This morning, I was awakened at 3:15, 4:30, and 6:00 to have blood drawn, vitals taken, and at six a catheter removed by those diligently watching over me at Overlake Hospital, in Bellevue, WA. While awaiting release and for Ann to come and retrieve me, I drafted this letter which will be posted tomorrow to Jon Duarte, CEO of Overlake Medical Center and Michele Curry, Chief of Nursing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Ms. Curry and Mr. Duarte:

Lying in a bed with a catheter up one’s pecker is hardly pleasant, but I commend your staff who work their butts off to make it so. I came into your emergency room on Thursday night, May 9^th, having begun to pass blood in my urine. The receptionist checked me in proficiently and cordially and an ER nurse quickly took me in hand. I was chagrined to have an accident in the men’s room, soiling its floor and myself, but she without missing a beat reassured me and got me into an ER room. (I wish I could recall her name, but I was a wee bit distracted, as you can imagine.)

I was in professional, caring hands. Dr Alex Lambert was the attending ER Physician; he calmed my wife and me with his demeanor and assurance that mine was a frequently seen situation with older men blessed with an enlarged, angry prostate. I spent the night in ER and next day was admitted to the hospital’s West building, 3^rd floor short-stay ward. During my not-so-short, three-day stay, I interacted with nurses, aides, PAs, imaging techs, and others; all (with one exception who appeared to be having a bad day) were pleasant, professional, proficient, and caring.

A word about my interest in the management and delivery of services: half my career was in consumer marketing of products; the second half, in marketing, teaching, and consulting on development and delivery of consumer services in hospitality industries. So, I was watching through both a patient’s eye and a professional’s eye.

What impresses me is how hard and effectively your staff, especially the nursing crews, worked to make my stay, given the circumstances, as pleasant as possible. What strikes me is how much they enjoy and trust one another; I could overhear the chatter and laughter from the bull pen. Clearly, they like their teammates. In my experience, the coherence, mutual trust, and affinity within a service worker team reinforces their sense of responsibility and the quality of their delivery. That doesn’t just happen: it takes a commitment by senior management to lead, not merely manage; to encourage; to share information[1]; and to be accessible.

There are too many names to keep straight: Hannah, Josh, Anna, Nancy, Goodness, Tyler , Pam, “T” -- and too many more to remember. But one who stands out among all these competent and empathetic employees is RN Sarah, who appears ready to return to school, to leave real estate investment behind, and to earn her Nurse Practitioner quals. Sarah is a real keeper among the many. I also have great confidence in Urologist Dr. Elizabeth Miller.

Congratulations to you both. This was not my nor my wife’s first experience with Overlake: we each recovered from knee replacements there, rehab, shoulder surgeries, etc. You and your staff have created a fine, patient-focused institution. Whatever you’re doing, especially with nursing staff, you’re apparently doing it right.

Sincerely,

Fletch Waller

PS: The food is not up to the standards set by your care team – but I’m sure you know that. You’re not alone: in my work in and with hotels, resorts, and retirement homes, if we stubbed our toes, it was more often than not on food quality and F&B performance. How customers do love to natter about food, probably the #1 subject of hotel and resort complaints.

PPS: Subsequent to having drafted this letter while awaiting release, I was walked out by RN Miranda. She’s been with you a month. I asked her what surprised her the most. After reflecting for a moment, she said the reception by her team, who has embraced her as companion and teammate. She said it was so unique compared to other hospitals she worked in. I was delighted to have my observation about Overlake’s strong team culture confirmed.

[1] At Westin, we established weekly management and quarterly employee NETMA sessions – Nobody Ever Tells Me Anything – to shine light on facts and strangle rumors in their cribs.

Intangible Exchanges: One Small-Stepping in South King County

Judie had asked me to accompany her on one of her conversations ‘tween urban and not-so urban, her one-woman campaign to listen and lessen gulfs of misunderstanding separating Americans, one from another.

Judie and I headed southeast-ward but my navigation was woeful. I missed 169, the highway we planned to take from I-405, then missed the left exit to 167 south to Kent, finally blundered down I-5 to east-bound 516. By now, Judie was having second thoughts about having invited me. We also missed turns off 516, passing through new residential developments, some town-house and multi-family, relatively “affordable” housing aimed at service workers and lower middle income families being priced out of the Seattle metro area. Others were clusters of single-family houses, not exactly McMansions but roomy dwellings on roomy lots. Clearly this part of King County, Washington’s largest, home to 2.3 millions and core of greater Seattle’s metro area, was undergoing its own rapid change.

