I’m Shakin’

More musical mayhem from the Explodo Boys. Chris Harwood-lead vocal and bass, Gerry Kruger-guitar, George Kuczek-drums, Dan Rowles-keyboards.

Waitress in a Donut Shop

Twenty Years Ago on FITK

Once upon a time...

… there was a doughnut shop on a corner, about a mile from where I work. I’d stop in when I had skipped breakfast (and sometimes when I hadn’t) to pick up a Bismark or some other pastry. It was run by an older man and his wife; she was usually behind the counter, he was often in the front, at a table with his buddies, shooting the breeze and smoking cigarettes.

And then it was only her. She was obviously tired, she had the appearance of someone trapped in a dull nightmare. Looking at her closely, I realized that she was actually much older than I had first thought, certainly over 70, perhaps as old as 75. One day another customer asked about “Bob.” She told him how he was doing (not so good) and that the stroke had taken a lot out of him.

I’ve been thinking a bit about my retirement lately. I’ve always said that I wanted to work until I dropped, but I’m not so sure of that anymore. To toil at something that really doesn’t give much back seems kind of pointless now. Unfortunately, with the United States’ deficit and poor economic prognosis for the foreseeable future (for the middle and lower classes, at least) I may well end up like that waitress.

I stopped going to the shop. A few months later it was closed, then it sat empty for a few years, and finally it was torn down to make room for new construction. That scenario plays out too much like a metaphor for life for comfort.

“Would you like that order to go?”

Teasin’ You

The 2001 version of The Explodo Boys cover this Earl King tune, first made ‘popular’ in 1965 by Willie Tee. Chris Hardwood lead vocal and bass, Gerry Kruger, guitar, George Kuczek, drums, Dan Rowles keyboards and Harmony vocal.

Arboretum Attractions

Washington Park Arboretum, Seattle:

Wanda Gág Day!

Image: Wanda Gág by Robert Janssen, circa 1939

Podcast on Wanda’s life and art (starts at 6:44)…

Rachel’s 13 things about Wanda Gág.

Much more on Wanda…

Seattle Sunday Scenes

Indoor Sun Shoppe:

Fremont Sunday Market:

Google Seattle:

Cafe on the Ave:

Critique: Móðir, kona, meyja

I recently asked ChatGPT to critique a short memoir I had written a couple of years ago. I did several iterations and the results were similar, but not always the same.

It gave me some pointers and caught a couple of typos (every writer can use a good editor, AI or not) and seemed to grasp the point of the piece (“… graceful and conceptually sound… connection without possession, warmth without permanence.”) while at the same time pushing toward an opposite effect (“… the ending could land even harder… a tactile callback would give it additional heft.”)

To be fair, the AI program didn’t know that this piece was a part of a much longer piece that was about the impressions of my trip to Iceland and not just about my meeting with “K.” The AI bot took a dim view of any levity, and criticized it as having too much biographical detail (detail that I thought essential to give the poor reader some background the story.) ChatGPT also wanted me to insert lines of dialog which, with my imperfect memory, would have been putting words in her mouth.

Overall, ChatGPT's impressions were pretty accurate:

Móðir, kona, meyja is a tender, reflective memoir that succeeds most where it honors duration: the slow accrual of familiarity, care, and asymmetry that defines many online-to-offline friendships. The piece’s greatest strength is its emotional decency. You are consistently attentive to K as a full human being rather than a symbol or muse, and the essay never tips into self-dramatization. The closing metaphor of parallel stars is quietly earned and thematically apt.

But it still insisted on trying to shape it into something more rigid than what this gentle meeting was:

That said, the essay could gain clarity and resonance by tightening its temporal structure, sharpening its thematic spine…

My impression of its suggestions that they were akin to shaving the fuzz off a tennis ball (smoother but missing the point). Assuming that most new internet writing will now be run through this kind of filtration, I’ll be on the lookout for this kind of AI toxic masculinity.

UPDATE: I tried it again and this time the chat bot got my joke (Professor Batty meets Eve Kendall)! UPDATE: There is an extensive analysis of the entire Search for a Dancer memoir on its index page.

The Boat of Longing

Twenty Years Ago on FITK

“A fine ship, all lit up, faint music coming across the water, the sounds of people laughing and singing, the craft steadily cutting through the still waters…”

Biking down the Rum River trail on a late winter's night, you must forgive me if my mind wanders during the trek. The recent warm weather has caused the river to have a lot of open water, and where the trail skirts the shore the fog sits quietly and creates a fantasy-world. The trail is usually empty after dark, especially in the winter. The feral cats are still active, black forms moving in the shadows, and in a stand of white pine an owl is heard, questioning my trespass.

“He pulled harder on the oars. Up the billow, into the trough…onward…farther onward…nearer and nearer the beautiful castle west in the sea…the castle which lay in the twist of gold, the castle where dwelt his boy. But the billow rolled so chill…”

Dreams come and then vanish, like the fog on the river. Those dreams that stay, that haunt me with an unbearable sadness, are the ones where my boys are young again, five or six years old. Their unselfconscious beauty and joy is lost forever, and for this loss I cannot be consoled.

“And the night closed in. That [he] did not notice. He only saw the castle where lived his boy.”

On a perfect summer’s evening, the kids and I are fishing in a bay. There are deer browsing on the shore, unafraid of the boat and its occupants. The sun touches the tree-tops across the lake, and we raise anchor and head back to the cabin. I blink, and find myself back on the trail, heading home on the narrow black ribbon that snakes between the fields of snow.

“On he rowed, and on, farther and farther into the skyline, out to the Great Ocean itself…“


~ Quotes are from The Boat of Longing (Længselens Baat) by Ole Edvart Rølvaag, 1921

Loring Park Girls

Loring park is Minneapolis’ answer to New York City’s Central park.

Although smaller, it still occupies several square blocks (including a pond) in downtown Minneapolis. In the late 60s it hadn’t yet reached the pinnacle of its notoriety but even then it was a place best be avoided after dark. There was the Salvation Army home for unwed mothers next to it, a funky junior college, and many apartments ringing its perimeter. Its reputation as a gay cruising spot was completely warranted.

At that time there were kids who played there, kids on their own, doing kid stuff like using the swings, playing hopscotch and, like the girls pictured below, even doing a little dress-up. When those of us attending the college used the park for impromptu photo sessions these urchins would sometimes insist on getting in on the action:

The park has made a comeback since then, The Walker Art Center Sculpture garden is connected to it and the once humble “JC” is now a mammoth community college—Loring Park has become its quad.

These girls would now be in their mid 60s, I wonder if they’ve revisited the park lately?

Caribbean Escape

All winter long I’ve been ‘escaping’ the cold and snow and general malaise with peeks at a 24/7 webcam from The Windmill Bar on St. John’s, Virgin Islands.

There is usually action from about 11am to 8pm (island time) with musical acts and diners enjoying the view with beverages and bar food. There is usually a vivid sunset over the bay behind the stage. In the morning crew cleans tables and condiment dispensers and the name of the musical act of the day is written upon a chalkboard, sometimes with a colorful drawing of a palm tree. On Monday and Friday afternoons a steel pan drummer enlivens the proceedings.

At night the view becomes monochrome and the feed becomes a security cam with infrared views of straggling customers leaving. After they are gone there is only an occasional flying insect disturbing the peace:

The story behind the Windmill bar is just as fascinating:



I'll be in Seattle this coming week-end, visiting the boy and his wife and their cats. We’ll probably have a night out too, with our own bar food and beverages and possibly even a view of the sunset over the sound.

We won’t be sporting shorts and Hawaiian shirts, however: