IN STORE: The operators of Pin-Down Girl and Speedboat, those two nearly-adjacent Belltown hipster-clothing boutiques, have decided to no longer run two stores with such similar stuff so close. Some of Speedboat’s current stock will be consolidated at Pin-Down; the rest will be shipped to a new store the owners plan to open somewhere in California. They’re keeping the Speedboat space, and will turn it into a new business concept, as yet not officially announced.

SPIN AND MARDI: Sit & Spin’s little Mardi Gras Burlesque Revue was everything one could reasonably expect from a Carnival celebration among the infamous reservedness here in City Lite. It expressed a more sophisticated debauchery, and a more spirited approach to sexuality, than “alternative” subcultures usually endulge in.

Among the most pleasant surprises at the show was the presence of a large deaf contingent (serviced by a sign-language interpreter) at such a relatively non-saintly affair. Think about it: Blind people, in media representations, get to have the full range of human qualities (Ray Charles, Scent of a Woman, that Air Touch Cellular spokesdude), but deaf people are stereotyped as benchmarks of PC propriety (the closest thing to an exception was Ed Begley Jr.‘s womanizing character on Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman). Even Edison and Beethoven are usually depicted as saintlier figures than they really were. Until TV closed-captioning and opera “supertitles” became widespread, the only culture thangs the hearing-impaired were welcomed into tended to be either evangelical church services or concerts by self-congratulatory folk singers. I’d always figured that putting up with such unrelenting sanctimonies could be a tougher thing to live with than deafness itself.

KIDSTAR RADIO, R.I.P.: Worthy attempt at a business model for commercial radio that didn’t depend on Arbitron’s ratings, instead using “membership” magazines and other promotional goodies to attract and keep sponsors. I’ve been writing and complaining about the suckiness of the Arbitron-controlled radio biz for over a decade. The problem has merely been exacerbated by recent government-approved station consolidations. Today’s radio biz only gives a damn about specific segments of the citizenry, ignoring preteens, people too old to be boomers, and (in this region) minorities. Teens and young adults were similarly ignored by almost all local radio throughout the ’80s, when virtually nobody who wasn’t an upscale ’60s-generation person was deemed worthy of the medium’s attention. In the universe of commercial radio (and of essentially commercial “public” radio), to be demographically incorrect by Arbitron’s standard is to not exist.

INSIDE SCOOP: Someone at the Kingdome Home Show was passing out “Save Our Shows” petitions, asking the powers-that-be to ensure room for home shows, auto shows, RV shows, etc. in any future Kingdome or replacement-stadium project. It’s only fair. The original idea behind the Dome was one structure to host different sports and different floor shows. If economics now indicate separate arenas for each game are more lucrative, there’s still a need for a place to have rotating sales booths in.

The marketplace-bazaar setup, with ailes of separately-run sales and demonstration booths, is among the world’s oldest and most widespread social institutions. More diverse and enticing than big single-operator stores, more sociable than scattered strip-mall stores, it appeals to a sense of discovery and spectacle rather than mere utilitarian acquisition. If I were county exec Ron Sims, negotiating with Paul Allen’s people about subsidies for a replacement football stadium, I’d demand an exhibition space at least as big as today’s Dome plus its overflow pavilion, with the county getting a slice of rental income from it. And I’d hustle to have that space booked year-round: Health fairs, book fairs, computer fairs, kid fairs, senior fairs, new-age fairs, arts and performance fests, carnivals, Convention Center overflow exhibits, world’s-largest-rummage-sales, etc.

FAST MONEY: Somebody tried to tell me once how computer technology was like Jeopardy!, an answer in search of a question. I replied if that was the case, then Microsoft was more like Family Feud, where the most popular answer is decreed to be correct. Whether this means Gates will be compared by posterity to the eternally gladhanding Richard Dawson (or even to the more tragic figure of Ray Combs) remains to be seen.

Amazon.Com Finds Dominance Thru Diversity:

Hard Copy, Hard Sell

Essay for The Stranger, 2/6/97

by Clark Humphrey

It took a while, but somebody noticed there’s one thing everybody on the Internet is doing: reading. Except for the light source, visual detail, and degree of portability, the act of following words on paper is little different from following words on screen. So it only seems natural that one of the first companies to accumulate substantial sales exclusively from online merchandising is doing so with books. What might be less expected is the company accomplishing this feat–a pure startup, not a division of any existing retail operation, a startup headed by an entrepreneur with no prior retail or computer experience to speak of.

Seattle-based Amazon.com Books (two years old as of March) has become an online success story. Whether it’ll become a business success story won’t be known for some time. While the company won’t release sales numbers (the Wall Street Journal estimates it had sales of at least $5 million in 1996), it acknowledges every dime it makes, and more, is ploughed back into growing the company’s infrastructure (to handle sales growth of 34 percent a month). With profits at least a year or two off, it’s currently living off $10 million from California venture capital and private investors.

The Secret History

Is Amazon a Seattle success story? Only sorta. Founder Jeff Bezos, now 32, was an up-‘n’-comin’ Wall Street investment banker who, like lots of folks in the mid-’90s, was looking for a way to make big bucks off this newfangled Internet craze. He first settled on the concept of catalog shopping without a catalog. He then narrowed his sights further to focus on books and music. He finally chose to just sell books at first, thinking he could get more leverage with the big book publishers than with the big record labels, even though many are parts of the same conglomerates. He picked Seattle because he figured the place was awash with both book experts and computer nuts. We’re also within a one-day UPS Surface zone from Roseburg, OR, where the Ingram wholesale company runs one of America’s biggest book warehouses.

That latter fact was vital to Bezos’s business plan. While advertising itself as “Earth’s Biggest Bookstore,” and boasting of 1.1 million titles in its database, Amazon actually keeps just a few hundred bestselling titles in stock. (The Elliott Bay Book Co. and the U Village Barnes & Noble each claim over 150,000 titles on the premises. Powell’s City of Books in Portland, which offers both in-person and online ordering, claims 500,000 new and used selections.)

Everything else is special-ordered, just like a regular bookstore can do for you. If a title isn’t stocked by Ingram or one of the other wholesalers with whom it’s in regular communication, Amazon will attempt to contact the publisher (or even the author) direct. Originally, this scheme meant Amazon could start in March 1995 with little more than a couple of PCs and a makeshift office in a Bellevue garage. Now, it means the company doesn’t have to worry about that bane of traditional retailers, unsold or unsaleable inventory. (Retailers can return most books to distributors for full credit; but they still cost time and money to get and hold onto.)

Why It Works

The Microsoft online zine Slate dissed Amazon in January. The article by Jonathan Chait and Stephen Glass, “Amazon.con,” claimed Amazon didn’t provide anything significantly cheaper, faster, or better gift-wrapped than one could get special-ordering from a regular bookstore. Over 200 loyal Amazon customers emailed critical letters to Slate in response, some from as far as Malaysia, Kuwait, and Germany; all exhorting the praises of Amazon’s service and selection. (Microsoft, it turns out, is in cahoots with Wal-Mart to start a rival online bookstore.)

Besides English-speakers overseas, who’s Amazon good for? Folks who are online a lot and like the convenience of staying online while they shop. Folks in search of the obscure and unusual (scientific and technical documents, car manuals, cult stuff, regional-interest books for a region they’re not currently living in). Folks who live outside big towns and don’t like the censored, mainstreamed fare at their Wal-Mart book department. Folks who like mail-order book buying but want more selection than book clubs or printed catalogs can offer.

Jennifer Cast, Amazon’s acting VP of marketing, claims the company’s secret lies in “a value proposition people can’t get in any physical bokstore. We offer the largest selection in the world, with incredible convenience. We can ship anyplace in the world, we gift wrap, we offer great discounts. Most hardbacks are discounted 10 percent, most paperbacks 20 percent, bestsellers and New York Times-reviewed books 30 percent. We’re the most heavily discounted retailer in the world.” (In many cases, though, Amazon’s shipping and handling charges more than make up for any list-price discounts.)

“Bookstores can’t order all the books we can,” Cast adds. “We have small publishers and self published titles. We have a large staff of people in the orders department making calls every single day. The time to get it is shorter; many times it’s less expensive with us.

