New Old Photos

Every single month I have to submit to an inspection, of my room. At least, I tell myself, they don't do cavity searches.

This comes from living in subsidized housing. It's bad, but it's good. The good thing is that periodically I get ambitious and decide to really clean, instead of just find clever places to hide crap from the inspectors. This happened yesterday and today.

Which was bad, because I stirred up a lot of accumulated dust, which caused me to have an asthma attack, which necessitated a walk down to the Pioneer Clinic for a nebulizer and a new inhaler, but hey, it's all good, I have a new inhaler, and I found cool stuff in the dust.

The cool stuff were old photos I thought I had lost, and a little bit of old artwork. The latter is now up on Somewhat Art, the former will end up here eventually. I'll start with three of them.

I was going to talk about how, in 1955, my Father took me fishing. He went to the trouble of procuring a kiddie size rod and reel.

I caught a fish! It was a perch, just barely legal. It was a thrill until Dad told me how great he was going to taste knowing that I'd caught him myself. I didn't know the idea was to eat them. I thought we were going to keep him for a pet. Always the failures of communication.

This picture next was taken on April 4, 1955. It shows Dad hauling in trout that look paltry to me, but what would I know. The photographer was Corporal James H. Bissett, and this ran in the Fort Devens Dispatch, to prove that the fish were biting on opening day. Another note stamped onto the back of the photo says, "PLEASE CREDIT U.S. ARMY PHOTOGRAPH. The Department of the Army has no objection to the publication of this photograph. It's use in commercial advertisement must be approved by the PUBLIC INFORMATION DIVISION, OFFICE OF THE CHEF OF INFORMATION, DEPARTMENT OF THE ARMY, THE PENTAGON, WASHINGTON 25, D.C." Good thing this site isn't commercial, that would be a pain. Anyway it was Dad's success that day that enabled him to get me to go fishing with him a week or two later. So now I know when that happened!


I also found the following outstanding picture that I'd even forgotten I'd ever had, of my fiancée Kathy making dream eyes at me, while I savor the moment. The picture was taken in Kindergarten on a day when a reporter from the Dispatch dropped in looking for human interest stories. This shot wasn't used in the paper but we got a copy anyway.


Finally, proof that I graduated Kindergarten. The class picture, less Kathy, who was out that day. I'm in the back row, third from your right. There we were the future of America. Note the coonskin cap on the guy directly in front of me. The future of America will remember the Alamo, and know Fess Parker was there.

The Art of Committee Guesting

Thanks to scheduling, if there's a Single Adults Committee meeting for the CEHKC some Monday, that same Wednesday there's a CAC meeting. CAC is the Consumer Advisory Council, and instead of token consumers who have no power because they are permanently a fractional minority of their committee, they are the whole committee (less the facilitation), so they have power galore, for their two hours per month that they meet, within that room.

One does wonder how that power is conveyed up the ranks to the higher committees. I keep hearing that the higher-ups are listening and responding to the CAC's suggestions. Bill Block, the big Project director of the whole shebang and who's been the facilitator of the CAC meetings, has said so many times. I wouldn't know about it much because I always fade out when the subject comes up.

Anyway, the CAC meetings are cooler than the Single Adult Committee meetings. There's pizza. There's Bill Block. There's actual passionate arguments, with raised voices, instead of mumbling deferential professional courtesies all around. After all, to the members of the CAC, it is, as I often say about my involvement at Real Change, personal. I'm not a member and only have guest status each month, so I can only speak during public commenting periods, but it's those constraints of the art form that make it both challenging and fulfilling to me, as an artiste.

This month the only comment I had at the beginning, after inhaling two slices, was to ask if anyone knew how realistic was the rumor I was hearing that those who won the new Section 8 Voucher lottery would have to endure an eight year waiting list.

Lucky me, a representative of the King County Housing Authority was right there to tell me that no, for the folks who win the lottery, it'll be only two years at the most.

