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Archive for the ‘Seattle’ Category

Once in L.A. when I was feeling particularly broke and broken, a guy I worked with suggested a trip to Seattle, a place I’d never been. “Listen to some decent music, pound some coffee. You’ll love it.”

He was right, I did.

As an always-writer and a once-and-future musician, that’s still what my Seattle is today: Coffee. Music. Art.

Maybe that’s why it was even more shocking that yesterday when a man shot four people point blank, it was at a coffee shop. A coffee shop. They’re supposed to be havens.

It’s one thing to have people randomly shot at a place like the defunct, ironically named Mr. Lucky across from Seattle Center, which had a criminal reputation and a widely ignored NO GUNS ALLOWED sign at the door. But not a coffee shop in Seattle. We have one of the lowest violent-crime rates in the country. I mean, we’re not Miami, for God’s sake.

A second jolt ripped through me, brighter, more personal, when I heard that the shooting happened at Café Racer. My lovely, loving friends Jo David and Marlow Harris have their Bad Art Museum there. As I was checking Facebook to make sure they were okay (they were, they are, physically at least), a woman was killed by the same gunman at Town Hall, another gathering place for the arts.

As the news from the Seattle P.D. ricocheted through twitter and the news blogs, questions were answered. Drew Keriakedes and Joe Albanese of the band God’s Favorite Beefcake were victims. The suspected shooter was Ian Lee Stawicki; he shot himself when he was apprehended and later he died. He had been kicked out of Café Racer several times recently.

Then the questions got bigger. Why was Mayor McGinn not saying anything to his city? (He eventually did.) Why don’t we have more support for the mentally ill? Why don’t we have stricter gun control laws?

The biggest question, though, not only for the artists and musicians who consider Café Racer their coffee shop haven, but for all of us as society seems to get more violent every day, is a simple one with no easy answer. Why?

 

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April 5, 2004

Kurt Cobain
Kurt, we hardly knew ya

Give me a Leonard Cohen afterworld
So I can sigh eternally

Ten years after his death, the singer-songwriter who inadvertently created “grunge,” caused flannel to appear on NYC runways and became One Of The Most Important Rock Stars Of All Time is still attracting the kind of media attention that he hated.

Kurt Cobain had always been the quintessential anti-rock star. Unhappy with his fame once it extended beyond Seattle (“I don’t like my fans anymore”), he was accused by his record company of purposely trying to make Nirvana’s second (and last) studio album, In Utero, non-commercial. If that’s true, he failed: track after track became hits and are radio staples even today.

His music and persona were the perfect ironic counterpoint to the kind of attention the band began to draw after their first major-label release Nevermind knocked Michael Jackson off the top of the charts and had frat boys trying to figure out what “a mulatto, an albino, a mosquito, my libido” meant.

Homeless kid, high-school dropout, roadie, junky. He seemed like an accidental superstar, yet his bandmates claim that Cobain was ambitious. He wrote a song per night, made them practice for hours every day and was a taskmaster in the studio. He was quoted as saying that when the other two-thirds of Nirvana didn’t like “Smells Like Teen Spirit” the first time they heard it, he made them play it hundreds of times in a row.

Here we are now
Entertain us

Like most people, I hadn’t heard of Nirvana before Nevermind. My boyfriend at the time lent it to me and dismissively said that the lead singer was a heroin addict. The music just sounded like noise to me, so I listened to it again. And again. I couldn’t have guessed that I was hearing the sound of the new mainstream. My relationship with Nirvana far outlasted the one with the boyfriend in both length and significance.

Despite a career that easily places him in the company of Dylan, Hendrix and the Rolling Stones, Cobain has a puny four-CD catalogue and a career that spanned just two-and-a-half years in the public eye. He has an output-to-legacy ratio that rivals James Dean’s, although he is more likely to be compared to John Lennon.

I’m so ugly
That’s okay ’cause so are you
We’ve broken mirrors.

Like Lennon, Cobain had the gift for being angry without being off-putting and for expressing intimate emotions that spoke to the masses. He also married Courtney Love, a woman who surpasses Yoko as most unpopular wife in rock & roll history. Loud, obnoxious, consistently out-of-control, Love continues to make Cobain look like even more of a misunderstood waif than his vulnerable, wrenching vocals do.