“Moreover, if you’re in a bookstore and you don’t see a book you want, you have to know what it is and know that it exists. With us, you just use our search tools and, boom, there you are. We’ve got over 100 titles on how to play the harmonica.

People who shop in big and small stores will order from us when a value we offer is important to them.”

How It Works

The Amazon operation now employs some 160 people (up from 30 last year at this time) and is constantly recruiting for more, on its home page and on flyers posted in U District hangouts.

About half the staff’s housed in the former vocational-school building above the Art Bar downtown. There, winding corridors lead past both permanent and portable interior walls. Behind those walls, teams of fresh-faced young adults (and a few early-middle-aged supervisors) scour the major book-review publications and trade journals, write online-catalog copy, process credit-card numbers, take phone calls from customers, and program new database functions on the company’s networked workstation computers. Many of the desks are made by Amazon workers, from old wood doors and four-by-fours.

Every first-time buyer at Amazon has to fill out a detailed online form. This information (names, addresses, demographics, and buying habits) is becoming as valuable to the company as its merchandise databse. It hopes to someday sell pieces of this information to publishers. Amazon customers can also pre-order titles that have been announced but not yet printed; the company hopes to sell pre-order data to publishers too, thinking they’ll want to know how many copies to print.

The other employees, including as many as 30 temp workers and office-staff hirees in training, work in shifts at a 17,000-square-foot warehouse off Fourth Ave. South. If Argentinian fantasist Jorge Luis Borges were alive (and not blind) today, he’d love the labrynthian-library quality of the place, where thousands of unwrapped books sit on miles of industrial shelving, stacked and arranged by computer-database numbers. Because these database numbers bear no relation to the Dewey Decimal System, one shelf segment might contain a Judith Krantz bodice-ripper, a UNIX programming manual, a Simpsons picture book, and a self-published treatise predicting world economic collapse. Books last on the shelves only until a customer’s entire order has been received; usually less than a day. (Regular bookstores may turn over their stock only three or four times a year.)

From there, dressed-for-warmth young staffers put the volumes through bubble wrap and corregated-cardboard mailing sleeves, stick laser-printed address labels on the outsides of the sleeves, and collect them in bins for the UPS and US Mail trucks that pull up to the warehouse door several times daily.

For The Future

Having established its brand name, Amazon’s already seeking new worlds to conquer. It’s working deals with authors and indie publishers, to handle their online bookselling for them; so far over 550 other book-related sites handle their ordering through Amazon. The company’s also talking of starting a second base of operations in Europe next year or the year after, should European Net use finally take off to the degree it has Stateside.

“People are embracing Internet commerce,” insists Cast, rebuking media reports of a Net-hype backlash. “There are people buying on the Net and they’re buying now in droves. As more and more people get access, its time will come more and more.”

What It All Means

Amazon, and the Borders/ Barnes & Noble superstores, represent a different challenge to bookselling than the ’80s Waldenbooks/B. Dalton invasion. Those earlier mall-oriented chains specialized in high-turnover sales of a few bestsellers and perennial-sellers. Amazon and the superstore chains instead want to be everything to everybody, servicing a post-mainstream America of a thousand special interests.

On the one hand, the fact that big money’s pouring into bookstore development is proof Americans really are buying books these days. Yet literary purists bemoan this and any other threats to their near-mythologized vision of the cozy neighborhood bookseller who knows all about everything in stock, something no big organization can supposedly match. Amazon tries to make up for that with a detailed database of its titles, but even it doesn’t have all a would-be buyer would like to know, especially about those thousands of more obscure titles. Its Web pages regularly solicit reviews and summaries from customers, publishers, and even authors. Customer-submitted reviews are entered into a contest; weekly winners get free store credit.

As big-biz booster Virginia Postrel writes in Forbes, “Take the values independent booksellers celebrate: diverse literary voices, personal service, support for unknown authors. Jeff Bezos is delivering those values–and just about any book printed in English–via the Web…. Amazon threatens old-fashioned bookstores–and we can expect to hear them squak–but it furthers their professed values.”

For all its championing of “progressive” values, the book community is full of nostalgia for a past that never was, a mythical time when bungalow-dwelling gentlemen of leisure (and their educated but careerless wives) gently devoured hardcover tomes edited by tweed-clad Ivy Leaguers working out of quaint Manhattan brownstones, retailed by tiny storefronts that somehow always had what you wanted. Such a setup could only have been possible in a class-stratified society, one in which only a favored few were invited to read anything more complex than Sunday-school guides or pulp-fiction magazines. We now live in a different world, and we’re largely the better for it.

The computer magazine Web Week quoted Bezos last fall, “Are we going to put physical bookstores out of business? No. TV didn’t put movie theaters out of business. But physical bookstores will have to keep adding value to what they’ve got.” Actually, TV and suburbanization combined in the ’50s to kill half the country’s theaters, the RKO studio, and short-subject production. Already, indie publishers are trimming their backlists and adjusting their new-release priorities so their products will better reach out to customers from the vast lonely shelves of the superstores. Indie bookstores are either folding or struggling or turning to specialty niches.

But the movie biz eventually adapted to changing conditions. The book biz has faced many changes over the decades (the rise and fall of the cheap paperback, the rise of the costlier trade paperback, the consolidation of big publishers, etc.). The dawn of online retailing means a “virtual superstore” like Amazon.com can become gigantic by delivering the diversity indie stores promise. The little booksellers can’t be everything to everybody, but they can still be a few things to a few bodies. And the little book creators are having to learn to compete, not against a few others of their ilk in the confines of indie-store shelves, but against a million other titles equally available online. If Amazon.com hadn’t fed this state of affairs, someone else would have. At least this particular revolution is being led by an outfit eager to do business with indie publishers.

MISC. MUST BELATEDLY mourn the passing of Vox Populi Gallery, for nearly three years the town’s best locale for exciting, fun, provocative, and just plain rockin’ painting, photography, and comic art. Writer Grant Alden, who co-founded the gallery with Carl Carlson, has been living out of town working magazine jobs the past several months. Alden decided in mid-January to cash in his interests and leave the art-selling biz entirely. Seattle still needs a space like VP.

TUBE TIES: The pending sale of KSTW to Atlanta’s Cox company means for the first time since the Bullitt sisters sold KING, we’ll have a woman-owned TV station. The Cox sisters of Atlanta were listed in Parade as among the world’s 20 richest women, up with the likes of Queen Elizabeth. The Cox heiresses’ managers built a small southern newspaper chain into a media mini-giant, from the Auto Trader magazines to film producers Rysher Entertainment. Their Atlanta monopoly daily has given my ex-UW colleague, editorial cartoonist Mike Lukovitch, a prominent and relatively censor-free forum. By selling channel 11, Gaylord Entertainment‘s giving a clear no-confidence vote in CBS’s drive to avoid permanent also-ran status. It’s a vote I hadn’t expected, since Gaylord and Westinghouse (CBS’s new owners) are partners in the Nashville Network. (Westinghouse was recently rumored to be considering buying Gaylord, with or without KSTW.)

IN A HAZE: I’m still thinking about the pathetic spectacle that was the Jimi Hendrix statue dedication late last month, in front of Audio Environments Inc.‘s Broadway offices. It’s an extremely hideous artifact, made with less artistry than seen on a Franklin Mint collector’s plate. Some folks saw irony in the statue being commissioned and totally funded by AEI, a background-music company. I didn’t see that as much as I saw it as yet another instance of white boomers fetishizing the guy as an icon for their notions of the black man as sexy savage. I’m positive Hendrix, an intelligent and innovative artist who seemed to be slumming in rock for the money, would’ve eventually spurned that image and settled into a prog-jazz career (maybe finding a jazz-rock melange that would’ve prevented the development of fusion). We must also remember he left Seattle at 18 and only performed here again as a touring act. From all accounts, he found the Seattle of his day a town with neither the racial openness nor the artistic opportunities he needed. For local boomers to keep enshrining him as the city’s pride n’ joy is something he’d probably have had a heck of a time getting comfortable with.

