Low Resolution.

Posted by admin on December 31, 2018 in Randomalities

The end of the year is upon us. In contrast to my younger days, when years plodded along at a snail’s pace, they seem to fly by these days. I have no idea where 2018 went. If it weren’t for my iPhone’s photo organizational skills, I couldn’t sort one day or one week from another one.

Such is life, I guess. Just when you start to figure it all out, there never seems to be enough time to do everything you still want to do. You come up with all these great plans for the year then whoosh! – it’s time to ring in another New Year.

For me, the whole thing is a bit anti-climatic. Facebook’s ruined New Years for me. Well, technically Dick Clark ruined it with his rockin’ New Year’s Eve party years ago. I knew deep down that Dick had rung in the New Year three hours earlier, but with tape delay, the illusion could be kept intact that we were all counting down at the same time.

Not with Facebook. We have friends all over the world now. As I write this, I see photos of 2019 from Australia. Thanks to this cruel world of ours, I will be one of the last to greet 2019. I’d have to go to Hawaii to be any later to the party.

Thankfully, ringing in the New Year crap rings hollow for me. I mean, it’s just the difference of one minute to the next. One minute it’s 11:59 p.m. and then it’s midnight. It’s all a bit random for me. I mean, the Earth just happens to rotate at the speed it does. Every 24 hours (give or take), it takes a full turn around its axis and the sun comes up. Every 365 days (give or take), it’s a full turn around the sun and we call it another year.

If we were on Mars, we’d be celebrating New Years every 1.88 Earth years. If the Earth was on the same orbit, tomorrow would be the start of 1074, not 2019.

I’m not even going to introduce the fact that time is all made up anyway. We live our entire lives letting the clock rule us. We freak out if we’re late or whine if we’re early. We struggle with an extra second or two on our stopwatch and fret about the fact that we wasted another day.

Days. Now there’s a funny one. Did you know that in the colonies, loyal subjects went to bed on Sept. 2 in 1752 and woke up on Sept. 14? During the night, 11 days simply disappeared.

The reason, of course, was that their calendar had gotten so far out of whack that it could no longer be compensated for. Britain had held out against adopting the Gregorian calendar since the Catholics came up with it. They were still using the Julian calendar, which by then, was way out of sync with the rest of the world.

To their credit, they weren’t the last holdouts. That honor goes to Greece, which finally switched their calendar in 1923, having to remove 13 days to catch up with the rest of the world.

Now, imagine if you were a colonial born on Sept. 3, 1750. Two years pass. It’s Sept. 2. Tomorrow’s your birthday. You wake up to find out it’s Sept. 14, not Sept. 3. You missed your birthday because of some wig-headed bigwigs in London.

Confusing enough, right? But how do you go about celebrating the next year? If you wait another 365 days for your birthday to roll around, then you’ll celebrate again on the 14th. But if you go by the date not the year, you’re eating cake and opening presents 11 days earlier.

Stay with me here. Now, let’s all go with the fact that 11 days were just magically wiped out in 1752 to synchronize calendars and let’s all pretend that this time and date thing is as finite as we all think it is.

Is Jan. 1 really tomorrow, or is it 11 days from then (the pre 1752 date).

I’m just having a little sport here. But you can see why the click of a clock from one tick to the next tock doesn’t really do much for me. Time is actually very relative, based on the planet we live on and where we live on this particular planet.

In Sydney, Australia, where my friend is, it’s now 2:15 a.m.  It’s 7:15 here. But she’s already on Jan. 1 and I am still on Dec. 31, thanks to the differentiation of time zones (which, is another Earthling made up thing).

Which brings me to this. I used to make New Year’s Resolutions, truly believing that the new year could hold some magical properties. I would resolve to lose weight, be kinder to others, get a better job, be a better whatever… all sorts of things.

These are all good things. But I came to realize that waiting until midnight to strike on an arbitrary day to make changes in my life was really pretty stupid. First, I could make any and all of these changes on any day I really wanted to. Second, well, just read the above because I can’t guarantee that today really is the end of a year and tomorrow is the start of another.

If you still need convincing, remember back to the turn of the 21st century? Exciting stuff! We all gathered to welcome in the year 2000. There was only one problem. the century didn’t actually begin until Jan. 1, 2001. Jan. 1, 2000 was still the 20th century, not the 21st century.

I didn’t fall for the hype back then either. I know when centuries start. But I’m still not sure when a year really starts, outside of our own made up rules based on the arbitrary spin of the Earth and revolution around the sun.

And I won’t even mention the whole conundrum created by the moon and its influences on the tides. Scientists say that our day now is 1.7 milliseconds longer a day a hundred years ago. So when the clock strikes midnight, wait a millisecond or so you don’t look silly.

Me? I am making only two resolutions this year. The first is to stop letting time rule my life. Who cares if I am a couple minutes early or late? It’s all made up anyway. The second is to officially adopt my age on Mars. As of midnight New Years, I am officially 32, thank you!

In the Emerald City, like Cher, turning back time,

(If I could turn back time, If I could find a way… – earworm!!!!)

  • Robb






A Bunch of Scaredy Cats.

Posted by admin on December 17, 2018 in The Soapbox

As I’ve been doing research as of late on Ancestry.com, I can’t help but think we’re a bunch of pansies. My relatives marched across hostile country to establish farms in the Midwest, fought the British toe to toe at places like Yorktown and marched almost a thousand miles in the dead of night trying to find a better life in Russia.

These days, people bitch about their Internet connection not being fast enough. Hardship is Starbucks not getting your latte order correct (Soy! I said Soy, dammit!). We wander around this world of ours staring at a small screen like it’s the Magic Eight Ball of our youth, thinking the glowing rectangle will somehow give us the divine answers that we seek, or at least that someone liked our last selfie.

Worse, we’ve raised a generation of germaphobes who are afraid of their own shadow. Rather than being strong and more resilient than our own generation or those that have come before us, we’ve turned our children into a bunch of sniffling crybabies who are afraid of the world around us.

For example, we all grew up without the supposed benefits of bike helmets. What’s more, we did some really reckless things on our bikes, things that should have killed us. And yet, we survived.

