READY WORLD?

I’ve never met a world leader.

Probably, the closest I ever came was to be within 25-feet of someone who eventually became a world leader.

It was 1966. I was 11-years-old, had my Sears version of a Sting Ray bicycle and was fearless. It was a time when kids could run around Southern California without fear of ending up as a storyline on C.S.I. or Cold Case. We’d do what kids do until Kelly Toman’s dad put his fingers together and let out that dinner whistle around 6 o’clock. That was our cue that another day of playtime was nearing the end and we’d all scatter home.

One Saturday that year, my friends all seemed to be busy doing other things and so I found myself on my own, riding my bike. I had heard that a guy who was once a Hollywood actor was running for governor and he was going to be over in the Sears parking lot, around 4 blocks from where we lived. On a bike, that was just two minutes away.

So, I rode over and there, standing on the back of a flatbed truck, decorated with lots of red, white and blue, was none other than Ronald Reagan. OK, I saw him. I listened for a while. I even got pretty close to get a good look. Then, I grabbed a couple of buttons and bumper stickers and rode towards home.

Yeah, one of those!

Yeah, one of those!

Flash forward to this week. I now live in Seattle, Washington, and thanks to my wife and her many Norwegian activities, I’ve been invited to three different affairs this Friday, where I will be in the same vicinity as the King of Norway, Harald the 5th.

It begins at a barbecue, followed by a gathering in a nearby Norwegian-themed park and then, it’s off to the formal dinner at the Seattle Sheraton. One of my Norwegian buddies suggested I get a press pass, so I could take lots of pictures, which I would have been doing anyway. But that should give me great access to capture some pictures of this momentous occasion. I’m particularly anxious to grab lots of shots of my wife Victoria who, thanks to her involvement in restoring the mural at Bergen Place Park, actually gets to introduce and shake the hand of said king.

It’s going to be a very special day for all of us and I really don’t want to do anything that might ruin it for everyone, especially my wife. I promise I won’t point out he spells his name wrong.  I won’t ask what the V stands for in Harald V.  And I’m definitely NOT showing up on my Sting Ray bike. Although, I admit, the idea did cross my mind.

If it was up to me....

If it was up to me….

Wish me luck! Pictures to follow on Facebook and maybe a few special ones posted here next week.

Hip, hip, hoorah!

Tim Hunter

Our Ever-Shrinking World

Yeah, just try to not that song in your head now....

Yeah, just try to not get that song stuck in your head now….

Once each month, Victoria, my wife, leads volunteers in cleaning Bergen Place Park in Ballard, a Seattle suburb with Scandinavian roots.  Of course, I tag along to help.

During our most recent cleaning party, I heard her calling my name.  I looked up and she was standing next to some guy I’d never seen before.  There was an introduction, the mention of his connection to her, but apparently back in the day, they went to Ballard High School together.  “Interesting,” I replied.

“But he’s actually here to meet you.”

Huh?

It seems that Ed Henry (Ed, if I don’t remember your last name correctly, I apologize—I had a rake and a dustpan in my hands as we talked and didn’t write it down) was a long-time reader of this blog.  Oh sure, it’s one thing to say it.  But Ed started citing certain stories I’ve done over the years, like the one I did on the passing of Joe South. Yeah, you’d have to dig deep in the archives, but it’s there.

Now, let’s take this up a notch.  He was up visiting his mom in Everett, but he actually lived in Paraguay.  Once each week, 6,444 miles away, he reads my latest blog entry.  He commended me on how much of life was contained in these writings and it was from them that he knew about the monthly work parties at Bergen Place Park.  He had simply stopped by to say hi and let me know he was out there, apologizing if he seemed like some kind of stalker.

I said, “Of course not!”   At least, I think that’s what I said.  He’s outside on the front lawn.  Is that right, Ed?   He said, “Yes.”

Truly, I was flattered beyond words.  So I’d just like to promise Ed and any of my other faithful readers returning each week that I will never settle for anything less than mildly amusing in all my future writings.

Thanks for being out there.

 Tim Hunter

 

 

OK, Playtime Is Over

Seattle has earned the reputation of being too nice, too accommodating when it comes to anarchists.

So, unlike most major cities in the U.S., when May 1st rolls around, we allow our downtown area to be held hostage by a large collection of thugs wearing masks, throwing rocks, bottles and anything they can get their hands on at p0lice, buildings and other public and private property.  All in the name of “punishing corporations.”

It’s time to stop tolerating this coward’s party.  Yes, you’re mighty brave behind that black mask, hanging around a bunch of like-minded morons.  Obviously mommy and daddy told you to be you, to be “the best anarchist you can be” and after a night of destruction, there’s probably a nice plate of milk and cookies waiting for you at home in your basement room.

As you might pick up, I’m done.  I’m embarrassed.  For as much as I like to brag about my adopted home town, when the 1st of May rolls around and Seattle tolerates this kind of destruction–when businesses have to close early out of fear what might happen to them or their employees–that’s nothing short than legitimized terrorism.

