though perhaps bringing a camera into the situation isn’t the best idea. I know if an estranged relative wants to mend fences with me, I’m not going to want to be filmed while we “process.” But that (apparently) isn’t the case here. Marc doesn’t seem to have issues with the camera, because the third twist is that he has his own problems. Clearly always resentful of Paul/Kim’s success with the outside world, his personal abilities to cope have been further hampered by the brain
damage he suffered as the result of an accident, and the subsequent operations that have left him with frightening mood swings. When the family gets together, it’s akin to watching a pressure cooker turned up to high: you hold your breath waiting for the explosion. Naturally those explosive moments come (along with a few more unexpected twists). And that’s what we want to see, isn’t it? It’s boring when the family
“You’re supposed to be comfortable with exposing all of your innermost secrets to the world.” gets along. We want that conflict. It’s what a good story is made of. But as the tensions spiraled into an ugly violence, I found myself squirming, as if I was eavesdropping on something I wasn’t supposed to see. Kim herself provides the voiceover narration, pulling
you into the story immediately, with the result that by the time the fights erupt, I felt as if I’d intruded on what should have been a private moment. The constant displays of raw emotion left me unsettled, both by the fact that they were being exposed so publicly, and that I had chosen to watch them, making me a willing participant. It’s rare to find a film that’s so provocative, both in its subject matter, and in its push to get you to think. How many films, really, are designed to be more than a passive, complacent viewing experience? At the film’s conclusion comes the sobering realization that not all wounds can be healed. Even Kim has an uncomfortable moment when Marc shows childhood photos of the family to others, not wanting her own past to be exposed. In the end, she realizes that accepting, not denying, one’s past helps you become a whole person. But the family itself remains fragmented, their secrets out for the world to judge and dissect at its leisure. That’s entertainment. ≤
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BELLTOWN DINING BELLTOWN MESSENGER #77 • March 2010
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RONALD HOLDEN has some favorite things
Crab Cakes, Steak, Oysters
I
t takes nothing away from Tom Douglas, who chronicled Seattle’s love affair with crab cakes (and wrote a cookbook with 50 crab cake recipes), that the best example in town comes from a competitor’s kitchen. It’s the highest ingredient-cost item on the Steelhead Diner menu, Ronald Holden $15.95. Most restaurants start with lesser grades of crab (a couple of ounces at most) and typically extend it with cracker-crumbs or other filler; not here. Kevin Davis, Steelhead’s chef and owner (with his wife, Teresa), developed the recipe when he was at the now-defunct Oceanaire: start with plain white bread, properly moistened with homemade, whole-egg mayonnaise and Dijon mustard, seasoned with garlic, cilantro, green onion, Hungarian
“Legs and claws that cost $27 a pound, wholesale.” paprika, a touch of habanero, a drop of tabasco and a splash of lime. For each crab cake, take a handful of Dungeness crab meat, the good stuff (legs and claws that cost $27 a pound, wholesale) and add just enough of the base to hold it together until you’ve got a hefty, six-ounce wad, about the size of a tennis ball. You won’t
taste the breading at all; it’s only a mortar of flavors to support the briny crab legs. A prep cook, Juan Allegria, who’s been with Davis for eight years, actually puts them together and delivers them to the kitchen. These days, Davis himself is busy transforming the Oceanaire, which he’ll reopen as Blueacre Seafood on March 19th; his chef de cuisine at Steelhead, the talented Anthony Polizzi, fried up our most recent order, topped with flash-fried parsley and served on a bed of traditional Louis sauce. It’s a dish you can share as an appetizer, or make into your main course. Davis himself, as we’ve written in this space more than once, is not a fussy innovator. “There’s a reason for culinary classics, dishes that stand the test of time,” he says. “When it’s done right, a crab cake can be as good as anything you’ll ever eat.” Steelhead Diner steelheaddiner.com
MEAT MAN By now, we know about Wagyu, literally “Japanese beef.” Not to put too fine a point on it, there’s an American Wagyu as well. Coddled cattle, well-fed, well-housed, regularly massaged, soothed by classical music, as pampered as lapdogs. Comes now a third Gyu, a subset of Wagyu, raised by farmers in
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POSTCARD FROM SHELTON It’s normally a one-lane track from forest to shore along Totten Inlet, but under the full moon and extreme low tide, there’s now a couple hundred yards between the treeline and the water’s edge. Underfoot, it’s all wet sand and oyster shells. Behind us, wearing LED headlamps, a work crew is picking oysters out of the ground, first into plastic buckets, then into 20-bushel wire cages. Totten Inlet Virginicas they are. The time has come, said Cornichon, For bivalves on the beach: The moon is full, the tide is out ... We’ll have an oyster feast! “Here, let me open a couple for you,” says an oysterman who appears out of the blackness, one of a dozen Taylor Shellfish employees who’ve come out for this periodic moonlight picnic. He reaches down and plucks a couple of shells from the sand, trots down to water’s edge to rinse them, and returns, shucker’s knife in hand. Seconds later, we’re slurping the Virginicas, firm and icy-cold, chased with a sip of Cedergreen sauvignon blanc. The oyster to end all oysters, the picnic to end all picnics, an event of pure perfection. Our helpful oysterman, it turns out, is Gifford Pinchot IV, known as Marco. Yes, that Gifford Pinchot, whose great-grandfather was Teddy Roosevelt’s secretary of agriculture and founder of the US Forest Service, in whose honor the Columbia National Forest was renamed. Though he grew up in Connecticut, Marco came west, graduated from Evergreen and earned advanced de-
Pike Place Market Creamery
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A REAL, REAL FRESH Totten Island Virginica oyster.
the ancient Omi region, the modernday Shiga prefecture on Honshu island 300 miles southwest of Tokyo, site of Lake Biwa, Japan’s largest, whose mineral-rich waters nourish the cattle. Only six head a month from two particularly conscientious ranches, Sawai and Takara, are licensed for export. Only boneless meat that meets the Japanese A5 standard for color and marbling is exported to the US, to be served by half a dozen top steakhouses. In the Pacific Northwest, only one: Metropolitan Grill. Which brings us to exec chef Eric Hellner, a 21-year-veteran of Consolidated Restaurants, now on his third stint at the Met. He sears the 6-ounce ohmigyu tenderloin, seasoned with only salt and pepper, on a cast-iron griddle, brings its internal temperature up slowly to keep the fat unctuous. Served with a drizzle of veal demi-glace and a few Yukon gold potatoes poached in garlic butter, it’s $100. (You can also get raw Ohmi as a carpaccio appetizer for $20.) Don’t listen to people who say it’s not worth it, the best steakhouse meat is never cheap. Thanks to elevated glutamate levels, not to mention inosinic and oleic acids, Ohmi provides an umami experience like no other. It’s like cutting into a perfectly seared lobe of foie gras, redolent of meaty char, rich blood and exquisite liver. If you pay attention to taste, you will remember this for the rest of your life. Metropolitan Grill themetropolitangrill.com
CRABCAKES being created by Kevin Davis at Steelhead diner.
grees in ecology from Western and the Bainbridge Graduate Institute. If there were a poster child for environmental stewardship, it would be Marco.