PRESENT TENSE: After years of wanting to, I finally got in this year to the Seattle Gift Show, a trade show for retailers and wholesalers of less-than-necessary merchandise. It was just as great as I’d imagined–a gigantic bazaar, taking up the whole Convention Center and two Seattle Center buildings to boot; full of booths hawking the widest array of stuff. There were acres of “country craft” baskets, Husky sweatshirts, “Over The Hill” bras designed to droop, small-penis-joke greeting cards, Absolutely Fabulous fridge magnets, cocoa mix from an outfit called Pure Decadence, landmarks-of-hockey-map jigsaw puzzles, Alaska souvenir pennants, men’s-restroom plastic miniatures (complete with digitized flushing sounds when you press a button), bonsai mini-fountains, angel statues, Prozac/ happy-face T-shirts, Russian dolls, Men of Africa calendars, and more. One booth offered the perfect bachelor-pad accessory, the Moon Lamp (a milky-white large plastic globe emanating spots of pastel light). An Issaquah outfit called Loveable Chocolates offered chocolate and white-chocolate novelty gifts in assorted shapes, even as a set of dentures (“We sell a lot to dentists,” the woman at the booth claimed).

But the item that might most interest some Stranger readers is Magnetic Jewelry, from the Gravity Free Factory (an NYC-founded outfit with a new Seattle office). It’s a line of stud, crystal, and spike-shaped face jewelry giving the appearance of piercing with no holes, thanks to a second magnetized piece of metal you wear on the other side of your ear, lip, or nostril. (No other applicable body parts were mentioned in the brochure or at the booth.)

MISC. PROUDLY OFFERS the simple, elegant solution to the ideological quandry that’s gripped the American discourse for the past month: Both sides in it are right. Larry Flynt is a defiant First Amendment crusader and a shameless money-grubbing sleazebag! (He’s also an epitome of the late-century business libertarian, who promoted an even purer religion of unfettered capitalism than the GOP hypocrites who hounded him. His relentlessly anti-niceness approach toward lust, religion, and other base desires in the ’70s just might have indirectly helped influence the Trump/Murdoch ’80s aesthetic of unapologetic avarice and the Limbaugh/Gingrich ’90s aesthetic of unapologetic bullydom.)

DEAD AIR: The party may soon end for local pirate radio stations. Because the FCC’s triangulation trucks (needed to locate sources of unauthorized transmissions) travel a lot, pirates in any one place may enjoy several months of broadcasts before getting caught. That seems to have been the case here. But one volunteer pirate station in Bellevue was busted this month. That probably means the triangulation trucks are in town, ready for further busts. We might not know right away, since they sometimes lay low while gathering evidence. All the Feds have officially to say is pirate operators oughta be ready to get arrested any ol’ time.

WEIRD AD LINE OF THE WEEK (on an ad for a Vancouver video-editing firm in Media Inc., displaying an image of a breast-feeding infant): “When was the last time you had everything you needed in one convenient location?”

HAT TRICK: As devoted front-of-the-paper readers know, this column has always championed preserving Seattle’s declining stock of old-time short-order eateries. So I was both gladdened and worried when Hattie’s Hat on Ballard Ave., perhaps our best surviving classic populist eatery, was sold to a partnership including Tractor Tavern owner Dan Cowan, former Backstage owner Ed Beeson, No Depression magazine contributor Kyla Fairchild, and Fairchild’s husband Ron Wilkowski. While it was heartening to know the Hat wouldn’t go under, I was worried these hipsters might falsify the Hat experience, turning it into an upscaled, smartypants parody of its former self. I was especially worried when the new owners announced they’d hired a chef to redo the menu and were going to “restore” the interior. We’ve all seen too many examples of stores, buildings, streets, et al. “restored” into a yuppified “original elegance” they’d never previously had.

So far, though, the changes are well within the Hat’s pre-yup heritage. The wood partition in front of the cocktail lounge has been lowered by over a foot, but remains stoic and lusciously dark. The back dining room’s been modernized and prettified, but not excessively. The ’50s-era ski-lodge-scene mural behind the diner counter has been cleaned and brightened but not altered. If the mural’s mid-century realism looks familiar, it might be because creator Fred Oldfield also painted wall scenes for Village Lanes, the original El Gaucho, the Dog House (all gone now), and Ernie Steele’s (that mural’s still partly up at its successor, Ileen’s Sports Bar on Broadway).

As for the food, it’s only slightly fancier (and costlier) than that of the Hattie’s of old. It’s still burgers, omlets, soups, salads, sandwiches, and spuds. Nothing on the menu has that horrid “Market Price” notation. And yes, you can still order that Scandihoovian specialty lutefisk (with 24-hour advance notice)! So kudos to the new Hat squad for not doing too much, and long may this topper of unpretentious pleasure remain.

ELSEWHERE IN FOODLAND: I’d thought that silly “wraps” fad was a Cali import, but apparently others believe otherwise, or want people to believe otherwise. A former taco stand in Albany, OR has now changed its name to Seattle Wrappes. Beneath the Space Needle logo on the sign is the slogan, “Real Food for Real People.”

‘TIL OUR FIRST FAB FEB. column of the year next week, ponder these thoughts of John W. Gardner: “We must have respect for both our plumbers and our philosophers, or neither our pipes nor our theories will hold water.”

(Invisible Rendezvous, an anthology of collectively-written fiction pieces I’d contributed to in the ’80s, is now at the University Book Store remainder racks while supplies last. Other odd fictions of mine are online at Misc. World HQ.)

NFL Films’ 16mm Heroics:

The Movies of Champions

Original online essay, 1/28/97

As a U.S. Male who came of age in the ’70s, it seemed pro football was always with us, and so was its official biographer, NFL Films. In schools, at church teen retreats, on the lonely late-afternoon weekend TV slots now occupied by infomercials, NFL Films’ half-hour reels of grainy 16mm film were ubiquitous, with their pompous narration and brassy music scores.

So it’s surprising to learn that American football, a major college and high-school sport since the 1890s, was a decidedly secondary attraction as a pro sport, far less popular than baseball, until the ’60s. The pro game’s explosion had three main causes: TV coverage, the NFL-AFL merger, and the evangelizing artistry of NFL Films.

The early to mid ’60s was a golden age for sports documentaries, thanks largely to the introduction of lightweight 16mm cameras with advanced lenses and film stocks. The surfing film The Endless Summer was a hit in theaters; Warren Miller’s skiing films drew roadshow crowds across the northern U.S. and in Canada. Ed Sabol, a Philadelphia businessman with no pro filmmaking experience, sent in a blind bid to shoot the official filmed record of the 1962-63 NFL championship game. The next year, Sabol sent crews to every NFL game, editing the footage into a catalog of highlight reels. By 1965 Sabol convinced the league’s team owners to buy his company and keep him in charge of it. Ed’s son Steve Sabol, who in college was both a football player and an art major, soon became the studio’s creative czar. He still is.

From the start, Steve Sabol established a house style that would sell the game and the league, albeit by using the filmmaker’s art to bend the game’s story. Football is essentially a game of coaching and planning, with squads trying to either complete or stop fully choreographed five-second plays. But Steve Sabol’s guys presented instead a game of individual heroics.

“We emphasize the struggle of a game rather than the strategy,” Sabol explained in a recent phone interview. “We portray the game as a passion. When I was a [college] player, the game was only shown from the top, from cameras in the grandstands. I wanted to show the muscles bulging, the snot spraying, the sweat flying. Football is a very visceral sport. There are two spheres in sport; there’s one sphere where things are measured by seconds and inches and yards, then there’s the sphere where things are measured by heart and guts.

“When we started, our goal was to create an image for the game; to show sport at its most passionate and visceral level. But at the time we were just a bunch of young guys who loved to make movies and loved pro football and wanted to communicate that love to an audience.”

