Flashing Pine Street

 

Part I - Steel

I only hear the sound of those slippery steel wheels in my nightmares. That steel on concrete sound may be a nice memory for those aging seniors who relate it to the feel of metal skates on their feet in the safety of their driveway with a skate key around their neck but for a handful of us that sound is too closely bound to unfulfilled dreams thwarted by our first attempts at building skateboards and the pain and terror they inflicted upon us.  That loud, ragged dangerous ride on the edge of someplace we didn't want to go but were forced to approach by those insistent dreams.  Skittering too fast across worn and ragged concrete, pushed by an outrageous act that we could envision but, inevitably, find out of reach and just across the painful line that our steel technology could only approach. For me the sound of steel wheels conjures up memories of fear, failure, pain and Merthiolate. 

Part II - Clay

The sound of clay wheels on concrete was much more wholesome than steel but still fundamentally wrong.  Muffled compared to metal but still loud and very scary at speed.  On wet concrete?  Death!  They were under you until they weren't and they gave no warning of how close to the threshold of disaster you were.  Still, when I first saw a skateboard with clay wheels I saw a bright future.  I found an affordable board at Woolworth Drugs in University Village and we became one, sort of. 

Skateboards weren't cool then which meant that skateboarders weren't either.  When you were uncool you could either embrace it or keep trying to be cool and if you kept trying that meant that you didn't want to be seen on a skateboard.  The uncool crew that I skated with, well, we kept trying so most of our skating was done after dark.  

Part III - After Dark

We were into big hills and Seattle is full of them.  One of our faves was from Volunteer Park down Galer to Crescent Drive then Crescent Drive to 24th Ave and down into Montlake.  About 350 vertical feet in ~3/4 mile.  To avoid traffic and make a stupid act less dangerous we would make that run around 3:00 AM using traffic spotters at the 5-way next to Stevens School and the sharp bend where Crescent Drive intersects 24th Ave.  It had some very fast sections.  Too fast for clay wheels as they would drift and occasionally disintegrate.  We were not only uncool but also unsmart, it would seem.  When our wheels came apart at speed we were going down hard.  Bruises and road rash were both common and one night there was a broken leg, but it wasn't mine.  

About that time, I came to the conclusion that my quest for coolness, desire to stay alive and love of skate boarding were not mutually compatible so I put away my clay-wheeled death board and focused on the other two.  By 1970, though, the polyurethane wheel came into existence creating new possibilities for skateboarders.  These wheels wouldn't shatter and had very good traction on dry surfaces.  I was tempted to buy a set and fit out my board but I felt like I had finally climbed one rung up from the basement of the Uncool and I was still alive so I passed on the poly wheels.

Part IV - Kryptos

In the mid to late-70's roller skating gained acceptance with adults and I was able to come out of the closet.  I dated a girl who worked in a skate shop and she outfitted me with a pair of Riedell Classics that I retrofitted with Variflex plates and Kryptonic wheels.  A serious skate for a serious skater and that's what I was.  The sound of Kryptos on pavement was low frequency, powerful and menacing.  Still slippery when wet but drifted in a predictable manner and wheels never shattered.  I never got as good as my girlfriend but I became a good street skater.  

One of my favorite routes back then was from my apartment on Capitol Hill to the recently opened Kingdome.  That was an early Sunday morning only route as traffic was light to non-existent and few folks were walking the streets at that time.  The Kingdome had a wide band of fresh blacktop encircling it that was divine.  Deep powder!  The sidewalks downtown were wide and mostly smooth.  Only the walkways around Pioneer Square were a bit ragged and that added interest.  Pine Street was deserted at that time and I could use the entire width of the street.  The stop lights could be mostly ignored but it seemed that they were often in synch with my speed.  Flashing Pine Street on Sunday mornings became my weekend ritual. 

Soon, inlines replaced quads and I went through a pair of mediocre Rollerblades, two pair of excellent Bauer hockey skates, a worthless pair of K2 speed skates with 110mm wheels on clap frames and some other conventional K2 skate before returning to the Bauers.  Inlines presented benefits compared to quads but also some challenges.  Approaching my mid-50's injuries and arthritis had taken a toll forcing the once-talented street skater to acknowledge his mortality and decreasing flexibility by hanging up his skates for good.  But, I could and still can detect that low growl of urethane wheels at a much greater distance than should be possible. 

Part V (Last) - Flashing Pine Street

Fast forward more than a quarter century. 

It was about 10PM when Jean, Kasie, Alejandro and I were about to cross Pine Street at 8th Ave.  It was dark-ish and the stoplight was green for west bound traffic on Pine.  Almost zero traffic.  Kasie started across against the light when I heard a familiar, rhythmic low growl.  I stopped her and looking up Pine, we saw a middle-aged guy on a long board with long hair pulled back that was once dark but now trending towards grey. Matching beard.  Totally relaxed, traveling about 30 mph, hands casually clasped behind his back.  His grey ponytail trailing behind in the vortice of his passing.  Our eyes met and he smiled a “thanks” for understanding.  Using every bit of Pine Street his smooth turns missed the bad cracks and rough sections.  He knew the timing of the lights.  He had done this many times before.  No drama.  The low frequency sound of his wheels faded as he neared 6th Ave 

Damn.  I hadn’t flashed Pine Street for decades.

It really took me back.