METROPOLITAN MARKET GOES UPTOWN Sometimes, all you want from a market is stuff you can throw together for dinner, a steak or piece of fish. Sometimes, though, you want more, much more. Even here, in laid-back Seattle, we want to do all our shopping in one stop, soup to nuts, flowers to toilet paper. Obsessive scurrying isn’t needed to find just the right brie, the perfect cupcake, the ideal teapot; ideally, they’re all under the same, 40,000-square-foot roof, all with validated parking. In this bleeping economy, restaurants are bleeding (and bleeping) themselves with price cuts, but grocery stores, by and large, are doing well. In fact, they’re able to spend money on significant upgrades to attract and keep shoppers who might otherwise scurry to specialty stores. It’s not a slamdunk, but the analysts preach that “tuning in to consumer data and retailer partners’ needs” leads to success. Gobbledy-gook, better interpreted on a local level, which leads directly to the region’s sole remaining player, Food Market Northwest, formerly Thriftway, now dba Metropolitan Market. The locally-owned, six-store Metropolitan Markets chain has not been immune to the grocery wars. They cut an underperforming, five-year-old store in Federal Way’s Dash Point Village at the end of 2009, though the firm has plans to open its first eastside
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store, in Kirkland, later this year. The potentially lucrative innercity market has proven the most contentious. Consider the landscape: there’s the ultimate farmers market, at Pike Place, better known as Seattle’s number one tourist attraction than as a onestop supermarket. To meet that particular need for downtowners, there’s a smallish Kress IGA a couple of blocks away. Two Safeways, one at the top, one at the bottom of Queen Anne. Whole Foods opened at 2200 Westlake three years ago and introduced Seattle to the “whole paycheck” concept of luxury organic shopping (though, to be fair, they’ve done a great job of everyday pricing as well with their “365” line), and QFC (part of Kroger’s, which also owns Fred Meyer) followed suit six months later with a similar new store at 5th and Mercer. Used to be, there was a Larry’s Market as well, in the former Hansen Baking Company at 1st and Mercer. Larry’s collapsed four years ago, and Metropolitan (with a nearby store at the top of Queen Anne about to be torn down for redevelopment) stepped in. But the Larry’s look, a sort of upscale Costco warehouse, didn’t match the new Whole Foods experience (warm lighting, the abundance of a European-style outdoor market). And with the development of its existing store unexpectedly stalled, Metropolitan had to do something. They’ve spent millions remodeling the entire store, which re-opened last month to enthusiastic crowds lining up for free samples from suppliers like Salumi, Gelatiamo, and Cupcake Royale. Looks more and more like Metropolitan’s flagship store at Admiral: there’s an expanded line of organic products, a carving station in the deli, more local, artisan and farmstead cheeses, and a “wellness and nutrition” department for shoppers with dainty skin and delicate digestion. For oenophiles, a selection of 1,300 bottles. ≤ Ronald’s blog: cornichon.org
BELLTOWN MESSENGER #77 • March 2010 FEATURE
belltownmessenger.com
5
DENNIS NYBACK shares sweet memories of Mormonism, Elvis, necrophilia
on Wheels, Nekromantik. Really great stuff. You can’t believe how great the films made by the Mormons are. “One of the army films is called Field Medicine in Viet Nam. It’s one of the greatest films ever made. The educationals have to be seen to be believed. The films made by the Oklahoma Department of Health are fantastic.” Dennis (breaking in as Jack caught his breath): “Do you have enough for three nights?” Jack: “Three nights? Easy, no problem with three nights, I’ve got lots of great stuff.” He waited as I looked at the calendar. I figured it would take a couple of weeks to properly exploit this in the press. After the next three weeks I had nothing booked at all. A guy believing so much in the films he owned that he was willing to drive around the country and call strangers out of the blue was both insane and inspirational. It couldn’t miss. That was the beginning of a beautiful friendship. I met him a couple of days later at the Jewel Box. He was a dark-haired sixfooter wearing black jeans and a black leather jacket. His face had an oddly cherubic, satanic visage, with twinkling dark eyes. We went to his car, a venerable full-
“Seattle probably wasn’t ready for Nekromantik.” size Mercury with Massachusetts plates. He opened the trunk. It was crammed full with bulky objects encased in black garbage bags – the films, plus a Bell and Howell 16mm projector. It was the rare Marc 350 “Gemini” model, containing a short arc lamp that could put a sharp image on the side of a building blocks away if the night was dark. He was not exaggerating about the films. Films made by the Mormons are unbelievably great. Field Medicine In Viet Nam (1967), a training film for medical personal who would serve in the battle theater, has unbelievable and horrific footage of wounded soldiers. It also has an upbeat soundtrack and a cheerful voiceover narrator who says things such as, “With out modern equipment and trained personnel, this war will have the lowest mortality rate and highest return to service of any war every fought.” His visit produced an added, unexpected bonus: a print of Nekromantik, a tale of necroeroticism from Germany. It had a “magnetic” soundtrack, common in Europe but practically unheard of in the USA, where optical soundtracks are the norm. It takes a special projector to reproduce magnetic sound. Luckily, I could call Doug Stewart, the sharpest operator in the projectionist union, a man who could repair any machine that ran on electricity or gasoline, the owner of many oddball projectors, and my friend. He was happy to provide us with the requisite machine. Nekromantik caused many longtime Belltown Film Fest fans to flee the theater, claiming they would never come back to one of my shows ever again. To promote these shows, we did something extra special on the Saturday before: we created an urban drive-in just across the street from the Jewel Box. Geof Spencer owned the storefront there. (Geof
BELLTOWN’S RENDEZVOUS IN 1990.
