‘TWAS A GRAND NITE at the Crocodile on Thursday, when my ol’ pal and fellow scene-documentator Charles Peterson debuted his latest and ultimate book collection of rock n’ roll imagery, Touch Me I’m Sick.

It’s truly a splendid hardcover coffee-table tome, and a vast improvement over the editing and production job done on his now-out-of-print 1995 collection Screaming Life. You should all rush out and get a copy promptly, so you can drool and marvel at all the up-close moments of pure rockin’ Hi-NRG, in glorious monochrome.

The book release party was a spectacular gala, a flashy party, and a reunion of the pre-Nevermind Seattle music community (at least of those members of that community who are still alive but aren’t homebound with kids). Among them: Sub Pop founder Bruce Pavitt, who played DJ and spun some truly rare vinyl by Devo, Mudhoney, and others of the era.

Of course, yr. web editor couldn’t resist an opportunity to photograph the evening’s live bands, Girl Trouble (above) and the Briefs, in imitation of Peterson’s inimitable style.

…today to the memory of Portland neo-acoustic singer Elliott Smith, dead in LA of an apparent suicide. Few in recent years have expressed the soft, quiet side of daily melancholy the way he did.

…but here high atop MISC World HQ we’re sitting high-N-dry, watching the rain and flooding footage on cable, avoiding anything to do with the World Series, and pondering what kind of age we live in that finds both Rush Limbaugh and Courtney Love popping the same drugs.

BILL MAXWELL ASKS, is the “Ghettopoly” board game really worse than gangsta rap? (He doesn’t mention that both products are sold to predominantly white suburban customers.)

APPLE COMPUTER’S second company-owned store in the region opened last weekend in Seattle’s rapidly upscaling University Village shopping center.

As was the case with Apple’s Bellevue Square opening earlier this year, a line snaked out over the mall grounds on opening night. By the time the first customers were let in at six, guys (and it was almost all guys) at the end of the line would have more than an hour’s wait.

The new Apple Store, built from scratch on the onetime site of an A&P supermarket (remember those, anyone?), is much bigger than the Bellevue store, which had to be squeezed into an ex-Hallmark shop site. Thus, it more fully expresses the company’s aim of providing a real-world equivalent to the Mac OS’s clean, uncluttered, dignified aesthetic of cyberspace.

Live entertainment was provided on Friday by a subset of the UW Marching Band (above), and on Saturday with a 15-minute free set by Euro power-poppers the Raveonettes (below).

(Incidentally, the Apple Store’s free Wi-Fi signal reaches next door to the Ram sports bar, but just barely.)

Meanwhile, other businesses in the neighborhood have gotten into the cyber-craze, as seen in this exploitation of an already-tired Internet catch phrase.

I could add that I walked from the Village uphill to the University District late Saturday night, past the Greek Row where rowdy frat boys rioted after midnight. I left before that happened, but could sense a tension in the air, an angry and ornery sound of “fun” emanating from many of the fraternities and rental houses on the first Saturday night of the school year.

…but if you look long enough you can still find a Stroh violin, a strings-with-horn instrument designed to be heard by primitive gramophone recording equipment.

…who passed away earlier this month at age 76, was one of the perennial fringe figures on the Seattle entertainment/journalism scenes. The former editor of the freebie tabloid Fun Weekly, Goldman established and kept his name on movie publicists’ lists. He kept getting onto studios’ press junkets to NY and LA even in his latter years, when Goldman’s only outlet for his always-positive reviews was a cable access show.

Goldman was like the fictional reviewer in the old Spy magazine, billed as “the publicist’s best friend,” who could be counted upon to call any piece of Hollywood tripe the next surefire Oscar hit. It can now be told that Goldman particularly loved junkets if they involved an opportunity to interview a hot young male starlet.

But at his center he knew he was on the periphery of a multi-billion-buck industry, and he knew his self-appointed place was to say and do what the studios wanted him to. It was his unbridled enthusiasm-for-sale that made him the colorful character he was.

SATURDAY NIGHT WAS A BRIGHT NIGHT in Seattle’s unsung but rockin’ Georgetown neighborhood. Our fellow ex-Stranger hanger-on, illustrator-cartoonist-graphic designer Kathryn Rathke, unveiled a community-promo neon sign she’d designed.

The thing was funded by a Seattle Arts Commission grant for a public artwork that would service a community need. In Georgetown’s case, the need is to have its very existence acknowledged, as a residential outpost surrounded by industry and heavy transportation. The project took some two years to execute, what with bureaucratic “process,” legal tie-ups involving the building’s owner and lessee, design submissions and re-submissions, etc.

But finally it all came together, and is mounted on the south side (facing a freeway on-ramp) of the building housing All City Coffee, the Nine Pound Hammer bar, and the occasionally-active Jem Studios Georgetown and Twilight Theater.