Well I swear that I
Don’t have a gun

I remember driving home from my job at UCLA when KROQ delivered the news that the body of a 27-year-old male Caucasian was found in a Seattle home, dead of a self-inflicted gunshot wound. The body was thought to be Cobain’s. I felt heartsick, although not at all surprised. It’s typical of the exploitation Cobain routinely attracted that the electrician who discovered his body immediately phoned a radio station rather than the police.

It seems that his world is as tumultuous in death as it was in life. A lot has happened with him just in the two-and-a-half years I’ve lived in Seattle. Courtney gave his private diaries to her lover and he wrote a bestseller, there was a bitter legal battle over Nirvana’s songwriting royalties (complete with an open letter to fans from Kurt’s mom and the rest of Nirvana, David Grohl and Krist Novoselic, trying to have Courtney declared insane). Of course there are the continuing rumors that his death wasn’t a suicide.

Just because you’re paranoid
Don’t mean they’re not after you

A hurricane of bizarre conspiracy theories has been twisting around Courtney Love for the past decade. A Seattle detective said that with all the drugs Cobain had in his system, he wouldn’t have had the strength to lift a gun, much less be able to pull its trigger. Although he was the perfect victim since his tendency toward self-destruction was so public, it seems far-fetched to think that someone could get away with murdering the most famous rock star in the world. Maybe to some people, thinking that his death wasn’t a suicide somehow makes it more palatable.

The end result is that Cobain has left behind a bipolar legacy. On the one hand, his suicide felt like a betrayal to a lot of people — a Seattle music professor accurately pointed out that it would have been less devastating if he had just overdosed. On the other hand, he is arguably the most important musician of the last 20 years.

When they first appeared, Nirvana was given a lot of accolades for sounding fresh compared to the hair bands who were their contemporaries. It’s over 10 years later and they still sound fresh, but this time it’s compared to all the bands who managed to rip off their sound, but not their songwriter’s talent.

Rest in peace, Kurt. I hope your Leonard Cohen afterworld is what you wanted it to be.

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Just wanted to do a quick update so that new visitors to this blog don’t think I’m obsessed with Justin Bieber or something.

It is finally sunnier and I don’t feel like I’m looking at everything through smoked glass anymore. The collective lifting of depression has caused an outbreak of parties, parties, parties, which has been really fun. There are lots of books coming out, lots of birthday parties, lots of general relief at not being water-logged.

And yet, I dunno. I don’t love Seattle but I don’t love anyplace else either.

Yesterday–our first over 70 degrees day in 271 days, but who’s counting–I was at Alki beach with a girlfriend.

Lying in the undiluted sunshine under kites like beautiful dragonflies, looking at the row of white-capped mountains and city skyscrapers across the sparkling water, I sat up and said “It’s so gorgeous here, but the beach itself sucks. It’s narrow with rocks and driftwood. But the view is staggering.”

“That’s Seattle,” my friend said. “Everything out there is stunning, but if you look at where you’re actually sitting, it’s falling apart. That’s why we’re moving to Florida.”

About half the people I’ve talked to recently are moving away after this past winter. It’s been nine months of cold wet slate grey. Not that I’m counting.

My problem is I want to live in more than one place:

Seattle, maybe sometimes, because you can get kickass writing done here and there are tons of people I love.

Los Angeles because it’s so magical and sunny and hip and noir (in retrospect).

And of course home in the Midwest. Because family is everything.

Some of my friends think it’s so doable for me to have three homes, but I feel like it’s challenging to maintain one.

Stay tuned, though.

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This is my view from my apartment and of life.

Seattle Rainbow

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So my beloved Blockbuster suddenly closed down this week. I’m so bummed. I love going to the video (yes, video) store. I guess my days of spontaneously renting what I want when I want it are over.

I signed up for Netflix and I’m really sad.

Also, one block over from Blockbuster, Mother Nature’s Natural Health place and Abraxus Books lost their leases.

The really cool woman who started Mother Nature’s and has owned it for decades told me that the evil landlord (I may have inserted the word evil) is turning the block into a multi-use building, which means condos on top, commercial on the bottom. She said the rent is going to be really expensive, though, so I will look forward to more Subway sandwich places in my future.

Suck.

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I broke the story that Seattle’s Neptune Theater was closing last November and the sad day finally came. So long, Neptune. You’ll be missed. Until you open again as a different kind of venue.

(I think my friend Flyn O’Brien may have taken this great picture, but I’m not sure. I swiped it from his facebook, though.)

