A litany of recommendations by our unqualified reviewers
for the week of June 1 - June 12


Idiots on Parade
by Belinda Marjreen
I am a professional reviewer. I am paid to share my feelings. So when I tell you that my feelings regarding the Seattle SeaFair Parade are that, frankly, I do not know how I feel about it, I have this strange, even ... morbid feeling that -- I don't know -- that I won't be paid for that.
But I can't help it. It's how I feel!
I mean, think about it. Think about my feelings for a second. Tourist-related civic events may be expensive, but I say "bravo!" Without the important tourist dollars brought in by these events -- Folklife Festival, Clam Days, our many popular Disease Walks, and on and on and on -- we'd be forced to find other ways to pay for them, and would quickly be driven into financial ruin, that's how expensive they are. So, yes, they are important.
But oh, at what grievous cost! I've always said that if there's one thing the average tax-payer can depend on, it's that, given the simple task of doing what they are paid to do, our city fathers will simply not be able to live up to my standards, and I affirm to you now that those drunks down at City Hall have never had the acumen or the common sense or (dare I say it?) the guts to throw together a proper tourist-related shindig that would generate life-sustaining tourist-revenues while at the same time managing to avoid introducing the tourist element into the affair.
Not that there haven't been a few "kudos for a nice effort!" on occasion. On paper, at least, some of the events are certainly horrific. Consider the simple elegance of Bite of Seattle. Tourists, foreigns and other rustics are bade welcome to mass in the grounds of the Seattle Center and mix all sorts of restaurant tastes in their mouths. No one would do that! Very funny! So ... problem solved??
No. Year after year they come. In great dusty caravans from the far reaches of Lesser Caucasia, trekking mouth-agape to the distant and fabled big city flavors. And, yes, they will stand and Bite their vended chew-foods and pastes from off of stained Chinets of dubious provenance, I've seen it. And then mark themselves upon the jowls and undershirts with the tomato-based oils of their experience. Then, ominously, like slow white icebergs, they drift their way into our city streets. Walk amongst our tall new buildings, gazing inappropriately. Marvel wide-eyed at our famously clean, clear patterns of speech. And then they do not loot us of our things -- because these are modern times -- but instead just sort of put their hands all over them. Until, spent, they depart.
Surely if they understood the gravity of the problem they would stay home and leave us in peace. And as for their important tourist monies, they could simply send those.
But they don't understand. That's the whole point!
"Sheesh!" Asking those stiffs down at City Hall to throw together a halfway-decent cut-rate street activity for the masses is like hiring a blind man to do some light housekeeping for you. First off: your house does not get clean. But more to the point: light housekeeping requires a woman's touch. That's where I come in.
I am a professional reviewer. I share my feelings for a living. So sharing my feelings is important to me. And over the past six months I discovered -- to my joy! -- that I could use my weekly restaurant, film and poetry reviews as a means of expressing my feelings -- there's that word again! -- of disgust and personal loathing toward the City Council in a safe and responsible manner. And because I am good at what I do -- I just seem to have this sort of "sixth sense" that "lets me know" when something is not to my liking -- it came as no surprise to anyone at all that I was soon joined in my chorus by my co-brothers and sisters of the local Reviewer Fraternity.
Some of my reviewer friends went beyond simply complaining and actually made recommendations, not sure why, I myself do not make "recommendations," they're busywork, a bit common, I find them to be derivative and unoriginal, with a formulaic sense of style. For example, Frank B. of the Times weighed in with an idea he calls "Litterpalooza." One of the burdens of tourism, you know, is the chore of transporting great volumes of litter material to one's destination. At rollicking Litterpalooza, tourists are provided with new, ready-to-use litter material FREE with the price of admission. Then, to cut down on municipal clean-up costs (and help keep Seattle looking its best!), the festival is located actually within the County Landfill just outside Sitka, Alaska. James H. of the Weekly offered up in his self-satisfied way the notion of "Wallapalooza." He acknowledges the importance of annual tourist monies because they should be used to pay for an enormous wall at the city limits ... I must admit, a tourist attraction that repulses tourists would seem to be the best of both worlds. But how, one asks, would a concrete barrier attract tourists? Simple: the surface of the wall would be encrusted with colorful, eye-catching Chihuly glass shards, chips and slivers!