had been, with Nick Vroman, one of the founders of the Belltown Film Festival. I was brought in because I owned 16mm projectors, and also films.) Geof’s store had a small sign in the window that said Occupied Seattle. It was a funky used-goods store, and also a performance space. It had a loft and just what we needed for the Drivein Movie: access to the roof. On the night of the show we walked across the roof, passing over two other stores, which took us to the edge of the building. Below us was a parking lot. Across the lot was the white wall of the Plumbers Union building. We ran an extension cord from Geof’s store to the edge of the roof. We plugged the mighty Bell and Howell Marc 300 projector into it. We were ready for the crowd. Cars started to pull into the lot, and parked facing the wall. Some of the people in the cars got out and lounged on their hoods. Other people brought lawn chairs and blankets. We started with Elvis and Ann Margaret in Viva Las Vegas. The sound boomed out from the speaker at the base of the wall. A wino sleeping next to the speaker was jolted awake. The sound of cars arriving had failed to rouse him, but Elvis gyrating in Technicolor really pissed him off.
He stood in front of the screen and screamed at the people in cars and lawn chairs facing him. They were in a jovial mood and jeered back. He finally gave up and dragged his bedding around the corner of the building and into the alley. By the time Hell’s Angels on Wheels hit the wall many of the original crowd had left, replaced by others. Marijuana smoke wafted up from the parking lot. Even a few winos had joined the crowd. They passed around a jug. Pedestrians walking by stopped and watched. Some entered the parking lot, sat on the pavement and stayed till the end. Policemen drove by slowly. One squad car came up the alley and stopped. The two cops got out and asked what was going on. A chorus replied, “WE’RE WATCHING A MOVIE!” The cops laughed and left. The rest of their night would be spent breaking up fights in front of trendy Belltown bars. Jack and I sat on the roof and drank beer and watched the crowd below us having a good time. Everyone went home happy. One nice thing about the friendly confines of the Jewel Box, it didn’t take a lot of people to fill it up. The first two nights were the best, and it was a lucky bunch who got
to see the treasures Jack showed. Although Seattle probably wasn’t ready for Nekromantik. In fact, I’m not sure if the time has come for that film just yet. Driving back to Boston, Jack’s venerable automobile broke down in Missoula. It was nothing drastic. I got a post card from him about it. Thinking about it now, having a car break down in a strange town can often have an upside. In 1999 I was driving a truck containing everything I owned from New York City to Portland, Oregon. The brakes went out in Huntington, Indiana. If not for that, I would never have been able to visit – and I am not making this up – the Dan Quayle Museum. While Jack’s car was being repaired in Missoula he was able to hang out at The Theater of the Dove, probably the weirdest movie theater in America. Year round, which included the standard three months of snow, windows were kept open so birds could come in. During screenings, pigeons flying in front of the screen were often the best part of the show. No one ever saw a dove there. ≤ Dennis Nyback currently houses his film archive at Marylhurst University. More at dennisnybackfilms.com.