We played in the dirt all the time. We’d come in to eat and spend a little extra time in the bathroom running the water to let mom think that we washed out hands. We drank a big glass of whole milk with our peanut butter sandwich because peanut and milk allergies were virtually unheard of.

Even with all this, we were a bunch of namby-pambies compared to our grandparents or great-grandparents. As they made their way west, they would just bury their loved ones along the side of the trail and move on. Life was tough, it was short and only the lucky and courageous survived. They didn’t build memorials along the side of the road to their loved ones or bring flowers every day. They moved on, as hard as it was because there was their only choice.

Now, I certainly am educated enough to know that the generations younger than I face some different obstacles today than we did. There is cyberbullying, but to be fair, we had playground bullying. They have school shooting drills, but again, to be fair, we did duck and cover drills to prepare for an inevitable nuclear attack.

But here’s a telling statistic here. There are 55 million schoolchildren in this country. They attend 130,000 K-12 schools. About 10 of those kids are killed each year by gunfire. According to criminologists James Alan Fox and Emma Fridel, that number hasn’t increased since the 1990s.

The media and social media would have you believe that the numbers are soaring, but they are about the same as they’ve been for almost three decades. Now, even one kid being shot to death is an unfathomable tragedy and this doesn’t mean we shouldn’t be trying to figure out how to keep our kids safe. It just means that things aren’t getting worse, but we tend to think they are because of the constant barrage of news stories and social media posts.

Statistically, a child is more likely to die in a car accident than at school. Yet, we spend little to no time teaching kids defensive driving skills in schools and spend an inordinate amount of time doing active-shooter drills.

No wonder the generations to come are so freaked out.

It doesn’t help that we’ve taken all the fun out of these kids’ lives. Look at the average playground. No merry-go-round, no teeter-toters, no monster slides and certainly no Red Rover or Tag. Too dangerous or too aggressive! We certainly can’t let our kids go the park because a stranger may steal them, even though the data shows that there’s a one in one million chance your kid will be snatched by a stranger at a park.

So, let’s check the scoreboard here. We’ve made our kids afraid of germs, peanuts, milk, abduction, getting shot, talking to strangers, wearing certain shoes or apparel in the wrong places, the list goes on and on. No wonder they’re so depressed, detached and freaked out. They don’t have any time to think about the opposite sex, which consumed almost every minute of my own teenage years.

As parents, we really need to take a breath here and chill out. Remember, we’re the ones who had rooms covered with lead paint, didn’t use seatbelts, rode our bikes, tote-goats and go-carts helmetless, used dangerous glues and airplane dopes without wearing a mask and drove our souped-up cars way too fast for our skill levels. We snuck out of our houses at night, went to keggers, tried all sorts of new drugs that weren’t even illegal yet and tested every limit put in front of us.

We survived a pretty dangerous time. And yet, we allow our society to make our kids feel more unsafe today than we were back then. Let’s face it, an abduction or a shooting is easy news. It gets lots of ratings. It’s the low hanging fruit of journalism and best of all, it sells more spots to advertisers.

A kid going to the playground around the corner and returning home or the millions of students who go to school each day and come home safely isn’t newsworthy, but it is the reality.

We can’t control the media, Twitter or Facebook. But we can control what we tell our kids about the world and teach them the skills they need to navigate it.

The world has always been and will always be a scary place. The sooner we prepare our kids to be a bit tougher, more mindful, and more resilient, the better. Being afraid of the world is not the solution. Preparing them for the road ahead, as unpredictable as it can be, and letting them know that we’ve already done most of the really scary stuff, can help them not only succeed in the future, but help them stop freaking out about tomorrow or being afraid of their own shadows.

In the Emerald City, getting my parental Zen on once again,

  • Robb





Master Of None.

Posted by admin on November 19, 2018 in Working Daze

Like most professionals, I have a LinkedIn account. It’s Facebook for the working class, a chance to network, share insights, and perhaps even find new work if you’re in the market.

For some, it’s also a place to strut like a peacock. This seems to be the way of life for anyone under 35 on LinkedIn. Yes, there are those who are actually trying to post content that’s actually useful – links to trends, news articles and other content that others may be interested in. But there are a ton of these young peacocks who falsely believe they are so self-important that they drone on endlessly in a video, telling me something I figured out when I was, oh, I don’t know, 10 or 11.

A great example that popped up this morning:

Maybe people are just dumber than they used to be. Obviously, these self-proclaimed masters of the universe seem to be all too willing to share their tidbits with the masses as they walk along a lake, look like their still fighting the after-effects of an all-night bender, or worse, sit in their car like they’re waiting for their fast food order.

My own reaction is either a sign of my age or my IQ. I believe it to the be latter. If Al Gore had invented the Internet when I was in my 20s my eyes would still roll up into the back of my head if I saw this drivel back in the day.

I readily admit that I thought I knew it all when I was their age too. It’s that strange gift (curse?) we are blessed with in our teens when we think our parents are complete idiots whenever they impart a little wisdom upon us. We nod impatiently, falsely believing that their mistakes and roadblocks have nothing to do with us in this day and age.

Thanks to LinkedIn we’re now rewarded with endless videos of these pseudo-sages sharing their wisdom about the world. I’m not their target. I get that. They are talking to other know-nothings in their generation, hoping that they will all start bobbing their heads in unison like a row of Funko collectibles in an earthquake.

Maybe they will. Maybe they won’t. What I do know is that eventually, these pseudo-sages will look back at their endless video collection and either think 1) I really didn’t know shit back then or… sorry, there is no number 2).

The reason for this is age-old. It comes with the passage of time. Somewhere along the way we earn degrees and certifications that make us think we are smarter than we really are. It’s all Wizard of Oz, behind the curtain humbug. You don’t gain smarts from attending class, writing term papers or getting a piece of paper at the end that was bought on ill-advised student loans.

What you do learn is that you don’t really know anything. You certainly come to realize that you don’t know it all. Eventually, you hit a point where you look in the mirror of life and wonder why you were ever so full of yourself to even think this way for a minute.