The shushing lady atop the image might be referring to the Boeing Field air traffic, or to Georgetown’s forgotten-neighborhood status. The sign’s middle tier includes some of the area’s spectacular old architecture, including the classic Hat & Boots gas station (still slated to be moved and renovated as part of a park).

As a mariachi band played and the donated keg of Manny’s Georgetown Ale emptied, revelers rejoiced in their new civic symbol. Georgetown still lacks a grocery store, a library, and City Hall’s attention. But at least it has a new mark of pride.

AS PROMISED, here are the last of my Bumbershoot Ought-Three pix, at the big R.E.M./Wilco gig in High School Memorial Stadium. (No, the stadium’s not named in honor of dead high schools, even though Seattle’s got two or three of those.)

This year’s stadium “stage sponsor” was Comcast, the local-monopoly cable company (formerly AT&T, formerly TCI, formerly Group W, formerly TelePrompTer). Several of these successive companies have had logos that matched their business models.

TCI, you might recall, had a symbol of a sun (or satellite) beaming a signal to the Earth, exemplifying the old-media premise of everybody getting their entertainment/news/culture from one central source.

AT&T’s ringed circle visualized the company’s post-Bell System dream of wiring the world, back in the days before wireless-mania.

And Comcast has a stylized version of the circle-C copyright symbol, that icon of reverence to an increasingly concentrated (and increasingly vilified) intellectual-property industry.

The two acts on stage Monday night bridged one or two generation gaps, and cut across subcultural niche-appeal.

Wilco’s act, if described literally, would read like the description of an early-’70s “country rock” band. Wilco’s not like that. It’s simply a great, intelligent, inventive pop and rock group, which doesn’t “cross over” between categories so much as it defies easy categorization. (No wonder their record label dropped them just as they made their best record to date, Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, as depicted in the documentary I Am Trying to Break Your Heart.)

Little new seems to be sayable about the livin’ legends of R.E.M., except that (1) they’re more or less a Seattle band these days, and (2) they still make beautiful-sad-upbeat-energetic-soft-hard-fast-slow-memorable music, even in the promlematic environment of a stadium show.

…will be posted in two installments. Watch this space later this week for some quaint human-interest studies at the R.E.M. gig.

But for today, some of Labor Day’s other Seattle Center sights.

THE VAIN ALTERNA-HAIR SALON had a booth selling, among other products and services, this retro Joan Jett purse. I attracted the awe and respect of everyone working the booth when I told ’em I’d seen Joan Jett perform at Wrex, the old new-wave bar where Vain is now.

THE EMP SKY CHURCH SPACE, wide and very tall yet relatively shallow, remains one of the wonders of the rock world. No wonder VH1’s shooting an entire concert series there. Here, Lesli Wood of the loud-fast combo Ms. Led.

In the where-be-they-now corner, Mary Lou Lord (once the darling of KNDD’s old Loudspeaker show) continues to patiently ply her trade, major-label offers or no major-label offers.

My fave act of the day, though, was the harmonic driving pop of the New Pornographers, featuring several Vancouverites and ex-Tacoman Neko Case (center). I could spend a lifetime in the universe of their happy/skeptical tuneage.

…this year was based on old patent-medicine advertising, and billed the big event as an “arts festival and mind tonic.”

It was certainly an elixir for me. It may have helped me heal from my recent attack-of-some-sort.

I’d first gotten panicky Monday afternoon and early evening (8/25). Late that night, the real attack set in.

I didn’t fall asleep until after 3:30 a.m., and stayed passed out until nearly 2 p.m. Tuesday. Needless to say, I didn’t do much the rest of that day.

Wednesday, I stayed home and watched DVDs, then felt strong enough to go out for a couple of hours in the evening.

Thursday, all I did was go to the drug store and the grocery store. And I barely got that accomplished.

Then came Friday, day one of the ol’ B-shoot.

I didn’t know on Thursday night whether I’d be capable of going, or even of keeping my prearranged meeting with two friends beforehand. But I awoke Friday at a reasonable hour reasonably energetic, and was able to stick around on the Seattle Center grounds until about 20 minutes into Modest Mouse’s stadium set.

Saturday, I was a bit wearier, but managed to knock around the festival for four hours or so (during which I met, and received healthy wishes from, recent acquaintances John Poetzel and “tyd.” I went to the Two Bells for my longtime acquaintance Earl Brooks’s new alt-country band, but was too exhausted to stay to the end of the (quite good) opening act.

On Sunday I took things a little easier. I got to Belltown around 4:30, hung out with print MISC contributor Julian Fox (who’s had some medical exigencies of his own of late, sorry to say) at the Rendezvous, then finally got around to B-shooting after 6 p.m. I am so glad I was able to stay awake and alert past 10, so I could have the once-in-a-lifetime experience of sharing piano-bar meistro Howard Fulson’s final regular gig at Sorry Charlie’s.