Finally, 516 dumped us out onto the western fringe of our target: Black Diamond, Washington, a town up 46% from one census to the last. Here and from Newcastle to its north had been dug out the coal that gave the two towns their names and had fueled the steam-driven mills Yessler and others had built on the shore of Elliot Bay, nuclei of a village named Seattle after Chief Sea-ahth, or siʔaɬ in his Lushootseed language, he Chief of the Suquamish and Duwamish peoples.

We found Black Diamond Bakery, 123 years-old now and just as Ann and I had left it on our last foray to Mt. Rainier (no, not quite that long ago.) We bought coffee and awesome sweet rolls and settled into the lunch room of the ramshackle building where were gathered clusters of locals whom we conspired to chat up. But, we were politely told, these tables were for lunch-eaters only. We decamped to the bakery side of the house, where one other patron nursed a coffee while guarding his purchased breads. We had encountered him at the coffee counter – a grizzled, seventies-something, cap-wearing rustic who had mumbled greetings as we ordered. One might reasonably judge him to be of limited means, limited education, limited experience, limited intelligence, limited imagination.

We settled into a table adjacent to this proto-MAGA type and Judi opened with a “you live 'round here?”

“Nope. Port Orchard.”

“You drove all the way over here this morning?” (That’d be nearly an hour drive.)

“Yup.”

“To the bakery.”

“Nope. To see how my wife was doing.”

 Sufficiently befuddled, I now played my “what do you do there?” card.

“Work on tugboats.” Nothing more offered.

“Has Port Orchard changed much?”

“Nope, not much.”

Somehow we wormed out of him that he had never worked in Black Diamond but had worked for a coal company in Newport, once worked farms in the area, was a diver, had served in the Marines, where he was taught to dive, was stationed near Yosemite along with a sister Seabee unit, that they looked out for each other like “you have to”, that his “tug” company, in fact, drove pilings for docks and piers, that another marine construction company was buying out his employer’s business but he didn’t know much about them or what might happen to his job, that this area was also historic for brick kilns and he once worked with the Irish brick-makers who helped establish the brick industry here in the 19thC. All mumbled and jumbled and in no rush.

Some subsequent, post-Bakery digging via Co-Pilot yields that coal and clay were found here together; that brick-works were a major east-side industry supplying bricks both for rebuilding Seattle after our fire of 1889 and San Francisco after its of 1906, and for making the pavers which are still to be found on some of Seattle’s steep hillside streets. The Denny-Renton Coal and Clay company was a major employer at the turn of the century.

Now began a reflective, rambling, common-sense monologue that blew our preconception of proto-MAGA to smithereens, paraphrased as best I can:

“Our boss at the brick factory was what a boss should be. He knew the work, how to do it. He shared with his employees how we and the business were doin’,what our problems were, and all. And, of course, the men knew their jobs, had learned it generations, back to Ireland. It’s important to keep people who know the job. Not like some of these bosses who hide-out in the boardroom and don’t share and let go men who really know what they’re doin’.

“That’s what our government is doin’: letting go people who know how to do their job, some with 50 years’ experience. And they don’t tell the truth about it. You can’t trust these guys. You can’t believe what you hear or read. It makes me furious.” And so on.

This guy didn’t know who or what we were, didn’t ask what we were doing in Black Diamond, but in the end he went out to find his wife knowing that he had been listened to. And we learned, again, that people are unpredictably complex: you can’t judge a book by its cover.

Not much more to be found in Black Diamond; let’s try Enumclaw. 

Bingo! Two elderly women stood on a street corner holding home-made signs painted on corrugated board: Tax the Billionaires.

Enumclaw was preparing for its First Friday of the Month Car Show and Cruise. Hot-rods and restored classics were staking out prime curb-side parking spaces, folding lawn chairs being set up ito hold sidewalk spots from which to watch the passing parade later that evening. Judie and I accosted Mark and Russ sitting in the shade watching over Mark’s meticulously restored ’38 Chevy Sedan and Russ’ gleaming, candy-apple red ’38 Chevy rumble seat roadster with a huge, chromed air scoop atop 4-barrel Hollys, with Edelbrock headers, four-link rear suspension, and all the stuff. “Don’t drive it much. Only get’s 8 ½ miles per gallon” Russ proudly complained.

“You’ve had a lot of change ‘round here” I ventured. Duh.