You know that awful Summer Nights at the Pier which they do? Heather L. of the Seattle Stranger offers up a cost-effective idea for making the occurence more bearable by instead doing Uneventful Nights at the Pier(apalooza). Music -- including top acts like Boz Scaggs and Jimmy Buffet -- as well as games, bunting and food would all not be a part of it. Tourists would find themselves attracted, as always, by the gala Eventfulness of the matter, and all the stimuli and beguilements associated with city-sponsored Nights. Then, because the affair is an Uneventful one, the Outlanders turn their camper-vans around and -- sober, not over-agitated, perhaps unaware that nothing has happened -- motor harmlessly back to their regions, yes, kudos, I like that phrasing, I found it to be a delightful day-brightener.
Well, reviewers sure can have an impact. Not surprising when you think about what "reviews" really are to a community: in a way, our weekly letters to the world provide a voice, an "outlet," for the many diverse moods, impressions and, well, "feelings" that we reviewers are paid to share. And when those bright lights down at City Hall finally hunkered down and listened to our strong, sensible sharings, they put on their thinking caps and came up with Idiots on Parade. And what a tour dé force of modern public-festivity design!
Only Idiots enjoy parades, of course. Well, here's a twist: what if the Idiots were the parade? Get it? It is as easy as gathering them together in a secure area with bunting. Suddenly the tourist-behaviors that are normally such a malignancy have become the spectacle that justifies the presence of the thousands of tourists necessary to sustain the event. Furthermore, they would be certain to attend, since without them there would be no event for them to attend. There is no actual "parade" of course. Did I mention ... tour dé force?
But it gets more exciting. Seeing as how we were the driving force, the very soul, of this Entertainment, we -- over five hundred of the most prominent local reviewers, raconteurs, social stylists and expressers-of-opinion -- would for the inaugural Idiot Parade be sharing the spotlight with the objects of our scrutiny ... who just happened to be the guests of honor! It would be our chance to really shine (and deservedly so!) by comparison. I would be wearing a semi-formal pants-suit -- art deco, tapered neckline with taupe trim and multiple plunges, rose baffles at the waist with amber cinch -- entirely made of daffodil-pattern Brawny because I believe when you go slumming you should wear something you can throw away after. I'd have my escort, Devlin, in Armani -- pants, suit, etc. etc. -- with his briefs -- Armani -- pulled two inches up over the waistband of his pants because when in Rome.
The First Annual Idiots on Parade was held last Saturday in the spacious, sun-dappled south parking lot of the newly-painted Boeing Surplus Building #7. We took care, in keeping with the spirit of the event, to arrive unfashionably early; I sought out the service table and procured a Chinet of chili con carné with red beans which over the course of the afternoon I pretended to wolf down using a variety of simple Mime techniques learned during my college days in Provence.
I looked over the fairgrounds and reviewed them quickly. Grandstands filled with people had been set up on the far side of the cyclone fencing. Within the parading area itself I spotted Tom C. of the Times, Carlton McD. of the Journal, and so on, all the usuals here to tap out their boring boilerplate about the yokels come to sully up the big city.
My dear friend Donna T. from that Eastside paper came sidling up in a spring '93 or '94 Pucci semi-casual and bag, red, a lovely, lovely ensemble falling just short of my favor. "Hello Belinda, Dennis," she said. "Exciting. So many decorating ideas. And it's all for such a good cause one guesses."
Howard W. mumbled something. "I believe they said something about bunting."
I embraced them warmly. "Howard ... Donna," I said, using that jocular tone of correction my readers and friends know so well and love.
Calvin R. of Emerald Downs Tip-Sheet leaned in and cleared his throat. "Got another one. 'Unlawfulpalooza.' You make it free, see -- crowds love that -- but slap them with a fifty dollar fine if they show up. There's your revenue stream."
He had the scent of domestic wine about him. And because he was standing quite close, I could detect Camembert -- along with crushed green cloves, and a whisper of fresh dill -- in his beard, an unusual, even ... well, let's just say an unusual choice for early summer.
Idea. I cleared my throat and said coolly, "An unusual, even ... well, let's just say an unusual choice for early summer, Calvin." All present suppressed peals of laughter, including the gallery, which could hear us thanks to the lavalier mikes with which we'd been mounted upon entering the enclosure. I waved to them as a gesture.