Stinking High at Burch Mountain ~ 1979

 

We had heard that some locals were getting good flights at Burch so we went for a look-see.  I was with Black Weasel and Bob Stadshaug.  Light thermals were cycling up launch out of Nahahum Canyon but what sounded like freight trains were rushing up the back from Swakane.  Black Weasel launched first and started circling up fast.  Bob and I were running to clip in when we saw Weasel go over the falls and through a series of scary out of control maneuvers.  He sunk out so fast it was unbelievable but we saw him land safely in an alfalfa field below launch.  We unclipped and went to sit in the shade.  

We waited at least two hours until the freight trains quieted down and the thermals at launch strengthened.  Both Bob and I had thermalled before but neither of us had gotten stinking high.  Consequently Bob was wearing only a t-shirt.  I had my ¾ length sleeve "Lucky" rugby shirt on that I donned whenever I sought divine intervention or thought that I might die.  Bob launched in his 10-Meter and I followed closely in my yellow Oly 160.  Bob skyed immediately while I bumbled around even with launch trying to catch a thermal and a clue. 

It's said that sometimes even a blind squirrel finds a nut and whether I found the nut or the nut found me is still open for debate.  Very soon, though, I was shivering at 9500' and thinking that I had attained stinking high status at last.  I mean, it was a new sensation to be so high and I was certain that I could see the curvature of the earth.  Maybe even the sky was turning from blue to black.  Yeah.  That's the ticket.  I wondered why others who had been stinking high never said anything about seeing the blackness of outer space or the curvature of the earth.  Whatever, I decided that I should fly 11 miles west to Leavenworth.  No telling where Bob had gone as I hadn't seen him since right after launch.  Little did I know he was 2,000' above me.  Along my way west I started to realize how cold I was and how the air seemed freaking rough.  I was physically uncomfortable and having trouble separating paralyzing fear from motivating fear so I turned back and circled down to land at the Cashmere High School.  Bob landed soon thereafter and I learned that he really had gotten stinking high while I had only gotten kinda-smelly high.  Speaking of smells, Black Weasel experienced smells in new and unusual ways. 

Landing in an open alfalfa field had been an adventure as switching winds in the canyon provided guesswork on approach.  Once down safely he noted he was surrounded by a large population of yellow jackets who expressed their displeasure by inflicting numerous stings.  There was no shade so he sat under his baby blue Oly, picked at the stings and tried not to piss them off further.  Dripping sweat he closed his eyes and tried to nod off but soon heard the impossible sound of an irrigation sprinkler starting up.  He could hear the spray approaching as the arm advanced through its cycle and he imagined how great it would feel to get hosed down and lay in wet alfalfa under a wet glider. 

Just before the spray reached him he sensed something unexpected and possibly unpleasant as he got a big nose-hit of manure just before the spray drenched him and his once-baby blue Oly.  That's right.  After a terrifying flight, a pure-luck landing and numerous yellow jacket stings he was covered with poop! 

Getting skyed-out took on a new meaning for me that day. I learned that I had only gotten kinda-smelly high, Bob had gotten stinking high and Black Weasel? Well, he stunk like shit.

A Legend in My Own Mind

 It was July 15, 1984.  I was flying in the Region 1 National Qualifying Competition in Chelan, WA.   The task for the day was a race to goal from Chelan Butte to Simms Corner, a 30-some mile milk-run.  

I had made goal but my time was so slow that the goal keepers had gone home.  When I radioed in from 7,500 feet and seven miles out announcing that I was on final glide to goal they responded from a westbound car (lots of wind noise and laughter drowning them out) "Whatever", they shouted.

What the Leader Board photo shows is who was flying consistently well.  It shows twelve pilots listed and I’m not on the list for good reason.  The photo doesn't show what place I was in.  You would need an electron microscope to read my name on the printed pages below.  Probably something like 30^th place.  I don’t recall but it wasn’t pretty. 

Diving towards the finish line I was expecting a brass band because I had been in the air for hours and it was the first time I had ever made a goal in a competition.........Instead I got laughter.......and zero wind with a very high density altitude in the LZ.  Consequently, I pounded in pretty hard and bent the heck out of my downtubes for which I was awarded a lecture on how to land the Attack Duck by the Wills Wing President, Rob Kells, and a lesson on straightening downtubes (a skill I had already, unfortunately mastered) by Jeff Huey.  I accepted both with appropriate humility.

I console myself thinking that I was light on the 180 Attack Duck and that it was hard to land.  Or maybe it was just me.

A legend in my own mind.

Uncle Jimmy and My First Car

 

Introduction

Life is full of coincidences and odd connections.  Or, maybe what I perceive as connections aren't connected at all and just mental ramblings in my mind.  Whatever the case, let me tell you about my first car and my Uncle Jimmy.

Now, obtaining one's first automobile is a huge event in a person's life.  Overnight, there are so many changes including new responsibilities, both personal and financial.  New freedoms and opportunities also emerge.  The possibilities are endless and let's not forget the elevation of one's social status and a potentially huge boost in self-esteem.  I'll bet that every boy has a ton of photos of his first car.  Artistic images taken following wax jobs offering multiple angles of viewing that catch the shiny reflections plus photos taken by friends that include the proud owner in the frame.  Or maybe not. 