Mark sniffed us out for the townies we are and tested how much heat we could stand:

"Yeah, those liberal assholes from Seattle are flooding the place.” We didn’t blanche. I guess we passed his test. 

He went on to bitch about the eleven families which had moved into his cul de sac neighborhood. The gist of it: “they don’t know how to behave. Their dogs shit on my lawn, they park on my grass, they don’t know how this community works and don’t care to learn. One of ‘em called the cops on me for spraying a noxious, invasive weed the State wants to have eradicated. Assholes.” Red meat for Judie.

She acknowledged that we were liberals from Seattle, joked that her horns were tucked up under her ball cap; we're down here to learn and listen; that more listening was a requisite for newcomers moving into an established community, that somethings here needed fixing, -- And we talked and talked: horses, small towns, McMansions, cars, health (long-COVID and gout are real issues for Mark.) Mark encouraged us to come see the car show. Judie left him with possibles about maybe getting back for a First-Friday. (I was more circumspect; a Friday evening hot-rod show and cruise-by ain’t Ann’s thing.)

Mark the MAGA undoubtedly is not convertible, unlike some of the shiny rods tooling into town looking for likely spots for the night’s parade. But Mark had now met a couple of city liberals who listened, who were empathetic and interested, who were curious about what makes a small town enmeshed in gentrification tick.

Judie passionately believes these encounters, these exchanges of intangibles will ultimately make a difference: each one, one small step toward healing America. 

This one made a difference for me.

 

The Saga of a Red Balloon

The saga began on a pleasant English Sunday morning in August of last year. It was the weekend between our first and second week of summer school at Cambridge University. The day before, Ann and I had gone off to Canterbury, paying homage to Thomas Becket, that “meddlesome Priest” murdered and martyred in Christ's Church Cathedral founded by St. Augustine in 597. 597! 

We slept late Sunday, hiked into town from our dorm at Selwyn College, and settled into a sidewalk café for some eggs and salmon, right across the street from Kings College and its chapel.

Kings College and its "Chapel"

This “chapel” would put to shame many of the Cathedrals here State-side. 

In front of the college and its chapel was a tent city of students demonstrating for Gazans and against Israel’s (in their view) hyper-aggressive retribution. (The English seem better than we at differentiating between opposition to IDF aggression and antisemitism.)

Student Protesters' Tent Village

After breakfast, we wandered about decrying the hordes of (other) tourists, many of whom were bus-loads of Chinese highschoolers checking out Cambridge colleges for their studies abroad. One doesn’t expect to find galleries of fine art in a university and tourism avenue, but Byard Art’s window caught our eye; the skillfully done, larger than life still lives drew us in.

 A Byard's Still Life

Now: a little background on art and Ann and me. 

Our walls are adorned with visual art; most would say over-stuffed with it. Not just the living room, but the dining area, the bedrooms, the entry hall. Every horizontal surface hosts sculptures (some mine; the better ones, other’s), vases, Lionel Joyce bowls, Philippine woven baskets, and what not. Ann’s watercolors delight guests in the guest bathroom which we have come to call “the Loo Gallery.” So, four years ago we made a solemn pact: no more art.

I was the first to break the agreement, having fallen in love with a glass sculpture by Tlingit artist Preston Singletary, a piece which was sold out from under me. So, through Traver Gallery, his agent, I commissioned another – without telling Ann. When finally finished, I sneaked it into the house, holding my breath.

Singletary's Raven

 But to my joy and great relief Ann loved it and loved me enough to forgive.

Ben Steele's Visual Pun

The second transgression occurred later that year in Sun Valley, while having a last hurrah at X-country skate skiing. We always take a gallery walk while in Ketchum. There, in Freisen Gallery, Ann was captivated by a visual pun painted by Ben Steele: Sargent Crayons. It and El Jaleo went home with us. 

The third breaching of our solemn pact was mine again. From Preston Singletary’s Smithsonian show, Raven and the Box of Daylight, I fell for Salmon Chief, bought a version for a B-day present to myself, and told Sarah Traver to hold it until my September celebration. Again, beyond telling Ann I had bought myself a present, for all she knew it might have been a pair of new shoes, I kept mum that it was more art, contrary to our agreed NO MORE ART! 

Salmon Chief, Singletary

And now comes a beautiful English summer morning in Cambridge and we innocently wandering into Byard Art Gallery. Ann’s turn. She is drawn to, enchanted by, bewitched with desire for a trompe l’oeil oil of a red balloon painted by Swedish artist, Tommy “TC” Carlsson. 