Celia K. just had to speak. "Well, I don't know about all of your feelings, people, but I get the most excitable ones when I slum. Excursion! Like shopping for vegetables in Japantown, or going to a jazz club." And then everyone talked about food and music and pretty much every topic under the sun except for my feelings of ennui.
I scraped off my Chinet and slipped it into my fanny-pack for later recycling. Time to shake up this hootenanny with a sizzling bon mot. "In olden Rome, the invading armies didn't just manhandle all the valuables but actually stole them. Better, you know: because when it's stolen at least you don't have to clean it after."
"Betcha miss those sweet times," muttered Howard. Everyone laughed warmly.
"Speaking of which," interrupted Donna, looking around. "Where are they? I expected to be ankle-deep in Goth droppings by now."
Clifton R. of Cheese Week chortled. "They got side-tracked sacking some provincial 7-11 of its corn-dogs." That Clifton.
And it got me thinking. Where were the promised tourists? Concerned, I searched the perimeter for them or their indicia -- halter-tops, children, dungarees, etc. -- but saw nought but merry reviewers and spools of razor wire. Had there been a car accident? This "convenience store" ... what if the clerk had a gun? I grew worried. Tourists were a pivotal part of this review.
But then I got it. "Ding." You know how that happens sometimes, how certain people just "get it"? I suddenly realized that the party was progressing exactly as originally idealized in our minds.
Think about it. Normally when you invite Idiots to a party it will become something you will later recall as not being sensational.
But what if the people you invite are just plain stupid?
Tourists are usually so busy destroying other people's parties, causing misery and hardship. But when the tourists are the party? The only way they can louse that up is by not being there. By the tens of thousands. Until it becomes, unlike other parties that do not happen, the party sensation of the season.
The evening proved to be one of those win-win/win situations. Party-goers got a clean, civilized venue in which to revel and become devil-may-care. The city coffers got replenished (thanks in no small part to the generous $500 Special Reviewer surcharge we encountered at the entrance).
Oh, and the tourists? You might say they were the biggest winners of all: I gave them Five Stars ... plus a big Thumbs Up! What will they cook up for Idiot Parade 2: the Sequel?? (The Annual Parade of Idiots is held every Saturday afternoon at the Boeing Sequestration Area #5, 24601 Airport Way South. Festival seating; admission is $7, or free for Canadians and residents of Skamania, Wahkiakum, Squalicum, Klickitat and related counties.)

GreasePaint Theater
Theater should not merely offend; theater should also add to our understanding of life in some way. I go to the theater to learn, and GreasePaint Theater is great for that. For me, GPT productions are like, well, like metaphorical windows, looking out on a world of new ideas and perspectives and points of view that I do not understand.
The bourgeoisie do not attend plays at GreasePaint, but if they did they would have their petty sensibilities probably shocked by GPT's cutting-edge "switcheroo" plays. That's where they do things like cast male actors in, say, women's roles and such as that. I'm not kidding. By casting inappropriately, they really open our eyes to their way of doing things. Like with their all-female "Crying Game": wild. Their haunting use of priapism and two herpetics in "Godspell." Their eerie, all-nude "Crying Game."
Imagine running a theater and hiring a confused and frightened family of Hmong tribespeople to portray the musical Von Trapp Family. Pretty radical, right? Well, that's just what GPT did. Once they cast stammerers in a marvelous production which to this day I don't know what it was exactly, and when volunteers from the local Chamber of Commerce hammed it up as "The Flying Karamozov Brothers," there were surprises around every corner. You may not like the plays you see at GPT, but that just makes you feel more alive.
But, of course, they are most celebrated for their productions that make use of gays: certainly you recall their somber, sensitive rendition of "The Diary of Anne Frank" played by drag queens. There's something about an actor issuing tragic prose who has taken the trouble to decorate himself in bouffant wig, flower-pattern smock and Liz Taylor's Passion. Makes you want to laugh, but instead you weep like a baby. At GreasePaint Theater, they've been queening the classics for over 20 years now, and I still believe that nothing could be so daring.
(And, in this day and age of poseurs and wannabes, only GreasePaint proves that its cast is all-gay with a pre-show demonstration.)