The first film released under the NFL Films name, They Call It Pro Football (commissioner Pete Rozelle called it the best sports movie he’d ever seen), started with a booming intro (written by Steve) that set the stage for three decades of histronics: “It starts with a whistle and ends with a gun. Sixty minutes of close-in action from kickoff to touchdown… A call. The ball is snapped and the play continues. A drama of man on man and a race against the clock. It’s precision, persistance, power. The unleashed speed of the kickoff. The whistling feet of a great runner. The reckless fury of a goal-line stand. The crowning glory of a winning touchdown. The swelling roar of the crowd… This is pro football, the sport of our time.” (These and countless later, equally momentous lines were delivered with booming stoicism by ex-Philly newscaster John Facenda, who died in 1984 from the cigarettes that had given his voice its trademark gritty rasp.)

Facenda’s voice and the stirring martial music (first assembled from stock-music selections, since the ’70s taken from a library of original orchestral tracks) accompanied footage that used every known sports-film trick and many tricks NFL Films invented. A typical segment of a film might cut from overhead shots to field shots to cutaways of anxious fans to wired-for-sound coaches’ exhortations to reverse-angle replays to super slo-mo shots made with a mammoth 600-mm telephoto lens to tackle shots pumped up with highly exaggerated sound effects.

Even the studio’s “humor” reels were rough-hewn and overblown, with Mel Blanc giving the only unfunny performances of his career by means of trying-too-hard-to-be-wacky gag voices.

As the NFL grew in prestige and popularity (if not in intellectual respect), NFL Films became an institution within an institution. Between seasons it churned out a few films on other sports, commercial and industrial films, and even a few music videos (for Slayer and Bruce Springsteen). It was supposed to make a propaganda film saluting the US military’s work in the 1991 Gulf War, but the deal fell through. And it’s been called upon to replicate its style in movies about the sport (Semi-Tough, Brian’s Song, Black Sunday,Paper Lion, Everybody’s All-American) and in last year’s Nike commercials about pee-wee football.

While the league itself is in trouble on several fronts (greedy owners, unpopular team moves), NFL Films is as big as ever. Today’s NFL Films is a 200-employee outfit in its own office complex behind a New Jersey shopping mall, with its own film labs, editing suites, soundstages, and vaults (Sabol claims the only human event more thoroughly documented on film than NFL football is World War II). It sends at least two camera people and four support staff to every game. Everything but the in-studio narration segments is still shot on film, though some editing is now done on video with telecine color correction (I prefer the more mythic look of the older films, with more grain and washed-out colors). The footage they shoot is edited into weekly shows for ESPN and HBO (coaches’ and players’ cusswords are still bleeped on the HBO shows), annual highlight reels for each team, plus several home videos a year, occasional TNT specials, and the annual Road to the Super Bowl special. The 98-piece London Symphonic Orchestra records two sessions’ worth of background music for NFL Films every year.

The NFL Films look has influenced major filmmakers; Steve Sabol loves to tell how Sam Peckinpah publicly noted “the way we used the camera at different speeds, the editing and the intensity of the violence as an influence on how he did the end of The Wild Bunch.” But the thing’s really a universe of its own. By giving heroic treatment to players whose faces can’t even be seen on TV, it’s forged an audience intimacy the real game can’t provide. As Sabol calls it, “What we are is storytellers and mythmakers.”

(Some selected NFL Films video releases: Feel the Power, Idol Makers, NFL Throwbacks, NFL Talkin’ Follies, and The NFL’s Greatest Moments.)

WHAT I DID ON MY WINTER VACATION: Having already given my annual why-I-love-snow-in-Seattle speech in this space, I won’t tell you how thrilled and elated I was by the Boxing Day Blizzard. Instead, I’ll relate some other things I did for fun that day and on the other days surrounding the recent calendar change.

* Pondered that Times headline celebrating the planned Boeing/ McDonnell-Douglas merger for its promise to create a “Goliath of the Sky.” The metaphor just doesn’t sound like something all that airworthy.

* Visited the new Value Village. And a gorgeous palace of pre-owned merchandise it is, indeed. Found nine old LP records I had to get. Unfortunately, three of them contained different records than were advertised on the sleeves. So instead of naughty “party songs” from the early ’60s I instead now own three volumes of ’40s country classics–still great stuff.

* Ordered an evening of Spice Pay-Per-View. Before I did, I believed the only people who ought to suffer through the stifling formulae and monumentally awful production values of hetero hard-porn videos were straight men who needed to see other men’s genitalia in action–and that, therefore, the Spice channel (which shows those videos with all the phallic shots edited out) had no earthly (or earthy) purpose. But after a couple hours of ugly silicone implants, ritualized acrobatics, and laughable “tuff” facial expressions, I caught on to the mood of the thing.

All formula fiction offers “adventure” to its characters and predictability to its audience. Hard-porn is no different. Its strictly-followed rites of banality envelop the viewer in a fantasy universe of cheap surroundings, harsh lighting, crude emotions, unspoken-yet-universally-observed rules of behavior, no thinking, no spirituality, and no love. Sorta like old Cold War-era propaganda stories about life behind the Iron Curtain, but with fancier lingirie. It still turns me off, but I now understand how it could turn on guys who’ve never gotten over adolescent sex-guilt.

* Tried Sanpellegrino Bitter. It’s an import soft drink in an utterly cute 3-oz. bottle. Probably intended as a drink mixer, it tastes remarkably like a liquid version of Red Hots candies. Tasty and startling. (At Louie’s On the Pike, in the Market.)

* Read Downsize This! by Michael Moore. While I’m not always keen on some of his gags, Mr. TV Nation has his heart in the right (or Left) place. More importantly, Moore’s got one Great Idea, which he talked a lot about in his local promo appearances but barely mentions in the book–the idea that left-wing politics oughta be primarily concerned not with Counterculture separatism or theoretical pontification but with improving the lot of the non-upscale. A third of a century after the New Left declared working-class people to be its enemy, it’s refreshing yet sadly shocking to read Moore’s gentle corrective–that if us college-town “progressives” don’t work for civic and economic justice, it doesn’t really matter how well we can deconstruct texts.

* Was amused by the NYC media’s proclamation of “The Evita Look” (apparently just the thing for the millionaire “woman of the people” in your family). Weeks before the film opened, Bloomingdale’s put up an Evita boutique, near its already-established Rent boutique (selling what the NY Times’ Frank Rich calls “fashions inspired by the transvestites, junkies, and AIDS patients of the Broadway hit”).

Movie- and play-inspired fashion trends aren’t new (I’m personally waiting for the Annie Hall look to come back), but seldom before have adult-size, non-Halloween fashions been sold as officially-licensed movie merchandise (T-shirts and Starfleet uniforms excepted). While the Evita costumes are at least inspired by a past golden age of couture, a question lingers: If we’re supposed to now look to a military strongman’s wife as a role model, when will we see the official Imelda Marcosreg. shoe line?

* Intercepted the following note in a tavern men’s room, apparently left by a local music-biz bigwig: “I like TicketMaster when it makes my band money.”

`MISC.’ GLADLY LEAVES behind the Year of ’96 Tears and heads face-forward into a time of uncertainty in many aspects of our civic culture. Three months ago, the regional architecture rag Arcade ran a story called “Is Seattle Losing It?” The piece was predicated on the Commons defeat, which I called a victory for city-dwellers and they called a defeat for planners and dreamers. Since then, my faith in local voters’ priorities was further affirmed by the transit vote, which will add immeasurably to regional liveability.

THEN CAME the dueling-stadia debacle. Since the Mariners’ and Seahawks’ demands and responses to those demands seem to change several times daily, there’s no way to predict how it’ll turn out. It should’ve been expected, tho’. Sports-superstar salaries continue to skyrocket, while sports TV ratings have been fractured by cable. Since team owners won’t give up their private jets, their only new-income sources (besides team-logo products) are to sop up additional stadium revenue (through high prices, luxury boxes, etc.) and to slash stadium costs (by getting taxpayers to foot the bill).

It’s all coming to a head now because some U.S. Senators threaten legislation this next session to stop localities from issuing tax-exempt bonds for stadia. So if the owners are gonna get their big public subsidy, they’ve gotta get it now. Hence, the PR blitzes, threats, and crocodile tears to cajole our leaders and us to fork over a staggering half-billion. That’s $100 (plus future bond interest) for every Washingtonian. And it still won’t solve Big Sports’ real problem–runaway costs in the face of heightened competition for entertainment and ad bucks. The sports biz hasta get its own house in order; then it can invest its own dough into new houses based on the basic risk-and-return principles that got these owners rich in the first place. Besides, there’s something annoying about the sense of bland “luxury” in the drawings of the proposed new Hawk stadium, something deadeningly Commonsesque.

