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Poetry Break

lake-chairs-blog

THE BEACH IN AUGUST
Weldon Kees

The day the fat woman
In the bright blue bathing suit
Walked into the water and died,
I thought about the human
Condition. Pieces of old fruit
Came in and were left by the tide.

What I thought about the human
Condition was this: old fruit
Comes in and is left, and dries
In the sun. Another fat woman
In a dull green bathing suit
Dives into the water and dies.
The pulmotors glisten. It is noon.

We dry and die in the sun
While the seascape arranges old fruit,
Coming in and the tide, glistening
At noon. A woman, moderately stout,
In a nondescript bathing suit,
Swims to a pier. A tall woman
Steps toward the sea. One thinks about the human
Condition. The tide goes in and goes out.

from The Collected Poems of Weldon Kees (1962)

God Bless America

4th-of-july-blog

Spent Independence Day—or ‘Murica Day to you insufferable millennials—at an undisclosed location in the Idaho Panhandle, enjoying a suitably proportionate combination of food, family, and fireworks to mark our country’s 240th birthday. (There was patriotic music as well, but that didn’t quite fit into my alliterative scheme. So we’ll just add “festivities” to the mix and call it good.)

Best part of the day? Hard to choose, really. After all, there was pulled pork and a homemade cannon. But if I had to pick, it’d definitely be the framed photograph of Ronald Reagan on the nightstand in our hosts’ master suite. Darn near brought a tear to my eye.

Happy birthday, America.

Ode to C8H10N4O2

I had my first cup of coffee when I was around eight years old. I use the term “coffee” somewhat loosely, of course: what was actually in that styrofoam cup was equal parts sugar, milk, and whatever swill you could get in a grocery store in 1975.

By the time I was 11, though, I was hooked. And when I entered junior high, it would’ve been unthinkable to board the school bus without at least two cups in my belly. Halfway through high school I’d ditched the milk and sugar entirely and doubled my intake of delicious black goodness. And by the time college rolled around, well…I’m pretty sure I was the only person in my dorm with a 10-cup Braun automatic coffeemaker.

The Braun eventually yielded to a Chemex, then an espresso machine, a Bodum vacuum pot, an ibrik, another Chemex, an AeroPress, a Bialetti Moka Express, a French press, still another Chemex, and finally to Technivorm’s magnificent Moccamaster.

As for the coffee itself, let’s just say that it’s good to live in Spokane. They may be condescending Peter Pan lookalikes, but hipsters have pretty much ensured we all have access to an amazing cup of Joe whenever we feel like it. (I’d say “Thanks guys!” but that would just reinforce the gender binary, and I know how y’all feel about that.)

So it’s with no small amount of satisfaction and pride that a little company I work with is now offering some of the finest coffee around: a smooth, balanced cup you can quaff all day. DOMA Coffee Roasting Company makes it to order, hand packs it, and promises to get it to your door in no time.

So drink up. You’ll not only be partaking in a ritual that’s literally hundreds of years old, but also helping a local design student pay for tuition. Win-win, right?

Jim Boyd, RIP

I got the terrible news this morning that Jim Boyd died Tuesday.

I met Jim back in 2002 when I was writing a feature story about him and his music for the erstwhile Local Planet. We sat, he and I, for hours in my living room, talking about songwriting, politics, reservation life, and how the hell I was supposed to refer to him in the upcoming article.

“Sorry to ask this,” I said, deliberately avoiding eye contact, “but…am I supposed to call you an Indian or a Native American?”

Jim actually laughed at me. “I’ve been an Indian all my life,” he said. “That’s what we call ourselves on the rez. Then one day, this white college professor tells me I’m a Native American. Whatever, man. I’m still an Indian. Call me that.”

It was about that point that he looked out the window and noticed that my five-year-old son Jake was rummaging around in the back of his pickup truck. I called him in and asked what he was doing. Jake looked Jim up and down, taking in the long black hair, the leather vest, the beaded necklaces.

“I was trying to find his bow and arrow,” Jake answered.

“Oh, those?” Jim said, deadly serious as he crouched down to Jake’s level. “I left ’em at home. Maybe I’ll bring ’em next time.”

There wasn’t a next time, of course. Jim was a busy guy and I had a story to file. We stayed in touch for a few years after, but, as so often happens, the time between emails and phone calls kept growing until they stopped altogether.

As for the story, it ran on the cover of the June 7, 2002 issue of the Local Planet. It also won an award from the Inland Northwest Chapter of the Society of Professional Journalists—one of a couple I inexplicably received that year. And shortly after, I left journalism for, well…whatever it is I’m doing now.

Thanks for your friendship, Jim, brief though it was. You touched a lot of folks, and you’re gonna be missed by all of them.

Miscellany

Surprise! Selfies are little more than “a new manifestation of a time-honored tendency: the penchant for people to overvalue their positive traits.” Are you reading this, Courtney?

Pit bulls: “The Jews of the canine world.”