You have the absolute right to peacefully protest.  This country was built on that right.  Spraying buildings with graffiti, breaking out the windows of a news car, carrying a rifle into a crowd (yes, there was a guy that was interviewed on TV), ALL are not protected under the U.S. Constitution.

So, I have solutions.  I have thoughts.  I have ideas on how best to deal with this problem to greatly reduce the number of participants every year.  See what you think.

1) Every police officer on duty that night wears camera vests.  That way, when you’re arrested and taken to trial, we’ll have video proof of which crime you so boldly committed while wearing your mask.

2)  Police snipers are set up where ever the crowd gets out of control.  They take their position, armed only with paint guns and when they see someone break a window, the sharpshooter nails the perpetrator with a paint gun ball.  He’s marked, police arrest anyone marked with paint gun stains, and we make the largest arrest of unruly protesters in May Day history.

3)  Besides the sharp-shooters—more video cameras, to capture the broad scene for further prosecution.

You wouldn’t have to do this every year.  One out of three.  Or as needed.  Once this happens in Seattle, like rats when their safe hangout is disrupted, these thugs will find another city to target.  Although, I believe this model could prove effective for almost any city.

I’m all about peaceful protests.  There were several of those in Seattle yesterday as part of May Dy. But being destructive for misguided reasons is NOT an excuse.  We’re standing up to bullying in our schools.  It’s time to take that cause to the streets.

Besides, threatening police lives should be a crime.  In fact, I’m pretty sure it is.

May Day Seattle

My final suggestion. The parents of anyone arrested for causing damage to property will be invoiced for compensation.  You turned out this gem of a human being, so you get to pay for them. Either that, or we bring out that mom from Baltimore and turn her loose for a couple of ass whoopin’s.

Mr. Mayor or Seattle Police, if you need any more suggestions, please reach me at my usual number.

Tim Hunter

No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

"A good deed, eh?"

“A good deed, eh?”

For years, my broadcast partner Bruce Murdock would say that phrase at the appropriate time.  It happened enough that, eventually,  I found myself saying, “Well, no good deed goes unpunished!”

11 years after our last broadcast together, those words resurfaced last week.

I had gone to a small coffee shop in Edmonds for a new business meeting.  Being the first to arrive, I went ahead and ordered my usual–a tall non-fat latte.  I waited….and waited….and then, finally asked the barista, “Uh, my drink?”  Somehow, in the rush between me and the other customer, the order had gotten lost.  Apparently, to make up for the error, they served up my drink quickly and extra hot.  Now, I had to wait for it to cool down.  While I waited, my co-worker showed up, noticing that the coffee shop closed in 20 minutes.  That wouldn’t work for our meeting.

So, before the client arrived, we regrouped at a restaurant across the street.  That meant taking my coffee out to the car.  I certainly wasn’t going to go into the restaurant with coffee from somewhere else, so I took a sip and hoped it would still be hot by the time our meeting was over.

It wasn’t. Lukewarm, at best.  Oh well, I probably should cut back on the caffeine anyway.  On the way home, I decided to run a couple of errands and for every store that I visited, I contemplated getting rid of the coffee.  But then, it would have just headed to the landfill.  If I just waited and took it home, I could put the coffee and paper cup into the food compost container, and the plastic lid in the recycle container.

That, ladies and gentlemen, is what they call, a ‘good deed.’

When I arrived home, I lifted up the unwanted beverage and sure enough, the very hot coffee combined with sitting in a paper container for several hours meant that, at the very second it was directly over my lap, the bottom gave out and I was soaked.

I cleaned it up as best I could, but the stale coffee smell is still there, serving as an aromatic reminder of those words, “No good deed goes unpunished.”

For those who have been on Pirates at the Caribbean at Disneyland, remember the talking skull and crossbones, right before you go down the waterfalls?  You know, the one saying, “Dead men tell no tales?”  In my head—its the same voice.

“No good deed goes unpunished….”

Tim Hunter

Later Than The Late

mime funeral

Earlier this month, we received an announcement in the mail.  The man who had paid for my step-daughter’s education at Seattle University and her first year at Bastyr University, had died.

He was a well-to-do eastside businessman, who decided to reinvest some of his money into helping people make more of their lives.  Somehow, he became aware of Kjersti’s promise and so, he covered her SU tuition.  It was a very generous and noble thing to do.

So, when the announcement came from his widow and we learned of a memorial service at the Bear Creek Country Club on April 18th, my wife felt a strong calling to attend that service.  I would go along for support.  We read in the program sent to us that Tim Eyman was going to be the main speaker.  By the sounds of it, it was going to be quite the gathering of the who’s who of area conservatives.

The morning came, Kjersti was unable to attend because of teaching a class, but Victoria and I headed out to Woodinville.  We were running behind, so I picked up the pace as best I could.  We still arrived there a few minutes after noon, hopped out of the car and dashed up towards the clubhouse.

