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Today’s historic-preservation outrage involves the Jefferson Park Golf Course clubhouse. It’s a magnificent structure, “homey” yet elegant, that’s served city residents for more than 75 years. The City wants to raze it to put up a new driving range. It’s rushing through a plan to deny landmark status to the building, in cahoots with the architects that are planning the redevelopment scheme.
via theatlanticwire.com
seatacradio.com
So shortly after the death of Chris Wedes (J.P. Patches) comes the loss of another beloved local media icon. Taken too young, after too many years of stoically living through pain and surgeries and chemo.
Goertzen’s natural charm and adept on-air skills made her one of the longest running local news anchors in the nation.
She survived in a field that is often unkind toward formerly-young females. But she couldn’t survive the tumors that wouldn’t stay dead.
Let’s admit it, skepticism does have a way to make us feel intellectually superior to others. They are the ones believing in absurd notions like UFOs, ghosts, and the like! We are on the side of science and reason. Except when we aren’t, which ought to at least give us pause and enroll in the nearest hubris-reducing ten-step program.
pitchfork media via cartoonbrew.com
The third most famous band from Aberdeen, the Melvins, talk about their “disastrous” first tour, accompanied by appropriately simple Flash animation. (The second most famous band from Aberdeen, of course, is Metal Church.)
The Seafair Torchlight Parade is more than a relic of “a simpler time,” or an opportunity for Seattle merchants and restaurants to make money from visiting suburbanites and exurbanites.
It’s an opportunity for all of us to get back in touch with the values and aesthetics that helped make this city great.
At a time and place where these values are often scoffed at, Seafair proclaims there’s still plenty to admire in squareness.
Squares gave us the Space Needle. Squares gave us Boeing (and, hence, the “international jet set”). Squares gave us computers and software.
Towns at at least a little removed from the metro core still understand the positive aspects of squareness, and revel in them. I come from one of these.
Remember: Square DOES NOT necessarily equal boring or white. Values of family, tradition, and togetherness cut across all ethnic and subcultural lines.
There are three special things to mention about this year’s parade. The first is the Seafair Clowns’ heartfelt tribute to Chris Wedes/J.P. Patches.
The second thing was something I’d previously noticed last month at the gay parade—spectators using cam-equipped iPads to get a better-than-the-naked eye view of the proceedings.
And finally, what was Grand Marshal (and Fastbacks drummer #2) Duff McKagan doing in a horse and buggy? Wouldn’t a bitchin’ vintage muscle car be more his flavor?
The Burke Museum has posted a lovely You Tube video showing how the Pioneer Square area was not only settled by Seattle’s founders but altered, filled in, and transformed from a little isthmus into the historic district it is today.
dangerousminds.net
kiro-tv via marty corey
The last time the city seemed in this much mourning over a single death was for another media personality, Dave Niehaus. And he’d only been part of the Seattle zeitgeist since 1977.
Wedes had been western Washington’s surrogate dad since 1958, when he starred in KIRO-TV’s first local show on the station’s first day on the air.
He’d already played several kidvid roles on Minneapolis TV. He took over the “J.P. Patches” character name and makeup design (originally a creepy unibrow look) from another Twin Cities actor, then took that with him to Seattle.
Even after most of the other local kids’ hosts around the country hung up their respective hats, KIRO kept the Patches show going. Even the legendary network show Captain Kangaroo had only its second half-hour seen here, because J.P. commanded the 7:30-8:30 a.m. hour.
At his peak, Wedes had a morning show, an afternoon show, and a Saturday morning show to boot (Patches’ Magic Carpet). Along with loyal sidekick Bob Newman (as Gertrude, Ketchikan the Animal Man, and assorted other characters), Wedes masterminded a mostly ad-libbed realm of clever wordplay and character-based gags. He didn’t really do normal “clown” bits, such as juggling or pantomime comedy. J.P. was a character all his own, who just happened to wear greasepaint.
Ensconced in his “magic house” at the City Dump (which, in real life, was where the University Village mall is now), he presided over a supporting cast of humans, quasi-humans, and puppets (almost all played by Newman), going through happy little comedy skits and slapstick storylines in between cartoons and commercials (the latter of which Wedes performed live until the Feds said he couldn’t anymore).
And he kept doing it until 1981, well after national advertisers and cartoon syndicators stopped servicing his kind of local shows. At its end, it had been the longest-running local kids’ show in the country.
KIRO kept him on the payroll as a floor director until 1990.
And he maintained a personal-appearance schedule, donning the costume and the makeup for everything from county fairs to Soundgarden concerts.
A statue of J.P. and Gertrude was erected in Fremont in 2008. A version of the show’s set was rebuilt at the nearby History House. Archie McPhee’s made a bobblehead figure. Wedes and Bryan Johnston co-authored a coffee-table book of Patches show memories. Wedes and Newman appeared on several KCTS pledge-drive specials, built around home-video compilations of the show’s existing episodes (of which, alas, there aren’t many).
Finally, Wedes felt the need to stop these appearances last autumn, when his blood cancer got too bad.
But the love remained.
His show’s purpose had been to sell sneakers and junk food to impressionable tots. But he had a sincerity that shone through both the jokes and the merchandising.
And people got it. Even people who’d not seen the original show, but had only known Wedes from the later live appearances.
To close, here’s what KIRO’s retrospective newscast quoted Wedes as having been his show’s only message: “Have fun, take care of your parents and your brothers and sisters, and be a good friend to everyone.”
