Death is really angry with this guy. In 1999, his wife Ida shot him in the stomach, saying she’d felt threatened by him after he, well, threatened her. Apropos nothing, his mom is a lounge singer in Miami named Honey Jackson.

You could say there was another survivor: North Carolina’s state senator Larry Shaw, the highest ranking elected Muslim until Keith Ellison, declined an offer to speak at a Muslim Relations conference, saying he had a ‘premonition.’ As a result, he was not onboard Flight 5191 (Shaw also chaired the State Senate Transportation Committee). Actually, it wasn’t a premonition. It was a response to the news, revealed three weeks prior, that a plot had been uncovered in Britain to blow up as many as ten America-bound airplanes. In interviews, Shaw says his gut told him to lay low for a little while.

All this just to wish Ahmed Sharif a speedy recovery.

Kasey Chambers: We’re All Gonna Die Someday
I’m as uncomfortable with the ‘Beverly Hillbillies’ quote as you are.

Take Uncle Milt. My dad’s last surviving sibling isn’t coming to Seattle anytime soon, and if he is, he won’t be bringing his murals with him — which I have yet to see in person, despite their having earned some praise statewide. This one, a future walldog, is the kind of commercial piece whose artist is usually anonymous. And the Rock Island mural deepens the more you learn about Herington’s history. Specifically, the omission of Union Pacific insignia anywhere slyly restores the dignity and identity that crashed with Rock Island on the night of March 31, 1980. Yeah, Uncle Milt! Yeah art!

For Rob, though, I’m confident that his mom made some lasting impressions on the people she met and the students who came through her classes. A teacher’s legacy is as hard to track as it is to calculate — a sentiment, I know, that’s too squishy to make anything easier for Rob and his family. Maybe nothing will. But it’s important to honor the good that Margaret did with her time here, and I think you could do a lot worse than nurturing a community of smart, well-read people.

Mencken had some finely crafted thoughts on the matter. But somehow, in this current cruel season, this one really got to me. It’s not that it’s downright mean and hateful, and a Costco portion of the evidence I sought when I was younger and wore my convictions on my sleeve. The bigger problem is how Doveworld (Doveworld!) constructs a world of friends and enemies, and can’t imagine the value of mitigating their self-esteem with the slightest tincture of humility. Humility is not exclusively a christian value, of course, but they sure do pay it a lot of lip service.

In addition, their arrogance reminds me to always look askance at any talk of ‘community.’ I say this not because I’m not a joiner, or out of some go-to irascibility inherited from my father (who certainly had his share), but simply because there’s something provincial, cowardly and — oh hell, I’ll say it — unamerican about doing what the Man tells you to. And it’s contagious.

Hellwood: Thank You, Lord
Jim White, Willie B, and Johnny Dowd: My kinda power trio.

I don’t want to give away the ending, but there’s some wisdom in this article I wish I’d had before. And by ‘before,’ I don’t mean, like, twenty years ago. I mean before I proudly donned my so-stylish dunce cap even this morning.

By the same token, I’ll try to heed the inherent warning to never act as privileged and cocksure as Andy Rooney.

Viewed from the outside, the troubles at Seattle’s Department of Transportation seem petty, insular and, to one who likes his coffee strong and his institutions dysfunctional, sadly familiar. I am not one of those sheeple. In 2009, after the snowstorm shitstorm, I trusted that all the attention focused on their behavior would generate some valuable cleanup, or at least a few tacky baubles. So it brings me no joy to watch them work so hard to solidify their reputation for unreliability.

Because we live on the side of a steep hill, the two lanes of our street are separated by some significant altitude, and a median about thirty feet wide sits between them. Karyn and I call it the Grassy Knoll. It’s useful to us dog stewards, and serves as a community front yard; I see my neighbors there, and sometimes stop for a chat. Or I used to, anyway. This summer, the Grassy Knoll went uncared for and became seriously overgrown, and by late June the neighbors had stopped going, and I dreaded having to go bushwhacking every time I took Chauncey there for a pee. I’m sure it was no picnic for her, either, squatting there among brambles clear over her head. It was pretty obvious that the city needed to be alerted to the problem, so that they could bring out their big power mowers and be done with it.