Turns out there's an entirely understandable explanation for the rumor. You see if there weren't a lottery, the waiting Time would be eight years. The lottery cuts the pool of applicants by a factor of more than four, so the waiting time, for THOSE people, the winners, drops to less than two years. The waiting time for the losers is now certain to be eternity, because it's been confirmed that they really are losers. They can apply to the next lottery in two or three years, but they'll only lose that one, too, they're losers.

Well, cool. That settled, they went on and had the meeting, while I was quiet and tried very hard to listen. Fading in and out as I do.

They woke me up twice. Once, when one of the members went off on a tirade about too frequent public housing inspections. He was sitting next to Bill Block and pounded the table so violently Bill had to lunge to save his water from spilling. That was funny. The guy was particularly mad because Liberal Congressman Jim McDermott didn't answer his letter about it, and "that goes to show why I'm a conservative."

The other time they got my attention was when we were told that the Governing Board, the highest level committee, would let a new one of the members of CAC to join it's August Body. All CAC needed to do was nominate precisely three members for the position and the Governing Board would decide for them which of the three would be selected to represent them, except in the unlikely event all three nominees were unacceptable, in which case the CAC would be permitted to make additional nominations.

Let's put this in perspective. We're talking about a committee that now consists of 22 heavy hitters, including various current and former mayors, major corporate hotshots like Blake Nordstrom, a former governor, influential members of the faith community, and currently one "Consumer Advocate" (Sheila Sebron), and in contemplating allowing another "Consumer Advocate" from the ranks of CAC, the notion that CAC might choose their own representative is just too radical?

Why? Is it that one token consumer advocate on a committee of 23 occasionally speaking up is barely tolerable, and that a second one would have to be certified dead or at least comatose before being allowed to disrupt the Governing Board's very important process of deciding everything without any input from the people most affected?

I didn't have time during the final public comment period to express that thought, so instead I said, I too am angered by the outrageous too frequent inspections in public housing (my room is invaded by inspectors 13 times a year), and I'm even a liberal, and if the Governing Board is going to tell the CAC who will represent them, the CAC should insist on giving the Governing Board the information they need to make the best choice.

If I were a member of CAC I would propose that we give them three nominees and inform them which one they pick or else the CAC quits en masse and the charade is ended. No more pretending that homeless people are sharing in the process and that they support it.

Writing by Exhaustion

[The subsidized apartment building I live in is called The Union Hotel. It's run by DESC, Seattle's Downtown Emergency Service Center. All the residents have been homeless. I write a column for the monthly building newsletter. The column is called Out of My Mind. I'm posting them here, properly dated, because I can. -- wes]

Wes here again. Room 303. This month my goal in writing Out of My Mind is to convince myself that the Union Hotel is the best place I have ever lived.

Theorem: There has never been such a great place for me, Wes Browning, to live.

Proof: By the “Method of Exhaustion.” That means I must demonstrate that all the other places I have lived have been worse.

Step 1: No place that I ever lived with my parents was even remotely as good as what I got here, for the very reason that my parents were there, cramping my style. ‘Nuff said.

Step 2: Didn’t Omar Khayyam (two “y”s?) say, “Man doth not live by bread alone?” No wait, no, that was that “bread, a jug of wine and Thou” business. Make that Moses to the Israelites, when they were whining, “O please dear God give us manna” (two “n”s?) Anyhow, man DOTH not live by bread alone, for sure. Man doth require the jugs n’ thous. Therefore, any times I have lived in isolation were decidedly worse than the Union, where I have friends and such. Especially such.

Step 3: Steps one and two have ruled out, as possible counter-examples to our Theorem, all but two other places I have lived. I lived in places where there were no parents but plenty of jugs and friends. To complete my proof that the Union is the best place I have ever lived, I need only prove to myself that those places were inferior.

I can do it! Those places didn’t have inspections every month. In fact they never had inspections at all! Good God! I might have done incredible harm to myself, by, for example, not leaving a three-foot path to my window! It’s a wonder I survived!

Therefore, QED, the Union Hotel is the best place I have ever lived!