WASHINGTON, THE STATE

I know, as I said at the time, it was all done with the best of intentions, naming such a pristine state after our first president. And then they went and picked out all the Indian names that would resonate with it … like Seattle, Tacoma, Yakima, Wenatchee, Wapato, Spokane, and so on.

The problem is, outside of the Far West, everybody thinks of the smaller Washington, the nation’s capital, rather than that sprawling and varied land of whales and volcanoes. It makes for a real identity problem.

Of course, some of the natives (not to be confused with Natives) prefer it that way. After all, if nobody can remember it’s there, maybe they’ll all stay away and keep the place, well, just as natural as ever. I mean, the only reason for living so far away from the rest of the nation … living way up there in that isolated corner of the country  … is to live away from everybody else.

But there are some holes in that argument of a fortress empire. For one thing, the migrant workers have certainly discovered the orchards, and they’ve discovered the state is clean pickings when it comes to job opportunity. If those mighty native-born and all the newcomers who consider themselves native, which is almost the same thing, don’t wake up soon and let the rest of the United States know they exist, why they’ll soon be required to take Spanish lessons. Quien sabe?

Worse yet, Californians know about the Evergreen State and, realizing what they’ve already done to the Golden State, they’re now anxious to do the same to the north. Before folks say, why, yes, I know, but there’s a barrier between us and them … the whole state of Oregon … let me reply, Just wake up and smell the coffee, buster. Why, everybody says Seattle’s just like San Francisco was before it became too big. And we know southern California wants to get its tubes into the Columbia River to pump real water all the way down the continent. I mean, that’s like Boston having to go to Minneapolis for its water, just about the same distance. And the mountains between Minneapolis and Boston would be far less of an obstacle, believe me.

No, sir. That Columbia River water ought to be generating electricity for the Pacific Northwest and nurturing the endangered salmon stock and watering orchards in the deserts of Oregon and Washington State before it goes on some movie star’s lawn in Brentwood. Sooner or later, southern California is going to have to learn to do without water. I say, the sooner, the better. They can buy icebergs from Alaska, for all I care.

So, if Washington State is going to save itself and keep everyone but the California congressional delegation from thinking it was giving away Potomac River water to its water greedy constituents, it’s going to have to come up with a new name.

I know, I know it will be an inconvenience. But it’s that or something far more dire.

So what do we have? Ecotopia has been suggested. I see you feel about the same way on that one as I do. Although, to be candid, “Seattle, Ecotopia,” doesn’t sound all that bad. Except that it raises a specter of starving Africans.

We could try renaming the state for another United States president. But Adams, Jefferson, Madison, Jackson, Lincoln, Roosevelt, Wilson, and Eisenhower for starters fall flat on their face. I mean, Seattle Roosevelt sounds like a forward for the Lakers, now that the Sonics are gone. Let’s face the facts.

My favorite is Tahoma, which is the Indian name for the tallest mountain in the state. But Seattle, Tahoma; Tacoma, Tahoma; Yakima, Tahoma; Wapato, Tahoma; Walla Walla, Tahoma; Wenatchee, Tahoma; and even Spokane, Tahoma, will never fall easily on the American tongue.

So what’s to be done? Let us consider the obvious choice: Apple. I mean, two of every five apples sold in the United States come from this state. (Remember, we’re talking about fruit, rather than computers, Microsoft notwithstanding.) This would be advertising at its best. Not only that, but the apples come from a generally neglected part of the state, its central desert. Listen to this, now: Seattle, Apple; Tacoma, Apple; Yakima, Apple; Wapato, Apple; Wenatchee, Apple; Walla Walla, Apple; Spokane, Apple . . . and so on. Even Olympia, Apple, rings right.

What? You say it sounds too much like the nickname for a decrepit Eastern port?

Well, then. How about . . . Evergreen? As in Seattle, Evergreen; Tacoma, Evergreen; Yakima, Evergreen . . .

~*~

Now I’m wondering how long ago I wrote this bit found in my files. Many tell me Seattle long ago fell over that tipping point of small-town innocence. There are the tales of terror regarding immigration enforcement. I’m told even the orchards look different, thanks to trellis-based apple trees. Still, I’d opt for a new name, as long as it’s not based on the high-tech upsurge.

DASHES DON’T SHOUT

100_9040The Cocheco Arts and Technology Academy, a public charter high school, has begun its new school year in a fresh location after moving from the Washington Street mill where it had resided the past five years. In its location on the top floor, CATA looked more like a lively arts colony than a high school, but the lively part had a downside, I suppose, especially when it came to music.

One of the things I’ll miss is the quirky fire door that had been painted with a wonderfully succinct set of English grammar and syntax rules. In fact, I can think of a number of people who think they’re writers (and have even been paid for their efforts) who could definitely benefit by taking these to heart.

There are parts I love, such as the “helicopter” concept for commas that close a phrase. Although I’ve had to live with newspaper style for much of my career, I’ve long preferred to use the closing comma in a series of three or more items, and from the door I’ve learned the technical term is the Oxford Comma. My!

But I will dispute the claim that dashes shout. I think they breathe. Exclamation points shout.

100_9032

The Punctuation Door to the tower stairway stood next to the Holy Quotes.
The Punctuation Door to the tower stairway stood next to the Holy Quotes.

Mentioning this to one of the students on moving day, I was told she had penciled the rules on the door and then other students painted them. Since their brushes ranged from thin to thick and their abilities varied, the lettering is hardly uniform. I think it adds to the charm.

In the meantime, thanks to Vikki for getting this started. Now the whole world gets to see it.