Monday, I awoke feeling better than I’d felt all week. My left shoulder’s still sore in a few spots, but I could effectively use it to lift myself out of bed. After posting Sunday’s photos to the site, I went back to a full final day of B-shooting, including the rockin’ sounds of Ms. Led, the New Pornographers, and Wilco. It all culminated with an enjoyable evening in the stadium listening to the not-at-all-yet-a-nostalgia-band R.E.M. (Pix will be posted later Tuesday.) I wound up walking almost a mile of the road home, grateful for the warm starry (and Mars-y) night.

I’m seeing a doctor in a few days, and hope to have the past unpleasantness behind me for good. Thanks also to Kevin Jerbi and Claudio Todesco, who each emailed their best wishes.

More to come.

…at least until today. Here, some random action shots from Sunday. Above: “Le Petite Cirque.” Below: A break-dance contestant practicing prior to his turn onstage.

And some civilians getting in on the act on the big lawn.

Following all this, I saw two and a half sets of the One Reel Film Festival. In these days since the rise and fall of movie dot-coms like AtomFilm, modern U.S. live-action shorts, at least the ones booked for this series, mostly fall into a few main categories, including but not limited to:

• Film-school demo reels, showing off the director’s slickness qualities for the purpose of getting hired in Hollywood;
• Earnest polemical statements, forcibly introducing sociopolitical concepts the director doesn’t know you’ve already heard a thousand times (did you know that advertisements are trying to get you to buy things?);
• Sincere if repetitive homages to other filmmakers or existing pop-culture reference points.

The cliches were particularly fast-n’-furious in the “Sex Ed” set, five unsubtle films in which I learned that:

• Straight couples are inane;
• Straight men are lechers;
• Gay men are sanctimoniously political;
• Lesbians are cute and sassy; and
• Prostitutes are abused waifs.

There’ve gotta be better up-n’-comin’ film and videomakers out there, and I hope to find some.

FROM THE RIDICULOUS to the sublime, Sunday was the last night for the grand old Sorry Charlie’s piano bar. The space has been bought by some hipster capitalists who plan to revamp it into something nice and retro-elegant, but it just won’t be the same.

On closing night, the place was jammed with fans ranging in age from the barley legal to the barely walking. We were united in our love for the place, for the participatory good times shared over the years, and especially for the artistry and geniality of our host lo these many years, the great Howard Fulson. He’s been a piano player with good taste, in a dive bar that tasted good.

…in some mag’s list of the top 100 songs of the past quarter-century. Sleater-Kinney, Bikini Kill, and Soundgarden compositions also show up on the list. No, “Pinky’s Cheese Roll Call” wasn’t even mentioned.

I’M CONTINUING TO FEEL relatively energetic after my recent physical unfortunateness, so I’m hoping that was just a one-off thang.

So, it was back to Bumbershoot on Saturday.

The performance-art group Mass Ensemble strung its giant “Earth Harp” from the Space Needle, where LA dancer/singer/yoga teacher Andrea Brook attracted attention from all with her acrobatic musicianship.

Then it was off to Flatstock 3, an annual showcase of rock-poster art and the artists who make it, held in a different city each year. Since each poster was designed to shout for your attention on a wall or a light pole, the sight of hundreds of them at once leads to a not-unpleasant-at-all kind of sensory overload, much like that of the best rock n’ roll itself.

Above, local poster-maker Shawn Wolfe (the artist formerly known as Beatkit).

Below, ex-local poster-maker Jermaine Rogers wears an inside joke about our ol’ pal Art Chantry, the most famous current poster boy to refuse to attend Flatstock. (Chantry has always insisted he hates computer graphics.)

Once night falls, the slam poets come out.

I’M STILL FEELING ERRATIC ACHES and dizzy spells at varying times of the day following my recent panic-type episode. (I’m still waiting for at least one reader to email their sympathies.)

But I did get to spend most of Friday at Bumbershoot.

Firstly, I spotted this loving pair on the way to what band’s set? (C’mon, it’s an E-Z guess.) (OK, the answer’s at the bottom of this post.)

Prior to that, however, I got to see plenty-O-rockin’-action at the Exhibition Hall, starting with the wonderful Visqueen.

Later, during The Divorce’s set in the same space, I finally got my very own Charles Peterson moment.

Beer gardens are everywhere on the B-shoot grounds, in keeping with the festival’s ongoing capitulation to the national mania for revenue enhancement. The Ex Hall’s beer garden is festooned with lovely Lava Lites and similar products.

Jessica Lurie performed a typical mind-blastin’ set with her ensemble at the Northwest Court stage.

The Bumbrella Stage’s banners include plugs for two sponsors I’d never expected to see on the same piece of screen-printed fabric.

One big change this year: The Small Press Book Fair was turned into the Ink Spot. Its aesthetic premise was also changed, from circa 1973 (Port Townsend-esque nature poetry) to circa 1983 (punk zines). Above, local zine vet Gregory Hischack (Farm Pulp).

(Answer: Modest Mouse, of course.)