Taxi is many things, and stealing a title from a dumbbell novel, it's "fifty shades of yellow," and perhaps even more, taxi a chameleon changing into what is needed, Saturday transforming my 1092 into a yellow medical missile flying north up the east side of the Olympic Peninsula carrying what must have been an urgently needed drug prescription to a Port Angeles nursing facility, my meter reading $475.10 after traveling 121 more or less miles. For anyone interested in following my journey upon a map, I first ran southbound from Kent on State Route 167, turning west on SR 18 and proceeding south once again on Interstate-5. Upon reaching Tacoma, I chose northwest-bound SR 16, crossing the Tacoma Narrows Bridge before soon turning off onto secondary Route 302, a southwest bending road connecting me to SR 3, and finally, reaching Shelton, proceeding straight up the road on northbound Highway 101.
Thankfully having daylight most all the way to Port Angeles, I especially enjoyed that part of Highway 101 north of Hoodsport, having not traveled that section of byway for a good 30 years. Winding along the western side of the Hood Canal, verdant tidal wetlands reached into those inland waters, the local environs of the Hamma Hamma and Duckabush Rivers remarkably beautiful, breathtaking really, my speedy, consequential trek north both serene and delightful, my vital mission becoming personal pleasure.
Nearing the outskirts of Port Angeles, I called the facility and was expertly guided to my destination. "Turn right at the green house with the yellow door." And then I was there, my package handed to the helpful nurse and off again I was into the now moist night.
Rain accompanied me all the way back to Seattle, with me, hungry and happy, only stopping to buy some smoked salmon in Brinnon, Washington. Sometimes taxi is wonderful, and last Saturday afternoon and evening it certainly was, no complaints from an usual big complainer.
My God! Look at all those painted whores prancing up and down Aurora Avenue North
Anyone driving southbound down Aurora these recent days (SR Highway 99) between North 135th and and North 95th, cannot help noticing all these obvious prostitutes (along with some too healthy looking undercover cops) walking on the west side of the road. Often there are as many as ten or more scantily clad women walking, talking, waving---you name it, they are doing everything they can gaining your attention. The obvious question is why is the City of Seattle allowing this criminal solicitation to boldly continue minus police intervention.
This past Monday I dropped two "professionals" off on Aurora, both clearly there for one purpose only, and given the obvious, I asked them why Seattle was letting this happen day after day in broad daylight? The three-hundred pounder with the elephantine thighs (I first saw her in a mini-skirt, god help us), munching on her Jack-in-the-Box double burger, no bacon please, said SPD was letting it happen in the theory that the streetwalking would somehow diminish on its own. She agreed that some of the young ladies were cops. "That's why I don't talk to nobody!"
My second hooker, visiting from Oregon and coming from the Nexus Hotel, an unfortunately pimp-controlled young woman, had little to say, my questions embarrassing her, whispering a barely audible response upon exiting the cab. Yes, to think these women have feelings and emotions like everyone else, and for the next few hours, the City of Seattle would be allowing them to be literally manhandled by idiotic grunting, moaning and groaning men. And you think your work conditions are bad? Quit complaining.
As I keep saying, Seattle has become a very stupid place. What I want to see is the current mayor walking along with them. Com' on, Jenny! spread those _____!
Awful, isn't it?! Is there any other way to express it? I don't think so.
And will it ever change, the "we are pious governing style" taking Seattle to nowhere good or sane whatsoever? Unless Charles Royer is cloned, it is highly doubtful. Mayor Schell's ghost stalks the Seattle streets riotously laughing, laughing, having recently returned from his southern France hideaway. Could this be Halloween in June?
What is Sound
The metal pan falls to the wooden floor---
crash! clang! it complains
but why do I hear it, why hear anything at all?
What is sound, what is noice, what is voice speaking to me
as I speak to you?
We have eardrums but do we have communication enhancing thought
justifying sound---a horn honking "get out of my way"
or giant, dark menacing thunder clouds rumbling "my lightening bolts
will smite you ha ha ha!"
Is sound then a warning saying relaxation never possible,
the desert diamondback rattling, rattling its scaly tail,
foretelling life and walking ever treacherous, poisonous fangs
injecting fear, our friend sound demanding your anguished
screams before death's beckoning, moans dying to an eternal
Munching on salmon, crackers and black olives while parked just south of Brinnion, my thoughts led me to the Canadian poet John Malcolm Brinnin, friend of poet Dylan Thomas and author of that great 1955 published biography, "Dylan Thomas in America." Both writers are worthy of your reading time. Thomas's "Diary of An Artist as a Young Dog," is a wink at James Joyce.