“In the last few decades, stroke mechanic experts have discovered that swimming under the surface is faster than swimming on the surface.”

If we all just peed in the shower, we’d save hundreds of billions of gallons of water every year. C’mon, now. Who’s with me? Let’s save the planet!

So people are suing Starbucks. On what grounds? (See what I did there? Grounds.) Under-filling their lattes. No, really.

BOOM: “A culture that values sensitivity and diversity without figuring out how to adequately define either needs ways to monitor the behavior of others.”

I ❤️ Ken Brooks

ken-brooks_talk_062016

Last Tuesday evening, I had the privilege of sharing a few stories about one of Spokane’s mid-century modern architectural masters, Kenneth W. Brooks. The event was sponsored by the local chapter of the American Institute of Architects, and was held in the auditorium at Ken’s signature project, the headquarters of Avista Utilities (completed in 1958 as the Washington Water Power Central Service Facility).

Ken kept diaries, sketchbooks, and notes throughout his career, many of which are available for viewing at the Washington State University archives. Among my favorite discoveries is a handwritten note from a graphic design conference he attended at WSU on March 20, 1965: “The graphic designer and the architect are born buddies.”

Even more significant to me is that, in 1947, Ken worked for the prestigious SOM in New York City, during which time he lived in a Midtown Manhattan townhouse. No big deal—except that, for the last 51 years, this same building has housed the design studio of none other than Milton Glaser.

photo by J. Craig Sweat Photography

Today in History

Sir Francis Drake, sailing off the coast of north-western California, arrives at Nova Albion, 1578:

In this bay we anchored…The people of the country, having their houses close by the water’s side, showed themselves unto us and sent a present to our general. When they came unto us they greatly wondered at the things which we brought. Our general (according to his natural and accustomed humanity) courteously entreated them, and liberally bestowed on them necessary things to cover their nakedness. Whereupon they supposed us to be gods, and would not be persuaded to the contrary. The presents which they sent unto our general were feathers, and cauls of net work.

Their houses are digged round about with earth, and have from the uttermost brims of the circle clefts of wood set upon them, joining close together at the top like a spire steeple, which by reason of the closeness are very warm. Their bed is the ground with rushes strewed on it and lying about the house; they have the fire in the midst. The men go naked; the women take bulrushes and comb them after the manner of hemp, and thereof make their loose garments; which, being knit about their middles, hang down about their hips, having also about their shoulders a skin of deer, with the hair upon it. These women are very obedient and serviceable to their husbands.

From The Folio Book of Days (Folio Society, London: 2002).

N.B. While for some the exact location of Drake’s landing is in dispute, it’s pretty clear he landed in what’s now Drakes Bay.

Spokane Scene no. 19

sunset

Noticed the sky was on fire while on my evening constitutional yesterday. Figured I’d better take a photo, in case no one believed me. Doesn’t appear to have left any permanent damage, though—everything was cool when I looked west this morning.

Word of the Day

carapace (noun) A thick, hard shell made of bone or chitin found on animals such as turtles, crabs, and armadillos.

To survive at helveticka, Aaron learned that a protective carapace was necessary not only to blunt the blows of criticism aimed primarily at his writing (not to mention his attire and taste in music), but also to stifle Courtney’s frequent encomiums to someone called “Queen Bey.”

Poetry Break

angelhand

shizukasa ya
iwa ni shimiiru
semi no koe

the stillness—
soaking into stones
cicada’s cry

Matsuo Bashō
(1644–1694)

From The Haiku Handbook (Kodansha, 1985): “Matuso Bashō…made his living traveling around the country, teaching people everywhere he went the art and craft of writing renga, or linked poems.”

Le Sigh

There’s a particularly obnoxious trend I’ve been meaning to write about for a while now, but hadn’t yet found an example egregious enough to make my point.

Until today.

Let me set this up: A month or so ago I received my limited-edition boxed set of the Grateful Dead’s July 1978 concerts, two of which were at Red Rocks Amphitheater in Morrison, Colorado. I happened to be there last week, and, as you can see, it’s pretty spectacular:

mesa

So with Red Rocks on my mind of late, I naturally clicked on this Denver Post story this morning. It purports to reveal the ten “most memorable concerts in Red Rocks history.” (Let’s be honest, though. Any list that doesn’t put the Dead’s July 8, 1978 show at the top really shouldn’t be taken seriously.)

I digress. The Post mentions the “stunning vistas and naturally honed acoustics”; that the venue’s reputation “has a way of forcing artists to deliver their best while practically begging for crystal-clear live albums and heroic videos”; and that “the music, mood and weather often combine to produce the feeling of something legendary.”

So far, so good. Then you get to this line:

“Here’s a curated list of the most memorable Red Rocks concerts — the greatest, the most disastrous and the most influential — in honor of the venue’s 75th anniversary season, culled from decades of Denver Post coverage.”

Did you catch that? A “curated list.” So, well…a list. There’s nothing curated about it, you pretentious twits. Just like there’s nothing curated about Internet clothing subscriptions, online retailers, or beer dinners—whatever those are.

