ou can't save the world if there's nothing wrong with it, so from time to time I conjure up a civic ill that can be solved by one of my pet projects. It was nearly four years ago in these pages that I humbly proposed that we burn down some 80 blocks of commercial real estate, pave it, and then, for good measure, put a park for the homeless there with a retractable concrete dome and, most inscrutably, call it the Seattle Commons.
All across Seattle, City Fathers rolled out of bed, read my piece, slipped in their teeth and muttered as one: "Where does this guy - a guy, incidentally, who has all the fiscal acumen and personal charm of a restaurant critic - get the nerve - the unmitigated gall - to tell us how to spend public money so convincingly?" After which they flipped open "their" checkbooks and started sending money around willy-nilly, which was fine since a check showed up addressed to my 11-year-old, Josh, and paid for his braces.
Not sure why it took a mere journalist [I also write short stories] to teach a proud city how to heal. Maybe it's because the best writing comes from pain, and I hate writing about the homeless. No, it's more than that. I'm a Seattle native; I've never left the city limits. I know this shitty little town. Seattle has always been eager to lend - or just plain give - a big hand to those among us who manage to go without a home. Tax-breaks for homeless merchants and business-persons. The new Steinbrueck Mattress Park. For homeless folks who are sick or on vacation, the CheckCollect Temp Agency was established. We provide the homeless with extended hours at neighborhood blood banks. Free parking for those who prefer to go homeless only for an hour or two. And everywhere throughout downtown, comfortable open-air PermaPotties.
We are nothing if not full of understanding. You know what I mean. A man, in a fit of homelessness, approaches you, hand extended, asking you for a quarter; you know that he is really asking you for a home. And you think: a quarter. Christ. It'll take him years to save up for a down payment. And you walk away, disgusted at man's lack of compassion, and - here's where the understanding part comes in - you begin to understand what people mean when they say: concrete domed homeless park.
The Commons slowly came to life in our minds. A pewter-gray jewel looming over Lake Union, it would be complete with its own treatment center and plaza where criers could hawk their food-stamps and other wares. Space-heaters and long extension cords, like those used in Volunteer Park, would provide warm spots in the shrubs. The Commons would be regularly stocked with wildlife donated by PAWS. So as to provide the homeless with a steady source of income, there'd be a path through the Commons - connected by Skybridge to the top of the Space Needle - along which tourists would be herded. The tools and materials for the construction of a self-serve Starbucks would be placed in the dome. And, should planners see fit to provide one, mastiffs would patrol the exit.
Most excitingly, it was announced that Bill the Beerman had agreed to live and work full-time within the dome, for purposes of morale-boosting. I mean, just think of it! No more Bill the Beerman!
Total cost maybe a billion. This would not include the cost of the homeless.
Well, when you fight your way to the moral high ground and cast over the edge everyone you find there, inevitably there'll be those who find themselves peeved. And oh, I got letters, nasty ones, by the thousand. Could've filled a damn bathtub with them, and did, and they were ruined. Most of them were along the lines of: "Say ... a retractable dome? Is that ... is that really necessary?" Oh, sure. First we deny them homes, then we deny them access to the ozone layer. No wonder they're not healthy. And of course the plants would all die. "But," these letters would persist, "won't that cost a little more? David?" To which I'd say: does caring cost more? You're talking to the wrong scribe, Bubba. I won't be paying for it.
Ouch. My face hurts from sneering. Someone call my lawyer.
Funding poured in. Martin Selig wrote a bad check in the amount of one million dollars to get things rolling, and Barry Ackerly followed suit with over a million dollars worth of the use of his pool by "pool-less" Commons organizers. The Junior League donated toys and clothing; the Ballard Boys Club, raffle tickets and stolen property. And the Rev. Robert Fulghum was there with wise advice and a thoughtful tear or two, and he generously accepted our invitation to attend all our organizational meetings in spirit.
Paul Allen forked over precisely one cubic yard of money on the condition that his new Hendrix Museum be part of the park, and then, when that was nixed, on condition that it be part of the demolition. Construction is underway.
Building a sealed, self-contained concrete life-style environment for 80,000 hoboes is a lot of work! We had to select blueprints and color swatches for the Commons Organization Office Tower. An easy-to-understand cartoon character, Dome-bo, was constructed for use in educating the public, and the public responded with its own lovable retractable cartoon character, Commie, for educating the organizers. A Scheduling Panel was established to schedule meetings, and a Meetings Panel to attend them; an ad hoc committee was assembled to try to track down the Master Planning Board. Wayne Cody was enlisted to head an all-star Refreshments Committee, and Bill Shatner (!) guest-sang on our radio jingle. A Federal Task Force was assigned to prevent Bill Clinton from taking an interest. And I helped out every six months or so by reprinting the original article when they would all forget what it was they were supposed to be working on. What with decorating, singing and expressive dance, a great time was had by all for almost four years now.
At long last the Commons Project officially began with much pomp and ceremony on July 14th of last year, and I was on hand to watch workers ransack and destroy Linder's Dry Cleaners and incarcerate Mr. and Mrs. Linder. The next day I got a message from Mayor Norm Rice asking if he could borrow some money.
Now, I'm a white heterosexual male, but that doesn't mean I'm not a whiner. I remember dialing up the mayor and barking, "(Look,) the homeless need that (goddamned) dome (Norm-o. Get with the program!)"
But Hizzoner said it would take a mere journalist to teach a proud city how to spend coherently. And that it might be a nice change of pace for me to write an article that wouldn't drive the city to the edge of bankruptcy.
Finally I agreed. Mainly because, well, it's wrong to not care when someone is hurting, and the homeless are hurting. Hurting business and tourism. So, in the spirit in which I wrote the original piece - half-joking, but also hatefully - I offer these simple fund-raising tips:
> Donate the Seahawks to Sitka, Alaska, where they belong. Big tax deduction right there. In a year or so they'll try to give us back the team, but we'll pretend we never heard of them.
Anyway, I'd rather watch the homeless than the Seahawks any day. Watching the Hawks is, frankly ... a little disturbing. It makes me feel, I dunno, bad about myself as an American. Ashamed.
> Make the homeless pay for it.
> Fire newsman Gary Justice, and soak up his five-figure salary. Run him out of town; sell his home. Another 90 grand.
> Then, while everyone's distracted, we fire that awful Dan Rather.
> Charge people for the privilege of watching the Blue Angels.
> Open up Pine Street again for parking.
> You take those Kingdome pay toilets, you fix them up with debit-card mechanisms, you tack on a fat service charge, and you install one in every home in Seattle not slated for demolition.
> You know that IRS Tax Form 1040? Everyone could just check the box where it says "blind." There's another $2,000 deduction per Seattleite. The Feds won't investigate, and if they do, we just pretend. They'll probably build a goddamn park for us.
I know. Reading about the homeless makes you hurt somewhere deep inside in your midsection. Too bad the best reading doesn't come from pain.

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