Chapter 1 ~ Meet Uncle Jimmy 

In every extended family there is an Uncle Jimmy.  That one oddball relative who has been a disappointment all his life.  Always in some kind of trouble and whispered about at family gatherings.  Rumors abound of him getting beaten up or of being thrown in jail for one nefarious deed or another, but he was always the friendly uncle who was awkwardly outgoing, especially around children.  Though seldom seen, he would show up without notice and when he did parents would tell their kids to hide their piggy banks.  When he left there was always something missing. 

There aren't any pictures of Uncle Jimmy in anyone's photo albums.  Only group photos with his face scratched out or heavy black paper scrapbook pages with empty corner mounts where pictures of Jimmy used to be.  

Chapter 2 ~ Boeing Beaters

 In the 1950's - 1960's there was code among certain Boeing workers where cars for commuting purposes were sold, one employee to another, for $25.00.  These $25.00 cars could be of any vintage and in almost any condition.  It was understood that they were to be used for commuting only.  Family transportation was discouraged.  They could have plenty wrong with them but they needed to run and the brakes needed to work.  It wasn't desirable but it was acceptable if the only way to get them to run was to start them on compression.  It was expected that the tires would be worn, maybe even bald, but the cords could not be visible.  Some of these Boeing Beaters had been passed around numerous times for $25 and it was easy to find one through word-of-mouth or on the bulletin board in an employee cafeteria.  My Dad went through several of these beaters and some that I recall include a couple of Ford Model A's. Since his automotive tastes tended towards the eccentric he liked Nashes so there was a 1940 Opera and a 1939 Ambassador Coupe in the mix.  These cars took an engineer's mindset, skills and constant tinkering to maintain.  Such was automotive ethic of the family that I was born into. 

Chapter 3 ~ Need for Speed 

While attending Everett Community College I faced a 30 mile commute each way.  I bummed rides with four guys I knew from high school but they all had their own lives and personal priorities so a ride to or from school wasn't a gimmee.  I ended up hitchhiking on occasion and whenever I did I never once got rides that took me anywhere close to campus or home.  Consequently, I did lots of walking.  A good ride was one that required less than three miles on foot.  My personal transportation consisted of a broken down 3-speed English Racer, a homemade Tote Goat and a 1957 Lambretta 160 scooter.  I tried riding my scooter to Everett but that was a death trip.  The speed limit on I-5 was 70mph and I could only do 50mph tops.  At that speed the clutch would overheat and start to slip which reduced my speed to about 40, then 30, then 20mph.  And then there was the rain.  When one of my rides to school resulted in a horrific car accident that only two out of four of us survived, I knew that it was time for me to have my own car. 

1957 Lambretta 160

I had saved $250.00 by pumping gas at Bergie's Richfield so I reasoned that I could afford ten Boeing Beaters or a car ten times nicer than my Dad drove. Since he knew how to work on cars, I was happy to have his help selecting my first one. What I didn't take into consideration were his off-center tastes or his belief that this life was for learning. In his mind this was my opportunity to learn how to keep a car running so he found me a "beaut". A 1957 Volvo 444 was being offered for sale by one Louis Rubbelke (a Boeing engineer) for $250.00! The ad said that it had new paint.

Chapter 4 ~ The Test Ride 

It was blue and freshly painted by Spray King.  Never mind that the new paint had been applied over dents, dings and rust.  It was oddly shiny in a still off-gassing way.  Both halves of the two-piece windshield were cracked and broken.  One large dent on top of the front fender was coated with rust and remnants of blue paint.  It looked like a round section of paint had simply failed to adhere and had popped out in one large chunk.  When Louis took me for a ride it seemed sort of OK.  I mean, we didn't have to push it to get it started.  I wasn't expecting much for my $250.00, just a beater to drive to school that was ten times nicer than my Dad's car.

Not My '57 Volvo as no pictures exist

The knob for the choke was missing and had been replaced by a pair of vise grips.  I could work with that and besides, I could always use another pair of vise grips.  I noticed that he shifted from 2nd to 4th, skipping 3rd gear altogether.  I asked him why and he said that it was because the car had come with a three-speed transmission that he had upgraded to a 4-speed so 3rd was a touch rough.  "Huh"?  I guess that I needed to be an engineer to understand that logic but "a touch rough" was OK since the transmission had been upgraded, right?  Also missing was the handle to raise and lower the driver's window.  Louis said that he had lost it and that I could pick one up for cheap at a junkyard.  That was fine with me because my Dad had introduced me to junkyards and I liked nosing around in them.   When I drove it I found third gear noisy but not "rough" as expected.  The speedometer kind of jumped around from zero to whatever speed we were actually going and the steering was a bit weird.  Louis said that the car was overdue for a front end alignment.  Not a deal-breaker.  What really impressed me was its full set of decent white sidewall retreads. 

Like I said, I didn't have high expectations for my first car.  I hadn't come from a high school where there was a car culture and I was used to seeing my Dad, a solid role model, driving ugly old cars so that was a low bar to clear.   This car had some rust, dings and bruises, but it generally fell within my requirements.  It did have "good" tires, and the owner was a Boeing engineer so that was good.  My Dad liked the fact that this Volvo had an old timey look that you didn't see around town so that fit his quirky requirements, too.  I think that Rubbelke about fell over when I handed him the money.  On the hand-written bill of sale I noticed that AS IS was underlined in capital letters.