No, this is what a curator does:

“…collect, exhibit, interpret, maintain, and protect objects of historical and aesthetic importance primarily in museums, libraries, and private collections.…Both graduate education and practical experience are required for people who wish to become curators. Aside from an extensive knowledge of history and art, it is useful to have a basic understanding of chemistry, restoration techniques, museum studies, and even physics and public relations.”

Not to mention that the very word curator comes from the Latin for “to care for.”

This conflation of list-making with the type of work that often requires a PhD is a pervasive menace. And it’s not just me, either.

“Nowadays, every person picking out a new collar for their dog is a curator,” said EWU professor of history Larry Cebula, whose wife, incidentally, bills herself as a curator of vintage barware. (Oh, hey Renee—have you found us a mid-century decanter and some rocks glasses yet? We have a couple of bottles of Rittenhouse Rye that need a good home.)

Courtesy of Colorado Parks and Wildlife

Over the last couple of years I’ve striven mightily to reduce the level of snark directed at public grammar/syntax/spelling/usage errors. No, really—I have. Everyone makes mistakes, after all. But for some reason I can’t seem to extend that forgiveness to governmental entities. (Remember this?)

Maybe it’s because of my profound dislike of the political class. Or maybe it’s because those of us under the government’s thumb ought to at least have literate masters. Doesn’t matter. Just feast your eyes on this:

chubbpark

See that? “EXCEPT TO RETREAVE HARVESTED ANIMALS.”

It got me to wondering: Maybe retreave is actually a word—not an alternative spelling of retrieve, but rather something related to hunting and “harvested animals.” You shoot a deer, you treave it, and then, for reasons unknown (to me anyway), you need to treave it again: retreave.

Alas, it isn’t so. While Google returns 89 million hits on retrieve, it yields only 18,000 for retreave—primarily from comments sections in obscure forums, where people aren’t known for accurate spelling. So it’s a simple error; a misspelling. And here I thought I’d discovered a new word to add to the helveticka lexicon.

ALI, ALI, ALI…

Ali1

The passing of Muhammad Ali reminded me not only of watching some of his great boxing matches as a kid with my dad—an avid boxing and wrestling fan—but also of another project we were involved in several years ago.

Ali2

Ali3

Back in 2002, we were commissioned by Portland-based Formations Inc. to provide signage and display concepts for the Muhammad Ali Center in Louisville, Kentucky. Formations had been selected to provide exhibit design and fabrication for two floors of the six-story building, and I suspect we were asked to participate simply to augment their conceptual output.

For a flat fee, we focused on specific areas of the center, and were given total freedom to develop ideas without consideration for fabrication and installation costs—an especially enjoyable (and very rare) assignment. The 93,000-square-foot building opened in late 2005, but without any of those ideas.

May The Greatest rest in peace.

Our Annual Politics Post

Twice this past weekend, I was asked who I was going to vote for in the upcoming presidential election. Both of my interlocutors were laboring under the assumption that I simply must choose between either the Democratic or the Republican candidate.

Nonsense. “If I actually voted,” I replied, “I’d go third party.”

Now, I figured that flirting with a third-party nominee would raise some eyebrows. But what really rubbed someone’s rhubarb was the first part of my answer: “If I actually voted….” See, the offended party subscribes to the notion that, unless I vote, I cannot complain, and that my opinions related to politics are therefore invalid.

Admittedly, I was taken by surprise. Not only was she in thrall to a logical fallacy, she’d apparently never heard George Carlin’s take on the subject:

“I don’t vote. On Election Day, I stay home. I firmly believe that if you vote, you have no right to complain. Now, some people like to twist that around. They say, ‘If you don’t vote, you have no right to complain,’ but where’s the logic in that? If you vote, and you elect dishonest, incompetent politicians, and they get into office and screw everything up, you are responsible for what they have done. You voted them in. You caused the problem. You have no right to complain. I, on the other hand, who did not vote—who did not even leave the house on Election Day—am in no way responsible for what these politicians have done and have every right to complain about the mess that you created.”

Boom.

The way I figure it, if either party wants my vote, they damn well better run a candidate worthy of it. Until then, I’ve got far better things to do with my time.

We now return to our regularly scheduled (and decidedly non-political) programming.

Six Years in the Making

In 2013, one of the most ambitious projects our firm has ever produced opened at the Northwest Museum of Arts & Culture: an interpretive exhibit entitled SPOMa: Spokane Modern Architecture, 1948–73.

The exhibit was an outgrowth of an extensive article about Spokane architect Moritz Kundig that we had developed three years earlier. During the article’s research phase, we discovered Moritz was part of a local—and incredibly talented—mid-century modern movement.

In addition to Kundig and a few others, the SPOMa exhibit featured the architectural achievements of Kenneth W. Brooks. On June 14, I have the honor of sharing a little bit about the late Mr. Brooks. I hope you will join me.

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