Nothing.  No signs of where the memorial was being held.  In the main dining hall, staff was setting up for a wedding reception.  The head of catering was busy and said that he would get to us in a few minutes, which went even longer.  It was then I said, “I’ll run out to the car and re-read the program.”

I got to the car, read the date and location carefully again.  Yep, April 18th.  Bear Creek Country Club, check.  Oh, wait.  The important detail we had failed to notice on the program—April 18th, 2014.

Yes, on the one-year anniversary of his passing, his widow had sent the funeral notice to us.  Probably taking care of loose ends, thinking Victoria and Kjersti would want to see it and most likely wondering why they hadn’t been there a year ago.

For the record, we were there–exactly one year after the service.

As for being late to events, I now have a new personal best and a feeling that record might just stand for a while.

Tim Hunter

Announcing the 2016 Presidential Campaign Sweepstakes

edimage

Greetings Facebook friends!

I’m standing on my blog soapbox today to announce an exciting new contest–the first-ever, Tim Hunter Presidential Campaign Sweepstakes.

Here’s how it works: you post something on Facebook extremely negative, nothing more than partisan poison being passed around by the side that knows better and I ‘unfriend’ you.

That’s it!  Pretty darn simple, huh?

I already know what’s coming.  The negative ads that take vague swipes at candidates using half-truths, quarter-truths and close-enough-truths invading my favorite TV and radio shows.  You know the ones I’m talking about—filled with an arrogant attitude that if you believe my way, you’re smart and if you’re opposed to it, you’re an idiot.

Just today, a very vicious attack on Hillary Clinton made it into my feed, which was just two news stories away from a childish name-calling meme about Ted Cruz.

This just in–it’s not funny, it’s not entertaining, it’s not what I want to be subjected to over the next year and a half.  Funny is one thing (and I actually know a thing or two about funny), but when all you’re doing is saying to your fellow D’s and R’s out there, “Hey, look!  I called him a Poopy Pants! Ha!” and you find that entertaining?  Let’s just say I’ve evolved.

In fact, I’m proud of the fact that I don’t vote party.  At this particular point in time, there is no one aside from Morgan Freeman that I feel is real presidential material out there.

So, back to the rules of the game.  Get it all out of your system between now and midnight.  Because as of April 15th, 2015, make a snide political comment or post a caustic partisan piece on this guy’s Facebook feed and we will be disconnected.  I’ll consider reconnecting after November of next year, but not until then.

It’s a free country, for both of us.  You have the right to be a raging partisan, but the constitution also allows me to confine my Facebook feed to beer bellied bicycle crashes and cats playing pianos.

Have a great election!  Oh, and congratulations to all of our winners.

Tim Hunter

If Pipes Could Talk

Lousy artist's conception of what The Talking Pipe looked like.

Lousy artist’s conception of what The Talking Pipe looked like.

Last week, I bared my soul about a sensitive topic.  It’s an issue on which people have very strong stands and it’s entirely possible, I may have offended at least a couple of folks along the way.

If you didn’t have the chance to read it and be offended, you’ll find it immediately below this one.

These blogs are a bit of a time capsule.  The world is an ever-evolving place, and I consider these ramblings to be a scrapbook of thoughts that I hope live on the Internet long enough for future generations to learn from them.

As I approach my 60th birthday, I feel very fortunate to have already experienced so many things that anyone under 40 find hard to comprehend.  There was a time when TV was only black & white, telephones were tied to walls and had rotary dials and party lines.  The number of TV stations was in single digits. Stores were closed on Sundays.  Yeah, it was that kind of world.

Coming off such a serious topic last week, I really wanted to keep it as light as possible this week.  So, I sat back, let the mind wander a bit and then, I managed to extract this little gem from the depths of my memory bank—the Talking Pipe.

The what?

I grew up in Torrance, California, now famous for being the home of Louis Zamperini.  During my high school years (at the same school Louis attended, just a couple of years later) Friday nights after the football game meant driving up to the Palos Verdes Peninsula, looking out over the city lights and enjoying some romantic moments with your favorite girl.

One of the secret little hideouts for teenagers was a dead-end street, which became famous among necking circles for being the home of The Talking Pipe.  It was a large steel pipe (thus, part of the name) that protruded out of the ground, about four feet tall.  If you walked up to it and put your ear near the opening, you would hear voices.  Nothing you could make out, but they were definitely muffled voices.  Every time we performed this ritual, the pipe “talked”, just as the legend claimed.

Of course, since then, with only the slightest of mental effort, we figured out that this pipe sticking out of the ground high on a hill acted as an antenna.  Because of its location to a nearby news station’s broadcasting tower, the broadcast signal was picked up and sounded as though it came from deep inside the pipe.

Mystery solved. However, The Talking Pipe is one of those high school experiences I remember fondly. 

Almost as fondly as what happened in the car afterwards.

Tim Hunter