Chapter 5 ~ Vise Grips in the Rain

It was the day after taking possession that I noticed that Louis had kyped the vise grips while I wasn't looking and learned why the driver's window had no knob.  While driving downtown in a pouring rainstorm I turned the corner at 5th and Olive Way and the weird steering sent me over the curb.  Big bump!  I mentioned the odd steering, right?  With that jolt from running over the curb the driver's window fell down inside of the door with a loud bang.  

"What the hell??!!" 

I found a place to park in the pouring rain and pulled the door panel off to see what had happened.  Inside the door I found that the channel that guided the window up and down was completely rusted out and flopping around.  The mechanical crank mechanism was totally rusted and seized up.  At the bottom of the door was a piece of 2 x 4 that had been propping the window up.  After recovering from shock, I pushed the window back up and jammed the wood back into place.  I needed better weather to investigate that further.

During that same deluge I learned about the limitations of vacuum wipers.  That reality would come back to me while trying to pass a semi on I-5 in a driving rainstorm, but that's another story.

Chapter 6 ~ My Dad's Dream Come True

Due to the rough 3rd gear it was no time at all before I had checked out the large blue Chilton's Motor Repair Manual that included Volvo from the library and learned how to rebuild a transmission.  Other lurking issues came to light that darkened other select pages with my greasy fingerprints and taught me how to replace timing gears, rings, bearings, rods and valves.  My Dad, being a fan of Boeing Beaters, was amazing as he knew how to do all that stuff and was able to offer encouragement during my learning process.  Eventually, the jumpy speedometer cable broke altogether but not before I had learned that at 70 mph the loose front end vibrated so badly that the car drifted around on the asphalt.  Slow to below 70mph and it smoothed out just enough to track sort of straight.  The steering was still strange and sticky and if turned all the way to one side or the other had a tendency to lock up. 

Chapter 7 ~ Cruising Alki 

Then one summer night my buddy Berry and I were cruising at Alki in the Blue Beater with the driver's window in the "rolled-down" position.  Inspired by some truly hot cars, cool people and desperation to be a part of the scene I laid the biggest patch of my life.  I had visions of lighting up my white sidewall recaps and smoking the tires in a big U-turn across Alki Blvd.   What actually happened was the steering locked in a tight left turn punctuated by a barely audible chirp just prior to my 4.56 rear end meeting its maker.  The engine raced but the car continued in a tight turn coasting to a stop right there in front of God and everybody.  I wasn't sure what had broken but hoots, hollers and laughter filled my crimson red ears.  To the amusement of all Berry and I had to wrench the wheels straight by hand and then push my first car ½ block down the street to the first open parking spot.    

I needed a tow, so I called a guy I knew (Scott Taylor) who worked at a gas station that had a tow truck.  He said that he would tow me when he got off work for two cases of Rainier.  When he showed up he was already sloppy drunk and we figured that we would let him tow my car to his gas station while we safely made our way home by some other means.  He started lifting the front end of the car off the ground and when he got it about 3 feet in the air the cable broke dropping the Blue Beater hard onto the ground.  All of the spectators just laughed and Scott said that we would have to tow it with a chain.  He said that meant that he would have to drive very slowly and that I would have to ride in the car to steer and apply brakes.  Since he had said he would be driving very slowly I reluctantly agreed.  Berry crawled into passenger seat choosing my company over Scott's as the thought of having to talk to him for 12 miles was more than he could stand. 

 Chapter 8 ~ Fear and the Aroma of Tacoma 

Things started off badly with Scott driving well above the speed limit along Alki Blvd.  I couldn't see anything other than the back end of the tow truck, the brake lights and Scott's head.  He was driving next to the curb and when he swerved to the left I was horrified to see that I had to react fast to avoid plowing into a parked car.  With that, Scott turned and laughed through the back glass of the truck.   Twice more he pulled that stunt and I was expecting a respite at the stop sign where Alki Blvd. intersects with the Spokane Street Viaduct.  Berry and I had discussed jumping out when he stopped but he blew right though that stop sign.  Berry had his door unlatched and would have been pulled right out of the car when it swung open if not for the aftermarket seat belts I had installed.  Straightening out I fought the stiff steering of the Volvo for control. 

Scott seemed agitated as he kept turning to look out of his window and then to turn and look back at me and laugh.  The ride across the viaduct to I-5 was fast and Scott threw in a few unnecessary swerves just for the heck of it. 

I thought that the night air smelled a bit like puke and thought that Berry might have gotten motion sick with all of the swerving but whenever I glanced at him he was sitting stock-still hanging onto the dashboard for dear life and staring straight ahead.  His cigarette was dangling from his teeth as he had bitten through the filter of his Winston.  Maybe, I thought, I was smelling the bile raising up my own throat.  The smell came and went and I decided that it must be the aroma of Tacoma.   Since I had no way to close my window I couldn't do anything about it plus, I was busy trying to stay alive.  

 Chapter 9 ~ Freeway of Terror

Once on to I-5 north I wasn't sure whether to pray for a cop to chase us down or if Scott was unhinged enough to try to outrun him with me in tow.  He was moving his head back and forth and turning to laugh like a madman.  I knew the instant that we hit 70 mph as the front end started to shake and dance like never before.  I carefully drifted around behind the truck and I hadn't been so certain that I was going to die since that night at White Pass.  We passed cars left and right with me shaking along behind like a fish on a hook.  I determined that if I somehow survived, I was done with Volvos, the Boeing Beater philosophy and Scott Taylor.  He was dead to me. 