The scene: A clear, warm-enough Memorial Day evening in Fremont. Among those in attendance are families, old timers, and members of the Fremont retail community past and present. Some were close friends; others hadn’t seen one another in years.
There are also a middle-aged male clown, a male bagpiper, a female cellist, and several ladies dressed as “mourners” in black dresses complete with veils, ready to sob loudly on cue. (NOTE: This took place two days prior to the Cafe Racer shootings.)
It is a funeral/wake, a memorial to an institution that had already been all about the remembrance of things past.
Fremont’s “funky” reputation was already established by 1978, when David Marzullo opened Deluxe Junk. “Funky,” at that time, meant low incomes, low profiles, low foot traffic, low rents—and lowlife.
A Seattle Times feature story published around that time described Fremont as a blighted land of empty storefronts, as well as “littered vacant lots, weathered plywood with torn flyers flapping in the wind, peeling paint and a giant disposal-service complex.” Among its 12,000 residents were retirees, street people, and “a number of artists and remnants of the hippie culture.”
When Deluxe Junk opened, it was one of 10 antique, curio, and “vintage trash” stores in the then-rundown neighborhood. The only thing Fremont had more of at the time was taverns.
After a fire made the store’s first location uninhabitable, Marzullo moved into a former funeral parlor on the ground floor of the Doric Temple, a Masonic lodge right on the arterial cusp of Fremont Place, between Fremont Avenue and North 36th Street. (In later years, the block would become home to the kitschy Lenin statue.)
Some of the vintage sellers in the ’70s had dreams that were bigger than their business acumen.
But Marzullo had a knack for the trade.
He priced his goods low enough to move but high enough to pay the bills.
He built a base of customers not only from around Seattle but around the nation and beyond. (In the 1980s, Marzullo was one of the first local dealers to sell American vintage wear and furnishings to dealers in Japan.)
He developed a great sense of what his customers liked.
He maintained a broad inventory range. He stocked vintage fashions, badges, advertising signs, costume jewelry, magazines, board games, kitchen appliances, and household trinkets.
But perhaps Deluxe Junk’s most important speciality was home furnishings from the early to mid 20th century. That’s also the era when most of Seattle’s single-family homes were built. This was the furniture that most truly “belonged” in these homes.
Over the years, the surrounding neighborhood became gentrified. Industrial buildings gave way to tech-company offices. Storefront taverns gave way to brewpubs, soccer bars, and live-music clubs. “Cheap chic” shops gave way to fashionable boutiques.
Deluxe Junk persevered, long enough to itself become a relic of “a simpler time;” even as the collectibles business went online and global (and, in many ways, more mercenary).
In April, a lease dispute developed between the store and the Doric Temple’s leadership.
Supportes of the store claimed Doric leaders wanted to kick Deluxe Junk out, in favor of more potentially lucrative tenants.
The lodge insisted it was willing to negotiate a new lease, as long as Marzullo paid up several months’ worth of back rent.
(UPDATE 6/18/12: Marzullo publicly denied the claim that he’d owed back rent to his landlords.)
After several days of highly public disagreement, Marzullo announced he’d reached a settlement. Without going into details, he said the store would close and he would retire.
And the store would close three weeks before the Solstice Parade and Fremont Fair, Fremont’s busiest days of the year.
Deluxe Junk’s loyal customers and friends took full advantage of a massive closing sale. An online-auction seller bought the store’s whole inventory of 1950s Christmas decor.
Still, there was a lot of cool stuff left in the store’s main room on the evening of the wake.
Some of that was sold on the spot to friends of the store, who were seeking one last remembrance of Deluxe Junk—and of the Fremont that had been.
(Cross-posted with City Living.)
The recession has claimed another victim, the Betsey Johnson boutique on Fifth Avenue.
I don’t think you do love America. At least, not as much as you hate everyone in America who isn’t exactly like you.
sobadsogood.com
It is with a heavy heart that we must say goodbye to Publicola, for three years the go-to site for insider wonk-knowledge about Seattle political minutae.
Josh Feit and Erica C. Barnett studiously roved the corridors of City Hall and associated parties, fundraisers, caucus meetings, and planning conferences, always coming back with clear, engaging reports.
But, as we previously noted in regards to the equally ambitious SportsPress Northwest, local content sites just can’t make in on banner ads alone.
Goodness knows, Feit and Barnett did all they could.
They added arts and entertainment reviewers (officially billed on-site as the “Nerds”), then dropped them when their contributions didn’t lead to added revenue.
Later they did the same with veteran crime reporter Jonah Spangenthal-Lee.
More lately, their initial financial backers pulled out. Feit and Barnett asked for donations from readers to keep the site going. That helped them to meet an immediate cash shortage.
But Feit, Barnett, and their initial backers knew the site’s long-term prospects as a for-profit, stand-alone entity were poor.
So Publicola, as its own thing, is shutting down.
But Crosscut.com, Seattle Weekly founder David Brewster’s nonprofit local commentary/analysis site, is bringing Feit and Barnett on board. Their coverage will continue at Crosscut in twice-daily installments. Brewster and co. will stage a fund drive to support permanent employment for the two.
meowonline.org
Every person I talk to at a signing, every exchange I have online (sometimes dozens a day), every random music video or art gallery link sent to me by a fan that I curiously follow, every strange bed I’ve crashed on… all of that real human connecting has led to this moment, where I came back around, asking for direct help with a record. Asking EVERYBODY.… And they help because they know I’m good for it. Because they KNOW me.
liem bahneman, via komo-tv