MEANWHILE, the side of Seattle Stranger readers are expected to care about has hit its own doldrums, as Kathleen Wilson deftly analyzed here last month. The major record companies, MTV, and commercial radio have succeeded at killing “alternative” music by ignoring or mishandling today’s more original artists in favor of promoting the most formulaic, derivative bands. (How can anything called “Blur” be distinctive? How can anything called “Garbage” be really good?) That, and the maturing of the late-’80s music scenesters beyond prime moshing age, has left a distinct malaise over the local scene. Many of the more promising 1993-94 bands have broken up. Others are wallowing in the purgatory of record-label nonsupport. The three top local clubs get their biggest draws from touring acts. Everybody from the NY Times to Time has noted how the latest Pearl Jam, Soundgarden, and Presidents discs are vastly underselling their predecessors.

But they’re underplaying the fact that overall record sales are holding steady, despite the drop in superstar sales. This means more listeners are listening to a wider variety of stuff, not just the same few hyped celebrities. For everyone except the major labels and the celeb-obsessed media, this is good news. It’s good for musicians, for indie labels, for the stores that bother to stock indie labels, for clubs, for fans who prefer non-arena venues, for publications like this that tell you who the heck all these touring indie bands are, and especially for my oft-stated ideal of a decentralized culture, where smaller groups of people are into things they really like instead of following the dictates of mass marketing. This is, at least on one level, what the Seattle music scene had been all about–not providing material for the rock star machine, but building an alternative to the rock star machine. To quote one of Bruce Pavitt’s early zines, “A decentralized cultural network is obviously cool. Way cool.” When the dust settles from this industrywide reorganization, I fully expect Seattle’s bands, managers, and labels to be better equipped than most for a post-superstar world. (And don’t worry about the Soundgarden guys; they can always sell more of their band-photo phone cards thru their fan club.)

MISC. WAS PLEASANTLY SURPRISED at the announcement that Diahann Carroll would star in the touring version of the Sunset Boulevard musical, coming soon to Vancouver. We’d previously written that “race-blind casting” traditionally means all the starring roles in big commercial theatricals go to white folks. So we’re happy to note an exception (even if it’s an exception that proves the rule).

SINGIN’ THE BREWS: If you remember when Bud Dry was hawked as “The Alternative Beer,” get ready for another contender to that dubious title. New management at Maxwell’s, that longtime rock club inside a former Hoboken, NJ coffee factory (on what that PBS Baseball miniseries claimed was the first site where baseball as we know it was played), has installed a brewpub on the premises, with its own “Alternative Brew” and “Percussion Ale.” If market conditions seem plausible (right now the business press claims there’s an impending microbrew glut), they might get sold at other outlets, perhaps even out here.

LIVING OFF THE LAND: Eat the State!: A Forum for Anti-Authoritarian Political Opinion, Research, and Humor is an often-clever li’l four-page lefty newsletter. So far it’s been consistently witty and has had a good mix of local and national topics, though it leans a bit too heavy for my taste on the side of self-righteous ranting, too lightly on organizing and solution-seeking. I also have troubles with the name. At a time when even pork-barrel senators now purport to oppose “Big Government,” that ol’ punk-anarchist concept of “The State” seems almost like nostalgia for yesterday’s problems. The old nation-states are indeed being eaten, but it’s Global Business that’s doing the digesting. (Free weekly at the usual dropoff points; online at speech.csun.edu/ben/news/ets/; or $24/year from P.O. Box 85541, Seattle 98145.) Speaking of social theorizin’…

YOU’RE SO VEIN: I also have problems with the political piece in issue #2 of the regional visual-art journal Aorta, relating the Clinton/Dole rivalry to “The Twilight of The Patriarchy.” For nearly a quarter-century now, the leftist labeling of mainstream American society as “The Patriarchy” has utterly failed to recognize the significant contributions individual women have made in service to reactionary politics and social stagnation. After all, if women are capable of doing anything, they’re certainly capable of doing things you or I might not approve of. A writer living in the state of Craswell and Dixy Lee Ray oughta know this. Still speaking of social theorizin’…

GRIN AND BARE IT: As instigator of the cable-access show Political Playhouse, Philip Craft was a master provocateur, attracting the wrath of bluenoses like Sen. Gorton for his on-camera nudity and protest-comedy skits. Toward the end of his show’s two-year run, Craft had begun to move beyond simple protesting and had started to articulate a vision of his ideal alternative society based on practical anarchism. Unfortunately, his new self-published book The Fool on the Hill doesn’t spell out that vision, beyond calling for political power to be recentered onto the county level (an idea similar to ones expressed by the militia cults). Instead, he offers an autobiographical tale about cheating on his wife, taking lotsa drugs, getting investigated by the Feds for advocating some of those drugs on his show, taking on paranoid delusions, and hiding out in the woods. It’s a long way from Craft’s introductory claim that it’s “a paranoid comedy that will forever change the way you view the world… that conspires to bring down the political, economic, and religious institutions that enslave us today.” Rather, it’s a downbeat story of personal loss and confusion, imbued with a sense of vulnerability and humility unseen in Craft’s TV work. (Pay-what-you-can from P.O. Box 17320, Seattle 98107.)

WHAT I’LL MISS ABOUT ERNST HARDWARE: The clashing aromas of freshly-cut flowers and freshly-cut lumber. The annual Show Me How Fair in the old Coliseum. The Sonics “In The Paint” promotion. The slogan, “We’ve got a warehouse too; we just don’t make you shop in it.” And, of course, The Fellow In Yellow.

AS LONGTIME MISC. READERS know, I love snow in Seattle. That pre-Thanksgivin’ white surprise we had was a perfect example. It kept Eastsiders out of town while blessing urban denizens with a two-day-duration Wonderland of brightly altered vistas. Its glistening blanket offered a temporary respite from our normal Seasonal Affective Disorder-inducing grayout conditions. It created an instant holiday, a Jubilee interrupting the routines of work and school and shopping. It turned everyday life into an adventure, from Counterbalance snowboarding to parking-lot snowball fights. Yes, I know it was a horror for the homeless, but we oughta be taking better care of our brethern year-round anyway.

CATHODE CORNER: As you assuredly all know, Frasier contains enough Seattle inaccuracies to make a drinking game. (“Finish your glass if Niles pronounces Oregon “arra-gone.”) But even that didn’t prepare me for seeing John Mahoney, who plays Dad on the show, miss the following answer on Jeopardy!: “This Seattle-based coffee chain takes its name from the first mate in Moby Dick.” Speaking of local landmarks…

WHAT’S REALLY WRONG WITH THE AVE: No merchant-sponsored rent-a-thugs harassing the street kids will improve the currently sorry state of U District retail. The District’s problems go back a decade, to when Ave landlords decided to jack up rents in one big hike. Longtime indie businesses were replaced by chains. Some of those, like Crown Books and Godfather’s Pizza, then bugged out of their leases at first opportunity). Other stores spent so much on rent, they cut back on interior improvements, merchandise, personnel, etc. Meanwhile, the long-slumbering U Village blossomed into a shopping theme park for the Volvo set. The Ave has risen and fallen several times before. It can rise again. But strong-arm tactics won’t do it; indeed, they’d just make the street’s young-adult target market feel unwelcome. Speaking of questionable neighborhood “renewals”…

WANTON-DESTRUCTION DEPT.: The end of Belltown’s 11-year artist-housing experiment SCUD (Subterranean Cooperative of Urban Dreamers, named years before the Gulf War) and its downstairs eatery neighbor Cyclops had been rumored for over a year. Now it’s official, with MUP boards announcing plans to raze the lo-rise for condos. Cyclops’ owners are already looking for a new restaurant site, perhaps in Fremont. As for the much-photographed golden Jell-O molds gracing the SCUD exterior these past five years, no fate has been announced. I’d have ’em auctioned off to benefit new artist housing (and I mean real artist housing, not the millionaire penthouses sometimes promoted under that term). Speaking of goodbyes…

`PANDEMONIUM,’ 1992-96: Most of what I’ll miss about the idiosyncratic music monthly had already disappeared from its pages in recent months: The schmooze-free gossip column, the Tacoma-centric features, the odd columns like “Town of the Month.” ‘Twas sad to see the tabloid’s “Final Print Issue” carry a Seattle instead of a Tacoma mailing address. Seattle Square, a budding commercial Web company, has bought the Pandemonium name and will now use it for music review and interview pages on its site. Speaking of what’s-in-a-name…

INTO THE DRINK: In the spirit of Husky Cola (that early-’90s fundraising soda for UW athletics) comes Keiko Draft Root Beer, from Newport, OR. Every can bears the image of America’s most famous killer whale, who starred in the two Free Willy films and now lives in a rehab tank at Newport’s Oregon Coast Aquarium. An unspecified “portion of the proceeds” from the pop has been pledged to the foundation paying for Keiko’s veterinary treatment. I’ve only seen the stuff in regular, not diet, so if you consume too much you could become, you know… There’s also Keiko Brand coffee, but I’m still holding to my no-coffee-jokes policy.