The Enchanted and The Red Balloon

And so began the saga.

Byard was staffed that morning by a pleasant young man named Toby (I had been “Toby” all my life up until my sophomore year in college) who did not pressure us but stood aside and let the painting work its magic on Ann. She, we, succumbed. Yes, shipping was included. Toby recommended and we agreed to have the painting taken off its stretcher and rolled up to facilitate its shipment and customs clearance. Byard would reimburse our re-stretching once home in Seattle. The Red Balloon, rolled and stoutly crated, departed Cambridge on the wings of UPS on August 22^nd.

So, Where is it?

We knew it would take a couple of weeks to arrive and clear customs. In mid-September, having heard nothing, I tracked the package: in transit, came the confusing report: it had not yet left England but would be delivered in another week. A couple of weeks later: to be delivered tomorrow. Great! Tomorrow came and went. No balloons. More anxious tracking; more “tomorrows” or “cannot determine delivery date.” Then: in Lexington, TN, the US Customs Center. “In Lexingtons” persisted for several more weeks interspersed with “cannot determine deliverys.” Custom’s customer service desk no help; a nice woman I became voice-pal with told me she didn’t know what the problem was, when it would be released, and assured me that all was well. Customs’ web site offers a chat: no information. Never heard of Red Balloon. October: Customs wants my tax ID; I wish I had one. I responded, by e-mail of course, that I was not a dealer or re-seller, but the consumer, and anxiously gave who-knows-whom my social security number. Ann asks that I file an insurance claim, as I had listed the balloon on our homeowner’s policy. I hold off.

In November came word from Customs: they had ordered the crated painting returned to sender! I protested via e-mail and to my friend at customer service Lexington, and via maddening web-site chat – all to no avail. Balloon was on its way back to Cambridge.

December 9^th: Toby emails “Hallelujah!!!!!!!!!!! Your Painting has arrived safely back in the gallery. I cannot believe it. It just turned up unexpectedly this afternoon.” Byard opens the crate, inspects the piece and finds no damage, re-crates and sends off again via DHL on Dec 11^th.

Tracking shows us nothing – no location, no delivery estimate, nothing. Then more “delivery to be determined” – not. Then silence. Not locate-able.

December 31^st, from my e-mail to Toby at Byard:

After fruitless hours “chatting” via computer with DHL’s not-so- customer service dept., calling their diabolical voice mail system multiple times, and getting nothing but invitations to “chat” some more – when I think of the joy of having a real chat over a Guiness in a Dublin pub – whatever. This afternoon, on a hunch that I might find help, I drove to the Seattle DHL Express “office-point”. I asked the agent, can you help me locate this shipment?

My hunch was right; the pleasant office manager checked her computer, looked up, and said “well, it’s right out back in the warehouse. I’ll go get it.” I was floored.

Red Balloon had incurred an import duty. Duly paid on the spot, we put the crate in the car and drove it home. 

Now to mounting it again

First week of January: I called Sarah Traver to get her recommendation of a framer. Dan Carrillo, of Gallery Frames: “he does all the galleries here in Pioneer Square” says Sarah. I took it to Gallery Frames. Dan and his team opened the crate – truly a bullet-proof casket – and laid it out. Well, first of all, it’s not a canvas but is painted on linen – a thin and fragile linen. Second, Dan shows me how the paint is also thin – that’s part of the illusion of dimensionality. Red Balloon shows no brush marks. Dan is afraid of the thin paint layer cracking as folded over the stretcher frame; we planned to hang it without a frame, you see. Dan says he’s scared of it and declines the job. Carrillo gives me the name of two art conservators, the beginning of my art-preservation education.

The first of these is head of the preservation department of Seattle Art Museum. While he does some outside projects for dealers and museums, he declines: too busy with an upcoming show at SAM. But he recommends another, the same person who Carrillo suggested: Peter Malarkey (how’s that for a name that instills confidence?)

Malarkey turns out to be a highly trained, graduate conservator specializing in oil paintings; a sensitive, likeable, and trustworthy guy; a professional dedicated to the artwork almost more than to its owner; and expensive. In February, he came down from his studio and workshop in the San Juan Islands to do some work at the Frye and came by to pick up the crated Balloon. His findings a few days later: a strong recommendation that we order a keyed stretcher frame, one that reduces the strain of re-stretching in light of the fragility of our thin paint on linen. The painting cost us in the upper four figures; Malarkey’s cost of a keyed stretcher plus his time and professional fees will total mid-four figures.  Ann objects: why a conservator? Why not just a framer? We have paid high three figures to have paintings professionally framed. I found myself defending Peter and opting for doing right by the piece. Ann said that’s our heir’s problem; we’ll only have the Balloon with us for a few years at best. And so it went (backgammon and bickering are our two favorite games.) Peter Malarkey said he didn’t want to get between husband and wife and he didn’t want to work with someone who did not appreciate his conservator credentials and professionalism. He returned Balloon but offered to advise.