When I was 22, I got my B.A. degree in journalism. After spending a couple years in the mailroom, I got my big break and entered my career in communications and marketing in 1985. I have been at it since. I have worked in corporate and government realms. I ran my own shop for two decades. I have worked with huge clients all over the world. I have dabbled in every possible aspect, from social media (long before it was supposedly the be-all, do-all of branding) to websites, ones so cutting edge they hadn’t even invented a code for a background color yet.

And what have I learned after nearly 35 years in the profession? Well, I certainly wouldn’t waste any of your time with a LinkedIn video telling you how smart I am. Unlike these 20 and 30 somethings, I am hardly a master of my domain.

What, you say? How can that be? “Why Robb,” you could teach this stuff in your sleep and save everyone just starting out years of mistakes and errors.”

Maybe. But over these many years, I’ve learned something important about life. You can’t be a master of anything when you’re still a student. The truth is, I’m still learning. That’s what has kept me in this profession all these years. I still love what I do and have come far enough in life to know that I know very little about anything.

I guess that would be one hell of a LinkedIn video. “Hello everyone. Know that when you get to be my age, you’ll come to realize that you’re not as smart as you thought you were at yours and come to find out that you really don’t know shit. But the good news is that means that you can be a great student because you’re not pretending to be something you’re not.”

Sorry, folks. All those awards the industry gives you, the plaudits from your clients, the big raise and corner office won’t make you smarter and it won’t make you wiser.

What does make you smarter and wiser is having the humility and courage to drop the facade and live your life as a lifelong student. That means learning from others as much as sharing your own insights. It means opening your mind and your heart, it means checking your ego at the door and it means holding your tongue while others share their hard-earned lessons.

It also means that you won’t be making silly videos to post on LinkedIn, especially when you’re still wet behind the ears. Maybe you can when you’ve finally gotten to that point in your career when you become comfortable with the little you know and the lot you still need to learn, but that may not be until you’re on your death bed, and really, who wants to watch that.

I would say trust me, but you already know it all. Suffice it to say that if we run into one another somewhere, the big smile isn’t because I’m glad to see you. It’s because I’m doing my darndest not to laugh at your latest pseudo-sage rambling on LinkedIn because it was complete nonsense.

In the Emerald City, watching a 20-something tell me how to build brand value by becoming a Social Media Influencer. Hilarious!!!!!!

  • Robb


Stuck In The Middle With Deux.

Posted by admin on November 12, 2018 in Life Lessons

It’s done. The elections are over (except in Florida). We survived another test of our democracy and it’s a new day. Some people are jumping for joy. Others are angry.

Now we move forward/backward as a country.

That / is where I live. Call it what you will, a slant, a solidus, a stroke, or a virgule – I just call it home. This is where the Independents in this country live. We don’t see the world or every political shift as being automatically good or evil. Sometimes it’s one, sometimes it’s the other.

In a world increasingly under the spell of tribalism, there is now a staunch left that matches the staunch right. Neither side agrees with or even listens to the other side. It’s all their way or the highway and in this highway world of theirs, someone must lose.

Me, I’m in the middle somewhere. On some issues, I am very conservative. On others, very liberal. I don’t see the world or issues in terms of black and white. It’s all a lovely shade, or should I say shades, of gray. Best of all, I never let myself become consumed by politics and I never have to shun someone who doesn’t see the world the way I do.

I didn’t start out this way. I was pretty conservative as a young man. I voted for Ford and Reagan. I was on Rep. Jack Cunnigham’s Citizen Advisory Board. I still have the certificate.

As I finished college, I became more liberal, but only liberal enough to move me to the center, where I have been since. For example, in presidential elections, I have voted Republican four times, Democrat five, and Independent, once.

When I returned to Washington State, the Driver’s License agent asked me how I wanted to register. She said, “Democrat or Republican?” I said, “Is there another choice?” She then told me I could register as an Independent but I couldn’t vote in the Presidential Primary. I can live with that. So I am officially an Independent.

Does that mean I don’t stand for anything? No.

I will stand for the American flag unless something tells me I have to if I’m a real American. I put Freedom of Speech above all, but warn others that free price comes at a price. I support the Second Amendment but think good sense means we should place some limitations on the right to own a weapon. I don’t think we need to be selling assault rifles. But I don’t think it should be illegal to own existing ones as long as you aren’t a felon, mentally ill or a child.

I am pro-choice or pro-life. I really can’t remember which is which, frankly. All I know is that I don’t have the right to tell a woman what to do with her body. That said, I am not a huge fan of abortion, but I have never had to make that difficult choice, so who knows what my answer would be. I believe most men have assaulted a woman sexually at some point in their lives. A “no” has never been a “yes.”

I am for a strong military. I think veterans who serve overseas should get free education and medical care for life. I’m glad they are out there keeping us free. Career desk jockeys at the Pentagon? You shouldn’t get the same goody bag as those who put their lives at risk when they’re deployed.

I don’t get the wall. With modern technology, we could do it with lasers, sensors and drones if we wanted to keep the border safe. That said, we fear all immigrants unnecessarily these days and unfairly demonize them, even when they’re legal.

I believe the government should be there for those who fall through the cracks. My father died when he was 56, leaving my mother destitute. Without Social Security, Medicare, Medicaid and Food Stamps, she wouldn’t have made it to the ripe old age of 88. Alternately, I don’t think you should be able to suck off the system for life if you are able to work. Welfare should be for a limited time while you get the training and help you need to enter the workforce, but the government needs to provide that training.

That said, I don’t believe anyone is entitled to a free ride. I pay taxes. I have been unemployed for a total of three months out of a career that has spanned 36 years. I have worked hard to get where I am today. Don’t sell me a pity party because something bad happened in your life. I am the poster child of bad things happening.

I think women should be paid the same as men and they should have equal access to the executive suite. I’m not sure they should be able to use the same bathroom I am using as the same time. Even Kat and I don’t use the bathroom at the same time, except when in teeth brushing mode.