Chapter 10 ~ Safe at Last 

By the time we entered Montlake and Scott slowed to 30 mph I was physically and emotionally exhausted.  I couldn't believe that we were still alive.  When we pulled to the curb I got out with shaking knees and noted something sprayed on my fender and door.  As Scott stepped from the cab of the truck I was overcome with the smell of puke and realized that his head movement had been to facilitate his vomiting.  Berry rolled out of the Blue Beater and collapsed on the parking strip.  He laid there with a crushed cigarette filter still clenched between his teeth.  I gave Scott $15 for beer and told him to go drink it all up and die.

Shortly thereafter I learned how to rebuild the rear differential and got to dirty some new pages.

 Epilogue

 Just as there are no photos of my Uncle Jimmy there are none existing of my blue 1957 Volvo 444.  Both seem to be deemed unworthy of remembrance.  Every other car that I have ever owned shows up on those heavy black pages or has been scanned to my computer just like photos of every other aunt, uncle, niece, nephew and cousin.  Black and white or color.  No difference, they are all there other than that damned Volvo and Uncle Jimmy.  Like Uncle Jimmy, my first car wasn't to be trusted and like Uncle Jimmy it was an unreliable ne'er-do-well, ready to start a fight or steal a piggy bank. 

I am certain that somewhere on the shoulder of that endless afterlife highway, my broken-down 1957 Volvo 444 sits in the pouring rain with the hood up and the driver's window permanently down.  The speedometer is stuck at zero miles per hour.  The fender and door are streaked with puke so thick and vile that the torrential downpour can't wash it away.  Uncle Jimmy is sitting behind the wheel with rain drenched hair plastered to his head reading the blue Chilton's Motor Manual for Volvos and trying to figure out how to make it run.  He figures that if he just had a pair of vise grips he could fix it up, good as new.  

He's wrong.  My first car and Uncle Jimmy are broken down, faceless and together for all eternity.        

  

 

 

One Winter.....

 

There are times in our lives that stick with us and other times that just slip away.  Today I’m thinking about the time when I failed my draft physical and, with $124 in my pocket, ran off to Hawaii to visit friends.  It was the winter of 1971 - 1972 and I still remember what we did, what we ate, what we drank, what we listened to and who we hung out with.  Here are a few of those memories.

My friends Irv and Emma were living in a 3-story cinder block apartment in Waipahu shared with a guy named Dave and a few geckos.  The geckos had the run of the place and chirped at night but were seldom seen.  When I expressed concern about sleeping with a bunch of lizards they told me that in Hawaii I could either sleep with Geckos or with cockroaches and scorpions.  The apartment was located just a block off the Farrington Highway on the corner of Leonui and Leokane.  It could be said that we weren’t in one of Oahu’s garden spots.  Low metal buildings, barb wire topped fences, wrecked and abandoned cars everywhere.  Irv and Dave were in the Navy and about to be discharged, Emma had a part-time job at a natural food store across the highway and I had a roof over my head until I ran out of money. 

My Descent Into a Life of Crime

I suspect that even the most hardened life-long serial criminal looks back and regrets some choices that they made, people that they hurt and costs that they incurred.  Maybe they think about the circumstances that led them to commit their first crime.  Did it happen by accident or intent?    Were there social, economic, educational, parental or peer influences driving them?  What about drugs and alcohol?  Were they simply fated to live outside of the law? 

It was different for me. 

None of those things drove me to commit my first of many crimes.  Had I been born a century earlier criminologists of the time might have struggled to understand my behaviors.  How was it that this semi wholesome-looking freckled-face boy with a normal sized head with right-sized jaw and ears had been compelled to such behaviors.  It’s true that I was small for my age and, given nothing else to go on, they might have been left with that to explain my miscreant tendencies.  But there was something else.

I don’t think that anybody ever figured it out, but I could have told them if they had asked because I can clearly remember the exact moment when I formed the intent of transforming myself into a lawbreaking malefactor and menace to society.  Overnight I became a juvenile delinquent with a determination to break the law, inconvenience, disappoint and hurt loved ones, be a bad influence on friends and lose the respect of peers.  I became “that kid” that parents warned their children to stay away from.  I became known to the Seattle Police Department who seemingly watched for me to commit my next crime.

The Almost Famous Collection

Originally published 12/22/22

Leslie Conway Bangs

Courtesy of San Diego Reader 

If you read rock journalism during the ‘70’s you were probably equal-parts delighted, astounded and repulsed by the writings of Lester Bangs.  His opinionated demeanor was established as a child when his Mother pushed him to become a Jehovah’s Witness and bolstered by his successful campaign to refuse to dress for PE class.  Being much smarter than the average bear and a pushy bastard to boot he was described by some as America’s Greatest Rock Critic while others considered him a drunken buffoon.  The man spoke his own truth no matter how badly it hurt to read and though he spoke his truths of others he kept his insecurities and self-truths to himself. 

In the 2000 movie, “Almost Famous”, Cameron Crowe gives his own semi-autobiographical account of his life as an aspiring 15 year old rock journalist on assignment for Rolling Stone Magazine and we are introduced to Lester who is masterfully played by Philip Seymour Hoffman.  As Lester mentors young William (Cameron) he breaks character and shares some of his insecurities when he says:

“We are uncool and though uncool people don’t tend to get the girl, being uncool can help you develop a little spine.  It’s too easy out there for the handsome and the hip. —Their work almost never lasts.  The only true currency in this bankrupt world is what you share with someone else when you are uncool.”