Toby, in Cambridge, said in his experience and Byard’s a framer should suffice rather than a professional conservator. He went on the web to find a couple of Seattle retail picture framing shops, one of them a do-it-yourself frame shop n Ballard. This was turning messy. I go back to Carrillo of Gallery Frames and report Peter Malarkey’s findings. Dan says he’d rather not but if I insisted, he’d want a hold-harmless release in any case. I decided not to go with a guy who doubts.

I searched the web. No question: Malarkey is the best north of San Francisco. But further searching turned up “restoration” – who knew: frame it yourself, professional framer, preservationist, restorer, conservator -- why can’t life be simple?!?

I called and chatted with Daniel Zimmerman, owner of Phoenix Art Restoration. He sounded competent and credible so I loaded Balloon, safely back in its crate, and headed north to Lyndale, WA. Zimmerman gave me confidence as I watched him uncrate and handle Balloon. He also urged on us a keyed stretcher. And he gave me a bid in the low four figures. Half the expense was the keyed stretcher; half, time and labor. Ann, our CFO, approved the compromise choice, so I left Balloon with Zimmerman and his team at Phoenix. One catch: Phoenix chooses to have their stretchers sourced in Ontario. Better woods, better craftmanship, Daniel says. So, the order goes off to Canada – just as Trump is threatening draconian tariffs on imported items. A couple of more weeks slip by: now, it’s late-April.

In the very beginning, Byard assured us they would reimburse us for the re-stretching. But clearly, they had not foreseen conservators or restorers or keyed stretchers and what not. And they were uneasy having to take my second-hand reports of what advisors and sources said. I proposed to them that we share the cost 50/50. Though it undoubtedly cost them more than they originally expected, they agreed and responsibly shared the cost with us who were making the decisions 3,000 miles away. We both have learned from this experience.

What’s up, Phoenix? Actually, it’s “Tennessee”, the operations manager with whom I had chatted a few times. On the 21^st, she tells me the keyed stretcher has arrived from Ontario but her skilled stretcher tech, “Hutch” who does the work, has been out with the flu the past ten days. (She knows; she lives with him.)

Ann so hoped to have The Red Balloon on the wall for our Welcome to Spring neighborhood party last Saturday, the 26^th. With regrets, we accepted the likelihood that we’d not have it. But Saturday morning, Tennessee called. Hutch had come in on Friday just for us; Red Balloon was ready. I hopped up to Lyndale, gave Tennessee a hug and Hutch a hearty handshake, raced back home, and had it hung by 2:30. Neighbors began arriving at four.

The Saga Ends -- alongside James Tormey's Egg

The saga of a red balloon is over, we hope. The Red Balloon is an object of delight on the wall of our dining room, right next to Egg (which the ex-foodie Chairman of Westin, harrumphing dismissively, told me “that’s a four day old egg.” But that’s another tale for another time.)

We'll be back in Cambridge for summer school this July and August and, yes, we'll browse in Byard's and visit Toby and Hanna once again. But --

-- NO MORE ART! 

(Maybe)

 

Assume I Did Want a King . . .

 On the front of my protest placard:

And on the reverse . . .

These are the Uniforms 

     

Of Those Who

Protect Us From Clowns

Open Letter to the Chief Justice

This morning, I posted the following to Chief Justice John Roberts:

Dear Chief Justice Roberts:                                                                                                

I am not a lawyer, but a citizen looking to the Judicial system for protection of our rights, especially those guaranteed us in the First and Fourteenth Amendments to my and your Constitution. Congress seems unwilling to rein in the Executive, leaving you and your associates of the Judiciary as our rampart from which to defend us and constrain the excesses of the current administration’s campaign to reform our institutions and to challenge our rights.

I read that in your past, you argued for strong executive powers, but I hope you agree that what we are now witnessing goes far beyond American norms and processes. We seem to be following a playbook written by the Erdogans and Orbans of the world and not Madison, Hamilton, and Jay. Might you and your associates be next in Trump's target? Due process: what other does that mean than processes of fairness and justice due citizens and residents of this country?