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619 Western in 1917

Aw, crap. It looks like the 619 Western building may be razed. I love this old building and hanging out there at all the gallery/workspace parties on First Thursday. I raise a plastic glass of Charles Shaw merlot (for $1 donation) to you, 619.

From CityArts blog:

According to an email sent to the building’s tenants earlier today by a representative of WSDOT, due to safety concerns, they are recommending the building be demolished.

“While this was not an easy conclusion to reach, we believe it is the best for the safety of the tenants, visitors to the building, and construction workers,” the email read

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As part of my “going out despite the weather this winter” project, I attended the first First Thursday artwalk of the year. Since none of the friends who had promised last month to come with me are adhering to the same “going out” project, they all bailed.

All I cared about was dinner. One of the women I was supposed to meet recommended Built Burger, which everyone is always talking about, but there’s no way I could have eaten what I was sure would be a half pound of beef with all the trimmings.

I walked around for what seemed like hours and eventually came upon a cheery, well-decorated place called Cafe Paloma. It was Mediterranean-ish and I was starving, so I took a seat near the picture window. There was lots of red and a tuba hanging from the ceiling. The crowd seemed to be drawn from the art walk–lots of black clothing and nice eyeglass frames.

I ordered “whatever is closest to chardonnay” off the wine list and the waitress told me they actually do have chardonnay as their house wine. Note: For the sake of my pride I should mention that if they had amazing Turkish wines, I would have blindly ordered one as I subscribe to the When in Rome doctrine. But they didn’t.

I chose the mucver (zucchini pancakes) after much deliberation and was eventually informed that the chef said they weren’t available. Also, my chardonnay hadn’t been chilled so I needed to select something else and would pinot grigio be okay? It would. I ordered a cup of the spinach and chicken soup.

I cast a glance at the couple next to me. The tables are really close there.
“If you could just not freak out, then everything would be okay,” an attractive young brunette woman was saying to an attractive young brunette man.
“The important thing in a relationship is just not to freak out.” He literally did not say a word. Not while she paid her share of the check, not while she excused herself to the ladies room. I soon figured out the likely reason he was speechless: he was in rapture from the flavor of the food.

My wine came and it was fine. My soup came with warm grilled pita and it was some of the best soup I’ve ever had in my life.

The art in the 619 building was standard. I tried on earrings I didn’t buy. I had chips and smokehouse almonds and mango salsa that I did buy for $1. I took the bus home and my seatmate felt that the movie he was watching on his phone was more important than me having a place to put my arm.

That soup, though. That spinach and chicken soup.

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…at least for now.

The beleaguered theater is using creative tactics to stay in business according to Seattlest.

They decided that the best way to keep things going was to sell all the theaters seats, or at least, sponsorship of the theaters seats. For just $100, you could own a seat in a theater, and presumable write your name or put your picture on the back of it

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I swam to my friend Joe’s 29th birthday party on Saturday night during a record rainfall and it was worth it.

He and his wife have this Central District house circa the 1920s and it’s both cute and huge. It took me awhile to get there due to the rain and as I approached there was a cop flashing blue and red parked right outside. I was thinking ‘please don’t let the party be over already,’ but luckily it was just some s.o.l. sap getting pulled over and no relation to my evening. Bad luck for him with his knit cap and circumstantial contrition, because he wouldn’t be sampling any of my fabulous hors d’oeuvre.

I brought caramelized onion dip, which is becoming sort of my go-to thing to bring. I make it from whichever recipe comes up first when I Google, and that day it was Food Network’s Caramelized Onion Dip. Next time I make it I would probably double the amount of onions and cut the pepper to maybe half. It was still really delicious and very popular, as were the Ruffles potato chips, which I was embarrassed to bring, but apparently people love them.

I met some cool aspiring authors, one of whom told me that a woman he knows just got $500,000 for her debut novel. By that time I had had a delish homebrew that Joe had crafted and some chardonnay, but I’m pretty sure this now-rich author’s from Seattle and that her book is about either angles or devils. I will report back on this.

I also caught up with my friend Chris Burlingame who left his gig at Three Imaginary Girls and then met with spectacular success with his own Another Rainy Saturday, which after only six months has already been acknowledged by the Village Voice and the BBC.

I adore my writer friends old and new. Thrilling!

After all that I came home in soaked pants to a small lake in my living room. Isn’t that always the way.

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