I don’t judge people by the color of their skin or their sexual choices, but I understand there is still racism and discrimination in this country. There is also white privilege. For me, there are only two kinds of people in my world: assholes and non-assholes. If you are an asshole, I won’t give you the time of day. Otherwise, we’re good.

I always believe that better days are still ahead of us. I don’t live in the “sky is falling neighborhood on Facebook. I don’t Tweet, largely because 144 or 288 characters aren’t enough to say anything worth sharing. Just look at the guy in the White House. ‘Nough said.

I don’t think the government needs to be involved be telling you what you can do within the confines of your own home. If you are doing no harm to another person in your house or anyone outside of it, go for it. Enjoy life. If that means building a trapeze over your bed, lighting up or sleeping with your pet goat, Peppy, have at it!

Finally, I think we have raised a bunch of weak-minded kids who don’t have the tools they need to succeed in this world. We have all rewarded participation over actual achievement, we coddle kids when we should be stern, and we spoil the child because we’re afraid DSHS is going to take away our rod.

So there you go, life in the middle of the road. It’s a pretty nice place to be. Except when two cars are coming toward you from either direction and there’s a Democrat in one and a Republican in the other.

In the Emerald City, stuck in the middle with deux,

  • Robb


It’s All Relative, I Guess.

Posted by admin on November 5, 2018 in Culture

As you probably know, I have a dysfunctional family. My brothers and I haven’t talked since 1982, I haven’t seen my nieces and nephews since they were little boys and girls. My parents are both dead, and I only have a couple aunts and uncles left in this world.

As I often say, I am really an orphan. Don’t get me wrong. I’m pretty good with it. I even had a half-brother in Nevada at one point, but he turned out to be something of a half-ass. He made the mistake of thinking that nature was equal to nurture. One day he decided to lecture me on how I should conduct my life. This from a one-time drug runner who turned state’s evidence and did some brief jail time. Uh-huh! Suffice it to say, we don’t talk anymore.

This hasn’t stopped me from exploring my roots, however. Yes, I’ve given up on most of the ones still breathing but I have become fascinated with the dead ones.

This all came about after I got my DNA tested several years back. It has changed a couple times since then since they continue to get more samples and more precise results. As of today, I’m roughly two-thirds English/Welsh, a quarter Germanic, specifically Alsace-Lorraine, 6% Irish/Scottish and 2% Norwegian.

It turns out I have a lot of relatives. And they fascinate me.

Case in point. I have one relative who received a series of stern letters from General Washington in the French-Indian Wars. Yes, George. It seems his my ancestor’s wife was sowing seeds of discontent, bordering on treason. And she was also selling booze to the troops. At one point Washington threatened to throw her out of the camp himself. The letters are freakin’ hilarious.

I always knew that my family had played some part in the Revolutionary War. It turns out several relatives were in the heat of battle. I was so excited to see one James A. Bartlett. I found his war records. He was a private in the 15th Virginia Regiment. He was also a deserter. Strangely, he returned to fight again in the War of 1812. He seems to have stuck that one out until its logical conclusion.

His father was also in the Revolutionary War. He signed up in 1777. He died in 1778. I guess he forgot to duck.

Going farther back in time, it turns out I have some Sheriffs in my family. Not the Robin Hood, Nottingham ones, unfortunately. Sir William Skipwith was the Sheriff of Lincolnshire. His father was also Sheriff there. A family business, so to speak.

That starts a whole line of privileged class on my mother’s side, dukes and duchesses, knights and such. Eventually, it goes back to Henry III from what I can tell. I don’t have a lot to say about this side of the family, except to say that my ancestors once owned Quenby Castle, and you can thank them for Stilton Cheese. Someday I’ll show up at the castle and see if I can get a spare set of keys.

My father’s side of the family is full of more colorful characters and mystery. My grandfather was a rum runner for Big Red, Al Capone’s brother, I am told. He immigrated (legally) from Odessa, Russia. He met my grandmother there.

It looks like their parents and grandparents were part of a huge emigration from the Alsace-Lorraine region of France or Germany, depending upon who won the latest war. Napoleon had seized all the lands and homes owned by the Germanic people in the region. At this same time, Catherine II offered land to them in the Black Sea region of Russia.

They didn’t exactly have trains back then. These people had to sneak out of France in the dead of night and travel by cart, foot and barge to their new homeland. That’s a trek of about 1,200 miles as the crow flies, far longer if you want to avoid the mountains.

I can’t imagine what that journey was like for my great-great-great-grandparents. These days we gripe if it takes more than an hour to make it home after work. I feel like such a weeny.

On this land, my ancestors grew wine grapes. I even found a bill of sale for 400 acres of vineyards. It’s not like they wanted to sell it. They had no choice. When the balance of power in Russia shifted, so did the political winds. The Germans were no longer welcomed and they were forced to flee, in many cases, for their lives. Think Fiddler on the Roof, but with Germans.

That’s when my grandfather came to America. Others from this region went to the Dakotas and Saskatchewan. Many of their descendants are still there. After a brief stop in Chicago, where I imagine he met Big Red, he headed to South Dakota with my grandmother.

There’s not much more to tell about that side. Their history peters out in Russia, largely because the Russians made sure to wipe the place clean, including destroying the headstones of most of the Zerrs buried there.

Back in Alsace-Lorraine, there are Zerrs that go back 400 years or more in a town called Neewiller. If I ever get there, I’m sure I will get a big kick out of meeting Zerrs everywhere I go.

I’m sure there’s lots more to discover. In some ways, it’s sad that I can’t share this with any family that is still alive, at least my sibling lines. My son is not old enough to really care, except to nod now and then when I tell him a funny story about his ancestors.

But I must say that it’s all been worth it. I’ve learned that a lot of my family’s stories about where we came from are either true or pretty accurate. I’ve found new relatives who share DNA and ancestors. I’ve even heard from one or two that are definitely part of this new family of mine.

I just hope they don’t expect me to buy them Christmas presents. I’ve saved thousands of dollars over the years with my current dysfunctional family. Not sure I want to open that can of worms. Or do I?