Please encourage your fellow justices of whatever court to become pro-active and call us to our senses. Your examples may embolden our legislators to restore the balance between the Legislative and Executive. More important, they will be protecting us.

Sincerely,

 
Fletch Waller

PS If the Judiciary steps up assertively, I promise never again to tell a cheesy lawyer joke.
PPS Ignore the April first date; I’m not fooling. 

Art, Artists, and Artworks

The perennial, unanswerable question: what is art? It was posed again for Ann and me this weekend when we toured SAM’s (Seattle Art Museum) massive show of the works of Ai Weiwei. SAM titles its three-venue show – at the downtown SAM, SAM’s Asian Art Museum in Volunteer Park, and SAM’s Olympic Sculpture Park on the waterfront – Ai Rebel. This is the largest exhibition of Ai Weiwei’s work ever curated, much more extensive than the show Ann and I saw eight years ago at the Strozzi Palace, in Florence.

But back then, the same question was posed. I wrote in our trip log that the show made me “Mindful of Tom Wolfe’s The Painted Word, for the meanings of Weiwei’s constructions need to be explained – the reaction to the Thousand Flowers duplicity, the Sichuan earthquake school collapses, the Red Guard rampages, rejection of veneration, etc. Few of the pieces stand alone as artistic expressions; all need explanation to be understood and appreciated."

About ten days ago, Jannie, a Chinese American friend, alerted several of us to SAM’s current show and encouraged us to see it. She opined (I no longer have her exact words) that Ai Weiwei’s work was of enduring quality and importance.  We had attended SAM’s premiere member reception and lecture by Foong Ping, SAM’s Curator of Asian Art. That and Jannie’s e-mail got me ruminating once again on what is enduring art; indeed, what is art? 

Ai Weiwei: immigration, porcelain;
snake, Sichuan victims' back-packs  

Oldenburg, Philadelphia

I answered Jannie that I wondered (i.e., a polite euphemism for doubted) whether Weiwei’s works would stand the test of time since they were a function of current political relevancy and when the political relevancy passes into the realm of history, would his artworks stand alone or be dependent on explanation? Artists who want us to see or hear differently, in a new way or with a new perspective, use shock and surprise to jolt us out of our usual framework. Jeff Koons’ gigantic, chromed balloon puppies and his ballerinas; Claes Oldenburg’s giant cherry on a giant spoon, his giant clothespin; the artist is startling us into seeing prosaic articles in a new light. Did not Braque and Picasso do the same, “seeing” in multi-dimensional cubism?  

Picasso, 1919

Stravinsky in his Rites of Spring shocked the hell out of its 1918 premiere audience. Lichtenstein did the same by looking at comic books in magnification. Warhol made us "see" Campbell soup cans.  Once seen, is that enough? Which of their works will endure?

Are the resulting artworks novelties, tricks, or worthy of being venerated as aesthetic wonders? Is endurance a function of artistic insight and intent? Of aesthetic appeal? Of explanation? Does the medium matter? Braque worked in paint; Chihuly in glass; Oldenburg in outdoor steel constructions; Shostakovich in music; Weiwei in any number of media but dependent upon an army of artisan joiners, stone carvers, ceramicists, welders, mechanics, and so on. 

And who is to say: the critic, the professor, the viewer, the collector, the dealer and gallery owner, the speculator and the auction market? Somebody paid $58million for a Koons Orange Balloon Dog. What were they thinking?

Or better to the point: 58 million! What were you thinking!?!

 

SAM’s Ai Rebel is an important show, perhaps the best SAM has done. Ai Weiwei and his messages are important. The explanations confront and stimulate, much needed in this time when authority and convention need to be challenged. For those of you in the Northwest, the show is must-see; for those of you from away, Ai Rebel is worth coming to Seattle to see (as is our new waterfront). Don’t miss it.

Homage to the Nap

The nap: the most accessible, most effective, most universally endorsed and prescribed, most time-tested health regimen in the history of mankind. La siesta, das nickerchen. un pissolino, demež, xiaŏshui, son, kulala usingizi, o uttvvákoς, la sieste, alqaylula, et hitnuma, and in scores of other tongues -- everywhere, whomever – ah, the ubiquitous nap.