Jörg Buttgereit
I
n 1990 I was running what we called the Belltown Film Festival in the Jewel Box Theater, located in the back of the Rendezvous Tavern. The Jewel Box was, and is, a remnant of the two blocks of Second Avenue between Bell and Wall once known as Film Row. Starting in the 1920s, Film Row had been the hub through which Hollywood films were routed to Washington, Idaho and parts of Montana, and many Hollywood film companies had offices there. The 50-seat Jewel Box had been built as a film industry screening room by the B. F. Shearer Co. in 1928. It was a scale model of the sort of theaters they could build on demand; Shearer built theaters on the Jewel Box plan that could seat 1,000. It was outfitted with decorative items that the company could also provide. In fact, B.F. Shearer handled everything the prospective theater owner could want: the room was lit by eight large Art Deco fixtures; the walls were covered with silk damask cloth; customers sat in padded booths with tables where they could set their drinks. I ran films in the room on weeknights for four years. On Friday and Saturday the place was host to live music acts. Many of them were of the permanent-hearingloss sort. On Sunday it was used for Alcoholic’s Anonymous meetings ... talk about Daniel in the lion’s den The Rendezvous was one of the strongest-pour dive bars in the city. It was always dark inside and usually crowded. I suppose it was good that any bar drunk who saw the light didn’t have to go far to get help. Back in 1990 the Jewel Box Theater was the only legal place in the state of Washington where you could both drink and watch a movie on the big screen. If you could find it. There was no street sign for the Jewel Box Theater. The words “Jewel Box,” with no explanation as to what they referred to, were stenciled on a large sheet of plywood that covered the only window in the bar. Also stenciled on the plywood were the names of all the sports teams in Seattle. Above the street door was a twenty-foot long shelf with twofoot tall neon letters spelling RENDEZVOUS. The sign had been there a long time. The V was tipped over a little to the right, giving the sign a rakish attitude. That was by gravity, not design. To the right of that, above the sheet of plywood, was a six-line movable letter reader board. Entering the street door, you could either go right, into the bar, or ahead, into the restaurant. The Jewel Box entrance was through a door in the dining room. When the door was closed no would guess there was a cute relic of a tiny theater inside. It was a fateful July day when I got the phone call from Jack Stevenson. Here is the conversation: Jack (East coast accent, speaking a little nervously): “Hi, my name is Jack. I got your number from Larry Reid at COCA. He told me you had a place to show films. I’m from Boston and I’m driving around the country with a whole bunch of great films in the trunk of the car looking for places to show them.” Dennis: “What kind of films are they?” Jack: “Oh, I’ve got all kinds. I’ve got films made by the Mormon Church, the US Army, educationals, trash features, Hell’s Angels
Dennis Nyback
Misadventures in the Seattle Film Scene
CHARLES MANSON AGREES: Nekromantik has no redeeming social value.
6 BELLTOWN MESSENGER #77 • March 2010
Debunking Belltown Belltown ’s Bad Reputation Since Since 2003
NAOMI STENBERG craves cigs
The Quest for Heaven More or Less
I
’ve always thought if there is a heaven I should be able to smoke cigarettes and do unlimited shots—of anything—without noticeable effect. Since my earthly diet is remarkably toxin-free, I believe I should be allowed some wishful thinking. In The Elysian Fields (the Greek term for heaven), I will also drink diet-coke by the vat. Really, my afterlife desires are laughably simple. Smokes and beverNaomi Stenberg ages. Not much more than that. But why I should care? Why should anyone? For many, it happens when you lose someone. The friends and
family of Nodar Kumaritashvili, who died last month at the Olympics, may know what spirit form he has right now, or may be wondering. I was, for many years, somewhat of a pantheist, comfortable believing that, upon death, peoples’ souls dissolved like Alka-Seltzer tablets in water, into the trees. Twelve years ago, I lost my parents in a car accident, and since then, have not been so sure. The quest for heaven is rarely a notion for the idly curious. It is a longing for information, cross-cultural and old as time. In the fifteenth century, the Aztecs sang, “Where do we go? Where do we go? Are we dead beyond, or do we yet live?”
In Frank Capra’s It’s a Wonderful Life, we learn every time a bell rings, an angel gets his wings. Somehow, that’s not enough for me. The deeper question remains. Where do we go? Allow me if you would to serve
“The aborigines believe their dead come back for dinner.” as your tour guide through a few cultures and their beliefs about heaven. The aborigines believe their dead come back for dinner. Their afterlife has a revolving door al-
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lowing someone hankering after a home-cooked meal or conversation to turn around and come right back down here. I am sure the ancient Egyptians wanted to say, “Hi again,” to friends and family as much as the Aborigines did, but the Egyptians had stricter rules. They believed with utter conviction, wrote heaven expert W. Jones, that, like jam in a jar, a person’s spirit could only be preserved if the physical body did not deteriorate. A testament to the magnificence of their tombs. Words found in such coffins are heart breaking. “Thou shalt examine the body and find it whole and sound […] Thou shalt have thy former heart.”
