Seattle Sucks: Exhibit 4... The Ned Flanders Effect.

I hate the bombastic music that heralds the start of the BBC World Service at 9a.m. EST when WNYC switches over to the Brits for the hour. So I'm always running to the radio at 8:59 to turn the station before the melodramatic brass and string assault.

This morning I tuned to KUOW for my 9-10a.m. refuge from British accents. It's the station at the University of Washington in Seattle (where I used to work). The DJ's name was Derek Wang (pictured) and Reeve asked "Is that how they talk in Seattle?" I winced and said yes. She said "Oh my god! He sounds just like Ned Flanders!" I laughed because it's totally true.

Everyone in Seattle sounds like Ned fucking Flanders!

See for yourself. I made some clips:

Ned Flanders
Derek Wang

Still... better than a British accent.

[Also see: Seattle Sucks: Exhibits 1-3]

Driven by Positive Thinking.

My "manager" at the hotel bar is about 25. This is his mug.

My girlfriend doesn't think this is funny and I sort of agree. She thinks it's just pedestrian and not any more clever than the average indie comedy film about hipster slackers working corporate jobs. I do agree, but when I post here, it's more about identifying things that depress me rather than trying to make people laugh.

After all, I really don't have or expect a readership. I've posted over 60 items and have had 3 comments from the world. I do this for me, for my current and future self. Maybe by trotting my pet peeves out, I'll realize their banality and move on.

I guess what I hate about this mug is that this guy has been effectively lobotomized at age 25. The mug is consistent with the rest of his personality and his "go get 'em-ness" as an assistant manager at an airport hotel. Perhaps what really bothers me is that:

a. I wish I was blissfully ignorant like him;
b. my inability to understand him reminds me of the alienation I feel as an American;
c. he earns more than I do;
d. he has more hair than me;
e. he has better credit than me;
f. he's younger than me;
g. he's on a career track.

Or maybe I just hate him because he's Driven by Positive Thinking.

Snipers.

I absolutely love these three panels from Dan Clowes' Ice Haven. The line "An anonymous note speaks for everyone!" is brilliant; it must be what deluded, passive-aggressive neighbors actually tell themselves when they, say, leave a note on my car criticizing where I park.

Then, a few days later, an anonymous call to the police speaks for everyone when I'm rousted from bed on a Saturday morning by a cop pounding on my door telling me to move my car from its legal but apparently not-kosher-with-an-unnamed-neighbor spot. A spot which I pay to use.

And so, tail between legs, I go downstairs to move the car with the weight of at least one set of eyes on me as I begin to chip the ice from my windshield. Eyes, no doubt, on a pinched, chuckling, perhaps bearded face. Eyes most likely behind round wire-rimmed glasses. Glasses maybe a bit foggy from a steaming cup of coffee or tea clenched by the bitter fingers which had gripped the red pen to scrawl the note that spoke for everyone.

Cartoon Therapy.

At the peak of my depression, about two years ago, I felt like my psychotherapy and drugs weren't working at all. I was self-medicating with booze, food, sleep, web surfing and spending money I didn't have. Even so, I still felt like shit all the time. I had the idea one day that I'd draw cartoons to make myself feel better, and it worked-- but only while I was drawing them. Afterward it just made me sad to look at them. I was so at odds with the world that just going through the motions of living wore me out.

That year I was constantly broke and had collectors after me. My stepmother had recently died of cancer leaving my two teenage sisters without a mother. I was badly injured after being beaten up on a visit to Argentina so I was limping around on crutches. I was fired from my job without warning. I was getting divorced and secretly spending nights at work. My new puppy was very sick. I was 70 pounds overweight.

It seemed like everyone in NYC was prospering and loving life except for me. Everyone had more money, was in better shape, had better relationships, was better looking, more talented, and more accomplished. I found enjoyment nowhere and was constantly getting into altercations with strangers on the street.

Subaru Lesbians.

In early 1990, my mom's best friend bought a brand new Subaru Legacy station wagon. She had short hair and a golden retriever. I just got my driver's permit a few months before and Nancy was cool enough to offer me the keys for a spin around my shitty hometown of Concord, California. When she pulled into the driveway I ran out only to be face-raked: the Subaru had a stick-shift. Oh well.

Subaru-driving lesbians proliferated throughout the 90's and into this decade, and I started to wonder what it was about lesbians that compelled them drive these cars. It started to bother me. Was the Subaru an advertisement of sexual disposition or a subconscious coincidence?

I wondered the same about short hair and comfy shoes, golf clubs, high-waisted jeans, big dogs, polar fleece and precious acoustic music. Having lived in the lesbian-havens of Minneapolis, Seattle and now Portland, Maine1, I've felt like these cues are heavy-handed subtexts: passive-aggressive and, well, offensive.2 Moreover, a notion of wagon-circling, if you will, is implied, equivalent to pickup-truck ownership being mandatory suburban-macho accoutrement. I get that this perceived cliquishness may all just be a backlash to repression, but still...

Recently, this Washington Post article from back in 2000 made me realize that there is no subtext afoot:

"Coincidentally or not, the Subaru-lesbian connection seems to have spread throughout the car-buying lesbian community. 'We call [Subarus] Lesbarus,' said Pam Derderian, CEO and principal partner of Do Tell Inc., a gay niche marketing firm that created the Rainbow Card program."

(Subaru was a founding sponsor of the Rainbow Endowment, whose Visa Rainbow Card has raised more than $1.5 million for health, civil rights and cultural causes.)

I found more clarification here, where I was surprised to read as the opening line of Subaru president Rick Lociano's annual address to his dealers in 2004:

"O Forester! O Forester! It is as if thou hast dropped from heaven itself onto the Island of Lesbos!"