Those words rang out to me and I realized that many of my stories share self-deprecating accounts of my own uncoolness or attempts to cast my truths in a more favorable light making me, in the words of Lester Bangs, a very wealthy man.  With that said, I welcome you to explore this collection of short (and some not-so-short) vignettes which I have called the Almost Famous Collection. 

Go ahead and click on the “Almost Famous” tab above.  I have lots of material to add.  

 

Test Pattern

 Originally published 7/12/21

We weren’t the first of families to own a TV set.  They were novelties then and whenever relatives were together, if a TV was available, we would gather and watch.  There wasn’t much in the way of programming at the time.  Whatever the programming was it was in black and white and I don’t recall channel choices during the ‘50’s in Kansas. 

I do recall sitting on the floor in front of the TV before the Saturday broadcasting began staring at the test pattern that featured the Indian Chief and listening to that test tone.  My God, the anticipation of staring at that image while having that unwavering low fidelity tone blast through my head.  It was divine in such an unacceptable way by today’s standards.  In order to distract kids during the pre-programming test pattern period some crafty entrepreneur packaged up a clear vinyl film with a few crayons and sold them to frazzled Mom’s.  We had one.  The film was pressed onto the screen where we would “color” the test pattern.  The crayon could be wiped off of the vinyl with toilet paper so every day the Indian chief could be a different color.  Of course, you couldn’t get too imaginative because there were only 5 color crayons. 

The Lagoon

 

This image of Duck Bay is dated c1953 by the University of Washington Botanical Gardens.  I’m thinking it’s March because the first leaves are fleshing out on the Willows but the other deciduous trees are still bare.  There are no leaves on the ground and the invasive Blackberry bushes are dried and bare.  That one guy with the incredibly ugly short sleeve shirt is carrying his coat so I assume that the temperature isn’t too cool.  He was probably a UW jock with no sense of style.  

2021 – Same View 70 Years Later

Welcome to “The Lagoon”.  Located near the north end of the University of Washington Arboretum it is part of a series of connected bays and waterways that were envisioned by the Olmsted Brothers in the early 1900’s and constructed through filling, grading and dredging in 1939. 

1939 - MOHAI - 7375

In the mid-‘50’s through the early-‘70’s the shoreline was clear and the grass was finely coiffed by the Arboretum Maintenance Team.  

The original image predates my Montlake arrival but only by a few years.  The shoreline of “The Lagoon” near the Broadmoor North Gate looked like that in my first Montlake memories and up into the early 1970’s.  As kids, we didn’t know or care that this space between “Duck” and “Willow Bays” had been mostly created by garbage landfill and the deposit of spoils from dredging, grading and compacting that had shaped the lagoons and made this garden for us. 

It was just a very cool part of our territory that we used year-round and valued a great deal.  It didn’t matter about the season.  Ice skating (falling through the ice), rafting, rowing, paddling, swimming, fishing or just hanging out.  We could and did do it all.  It was our paradise.  We were kings and queens of the realm. 

Looking back, one of the experiences of Montlake that I love is shown in this photo and it is the men of color who are fishing and remembering the time I spent with them.  I had come from a place that was totally segregated and, while Montlake wasn’t the perfect melting pot, I could still choose to be with other races and religions.  

c1953 - University of Washington Botanical Gardens - crop

Do you see that man in the lawn chair?  He’s the guy that I would sit down next to and talk about fishing, bait, seasons, etc..  I could have probably talked to him about anything, but I didn’t know how to.  Still, we would sit together for hours and talk or not.  Maybe I was being tolerated because I was just an entitled white kid, but I really learned from him and enjoyed his company. 

It was a man like him who I trusted to teach my young niece (Sue Ann) how to catch Night Crawlers.  On summer nights he would be out at West Montlake Park after the sprinklers had shut off catching worms to fish with in the morning.  Those worms were fast and hard to pull out of the ground without damaging.  He showed us how to sneak up on them.  He coached us to use a drop of airplane glue and a touch of sand on our thumb and index fingers so that we could increase our grip while applying less pressure on the worm.  He said that we should try to find two worms mating and grab them both.  He taught us that we might have to hang onto them for five minutes or more until they contracted and then pull a bit more of them out of the ground.  Little by little until they could no longer grip the soil.  He said that landing great bait was like landing a great fish.  It took patience, practice, time and tools, in that order. 

Sue, being so small, would sometimes grab them with both of her tiny hands and apply the lessons learned. She would be on her knees in the wet grass hanging on for dear life while our mentor's smiling face could be seen in the glow of the flashlight, encouraging her and beaming like a proud Grandfather.

The Gerrick Residence

 

Google Earth

The Gerrick Residence is located at 2208 E McGraw.  It is somewhat unique for Montlake as it is one of only twelve American Foursquare homes in the entire neighborhood.  Built in 1909 it was the second permanent home constructed in Pikes 2^nd Addition to Union City and it might be the fifth permanent home in Montlake, period, but there were four other houses built that year.  So, it is somewhere between the fifth and nineth house in the Montlake Neighborhood.  The 2 ½ story home is listed at 3690 square feet and has 5 bedrooms. 