In the Emerald City, enjoying a big glass of wine, knowing that it’s a legitimate part of who I am,

  • Robb



The More Things Change…

Posted by admin on October 1, 2018 in Life Lessons

I came across a great quote the other day. It was by Heraclitus of Ephesus, an early Greek philosopher.

He said: “You can’t step into the same river twice.”

This took a while to sink in. And then I realized its profound meaning, that is so simple, yet so lastingly true. Change, whether we like it or not, is constant and inevitable in our lives.

While we’d like to think that change is happening at a breakneck pace in these times, it’s really been happening at a fairly constant pace through time. Changes only appear to be coming faster because 1) we’re in the middle of it, and 2) we now have instant communications to keep us abreast of all the changes as they happen.

As of late, there has a been a huge outcry about the growth of Seattle. There have been as many as 100 cranes in the sky at the same time, reinventing and reshaping a town that except for eight years, I’ve been a part of. I have seen it through its good times and bad. Through boom and bust. It has changed continually and unerringly, sometimes for better, sometimes for worse.

While I admit that all the faceless glass skyscrapers aren’t my cup of tea, they are a sign of success as a city. Seattle and its surrounding communities have grown up. The city is at the big boy table when it comes to being an economic force. It dominates the aerospace sector and is knocking on the door of the Bay Area to be #1 in technology.

Downtown, a place you never wanted to be in after 5 p.m. in the 1980s, is now alive nearly around the clock. Step out of a theater or restaurant and the sidewalks are crowded well after 10 o’clock, something that would have been unfathomable 20 or so years ago.

For the most part, we’re good with change as long as it agrees with us. Yes, some once great institutions and certainly some quirky and uniquely Seattle businesses are gone. But change is indeed inevitable, and the demise of a beloved institution is often because they have become unfashionable or unprofitable, not because gentrification or progress forced them out.

The most recent brouhaha is over the Showbox Theater. Other theaters have come and gone in Seattle over the last century. There was the famous outcry over the Music Hall many years ago, but it is all but forgotten now. Others, like the 5th Avenue, Triple Door and Paramount soldier on just fine, reinventing themselves and staying relevant.

And then there’s the Showbox, a relic of the past that rightfully has some relevance even today, except for it is also standing in the way of progress.

Now, I certainly don’t treasure the idea of another glass box being built on First Avenue, especially one filled with condos and the now famous and faceless street-level retail shops.

But we do need more housing. People want to live downtown these days and while it’s not something I would ever want to do, there is unprecedented demand, so much so that the Seattle School District is thinking about putting an elementary school somewhere downtown to handle all the families there.

At this point, I should remind you that I work in economic development. My job is to promote the state to bring businesses here. Companies create jobs. Jobs create paychecks for residents and paychecks generate spending which, in turn, spurs economic growth. It’s one big happy circle, and believe me, you want to be on the side of growth, not on the side of collapsing economy. For those here in the 1970s when Boeing crashed and burned, I don’t have to explain this.

It’s often been said that this is Seattle’s third gold rush. First, there was the real gold rush, then the post-WWII rush, and now this techno-driven third rush. It won’t last forever. It never does.

This is just the way the world works. As some long-dead Greek philosopher said it way, way back, “You can’t step in the same river twice.”

Now, I get all the nostalgia for days gone by. I still miss the Doghouse and Chubby and Tubby’s $5 Christmas trees. But there’s still plenty of old Seattle left. The Ye Olde Curiosity Shop, Pioneer Square, Pike Place Market, the Seattle Center, the Monorail, and Ivar’s on the waterfront instantly come to mind.

robzerrvation-denny-hill1But time does march on. If it never did, the Smith Tower would still be the tallest building in the city, we’d be crossing muddy roads downtown and the Denny Mill would be the city’s biggest employer. If you wanted to get from Puget Sound to Lake Washington you’d have to carry the boat and traveling from Everett to Tacoma would take hours because Highway 99 would be the only thoroughfare north and south.

It’s noble that we do try to save the past. Sometimes we get it right, like saving the Pike Place Market or the International District. Sometimes we get it wrong, such as when we carved up the Wawona up into toothpicks rather than restore her like the C.A. Thayer in San Francisco.

There are even times when we seem to have an uncanny knack for picking the wrong side. In the 1990s, Seattleites had the chance to create a 61-acre world park that would have connected South Lake Union to downtown. It would have cost taxpayers about $300 million to build an equivalent to New York’s Central Park. Paul Allen even loaned $20 million initially to buy up the property.

When the initiative failed, Paul decided to develop the land instead, and we now see how that turned out. I am certainly not about to blame him for Amazon’s sprawling campus and view-stealing skyscrapers. Real estate is, after all, a business, and we turned our backs on the idea of a new park, a park he wanted to help finance.

Seattle voters and residents have been fickle like this since the Denny party landed on Alki. We all say we want to cherish the past, but our history has shown a quirky desire to put the past asunder, build anew and then be wistful about the way things used to be.

It seems to be the Seattle way, to make way for the future while wishing things could just always stay the same. Unfortunately, you can’t step in the same river twice.

In the Emerald City, living in the present before I too become a recycled relic,

  • Robb



Hello, I’m Mr. Fudd.

Posted by admin on September 24, 2018 in Home Ownership

I grew up on Saturday morning cartoons. It was the best day of the week and I anxiously awaited my favorites. I freely admit, the Warner Brothers Cartoons were my favorite. Hanna-Barbera was O.K., but it was hard to touch Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck and the cadre of characters that regularly paraded across my TV screen.

Yes, my TV screen. I had my own TV when I was still just a little kid. It’s one of the few perks of having a dad who repaired televisions and radios for a living. Inevitably, someone would want to trade their old TV in for a new one or simply decide to not pick up their TV because they couldn’t pay the repair bill. These TVs would then trickle down through the family, with me being the youngest, getting the last of the castoffs.

No matter. The TV was my gateway to hilarity. Sure, I liked the Jetsons, but give me Foghorn Leghorn or Wile E. Coyote and I was in heaven.

Now, I know that these cartoons are pretty sanitized for today’s audiences. The coyote isn’t shown falling all the way to his death because some child psychologists figured out that a child might want to emulate them.