Further, the entire keynote was campy to the max:

"A crack team of psychoanalysts worked non-stop with top-tier engineers to design a body shape that breathes 'rugged utilitarian frumpiness' while avoiding the obvious pitfalls of what I call 'overphalluscizing'. In a stroke of genius, one of my junior marketing execs suggested that dealers add a deluxe dog cage at no extra charge. And we did it all at a price that even a substitute P.E. teacher can afford.

Then there were the Subaru print ads with taglines like: "Get Out. And Stay Out.", "It's Not a Choice. It's the Way We're Built." and the most provocative: "Likes to be Driven Hard and Put Away Wet."

Ironically, now that I know the Lesbaru phenomenon is merely the result of willful marketing, it seems less nefarious and even a little bit light-hearted. See? Writing can be therapeutic.

End Notes:

1. My girlfriend insists that the majority of Subaru-driving women here in Portland are not gay, but rather "rugged New Englanders" who happen to also wear polar fleece, LHBs, and high-waisted jeans. Let's just say it's probably no coincidence that there is a history of L.L. Bean Edition Subarus. Bonus factoid: L.L.Bean has a Subaru Edition women's 'fitness fleece' pullover!
2. In the way I seem to be offended by other 1-way communications like bumper stickers and these fucking hats.
   

Irony Kilt the Seatards.

Utilikilts were the bane of my existence when I lived in Seattle. I swear to motherfucking god these things actually exist, and in numbers. I'm not going to spend a lot of time on such an easy target. But man did they PISS ME OFF!

I had to laugh at this guy's page (entitled "Utilikilts are Stupid and Dumb"), which shows several photos of Utilikilts in the wild. If you think the official photo (above) is cringe-worthy, you ain't seen nuthin' yet!

Oh, and the best quote from that site I just linked to?

"If you ever see someone wearing a Utilikilt, do what I do and make him feel as shitty as possible."

Is it Road Rage if You're Walking?

So one fine Seattle morning I was strolling down 5th Ave. to my horrible government job at the world's 2nd ugliest office tower (the ugliest is a few blocks from it). Each morning I'd get coffee from the stand on the corner of 5th and Columbia. Coffee stands in Seattle are very popular and people wait in line a very long time for a perfect drink. Oh, and when I say "coffee," I mean an espresso drink of some variety. Mine was the Americano: 2 shots of espresso in a large cup topped off with hot (near boiling) water.

Well, upon getting my coffee, I shuffled off to cross the street. I had the light and stepped into the street when a big fancy Mercedes lays on his horn and starts edging into me from behind and left. He was making a right turn and I was 'in his way.' He was feverishly pointing out that I had a 'flashing red hand' signal.1 Huh.

So I did what anyone would do and pounded my fist on his hood, at which point he rolled his window down and started swearing up and down at me. So I did what anyone would do and spritzed some coffee at him through his open window. Enough came through the hole in my coffee lid to dot his fancy suit.

He grabbed for his coffee Thermos and tried doing the same, but came up a few feet short. So I did what anyone would do and got him again with my coffee.2 Only this time the lid came off.

To simply say that the guy's head was bathed in scalding coffee wouldn't do. His suit was ruined, his face was probably melting off, his foot relaxed from the brake and his car drifted onto the sidewalk silently, coming to rest with the driver hunched over the wheel.

So I did what anyone would do and trotted off to work with a little spring in my step. I sure showed him! A few minutes later I felt sick to my stomach and wondered just what the fuck I had done/become. That's around the time I started on anti-depressants. Unfortunately things would get worse before they got better.


End notes:

1. People in Seattle actually stay put on the curb once the 'red hand' starts flashing. Even if tumbleweeds are blowing across the street and there are no cars within blocks. Maybe it's because the SPD writes a ridiculous number of jaywalking tickets.
2. I hadn't had my coffee yet, obviously.
   

Seattle Sucks: Exhibits 1-3

Even 5 years after my 18-month stint in Seattle, I can get instantly riled-up about how much I hated it. I really and truly hated it. Hopefully through writing here I can say my peace and try to move on, but Seattle offended me on such a deep and personal level as to become an archetype of sorts. I'm not sure I can forgive Seattle, but I'd like to try. For my own sake.

The first step, I think, is airing all of my grievances. This will take many posts. As I write, I'll need to pepper the reader with examples. I'll number them (in no particular order) because there aren't enough letters in the alphabet.

Here's Exhibit 1.

I hesitate to even comment on why a convention of Furries creeps me out. I would actually see people walking around Seattle with Conifur t-shirts (the predecessor to RainFurrest). These are sick, sick people (or "folks" as they like to say in Seattle). Sick 'folks.' If you are a sicko, you should seek help. Please do not try to pretend that this fetish is benign or somehow deserves recognition in society.

This is a good segue into Exhibit 2.

Fat lib has the same air of cavalier ignorance as RainFurrest. Again, instead of fixing problems, people in Seattle celebrate them. Basically giving up and having no respect for themselves. This theme is omnipresent in Seattle. Sort of like the Gum Wall.

People 'let themselves go' in such extreme ways that it sometimes seemed like I was strolling the grounds of a sanitarium. Yet I think somehow they feel like they're 'keepin it real' by not wasting money on clothes, haircuts, razors, deodorant, etc. For example, Seattle is crawling with dudes wearing ponytails and/or nasty unkempt beards (known as unix beards) and/or Drizabone coats (huh?!) and/or fedoras! Frequently ALL of the above in a single ensemble!

So I guess this guy will be Exhibit 3.

Women are no exception, and until I lived in Brooklyn I never could have realized the similarity of "folks" in Seattle to Frum, whose very appearance is a sort of masochistic hair shirt.

sackcloth... sack-dress... coincidence?