Thus began a months-long Kafkaesque odyssey into the depths of bureaucratic convolution. Before our trip to the Peninsula, I would have rolled my eyes at such hyperbole. Even now, after the unanswered emails, the blown deadlines, and the near-miss where they actually did come out and mow an entirely different area half a block away; even now, I still believe that there are actual people over there at the DOT, fellow travelers with bills to pay and whatnot, and that this is not some cosmic joke I’m the butt of, but simply an expression of the same flagging sympathy with which I’ve been known to treat my own clients. Because anger and despair are too facile, particularly directed at governments and their representatives. What’s the point of getting your taxpayer dues if you have to be a dick about it?

The Roots: How I Got Over
Someone has to care.

For example, I don’t know diddley about origami, but my friend Ray is organizing a national convention next year, and they need a brand. Ray and his broke-ass group will likely be a grateful client, and since I have a day job and don’t need to hustle, that’s just fine by me. I think my ignorance is as much a virtue as their lack of fundage, as it lets me take “mountain fold” and “valley fold” to places the conventioneers might not.

Later that same week, another Ray — a CPA — asked me for a corporate ID for his new business. It’s a new thing for him, but based on a deep network of existing contacts, so he should do well. Giving him a simple, one-color, highly legible brand is the least I can do.

Finally, there’s Storefronts Seattle. This quintessential expression of nonprofit synergy (yeah, that’s what I said) seeks to activate — their word — vacant storefronts in Pioneer Square, the ID and Little Saigon. It’s a great idea that’s had success all over the country. For them, I seized on a particular architectural detail from the Smith Tower, zeroed out the edges that had worn down over time, and voilà: instant resonance. They loved it. I half-jokingly offered to accept one of the storefront spaces as payment, and while the reception was, necessarily, lukewarm, it was enough to trigger in me a Big Vision for what could be done there. Already I’m steeling myself for disappointment; I’m nearly convinced that just doing a logo I’m proud of is payment enough. Yup, nearly convinced.

The New Pornographers: Letter from an Occupant
That one-note hook is aging surprisingly well, n’est-ce pas?

Salt Creek has a little spit of land called Tongue Point and a view of some lovely seastacks. But I’ve always enjoyed the Dungeness Spit too for its vistas and its coastal Carolina vibe. So we decided to go there instead. We lucked into a campsite around three, set up our swank new tent, and walked along the bluffs above the Spit. Clouds rolled over the Olympics, but there was bright sunshine over the water, and there at the confluence where we walked, the light was bizarre: steep, heavy, kinda yellow. We saw eagles and seabirds, and deer in the lavender fields. We dined on hobo packets and s’mores. We slept soundly and had hot coffee in the morning. And Chauncey ran from one new smell to the next. All told, a thoroughly wholesome alternative to the hot city.

Port Gamble is all quaintified, but it’s still pretty cool. Most of the buildings line a big open valley in the middle of town; you could imagine a revival or temperance rally occurring there. Up the hill is the graveyard, with very few population additions since the thirties. Swallows darted low around the obelisks. I felt like I should have apologized.

A few pictures here, on Flickr, including the one that my clone took.

Lullaby Baxter: Rattled Little Clam
“Vienna, Tokyo and Rome are here.”

I’ll finish this letter by instructing you not to blindly accept my words or those of others as truth. Investigate, discriminate, and question everything not proven. Only by doing so can you determine for yourself that Count Bruce D. Fleming feels obligated to erect a screen of flatulent verbiage to hide the real world from his victims.

(Word: Scott Pakin via Opaque Dream)

Sing jubilantly about it! Or, you could have Brother Owen explain it to you.