ANSWER TO LAST WEEK’S RIDDLE: Because he’s just a commontator.

YOU KNOW WHAT I WANT FOR XMAS: Your suggestions for the year-end Misc. In/Out list. Send ’em to clark@speakeasy.org. ‘Til then, consider these words by ex-Philly restaurant critic Jim Quinn: “Never eat in a restaurant where the menu is larger than the table, the pepper mill larger than your date, and the baked potato larger than your steak.”

IT’S A THANKSGIVING MISC., the pop-cult column that asks the musical question, “Why doesn’t the columnist like sweet potatoes?” (Answer next week.)

THE MAILBAG: Ex-Almost Live! cast member John Garibaldi writes, “Credit my friend now in New Hampshire, Geordie Wilson. One visit back to Seattle this fall and he instantly renames the new REI store Hiketown.”

LOCAL PUBLICATION OF THE WEEK: Matt Asher’s Seattle Scroll has arrived to take the place of the now-suspended Perv as Seattle’s biggest one-piece-of-paper publication (it measures an odd 11″ x 40″). Its first issue was highlighted by associate editor Chris Walker’s essay on the real meaning of Chief Seattle and a haunting photo by George Vernon of Georgetown’s abandoned but still gorgeous Hat n’ Boots gas station. Biweekly at the usual dropoff sites, or from P.O. Box 3234, Seattle 98114.

BLOBOSITY: The second Seattle Scroll has a beautiful shot of the lower Queen Anne restaurant building unofficially known as The Blob. While that space still sits empty (but no longer awaiting demolition), its playful spirit lives in the hearts of local developers. The chapel now under construction at Seattle U., designed by Steven Holl, includes a sequence of oddly-shaped roof structures and baffles. As previewed in the local architecture mag Arcade, they represent elements of iconography, light, and mystery in Catholic tradition.

On a less meditative note, initial designs for the Experience Music Project at Seattle Center (still popularly known by its former working title, the Hendrix Museum) show a series of connected buildings, in shapes and colors that, looking down from the Space Needle, would vaguely resemble a smashed guitar. It attempts a “fun” rendition of Blobosity, but ultimately succumbs under the heavy thumb of Boomer-nostalgia pretensions. Speaking of spaces made for fun…

MALLED DOWN: By now there’s something pleasantly weather-beaten about Northgate, “The Mall That Started It All” (in 1950 it was the first complex of its kind anywhere), making it an almost human experience compared to newer, more hyperreal retail theaters. That hasn’t stopped mall management from vying to “upgrade” the joint with ever more yuppified chain boutiques.

But when the now-disappearing Ernst chain abandoned its N-gate hardware outlet, the mall took a rare populist turn and lured the first in-Seattle Toys “R” Us. If you’ve never been to one, it’s essentially an overgrown version of a discount-store toy department (it grew out of the long-defunct White Front discount chain). Tall shelves, narrow aisles, bright boxes, and more echoey sounds of screaming kids than in a suburban YMCA pool. The opening-day festivities included costume-character versions of favorite kiddie stars, including a woman dressed up as Barbie. (No, pervs, I didn’t ask her how she goes to the bathroom.) It’s nice to know the store’s there in case of a really good advertised special, but for day-to-day plaything accumulation I still prefer Archie McPhee’s.

IT AIN’T ME: By the time this comes out, we’ll have seen if the local media that got all aghast over Annie Dillard’s throwaway remarks about the Northwest’s intellectuals (or lack of them) will be equally incensed over the more deliberately nasty regional barbs of Nanci Donnellen, KJR-AM’s former Fabulous Sports Babe. In her new blather book, out this week and predictably titled The Babe in Boyland, the now nationally-syndicated radio sports gabber calls her ex-stomping ground “a hopeless zero” and “a fucked-up backwater town… filled with the dumbest people in the world.” Her KJR colleagues? “Small-time nobodies who thought that because they lived in Seattle they were some big deal and that the rest of the world should come kiss their asses.” To further prompt cheap over-reactions, she writes how when she moved here from Tampa she pledged to work to get the Mariners moved there. Her introduction even thanks Jeff Smulyan, the ex-Ms owner who tried to facilitate such a move, whom she calls one of her “true friends.” Yawn.

IT’S NEARLY TIME for our annual In/Out List. Your suggestions are now being accepted at Misc. World HQ. ‘Til then,ponder these improbably risque remarks attributed to Phyllis Schafly: “Marriage is like pantyhose. It all depends on what you put into it.”

DUNNO ‘BOUT YOU, but MISC. is a bit leery about this week’s touring performances of The Wizard of Oz on Ice. When the witch melts, do they freeze over her remains before they resume skating? If they don’t, how do they finish the show?

UPDATE: Wallingford’s Fabulous Food Giant has indeed been taken over by QFC, but the only visible change so far is on the employee name tags. The signs, labels, bags, and product mix won’t change until the building’s remodeled and expanded in January. The big FOOD GIANT neon sign will then be replaced by an as-identical-as-feasible sign to read WALLINGFORD, if QFC can get the legal OK to exceed modern sign codes… Just a block away, an ex-Arco mini-mart has switched franchisors and now pumps Shell gas. Those who’ve wanted to protest Shell’s ties to the Nigerian dictatorship now have a place in Seattle to not get gas at. (The store’s independently owned, so you can still get your Hostess Sno-Balls there.)

SUDS ON THE SOUND: If the WALLINGFORD sign gets built, it’ll add to the parallels between Seattle and All My Children. We already have two businesses deliberately named after fictional businesses on the soap (Glamorama and Cortland Computer), plus institutions coincidentally sharing names with AMC characters (Chandler’s Cove restaurant, the band TAD). As longtime viewers know, when AMC dumps a character without killing them, they often get shipped to Seattle. A book by Dan Wakefield about the show’s early years had a passage noticing this and explaining how Seattle, with its nice-n’-civil rep, was the perfect place to send ex-Pine Valleyans. He didn’t add how Seattle, like Pine Valley, is sometimes referred to as a quiet little town but is filling up with morally-ambivalent entrepreneurs and weird criminals, while its old-money institutions remain in a few incestuous hands. If a soap had a family with as many political and media tie-ins as our ’80s Royer-James family, it’d be called a hokey plot device. Certainly the three new books about KING-TV reveal founder Dorothy Bullitt as a matriarch just as lively and outspoken as AMC crone Phoebe Wallingford (if less snooty).

WAVES: Broadcast demagogue Mike Siegel, fired from KVI for refusing to let trifles like the facts get in the way of his bullying, resurfaced a couple months back on Everett station KRKO, once the Top 40 station I grew up to. Back then, its slogan was “The Happiest Sound Around.” It could now be called “The Angriest Sound Around,” but instead is using the rubric “Talk Too Hot for Seattle.” I could say “they can have him,” but that would be not caring… KVI’s sister station KOMO-AM, longtime bastion of Ike-esque literate civility, now hawks its news-talk format with TV spots looking like KNDD rejects. Rave-flyer color splotches and snowboard-logo bleeding type exhort listeners to “Get Connected” and “Go Global.” It’s like seeing a golden-years relative suddenly sporting sideburns and driving a Miata; scary yet poignantly sad.

THERE GO THE BRIDES: In an economy move few years back, the Seattle Times stopped running free wedding pictures on Sundays, moving them to a once-a-month section in the lower-circulation weekday paper. That section, The Registry, will appear for the last time next month; to make the last installment, your ceremony has to be before Dec. 1. Because the section had a one- to two-month backlog, readers could amuse themselves by guessing which of the happy couples had already split up. After Dec. 2, if you want your nuptials remembered on newsprint, you’ll have to buy an ad.

SQUARE, INDEED: The demographic cleansing of Seattle continues with the Sam Israel estate’s plans to tear down the building now known as the Pioneer Square Theater (now we know why they refused to bring it up to code) for offices and the conversion of several other Pio. Square structures into “market rate” (read: only upscale boomers need apply) housing. The boomer-centric local media just adore the scheme, of course; just like they adored the Israels’ previously-announced plans to evict Fantasy (un)Ltd. for yet another blandly “unique” retail complex. It’d be funny if it weren’t so depressingly familiar.

MISC., YOUR NEARLY OMNIVOROUS pop-cult column, admittedly felt a tinge of guilty glee hearing about e. coli cases among drinkers of unpasteurized California apple juice (as if our own Washington juice wasn’t good enuf for ’em). But infairness, organic-heads don’t deserve violent illnesses any more than burger fans. It also means it’ll be a while before we can again tell our favorite “Odwalla Walla” jokes.

TUNING OUT: While I’m glad this electoral season’s done, I already miss the near-subliminal background music used in political “attack ads.” I know these relentlessly menacing synth tones come from professional stock-music libraries; some enterprising entrepreneur should license these 30-second alarms for use by ambient DJs looking to darken the evening’s mood. Speaking of which…

BRIDGEWORK TO THE 21ST CENTURY: So after all the rhetoric, mudslinging, corporate “soft-money” donations, pompous pieties, and general turn-offs, the political picture turns out just about where it was at the campaign’s start. With two exceptions:

(1) Three of Washington’s U.S. House Newtbots were sent packing (as of this writing, pending possible recounts), and a fourth almost was.

(2) And we’ll finally get something approaching a decent public transit system here in this metro area that so dearly loves to think of itself as environmentally concerned as long as it doesn’t have to get out of its single-user-occupancy import sedans. The new transit scheme doesn’t go far enough (the Everett-Tacoma commuter rail will only run during rush hours, the light-rail doesn’t cover enough of the city, and the Eastside still just gets buses). But it’s a start. It’ll get folks hooked on the transit life, on the idea of living (not just commuting) without dragging your own ton or two of sheet metal everywhere. The wannabe Manhattanites on Capitol Hill will finally get a for-real subway station, to become operational no later than the year 2003. And with the Monorail Initiative set for next November’s Seattle ballot, we can add to the light-rail part. Speaking of regionalities and car dependence…

UP AGAINST THE WAL: Like a storm system finally enveloping over the nation’s furthest reaches, Wal-Mart arrived in the Seattle metro area. It’s on Renton’s Rainier Avenue, one of those near-soulless strip-mall hells grown parasitically around the remnants of what was once a real town. Unlike the towns where Wal-Mart became the infamous Great Sprawlmaker, Renton was lost to chain stores and parking moats long ago. I got to the store its first weekend; it was expectedly swamped. The thing’s huge and imposing, even by hypermarket standards. While Kmart and Fred Meyer at least try for inviting atmospheres despite their size, Wal-Mart simply overwhelms. The fluorescent lights are somehow harsher; the shelves are taller and deeper; the ceilings are higher; the colors are colder; the signage is starker. And everywhere, posters and banners shout out what a dynamic, energetic, powerful outfit Wal-Mart is.

It’s easy to see how this formula worked in the south and midwest towns where Clinton’s late pal Sam Walton started the chain. To residents used to small-town humdrum, Wal-Mart barged in with the biggest retail-theater experience they’d seen, one with the spirit not of nostalgia or homeyness but of a company (and a nation) on the go-go-go. But in a community that already has big-time retail, the Wal-Mart formula seems just plain shrill. Even the (nearly deserted) Kmart up the highway felt like a cozy neighborhood boutique in comparison. And as for prices and selection, Wal-Mart’s endlessly-touted “buying power” might work against the indie stores in the small towns, but it can’t significantly undersell other hypermarket chains and can’t match the selection of specialty stores.

I finished my afternoon at the nearby Lazy Bee, a highly independent restaurant and Boeing workers’ hangout. With model planes hanging from the ceiling and booths made from surplus 727 seats, it’s a place no chain operator could conceive of. (Even my chalkboard-special meal was priced to come out, with tax, at $7.07!) I was reminded of zine editor Randolph Garbin’s Recipe for an American Renaissance: “Eat in diners, ride trains, shop on Main Street, put a porch on your house, live in a walkable community.”

ENNUI GO AGAIN: Nov. 5’s just around the metaphorical corner, and acquaintances of mine say they can hardly wait. They’re psyched n’ primed to head out, wait patiently in line, and be the first to buy the CD Presidents of the United States of America II,which cleverly goes on sale Election Day.

As for the election itself, has any major election in my lifetime been so near and yet so not-there? I’m not talking about voter apathy or ineffectual complaints about the electoral status quo; those have always been with us. I’m talking the total slouching-through-the-motions aspect of the exercise. I’ve struggled for a metaphor for this anti-spectacle: An end-of-season football game between two going-nowhere teams? The last, fitful, sex act of a couple about to split up? The rote “excitement” of Elvis- and Marilyn-dressed waiters at some silly theme restaurant, or a cover band at a high-school prom?

Sure, in ’84 everyone recognized and dismissed Mondale for being what Dole is now–a seasoned insider who got nominated thanks to connections and fundraising prowess, but whom nobody had great fondness for as a potential Prez. But then there were other things going on (like the Booth Gardner/ John Spellman gubernatorial race). Now we’ve got uninspiring sideshows like Ellen Craswell looking all lost and confused when speaking to anyone outside her ideological clique.

I was sorta hopin’ for a final public-discourse confrontation with the Religious Right’s central tenet (how Jesus Christ Himself wants you to cede all authority and power to Big Business). Instead, Clinton and Locke did an end-run and positioned themselves as the sane choice in pro-business politicians. They’re just as receptive to the desires of big campaign contributors as the Republicans are–but without the annoying baggage of a social agenda, without dependencen on followers who just might someday get around to reading that Bible verse about not serving God and Mammon.

CATHODE CORNER #1: You’d expect MTV to go all hyped-out over Madonna’s baby. Sure enough, the day the birth was announced, the channel went to all Madonna videos, with congratulations by MTV Online users crawled across the bottom of the screen, interspersed with predictions by infomercial psychics about the kid’s future life. What at least I didn’t expect was an MTV promo ad featuring drag queens dressed up as aged versions of Madonna and Courtney Love, re-enacting a scene from the cult-film classic What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?, complete with barbed dialogue like “Why don’t you go re-invent yourself?” Given Love’s former taste for baby-doll dressing and Madonna’s former Joan Crawford fixation, it’s a wonder nobody thought of it before.

CATHODE CORNER #2: As was predicted here, the Telecommunications “Reform” Act has led to fewer media giants controlling more outlets. The Time Warner Inc./ Turner (TWIT?) combine has put the pre-1948 Warner Bros. movies back under Warner’s library for the first time since they were sold to a TV syndicator in 1957, but it also created a content behemoth big enough to threaten Rupert Murdoch’s world-domination schemes. Murdoch’s suing to get his Fox News Channel (which stops just short of promising a right-wing spin on all stories) onto TWIT-owned cable systems in NYC, systems now running their full physical capacity of channels. Murdoch-friendly Republican there have offered to stick Fox News on a city-controlled cable channel and dump the public access shows on it now. In short, give even more to the big programmers and kill what little access non-conglomerate voices now get. Fortunately, TWIT (and Manhattan’s other cable operator, Cablevision) are refusing this “solution,” at least for now.