STROKE OF GENIUS

“Do we have any cream rinse?” I asked, heading for the shower.

“The WHAT?” replied the chorus.

“You know, the stuff you put in your hair after you’ve used the shampoo.”

“Oh! You mean the CONDITIONER! They haven’t called it cream rinse for decades.”

Yeah, that stuff. There I go again, showing my age. Only to be corrected by my wife and kids.

Actually, I have to admire someone’s marketing savvy, however far back. Cream rinse, introduced to me by my first lover, always sounded like an indulgence – a luxury, superfluous but comforting. (She did have silky hair.) But conditioner? Now that sounds like something you might need to counter the, uh, harshness of shampoo. Not a luxury, but a necessity, making it all the better for marketing and sales.

Just goes to show the power of one word, doesn’t it.

THIRD TIME’S A CHARM

Just want to thank all of you who have downloaded your own copy of my novel Hippie Drum and to say how much I hope you’ve enjoyed it.

Since it’s my third published novel, and another in what’s considered the “experimental” literature realm, I’m grateful for all of the positive reaction.

If you haven’t yet joined the club of readers, let me encourage you to join now. Just click here for your own free copy.

INTO THE WARP

With some time to kill before rehearsal and a desire to buy a magnifying glass as a gag in an upcoming birthday present, I darted into a CVS pharmacy, where I promptly became disoriented. Everything in this one was backwards: the main checkout counters were at the back of the store, by the municipal parking lot, while the druggists were in a corner at the front, away from the doors along the main street. I had no idea where to begin looking.

No doubt in reaction to my perplexed state, a young clerk approached me and asked if she could help. It wasn’t her fault I was now thoroughly bewildered. Standing before me was my First Love, from nearly 50 years earlier and hundreds of miles to the west. Right height and shape, right hair, right voice, same quirkiness, even the same intensely blue eyes. Somehow she hadn’t aged, while I, well, time tells. In some ways, this was time travel of the worst sort.

How could I say anything that would make sense? She’d never be able to answer the questions I would have posed her.

WINDY CITY PERSPECTIVE

In 1922, the Chicago Tribune conducted an international architectural competition for the design of its new headquarters. The World’s Greatest Newspaper, as it proclaimed itself, could have erected a landmark modernistic tower envisioned by Walter Gropius and Adolf Meyer or an impractical giant lectern styled by Adolf Loos but instead went with a neo-Gothic bullet by Howells and Hood.

By the mid-‘80s, when I was employed by the paper’s syndication service, the grimy gray building was surrounded by many much newer buildings that resembled the glassy proposal the publisher had rejected. Maybe that says everything, in the end.

By then, though, the newsroom had definitely changed. Gone were the typewriters, long replaced by computer terminals and keyboards. Tours were guided through glass-shrouded catwalks overhead, where they could look down on journalists at work. I remember being fascinated to recognize there were four semi-circular copy-desks below me, each one ringed by copy-editors and a single “slotman” at the center, just as it had been when I started. I’d heard, too, that none of those seats were ever vacant long; this was a paper edited ‘round the clock for its many editions. But then I noticed that the editors on one of the rims were doing nothing except writing and editing photo captions. Nothing else for the entire shift. I’m sorry, but I’m used to far more variety when I’m editing. How did they ever stay awake?

Since we were really there to see two of our cartoonists, we headed for a set of elevators serving floors six through 32. And we were headed to the top, Jeff MacNelly’s suite, which sat just under the floor of microwave gear.

With his panoramic windows between flying buttresses looking out over Lake Michigan (you couldn’t tell where the water ended and the sky began that day), I wondered how he ever got any work done on his editorial cartoons or his Shoe comic strip.

One floor down, which Dick Locher commanded, was quite different. With its tiny diamond-shaped windows, the suite wrapped around the elevator and service shafts felt more like sitting inside a gargoyle.

At that point, one of my colleagues noticed a framed Pulitzer Prize on the wall. “That’s all it is? A piece of paper?”

Locher, who drew the Dick Tracy strip in addition to his editorial cartoons, had won two.

On the couch, MacNelly, who’d just won his third Pulitzer, grinned. “Yup, that’s about it. A piece of paper.”

WHERE, O WHERE

“Hey, you know your portrait’s hanging at Harvard?”

“Eh?” I replied, wondering what century the canvas would have evoked.

“No, it was the ‘60s. You were younger, of course.” And while a residence hall on the Yard was mentioned, I was too awash in wonder to catch the details. (Darn!)

Still, it stirs up the what-if musings.

At the time, Ivy League was completely outside my range of possibilities, beginning with finances.

Even so, here we were, one town over, a half-century later.

If only …

Or if they only knew …

THE DYING ART OF CARTOONING

Flipping through the latest New Yorker and admiring the cartoons brought a sense of loss, too. While the New Yorker and Playboy had long been the epitome of the art, paying the premium rates for work that matched the highest standards, almost every magazine ran cartoons, at least as fillers in the back sections. These days, though, hardly any of them do.

When I was in high school, the wit of fellow Buckeye James Thurber became a model, along with the Addams Family even before the TV series. And then there was Gahan Wilson’s mordant pen. But who’s come along, say, in the past decade to fill the ranks? Not in magazines, as far as I see.

Or in newspapers, where having an editorial page cartoonist was seen as a badge of distinction. (Except at the New York Times, of course, which abstained.) In the collapse of the second newspaper in most markets – and the elimination of afternoon editions – the ranks of those cartoonists have also been evaporating. Even before we get to the recent rounds of attrition.

It’s not a laughing matter.