When I turned eighty, Jenny Pohlman, a sculptor friend, gave me my first formal prescription: sternly, she said, “take daily after lunch, whether needed or not.” But that wasn't necessary; I took them in kindergarten, didn’t you? I had been using the treatment ever since college when I could arrange my schedule to accommodate. In the army, I would fall asleep in minutes on a smokes-&-water break, nestled on a pile of tires or a gun carriage, pack under my head, helmet tipped over my eyes. At world headquarter of (one-man) FCW Consulting, I closed the blinds of my workspace office and stretched out on the oriental carpet, thinking I was getting away in secret but much to the amusement of my knowing neighbors. Today, my nonagenarian nap is de rigueur and should be as well for you youngsters in your seventies and eighties.

My tips? Effective napping is probably as individual as any other habit, but fwiw, here’s what I do. First, I try to fool the body into thinking it is going to bed. If possible, I go to bed -- but lay atop so I don’t have to make it again. Doff my trousers and socks, take off sweater or shirt. Out with hearing aids, off with eyeglasses. Snuggle under a duvet or blanket.

I set an alarm on my phone: twenty minutes minimum, no more than an hour. If I nap for more than an hour, I wake groggy and disoriented rather than refreshed and later have trouble getting to sleep. I often doze and lucid dream; much of this reflection was mentally composed atop the guest room bed this afternoon as I lay on my belly, inhaling an intoxicating mix of fresh air and stale exhale. I never wake up on my belly but I neither do I ever remember having rolled over.

The nap: to it I owe much that I still am in this countdown of precious days. Try it; you’ll like it.

WTF is happening?

 A friend sent me a doctored tape of Macron speaking French in the Oval Office, with insulting subscripts in a phony English "translation" and Trump sitting there, grinning and befuddled. I responded to BR saying: 

"That’s funny – but not funny. Macron told him what Volodymyr Zelenskyy and others have, that Europe’s support is not a loan to Ukraine nor needs be re-paid, but Trump repeats his falsehood again and again. I am more emotional about these goings-on than I have ever been. Usually, I am analytic and put on a mask of rationality, but now I am deeply anxious and depressed.

"It’s all beyond belief, beyond acceptance that men will put their malign intent so openly on display. Where have gone pride and at least a pose of statesman-ness? Godfather as President, something off Francis Ford Coppola’s cutting room floor, surrounded by Martin Scorsese's Goodfellas. Musk sophomorically waving a chain-saw about, dominating the President and Cabinet, not removing his hat in the White House, showing no deference to the office of President of the United States; arrogant 20-somethngs firing professional public servants who don’t work for them; Vance and Trump berating an invited guest and on television, no less; Trump parroting through-the-looking-glass claims of a Russian war criminal and child kidnapper; Trump calling out enemies in Congress by name, taunting Sen. Warren as “Pocahontas”; talking of “getting” Greenland and "taking" ownership of Gaza; insulting and castigating Canada, our most reliable neighbor and friend. It goes on and on. WTF?!?

"WTF is happening in, to, my country? My country: 'tis of thee, sweet land of Liberty . . . crown thy good with brotherhood from sea to shining sea. True, we have never managed to fully live up to our ideals, not even coming close at times, but never before have we so blatantly besmirched them. Our representations of Liberty, a Native American atop the Capital and a Euro-American standing in New York harbor, are weeping."

 

Sister-City Kyiv?

 I just sent this e-mail to Mina Hashemi, Seattle's Director of Inter-governmental Relations and copied the Seattle city council. 

Let's use Seattle's long-time leadership in the Sister-City movement (having established our first, with Kobe, in 1957, and now having 19 sister-cities) to send a message to our and Ukraine’s leaders. Recruit and promote a Kviv Sister-City Association and establish sister-city agreements with Kyiv. 

The city put a moratorium on sister-city agreements back in 2019. Isn't it time to lift that and use our power to signal support of Ukraine and disagreement with the Trum/Vance tilt toward justifying Putin's rapacious war?

I am neither Ukrainian nor active in a Sister-City association, but I am willing to participate, support, or contribute in whatever way makes sense.

That Weren't No Hallmarkville Last Night

I often pass on Super Bowls. Unless one my local teams – Redskins, Vikings, Seahawks -- or their arch-rivals -- Eagles, Packers, Forty-niners – are involved. Has Minnesota heard from Denmark or Norway yet, complaining about cultural appropriation? Whatever. 

I normally avoid this amalgam of NFL owners’ collective bad taste and Hollywood hoopla but this year I was curious to see if Patrick Mahomes would have his ears pinned back. (Barbara, a friend’s wife, adores Mahomes and tags him “cute” though how a 6’2’’, 225 pound, multi-millionaire, commanding, hunk can be “cute” escapes me.)