PAY LESS DRUGS, R.I.P.: The Pay n’ Save stores, once the flagship of the local Bean family’s retail empire, were sold to NYC speculators, who then sold them to Kmart, which merged them with the Oregon-based Pay Less, then spun off the combined chain to private investors, who merged it with California’s Thrifty Drug. Along the way the G.O. Guy, House of Values, and Gov-Mart Bazaar chains also joined the Pay Less fold. Now, these 1,007 outlets will be part of the East Coast-based Rite Aid circuit. It’s a good thing drug stores don’t have the same combination-warning labels drugs have.

With only 12 days ’till the election and no major politician talking about America’s real ongoing crisis (the upward distribution of wealth and the developing two-tier economy), it’s up to Misc. to give you the business, in this all-local-retail column:

BOARD MEETING: Responding to my call for suggested new uses for the ex-REI building on Capitol Hill, reader Blaine Dollard writes: “Always thought it would make a great skatepark! Take the elevator up and start your run up in the Sale Attic, total acid drop or a few banks to get down the stairs, then get mass speed down that ramp leading from the shoes towards Pike and maybe a big bowl or snake run through the Gore-Tex zone. I think it would meet zoning laws too! Now just put an empty swimming pool or two in the basement and the neighborhood could be swimming with more skaters than ever. Wouldn’t hurt [nearby board shop] Cresent’s business either!” In other clever concepts…

FAST FOOD FOR THOUGHT: The Papa Murphy’s Take & Bake Pizza chain now displays a small “Food Stamps” logo in the upper right corner of one of its TV commercials. It’s a subtle reminder that as a deli store and not a restaurant, ye who are unemployed and/or underclass can go there as an occasional break from ramen. In other sales pitches…

SCENT PACKING: I have it on good evidence that the Cologne Cult is back in town. You remember them–the evangelistically fired-up, glassy-eyed young gals n’ guys who’d enter offices and other workplaces, somehow sneak past receptionists and other gatekeepers, and hawk inexpensive designer-imposter colognes to the workers (sometimes claiming they were the real brand name products). I don’t know where they’re from, where they go when they’re not here, or how they stay in business, since none of the myriad stories I’ve heard about ’em has ever mentioned a successful sale. In other discount goods…

THE BEST INTENTIONS: Best Products is closing its last 13 Washington stores. These include the final remnants of the former locally-owned Jafco chain and catalog, which supplied moderately-priced jewelry, sporting goods, home furnishings (including foam sofa-beds), and stereo gear to two generations of Northwesterners. I can still remember the day one of my high-school teachers showed off her brand new engagement ring (from a fellow teacher) in class. Just weeks later, I happened to find that exact ring in the Jafco catalog; giving me direct evidence that education was perhaps not the most lucrative of professions. In other closings…

THE LAST REWIND: Backtrack Records and Video, the Ravenna-based dean of local mondo-movie rental houses, is closing as of this Saturday. Owner John Black (one of this paper’s very first advertisers) has sold all his remaining inventory to Bedazzled Discson Capitol Hill, which should have Backtrack’s rental videos available again in a few weeks. Black and his original partner, attorney Fred Hopkins, started by selling used LPs, then added a modest but well-curated sci-fi/horror VHS selection in the early years of the video boom. (Today’s mammoth Scarecrow Video store began as a subleased shelf within Backtrack.) They helped sponsor a film series I curated in 1986-87, as part of their commitment to keeping the flame of cult cinema alive. They produced a public-access movie-review show (still occasionally rerun) and were involved in making a handful of amateur, shot-on-video creature features (one, Rock n’ Roll Mobster Girls, included early appearances by Jim Rose and Hole drummer Patty Schemel). Best wishes on all future endeavors. In other hipness artifacts…

THE COOL JERK: If you grew up around here, you probably recall snide remarks about the Bon Marche’s teen boutique, The Cube–remarks typically predicated on the fact that a “cube” is essentially a square, only multiplied. Now they’ve taken that to heart with this fall’s Geek Chic display. It’s complete with velour dresses, lime-green sweaters, fluorescent-orange fake-fur coats, and black PVC skirts. My favorite fashion analyst describes it as “the same doubleknit blahs you see on the Evening Magazine guy, only with a new name tacked on to make you think it’s not the same thing they’ve been selling you for four years.”

HERE AT MISC. we’ve figured out the easy way to figure out whom to vote for next month: Vote for all the candidates who appear on TV ads in color, and against all the guys who appear in black-and-white.

BELO CO. TO BUY KING, SELL KIRO: This leaves a wonderful opportunity. Let’s buy KIRO-TV. We (myself and you dear readers) will form a private-stock corporation, get some venture capital, and take over Channel 7. First, we’ll bring back J.P. Patches. Then we’ll show America how a station oughta be run. Imagine: A local performance-art variety show, with the Black Cat Orchestra and Pat Graney Dancers. Consumer-watch segments attacking the real corporate crooks, not nickel-and-dime mail-order frauds. The Sanjyit Ray Movie of the Week. Art lessons with Ed Fotheringham. Live curling matches. Late-night rerun marathons of Thunderbirds (the original versions, not the cut-up Fox manglings from two years ago).

FIRST XMAS CAROL spotted on a Seattle restaurant background music system: Sept. 23.

WATCH THIS SPACE: The Sailors Union of the Pacific Hall, home of such nice all-ages shows last year, is now about to house the reincarnation of El Gaucho, formerly one of Seattle’s best-loved steak and bourbon outlets. Its old downtown manifestation, now the Olive Way branch of the Red Balloon Co., was famous as the watering hole of old KVI DJs Bob Hardwick (the official Ninth-Coolest Seattleite Ever) and Jack Morton.

DILLARD’S DULLARDS: During a post-speech Q&A at a Michigan writers’ conference some six months ago, Connecticut essayist/ poet Annie Dillard was asked if she missed living in the Northwest (she was holed up in Bellingham and the San Juans in the late ’70s). She said no, claiming “it’s no place for an intellectual woman” and offering a brusque retort imaging NW females as breast-feeding, fruit-canning, chainsaw-wielding mutes. Dillard’s remark eventually caught the attention of editors at the Seattle Times, who don’t have a particular interest in intellectualism but do have a lot invested in the image of Seattleites as at least a pseudo-sophisticated sort. A Scene section front page was assembled around Dillard’s brief quotation, headlined “Women intellectuals: A Northwest oxymoron?.” To fill the rest of the space, the paper added interview quotes from local citizens and defensive editorial commentary (“OK, Northwest women, dab that drool off your chin, put down your chainsaw and listen up”), treating readers as if they were as dumb as Dillard claimed they were. The Times, which would rather cultivate readers who can grapple with complex wines than ones who can grapple with complex ideas, treated Dillard’s throwaway remark as a call to defend, not the Northwest Mind, but the Northwest Lifestyle. The notion that there could be some bright earth mamas out there, or some well-dressed urbane ditzes, hasn’t seemed to occur to the paper.

Incidentally, here’s a perhaps-fortuitous slice of Dillard’s only novel to date, The Living (set in 1890s B’ham): “…But the times had gotten inside them in some ways as they aged, and made them both ordinary… No child on earth was ever meant to be ordinary, and you can see it in them, and they know it, too, but then the times get to them, and they wear out their brains learning what folks expect, and spend their strength trying to rise over those same folks.” (Italics added.) (The Times’ review called The Living “a novel of character that blends history, social change, and individual dreams in a sophisticated, seamless prose.”)

BASES OF OPINION: So “Refuse to Lose II” ended with a whimper (and a wild pitch), not with a Grand Salami. That’s OK. Last year was the grand Drive for Repsect, when the Ms (and, by extension, the region) proved it had contender stuff. This Randy Johnson-less year was more for fun, for accomplishment for its own exhilarating sake, and for the fans to prove to the taxpayers there really was long-term support behind the team (and, by extension, the new stadium scheme).

‘TIL NEXT WE GRAPPLE with the limitations of the written word, recall these words from the legendary Hedy Lamarr: “Any girl can be glamorous. All you have to do is stand still and look stupid.”