Copyright City of Seattle

Imagine what it was like when the house was new and McGraw Street was just a slippery dirt road.  The area was thick with second growth trees and you were living out in the sticks.  At the bottom of the hill was 24^th N where a streetcar ran and the sidewalk was partially in place.  It took you just 15 minutes to walk to the south gate of the Alaska Yukon Pacific Exposition.  On the way you crossed the new bridge over the Log Canal and you passed no other homes, only buildings associated with the Log Canal operations or some dilapidated buildings that sat between the canal and where Roanoke would be pressed up against the foot of Montlake Ridge.  By 1912 the only addition was a single brick house at the corner of 22^nd and Roanoke.  Any kids living in Montlake who wanted to play in the woods didn’t have to go to the Ravine or the Arboretum.  They just stepped outside of their front door and they were there.  

1909 - UWDC - SEA1402

When I was in grade school my friend Bennett Minton lived in that house and I was in it a few times.  The front porch ran across the width of the house and around the southeast corner, Under the porch was a root cellar with an earthy smell and dusty wooden shelves holding glass canning jars.  At the top of the stairs on the second floor was a landing with doors leading off in all directions to multiple bedrooms.  It was a really cool house that seemed bright and airy but I only had my own Calhoun Street house to judge by. 

Copyright City of Seattle

In the 1930’s and early 1940’s the house was owned by Ruby Burshia and five bedrooms were more than she needed so she rented them out as room and board.  My favorite ad was in the August 22, 1940 edition of the Seattle Post-Intelligencer where she hoped to attract male tenants with the draw being meals prepared by a French Chef.  Classy.

NewsBank

 

Memorabilia

 

Digging through a junk drawer I found a collection of old stuff that was once important to me.  Each item has a story, of sorts, and tells a tale about some part of my younger life. 

Take the Cub Scout badges, for instance….I don’t remember what each one was for but I did achieve Webelos which meant that I matriculated to the rank of Tenderfoot in Boy Scouts.  I mostly enjoyed Cub Scouts in spite of the uniform requirement.  It was fun with the exception of going door-to-door selling Clamorama tickets.  I hated that.  I was keen about advancing to Boy Scouts but that turned out to be something that I really wasn’t suited for and, though I wasn’t kicked out, I ended up leaving under a cloud due to actions and circumstances that are disagreed upon by all parties to this very day.  That little square silver box holds the Boy Scout ring that I took off my finger on the day I left.

People were always giving me pocket knives.  I have a ton of them and I can’t recall the who or why on most but that red knife is special.  When I was in the first grade I talked my parents into buying it for me at Sears Roebuck in Wichita.  I couldn’t believe that they actually did it.  Being given stuff that we didn’t need was out of the norm.  Look closely and you will see Roy Rogers and Trigger on it.  Dale didn’t make the cut and if she had I wouldn’t have wanted the knife.  I always thought that she was bogus.  In retrospect so was Roy.  I mean that pair dressed like Liberace.  I broke the end of the large blade off carving my name into our chicken coop.

The green things are Heinz Pickle Pins that were featured during the 1962 Seattle World’s Fair at the Heinz exhibit where you could push a little button and a pin or two dropped into a tray.  There was usually a mob of kids waiting their turn and a Pickle Pin Monitor dressed in a green blazer making sure that each kid only got to push the button once.  I went there one day and there was no mob of kids and no pickle monitor.  Out to lunch I guess so I cranked out a whole lot of those pins because I could trade them for gum, candy, a decent used Duncan Imperial, several packs of strings or cigarettes.  As you can see I only have 9 left.  What do you want to trade me?

That brass tag belonged to our dog, Ace.  It’s his rabies tag from Wichita.  Ace was a good dude and my best and only brother. 

That silver thing “north east” of Ace’s tag is one of those tiny cigarette lighters.  They were highly valued by some kids (including me) and came in gumball-type machines in a little clear round plastic case.  Seems like those machines might have cost $25 a try and I spent a few dollars before I finally got one.  It was really exciting when I finally saw it drop but it was very disappointing as a lighter.  Poor performance, no wind protection, leaked in your pocket and that irritated the skin.  Leakage meant that it was always out of fluid and wouldn’t light, you had a scab on your leg and that you always smelled of lighter fluid and Bactine.

The little knife in the scabbard was something that I purchased in a souvenir shop.  I don’t recall where but probably the Roadside Geyser, Estes Park, The Big Well, who can remember?  Some family vacation someplace.  Originally it had a white plastic pearl handle but I thought it looked a bit wussy so I colored it black with a felt pen. 

 That shiny rectangle is my dog tag from Jesse Chisolm Elementary School in Wichita.  All kids were required to wear them to aid in potential body identification after the Russians dropped the bomb.  Note that it lists religion and blood type in case you were still alive.  I wonder if Atheist was an accepted choice in those days?  We lived in fear.

Hair Sins and Punishment

 

While some may blame their male pattern baldness on genetics I can say, with a great degree of certainty, that mine is due to some twisted penance that I am serving for some of the various hair-related sins that I committed in my youth.  Perhaps my parents are to blame for being too permissive and allowing me to choose my own style and comb my own hair.  A quick review of grade school class photos suggests that my classmates hair was combed by their Mothers by confirming that nobody else  sported a “Forward-Combed Flat-Top with Fenders Boogie” hairstyle.  It sure isn’t what any Mother would have preferred if choosing.  I remember that there were at least 2 or 3 products involved in the creation of my masterpiece and I recall thinking that I had really gotten the dance started as the girls couldn’t keep their hands out of it. 

Being desperate for attention I maintained that bad idea for far too long and by the time I realized that my individuality was a joke and needed to change I was in Meany Junior High and some guys were lightening their hair with Hydrogen Peroxide.  Not to be outdone or fearing that I would rot in hell for committing another hair-sin I bleached the B-Jezzus out of mine.  Not a few streaks or a bit lighter, no.  I turned myself into a very light-colored towhead.  Just a tiny shade darker than white.  That worked for a while.

Strangely, there were no pictures taken of me during those times.  I wonder why? 

If a tree falls in the forest does it make a sound? 
If there are no photos of my blonde hair-sin, did it ever happen? 
My baldness would argue that the answer to both questions is "yes".it did.

The Mark of Cain

 

You often hear folks say that they have a Love-Hate-Relationship with something or someone?  You know what I’m talking about.  Well, all of my life I have never felt the “Love-part” when it came to jockstraps.  Only hate and my hatred runs so deep that I find it difficult to refer to them by their Christian name of Athletic Supporter.  

My hatred started with confusion in the 3^rd grade when we were required to wear them to play organized baseball.  My Mom had to take me to the store to get one and I didn’t really know what we had gone to pick up.  She called it an athletic supporter so I was expecting something cool like a new baseball glove or a hat or something.  I had never heard of an athletic supporter and up until that point in my life “jock strap” was just a derogatory phrase we used when we needed something bad to call someone.  It was akin to calling somebody a butt-wipe.  Just a couple of words that, together, sounded funny and were used to describe somebody you didn’t like.   

 We started at Rhodes Department Store in University Village which was our go-to at the time for most needs but Rhodes wasn’t a giant in team sports.  They didn’t carry serious sporting goods, but they did have a Scouting Department where my Cub Scout Uniform and badges had come from.  Mother must have figured that scouts might find athletic supporters useful for their activities like selling Clamorama tickets, practicing knot tying and making plaques of the scout oath out of alphabet pasta.  Whatever it was it had something to do with playing baseball so I was all in. 

I’m the “little feller” with the tight jockstrap grimacing in the front row

We approached a dowdy sales lady who was folding scarves and Mother asked her if they carried athletic supporters.  The lady looked surprised and smiled down at me and said “Now who would be needing that?  Is this your son?  Is it for him?  How cute.  I don’t think they come that small but I’ll check with Mr. Mosley” and with that she waddled off.  I was really confused now and accustomed to taking the smallest size of everything but I was sensitive to people calling me small.  It was true that I was embarrassingly short and hated being reminded of the fact.  It had been the cause of many fights in my short life and I was toying with the idea of punching that lady out.  

Mrs. Dowdy returned with Mr. Mosley who was a gangly man dressed in brown rumpled slacks, a wrinkled, soup-stained striped shirt and a crooked necktie.  He had used one of those skinny half-knots guaranteed to crook a tie that was favored by those who couldn’t master the Windsor Knot.  I mean, I was just a third grader, but I knew how to tie a Windsor Knot and this was the father of one of my classmates, Howie, who I considered a semi-butt-wipe.  By his appearance and his offspring I took Mr. Mosley as someone who had, no doubt, been called “butt-wipe” many times in his life, but what did I know?  He looked down at me and laughed saying “What does this little feller need a jockstrap for”? 

Now bear in mind that as far as I knew a “jockstrap” was just a derogatory name and he had also called me little.  He considered me a little-jockstrap and he had said it out loud.  That took me right to the boiling point and I was figuring that I could put him down quickly by punching him squarely in his nuts which happened to be at the perfect height for me to administer a kill shot.  With him down I would turn on the “Dowdy Scarf Lady” who was snickering at me and the whole situation.  Neither one had any idea who they were messing with.  Luckily for both of them Mother knew and when I tensed and clenched my fists she put her hand firmly on my shoulder to hold me back.  Then Mr. Ass-wipe said, “Actually we do have one just his size” and with that he disappeared into the back room which saved him from a serious beating. 

When he returned, he had this small flat box with an “Ace” logo and a photo of the contents.  Since I was expecting a glove or a hat this added to my confusion.  Mr. Butt-wipe took it out of the box and held it up for all to see before handing it to me.  Working without any clues my best guess was that it was either supposed to go around my waist or over my head.  Head gear, most likely, a nose guard perhaps, but which way was it worn and for what purpose?  I had never seen a baseball player with one on his head but thought it possible that it attached to the inside of a hat, but why?  By the grace of God, I hesitated before pulling it over my head and when Mr. Mosley told me to just pull it on over my jeans that sort of answered the question about where it was worn.  It was obvious that this thing was going to be too big, but Mother nodded at me signifying that I should put it on so I went into a dressing room and pondered which way it was worn.  Guard to the front or guard to the back?  My life was so complicated.

Finally, I stepped out on the salesfloor to the accompaniment of much snickering.  We had drawn the attention of other shoppers who were now smiling at me as well.  Mr. Mosley laughed out loud.  Picture a tiny third grader with a big floppy jockstrap hanging loosely over his jeans.  At least I had gotten it on with the “guard” facing forward.  I mean, there were no instructions on the box and I really didn’t know.  I had donned it with a 50/50 chance of success and had just gotten lucky.