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In America, the Waroa tribe watched their loved ones die and then fly. “The soul continued rising in the atmosphere in the form of a bird, contented and singing. It repeated, ‘I am going. I am going above where my companions are waiting for me.’” Yes, I’d like to be a mildly reprobate angel, but it wouldn’t be any fun without company. Most who write of the final destination write of whom they want to meet there. In Scipio’s Dream, Cicero arrives in heaven and sees his father, Paulus, approaching. “And I burst into tears.” The poet Arthur Roberts wrote of his wife, “My head says [she] is just ashes strewn at sea but my heart tells me she lives somewhere.” “Heaven is a world beyond, just on the other side of a thin veil of time,” according to writer Joseph Girzone. “If you could close your eyes and walk through the veil, you would be there. It’s that close.” Shakespeare’s dying Cleopatra senses the veil when she exclaims: “Give me my robe: put on my crown. I have immortal longings in me.” Even as a fictional character, she probably wasn’t thinking about unlimited shots. Probably about queenly things, lovers, people who made her happy. In the Japanese film The Afterlife, the dead are given case managers, and three days to pick the happiest memory of their lives. They will relive that memory forever. What I loved about the film was that when people arrived on the other side, they received three days of undivided professional attention. Nice. Maybe that’s what I would like, more than smokes and beverages. No. ≤
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CITY GIRL BELLTOWN MESSENGER #77 • March 2010
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’ve been around the neighborhood long enough to bore people with my “used to be” stories: the art gallery that used to be a kitsch shop, the Italian café that used to be a bookstore, the down under on First that used to be a ballet studio, the ballet studio that used to be ... now Mary Lou Sanelli what was it, Elaine? I forgot. Still, if not one new “it used to be” ever popped into mind again, I could write this column, happily, forever, just by reliving the basics: the condos that used to be Teatro Zinzanni, the leaf-blowers that used to be rakes. There’s a subtext here, of course: I found a photograph of Larry. Or, my husband how he “used to be.” I thought about shoving the
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surely happen if I stared at Larry too long. After all, I fell in love with him when I was twenty. Larry — so self-directed, so handsome. I wound up focusing on the photo until my thoughts found their way into the deepest, most stunning places, kindling the most intensely tender feelings I’ve felt in a long time. From my ears to my knees, a thunderbolt of nostalgia. One memory after another. Then, I stashed it. Unlike most of my friends, I don’t have dozens of framed photographs adorning the shelves of my home. I will one day, surely. But now, part of my work requires I be a tad nomadic, and too many photos sort of short circuits my flow. Once, I let all the photos I’ve saved to my hard drive revolve as my screen saver. One by one, my entire past came at me in two second intervals. It drove me bonkers. I’m quite proud of my achievements, the lives I’ve lived. But, I swear, every time I passed my monitor, I had a little heart attack. All that emotion really slowed me down. Anyway, I’ll forget half of what I saw in the photo if I don’t get on with it: Larry. His hands, specifically. How swollen his knuckles were from building the boat we were to live in. A dory. Our first home. His fingers were the color of wood. New skin grew right over the dirt. His callouses were so thick they added a good halfinch to his palms. When he’d nick them, they drew no blood. And look at that mess of hair! No wonder my dad said he looked like Charles Manson. About a year before the photo was taken, Larry picked me up hitchhiking to the Olympic Hot Springs. I moved in with him a week later. My most vivid memory of his hands then, in our total-lust stage, was how he couldn’t (or wouldn’t, nice guy) cup my tiny breasts with the tips of his huge, rough fingers. Instead, he rolled his hand on its side to let his thumb do the work. Neither could he let his hands rub my legs covered in nylon tights without making a crackling sound, or lay in the dark with me on a double sleeping bag, unzipped and opened flat, with hands that prowled easily, without catching on each lofty seam. That’s how Larry’s hands used to be. I study such things. Which brings me to Larry’s hands, now: Smooth, nick-less as a slab of marble. Around the age of forty, like many the boatbuilder before him, he left the “sail around the world” dream to find work that one) paid, and two) let him use his mind as much as his hands. Larry’s hands are clean now. A little too, if you ask me. I call them white-collar-pink. In boat building or business, then or now, Larry never wavered from being the kind of man who would never, ever drive a bent nail deeper into the grain of wood just to get the job done. Rare, huh? And why, I believe, there is more at work in our marriage than two people trying their best. Hands. I know you know what I mean. If I didn’t think you knew, I’d have stopped writing years ago. ≤ Sanelli works as a writer and speaker. Her latest book is Among Friends. www.marylousanelli.com
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