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People sometimes ask me about my tastes in music, literature, movies, etc. Generally speaking, I’ll freely discuss such subjects without hesitation or reservations. In fact, I’ve openly pursued these matters in several columns.
When I was a little kid, the Pacific Telephone Company owned the phone service within the greater Enumclaw region.
In case you haven’t heard, let this jolly columnist keep you informed: American newspapers are in big trouble. Many have disappeared during the past 40 years, including several large, really first-class operations like the Seattle Post Intelligencer. Home deliveries and the number of advertisers are all down and, consequently, so are the profits.
For the benefit of those who have just arrived in our mossy corner of the planet, you take a left on the other side of downtown Buckley, then an immediate right onto state Route 165 and continue for another five or six miles; drive through Burnett and Wilkeson and eventually you’ll end up in Carbonado, population 650, give or take a few.
The other day I sat in the middle of my living room floor and started sorting through some 33 rpm records that have survived the last 40 or 50 years in fair, if not surprisingly, good condition.
Ginger “Mama” Passarelli is a warm, effervescent and happy, middle-aged ex-hippie who decided, if she was ever going to have children and a home, she’d have to forsake her life in a teepee on a communal, organic farm and get a job or start a business. So, 10 years ago she opened Mama Passarelli’s Italian restaurant in Black Diamond.
Last week I claimed that the “digital revolution” is destroying popular music as we’ve known it in the past. This week I want to conclude this theme.
You’ll probably recall that sculpture at the corner of Porter Street and Griffin Avenue in front of City Hall. “Boys In the Band” I think it was called.
Karen Burnett has quite a story to tell. You may not recognize her name, but you’ve probably seen her one time or another, especially if you’ve spent any time in the Rainier Bar and Grill
Let’s face it: something is seriously wrong with the U.S. economy. I’m speaking not of the remnants of the recession, but of the structure of our society; that is, the middle class is rapidly shrinking, the lower class is growing and the gap between the wealthy and everyone else continues to increase at an alarming rate.
Fifteen or 20 years ago, little hometown microbreweries began spring up all over the U.S. In our region, the first ones I remember were in Seattle and shortly thereafter they were popping up all over King and Pierce counties.
My friends, I have disturbing news to report. Studio 54 – one of the finest art galleries this muddle-headed writer has ever encountered during his trips through America’s foremost art salons – has closed its doors, unable to turn a profit in our little suburban environs. This is not just disturbing news, it’s actually rather depressing.
Sometime in the mid 1960s, David and Leticia Cardenas snuck across the border from Mexico to the United States.
Being a hopelessly naive romantic, Valentine’s Day is one of my favorite “holidays,” right up there with Christmas, Thanksgiving and the Fourth of July.
Well friends, I’m not much into “health food” and I’m not overly concerned with the fare I consume, though there’s all kinds of scientific evidence to indicate I should be. I’m sure we’re eating a lot of garbage that, if it doesn’t permanently and irreversibly damage our bodies, isn’t doing us any good.
Well, more as a matter of history than nostalgia, let’s point out that Enumclaw’s First National Bank opened at the corner of Cole Street and Griffin Avenue in 1941.
With M.L. King’s birthday yesterday, I found myself in an introspective mood. And after considerable self-criticism and analysis, I still feel I’m a relatively unprejudiced fellow. (I say “relatively” because I’m sure some can detect biases I’m not aware of.)
You may have seen him walking around the streets of Enumclaw doing tricks for us; that is, yo-yo tricks with colorful names like Cat’s Cradle, Double or Nothing and Spirit Bomb.
My friends, this misguided word-slinger can’t think of a better way to kick off the new year than with a column on Albert Troxell. Well, if I really dwelled on the issue I suppose there’s a better subject, but Albert is good enough.
Well, pop the champagne and give a rebel yell. Once again, it’s time to take stock of the past year and declare goals and resolutions for the future.