Right. I knew that hitting your thumb with a hammer hurt like hell as a kid. I sure as hell knew that jumping off the roof, let alone a cliff, meant a quick trip to the hospital or the morgue.

That said, it didn’t mean that I didn’t willingly take risks as a younger version of me. I mean, I used to scurry up and down the ladder all day long as I tested G.I. Joe parachutes out from the roof of my house. I had no fear of such silly things as falling. I was, after all, invincible as a kid.

This invincibility continued well into my mid 30s. I would regularly undertake such ill-advised projects as rewiring wall sockets or tearing the subfloor out of my girlfriend’s kitchen. I loved rip and tear, with its powerful saws and sledgehammers.

Yes, I was a bit reckless back in the day. I would scurry up almost any ladder or attempt any home repair, even though I was not gifted with any mechanical or electrical aptitude, that DNA going to my brothers.

I was also, somewhat ironically, afraid of heights and falling. I’m still not sure why I attempted those things, except to say that in your youth you are Wile E. Coyote, tapping into the Acme catalog for all sorts of do-it-yourself projects and exotic tools, some of which should have required extensive training and even a license to let a casual weekender like me touch them.

Thankfully, I made it through this period of my life. I had a few Wile E. Coyote moments for sure, not the least of which was a half dozen nails driven through various body parts, along with enough X-acto blade cuts to please Jack the Ripper.

These days, I’m more careful. I’m more like Elmer Fudd than the Coyote. As I sit here writing this blog, I’m looking up at the metal plate on my living room ceiling. I know there’s wiring under it. I know there must have been a ceiling fan up there at one time. I know that there needs to be one there again. In my younger days, I installed a ceiling fan. I could install this ceiling fan. But I’m not going to because I am now Elmer Fudd, not Wile E. Coyote.

There are people who do these things for a living. There always have been. But back in the day, I wanted to save a buck or two. Contractors and home repair people cost money. I wanted to keep my money, so I did it myself.

Yes, I often fixed it worse as my stories go. But I’ve had enough successes to still give me the misguided belief that I can still do these things. Famously, I managed to not only install a new dishwasher in our new home, but a section of subfloor as well to raise it to its correct height.

I was lucky. I have a window that leaks now. It’s a big picture window. One pane of the double-pain window was broken, so whoever “remodeled” this house tried to fix it. It just needs to be replaced.

I’ve gone so far as to watch a YouTube video or two on how to do this. It looks pretty straightforward, I tell myself. Remove some framing and flashing, pull the old window out and slap in a new one. Simple.

For others. To me, opening a big hole up in my house would be akin to me slicing my belly open to remove my appendix. It’s just not natural. This is what professionals are for, I tell myself, even though professionals is actually spelled profe$$ional$ in my own world. Getting that window replaced will cost me as much in labor as it does in materials.

Oh, to be Wile E. Coyote again. I would wait for my Acme Window to arrive via Fed Ex, open up the overly complex instructions, watch helplessly as they blow away in a gust of wind halfway through the project, then improvise as I always do, using my duct tape and baling wire mentality.

Instead of hours, it would take days. In the meantime, the window would be covered with the standard issue blue tarp. Overnight, the raccoon would come in and help himself to anything in the refrigerator and days later, the window would finally be in.

Before Kat ever got home, I would have spackled over the gashes I put in the wall, chopped off the bent nail heads with my Dremel tool, scrubbed off all the caulking that had hardened on my hands and put everything back together, good as new.

She would be so proud of me, if for no other reason that I didn’t end up in the hospital. She would look at my handiwork, smile at me, and say, “Elmer, you did it again. The window’s upside down.”

In the Emerald City, getting the prybar out, which I keep right next to the Xanax,

  • Robb


I Think I Got A Code.

Posted by admin on September 17, 2018 in Randomalities, The Soapbox

A new movie called First Man is about the Apollo 11 mission as seen through the eyes of Neil Armstrong. Before the movie even made it to theaters, flag-waving crazy people have been up in arms about the fact that the moment when Neil plants the flag on the moon isn’t shown.

Of course, in the trailer itself, you see the flag all over the place. On the back walls of NASA, on the sleeves of the astronauts, on the side of the rocket. But these don’t seem to matter to the fervent flag crazies. It’s all about the flag being planted on the moon. Not showing that is simply un-American.

I. Could. Care. Less.

Yes, I love our flag. I was raised to respect it, to stand when it is present and to honor what it means. I even served admirably on the Flag Detail at McKnight Middle School. I was one of the few, the proud, tasked with raising and lowering the flag in front of the school, and to beat holy hell when it started raining so that it could be taken down.

This is required by our U.S. Flag Code. The flag cannot be flown in the rain nor in the gloom of night (without illumination). There are pages of code, in fact, telling us how to display, decorate and even destroy the American flag.

As of late, people have even become confused about what the flag stands for. Sorry, it and the National Anthem doesn’t stand for the U.S. troops. Protesting American policies or discrimination by taking a knee is not showing disrespect for the troops. Hell, there are even many veterans who will tell you outright that they didn’t fight for the flag, but for our freedoms, which are separate and distinct from the fabric so many hold onto so dearly, almost choking it to death.

I get how people can get confused. The Flag Code says the flag is actually a living thing. As such, you can’t hang it on the side of a car or on the back of a parade float. You can’t hang it on the side of your house either. You can’t use it as a decoration.

I doubt even a third of those who fervently rally around Old Glory even know or follow half the rules. Case in point. Every 4th of July you see everything wrapped in the stars and stripes. Not representative art, but the flag. This flies in the face of the code, folks. It specifically prohibits the use of the flag for commercial purposes, advertisements or costuming. If it looks like the flag, you can’t print it or use it on clothing. The only allowed use is as a patch, much like those the astronauts wore on their spacesuits in that supposedly un-American movie.

Every week, tens of thousands of football fans stand to honor the flag as a football-field-sized incarnation of it is ceremoniously rolled out. There’s just one problem. The U.S. Flag Code specifically prohibits the flag being carried or displayed flat unless it is used in the draping and undraping of a coffin. It must be allowed to fly freely at all times.

Last Thursday, as Hurricane Florence rolled through the Carolinas, I watched the live feed from the Frying Pan Shoals Tower light. The American flag was flying free true, but in the wind and rain, which is against the Flag Code. It continued to fly into the darkness without a light shining on it, which as I said, is another Flag Code violation.

Yes, we love our flag. Perhaps we love it just a little too much. Some of us are just a little off the rails about the whole thing, becoming the judge and jury for others about what it means to respect or desecrate the flag.

It is, in the end, just a flag. Having Old Glory flying over your home on a 20-foot flagpole doesn’t make you more patriotic or more American than the guy who takes a knee at a football game. Wearing an American flag shirt doesn’t make you more American either. In fact, it puts you on an equal plane with the guy who burns the flag. Both acts are considered desecration.

Sorry, but I just don’t buy into this whole “my country right or wrong” crap. I understand American Exceptionalism and our flag kicks some serious ass in the design department. No offense France and Italy, but did you guys decide to save some money by hiring the same guy to do your flags? Three vertical blocks of color and only color is different. How long did it take your graphic designer to turn that thing out? One glass of wine or two?

I am a product of the Sixties. I grew up understanding that it is not only our right to question our government, but our solemn duty. So, I can’t help but question this blind allegiance to the flag while glossing over the rights it is meant to represent. These days I find it harder and harder to place my heart over my hand because others in this supposedly free land can’t stand it when someone chooses not to in silent protest or, horrors, burn it.

Spare me. I am no more and no less an American than any of you. I pay my taxes, obey most of the laws, and I am a strong supporter of our troops and the difficult work they do every day.

But I’m not about to jump on the MAGA Happy Train. I think America has been great all along, with all its bumps and bruises, creaks and moans, fits and fizzles. We have been the greatest country at times, and we have been one of the worst. We pull together when times are tough but then pick endlessly at one another like playground children when times are good. We have such potential, but we also are our own worse enemy.

So, let’s just put all the flag waving in its proper place. It’s good to love our flag, but don’t treat is like it’s some kind of god. Remember that biblical Commandment? You know, the one that says “Thou shalt not have false gods before thee.”

Let’s all keep things in perspective. If you do, then I promise that when the 4th of July rolls around, I will toast you with my red, white and blue Bud and watch as the sky as it fills with Made in China rockets with an American flag on the side, and celebrate what it means to be an American as we eat our hot dogs (from Germany), a slice of apple pie (England) and celebrate our collective and often selective ideas about what it means to be an American.

In the Emerald City, keeping my flag waving high at my house (granted, it’s a pirate flag),

  • Robb


President Thin Skin. Again.

Posted by admin on September 10, 2018 in Politics

Bob Woodward is at it again. His new book is shaking Washington to its very core, leaving a standing president to whine and moan about how he is being treated unfairly and how the libel laws of the land should be changed to rein in all this bad publicity and hateful words.

Now, I happen to be a fan of Woodward. He’s one of the reasons I got a degree in journalism and have my profession today. His reporting has mostly been well researched and well presented without personal opinions. He checks multiple sources and keeps confidential sources confidential. He, along with Carl Bernstein, brought the Nixon administration down, with all its bald-faced lies, cover-ups and attempts to purge and ruin perceived political enemies.

This isn’t the first time the resident president has had a meltdown about unfavorable coverage. In the early days of our nation, there was another thin-skinned president who wanted to strip the average person of their rights to criticize the executive branch and specifically, the president. His name might ring a bell: John Adams.

Yes, our second president couldn’t handle criticism by the press or anyone else for that matter. And in a historic abuse of power, he got Congress to pass the Alien and Sedition Act, which made it illegal to write, print, utter or publish any writing with the intent to defame Congress, the president, and any laws or acts they pass, including it seems, the Alien and Sedition Act itself.

Let that sink in for a moment. This is one of our Founding Fathers, trying to stamp out any criticism of him or his administration (think free speech and freedom of the press here). Adams himself would have been guilty if there had been a similar law in colonial America, back when loyalty to the king was the only option. But he seems to have forgotten all that once he ascended to the most powerful position in the country.

Several publishers and authors were found guilty under the act, which, by the way, was passed in the interest of national security, It also made it easier to deport immigrants and made it harder for naturalized citizens to vote in elections, hence the Alien part of the Alien and Sedition Act. One of Adams’ first targets was Benjamin Franklin Bache, the grandson of Ben Franklin who had described the president as “old, querulous, bald, blind, crippled, toothless Adams.” He was arrested for these publishing these words, which in an age of name calling and Tweeting, seem oh, so very sticks and stonish.

James Callender, a pro-Jefferson journalist for the Richmond Examiner, wrote a pamphlet that said, “As president, [Adams] has never opened his lips, or lifted his pen, without threatening and scolding; the grand object of his administration has been to exasperate the rage of contending parties… and destroying every man who differs from his opinions.”

Federalists defended the new act, of course, claiming that all the public and media criticism was designed to undermine Adam’s lawful election (yes, this is nothing new in the political playbook).

The real goal was to stifle opposition, specifically the reporters who supported Thomas Jefferson, who was Adams’ vice president.

Don’t think for a moment that this was just a tactic to mute political foes and reporters.

Famously, in Newark, New Jersey in July 1798, a skipper of a garbage boat ran afoul of the law and Adams’ thin skin. As a 16-gun salute fired to honor the president as he passed through town, Brown Clark told the skipper, “There goes the president, and they are firing at his arse,” to which captain Luther Baldwin replied that he didn’t care “if they fired thro’ his arse.” The tavern owner reported the conversation and both men were imprisoned and fined for sedition.

The point of all this is that we are living in dangerous times. We seem to have another paranoid president on our hands, one who thinks everyone is out to get him, leaving no stone unturned in his relentless pursuit and persecution of his perceived enemies.

Thankfully, the Alien and Sedition Act ended with the Adams administration. Thomas Jefferson, the country’s new president, pardoned everyone convicted under the act and eventually, all the fines collected were returned.

We no longer live with this heinous, divisive act of Congress and a thin-skinned president.

But one has to wonder what our early history would have been if Adams had had a Twitter account and was able to use it to spread his own views and faux news. Our current president’s thumbs must be worn to a nub with all his attempts to deflect and protect. He has circled the wagons against everyone who has said an unkind word about him and with Woodward hot on his heels, he has turned on many in his own, wondering who has questioned his commands and who has spoken to Bob Woodard and the Mueller investigators.

He’s even begun to blame his own supporters for the possibility that he could face impeachment, telling supporters in Montana last week that it will be their fault that he is impeached because they didn’t vote a straight Republican ticket in November.

President Adams would be proud of Mr. Trump. He’s managed to rekindle the rife paranoia Adams seemed to prize and encourages division when he should be preaching unity. He is turning us against one another while pointing the fickle finger of blame at anyone who questions his actions, his motives, behavior or morality, including now, his own supporters.

When asked once where the responsibility fell, President Harry S Truman once stated that “The buck stops here.” He didn’t pass that buck or blame others for his predicament or decisions that didn’t go well.

Those days are certainly gone. I never thought I would live to see the day when anyone, especially a standing president, would utter a word like impeachment. I thought we’d gotten past all this nonsense. I mean, what’s next? Duels and Congressional canings?

I thought Nixon was the end of it all, that we had learned about the abuses of power by men like Tricky Dick and Toothless Adams who don’t have our own interests and well-being at heart.

But here we are again, reliving history, putting our collective future at the hands of yet another crazy in the White House. Adams would be proud indeed.

In the Emerald City, wondering who let the crazies out to run the country,

  • Robb




In Bed With The Devil.

Posted by admin on September 3, 2018 in Randomalities

No, this isn’t about my Florida days. No dishing dirt on that chapter on my life, though the headline, I must admit, would have been a good one for that. Rather, I am dealing with the harsh reality that I don’t think I am invincible any longer. Now, this invincibility thing has been central to my life, allowing me to make famously bad decisions with no fear of repercussions or lasting damage, either emotionally or physically.

But lately, it’s been failing me. Well, lots of things have been failing me as of late, and that’s part of the problem.

The times when I have been exposed to kryptonite and robbed of my superpower have been few and far between. Famously there was that time in high school that I wanted to see a pair of breasts and almost died. I did a week in the hospital, had to learn to walk all over again and missed the start of my freshman year in college. If I had only known how many breasts I would eventually see in my life, I never would have kissed the girl with mononucleosis.

But I digress. Fast forward to my golden years of invincibility, my 20s, 30s and 40s. I could not be harmed. I could stay out all night, drink way too much and toddle right off to work in the morning, still in the same clothes I was wearing when I left the afternoon before. Over the years I managed to avoid all venereal diseases and never answered the door only to hear that frightening word, “Daddy?”

I really took those years for granted. Looking at my current state, I wished I had enjoyed them even more. I may have even taken a few more sloppy slaloms down the slope or went skydiving again. And then there were the things I passed up because I thought I had all the time in the world. Things like flying off to Cayman Brac with a fairly inebriated Cayman Air captain who convinced us all she was sober enough to get us there. On second thought I’m glad I passed on that one.

Lately, however, it seems that I am finally getting old. And it’s really been pissing me off. I am, after all, only 60. True, some people don’t even make it this far. Others are like the Six Million Dollar Man, rebuilt to the point where every time they get out of a chair I think I should hear that jing-jing-jing-jing-jing sound effect.

I can brag a bit. I do have all my body parts intact. At this moment. I haven’t ever had major surgery. The only thing I am missing is the rain hat that my parents had removed a couple days after I was born.

But not all of these parts are in the best of shape these days. And so far, the ones that are betraying my invincibility are not something you can easily change out, unless you are a GI Joe doll.

Oh, how I wish I were. Then I could just unplug my left foot or change out my right hand and be done with it. Good as new!

But no, instead these parts are on the fritz alternately these days and my invincibility seems to be fading by the hour.

For example, I used to think that gout was something old grandpas get. True, I am a grandpa, but I’m thinking a way-old grandpa-man, like 70. But it turns out that it’s fairly common. Something about a combination of barbecue (lots of red meat) and absence of water (dehydration) are the perfect storm for this malady. True, it sounds very piratey, but it still hurts like the devil.


Thankfully, they make pills for this. A couple days later, everything was almost back to normal. I still have trouble looking at beef, turkey, beer or any other potential demonic force that can set it off again.

That could have been the end of it all. But then I stayed at a Motel 6. Believe me, it was not by choice. There were no other rooms at any other inns. It appears that 10,000 crazed runners were also in Seaside, Oregon that weekend. Even the manger in town was full for the night.

Things were predictably Motel 6. The bed had obviously just arrived from the Oregon State Penitentiary. When I first sat down on it, it made the sound of celery when you crush it in your hands.

By Saturday morning, after a torturous night of unrest, my right hand was numb. Somewhere in the night, the one-ply sheeted board they called a bed had screwed up my arm, or my sciatica, or some strange little angry nerve in my arm. You know how your arm feels when it falls asleep? You touch it and it gives no tactile response? That was and is my hand as I write this. It’s tingly and fuzzy.

That morning, after reassuring myself that I hadn’t stroked out in the night, I began to deal with the issue. For mere mortals, having a tingly right hand isn’t a huge deal. But for a guy who writes, having a sleepy right is a bloody nightmare.

I thought that a prompt return to my own bed would solve the problem. But so far it hasn’t. Of course, it doesn’t help that I still must write for a living and in some twisted world, I am suddenly drawn to wanting to play my guitar more than usual. It’s as if I am cosmically drawn to those things that are the worst for me. Wait, that sounds like Florida again.

And so the saga continues. I am reluctantly coming to the conclusion that I am no longer invincible. Motel 6, that evil villain, has robbed me of my superpower. I have become… become… oh, my god, I can’t even say it – mortal!

A new age has dawned. I am now vincible. Is that even a word? If not, I will make it one, if I can ever type it left handed.

In the Emerald City, in bed with the devil and his evil wrath,

  • Robb

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