And did his ears ever get pinned back! by those 6’5”, 300-pound defensive Vandals bestowing their brotherly love all over the Big Easy. The Big Easy: that city of not-so-sisterly love. In Spring of 1967, my (then) wife and I were having brunch at The Court of the Two Sisters when the GM and newly hired Coach of the newly formed Saints franchise came in --followed by local news cameras. A nearby foursome we had noticed earlier, two middle-aged gents and two hot young babes, jumped to their feet and rushed away leaving their brunch nearly untouched. “What was that about” my wife wondered. “Two Iowans who are supposed to be working the American Nuts and Bolts Convention don’t want to be seen back home on TV”, I ventured.

 I watched last night’s first half and then shut it off before “The Half-Time Show!” That wretched  “show” has become a bigger deal than the game, itself.

What I saw in the commercials and promotions disturbed me, in all seriousness. A few years ago, I gave a speech on “the Coarsening of America.” Then it was cage fighting on CBS and women bearing vulgar messages across their t-shirts and using the f-word and double-entendre jokes in family fare. It’s only gotten worse and is now coupled with rejection of experts, science, and elites. Many, not all, but many of last night's commercials and promotions were not merely in bad taste but portrayed a testosterone-laced machismo of in-your-face aggressiveness, even from women presenters. One commercial featured murderous gladiators and blood-thirsty Colosseum fans, an open invitation to draw a comparison with Caesars Superdome. Reading this morning’s reviews, apparently the rap-attack half-time show was much of the same.

Don’t we need less testosterone, not more; less macho aggression and more politeness, more empathy, more “niceness” of the British Columbia and Minnesota sort? Maybe this makes me sound like a wimpish snob, but I value good taste and refinement, don’t you?

Il Nostro Posto

Mio Posto ought to be called, in our case, Nostro Posto for it is our place. Tonight, midway through the 2nd qtr of SuperBowl LIX –- (that’s 59^th! OMG: I remember watching the 1st with my first, All-American father-in-law who had played for Pitt in the Rose Bowl of ’28 [Stanford, 7; Pitt, 6.]) – but that’s a different story I’ll tell another time.) – I bailed out of the game and we headed for our retreat of Leslie and Associates. The guy in the black cowboy hat was at the bar as usual along with the other regulars, refugees finding refuge from the crazies of our time in banter, beers, and the Brotherhood of Austin.

We go to Mio Posto about three times a month, typically on Sundays. Our preferred seats are at the end of the bar from where we can see the prep cook prepare Ann’s melanzana con mozzarella sopra arugula, watch the oven-master roast it in the pizza oven just for her (it normally is served cold), and having our waiter serve it up with salad and a glass of Malbec. (Tonight, the cooks knew whom it was for and served it up to her directly.) That’s after the calamari starter, of course.

Mio Posto’s calamari is unique in our experience – and we’ve eaten a lot of calamari over the last 40 years! It is roasted, not battered and fried, in a zesty puttanesca sauce – really special.

But our main treat is watching the multi-person staff weaving about each other to spin out pizza dough, prep salads and deserts, bake pizzas, and all the rest – a beautiful choreography of a happy crew in constant motion and working hard to please. And do they ever work hard! In between the prepping and cooking is cleaning: I have never seen such care and attention lavished on cleaning workstations, constantly wiping and moving ingredient stores to keep all safe and sanitary.

The downer is knowing that this great staff, mainly Columbian immigrants, most with very rudimentary if any English, are all are facing threat from Don-boob and his ideologue henchmen, racists like Steven Miller, Don Jr., J.D., and the rest. These newly- arrived are invaluable to Mio Posto, to their associates and team-mates, and to us, their customers. That they work so hard, so happily with their fellows and gals, all the while in fear of Don-boob’s ICE-Sturmabteilung, is a shame that perhaps our coming back helps a bit to assuage.

It is Nostro Posto, indeed.

Imagery or Substance?

"Official" portraits of Presidents and people of political impact are exercises in imagery, of branding. What does a picture say about meaning and substance? 

Consider these; people of image only or of substance, of accomplishment?

And what of this? 

 

Does he mean to portray trustworthy service-leadership? Or fearsome, watch-your-step power? 

What sort of sophomoric play-acting is this?

The question now before America: is this a man of imagery or of substance? 

PS: Mandate? Hardly: Trump/Vance = 49.30% of the popular vote; Harris/Walz. 48.32%; others, 2.38%. We are still a people betwixt and between.