Well, now there's the GPT interpretation of Shakespeare's "Macbeth" played by dogs.
Of course. Dogs. It's just something you would never expect.
At the March 23rd performance, there were at first a few ignorant snickers in the audience. But by the end of the first scene Kip, Puddles, Jerry-Anne and the rest of the excellent cast on loan from Leipzig's Canine Circus had stunned the audience into a dumb-founded hush. This is a moving, carefully-crafted study of the bard's wisest, most bittersweet work. The room was so silent at times you could hear each gentle snuffle of my thoughtful sobbing.
I did have a problem or two with some of the directorial decisions. Was it really necessary to have Ophelia come onto the stage and urinate during the "To be or not to be" scene? And isn't that a scene from Hamlet? Maybe it's me. And is it too much to ask to maybe have a human run the light-board? Again, maybe it's


Free to Bee
by Kim LeRoux
My guide Shelly led me through the dank and dimly-lit hall and the great dusty piles there, the stinking woolen piles and all they represented, the waste, the despair, the fucked-up times ... and I could not help but reflect grimly. I don't know which is sadder: the suffering ... or the people who, despite everything, don't know about that suffering.
Quick: what disease is the number one killer of lesbians between 20 and 45 years of age? Here's some help: it kills untold numbers; it strikes lesbian women disproportionately; there is not a cure at this time.
Well, if you answered correctly, The Lesbian Resource Alliance would like to hear from you, to help increase awareness of this most deadly of lesbian diseases.
"It's the disease that kills the most young lesbians," said Shelly. "You just shake your head and wonder. There is so much to learn. We need to know symptoms, the name of the disease and proper spelling, names of victims, with spelling, how do you get it. At this time we don't even know if there is a Number One killer, or whether or not it's deadly."
Maybe the normal thing to do would be to give up. End the fantasy, get on with one's life. But "Free to Bee: In Consideration of Unsuccessful Lesbian Disease Quilts" -- which continues through this weekend at Goodfellow's Hall -- is not about people who do the normal thing. It's about bright, lesbian activists dedicated to the dream of a Disease Quilt that will strike the fancy of the common man. A Quilt that would coherently highlight the number one killer disease of lesbian women, even though right now there isn't one apparently.
Quilting as a practice goes back centuries. In those days, of course, lesbianism itself was considered a "disease," easily cured by applications of salves and a vigorous constitutional, and thus not meriting a Quilt. So early quilts were utilitarian, overly heavy and nonsensical.
In these modern times of ours, of course, we know that, as Shelly puts it, "Lesbianism is not a disease. It cannot be 'cured.'"
"Cannot." It must take tremendous courage to say that. And so one quilts on, come what may.
I rummaged through the filthy piles. I found quilts sewn in the name of numerous lesbian plagues, scourges, pandemics, none serious, plus a variety of uninspiring Lesbian Vexation Quilts. There was a thick, downy quilt for Lesbian Hypothermia. The Lesbian Hypochondria Quilt I found, frankly, unconvincing; the Lesbian Montezuma's Revenge Quilt, frankly, more convincing than I felt necessary. One quilt made no sense at all to me until I suddenly realized it was maybe The Lesbian Crazy Quilt, and I dropped it hastily. There was a Quilt for Lesbian Childlessness, which is not considered a disease in that community, and one for Lesbian Pregnancy, which is not considered a disease in the other communities.
Crappy quilts. I certainly wouldn't travel far to see such quilts. I leaned in close and breathed deep. No, my friends. Whatever that smell was, it was not the smell of death. Not yet.
Full disclosure: I myself am sexually attracted to women. I have a small, fatty bosom, I cramp easily, and I am filled with a generalized rage that those around me consider baffling, so I have always considered myself to be in most respects a lesbian man. And it has often seemed to me that there are enormous compensations to belonging to a disease-free phenotype. But that is exactly the type of thinking that has relegated lesbians to the margins of Disease Campaigns and the public energies so critical to an aspiring gender-based subgenre.
Why a Disease Quilt? Well, Disease Quilts are more popular now than those Disease Walks because today's activity-goers are easily fatigued and wish to spend their time more wisely. That's something a lot of people aren't aware of, and I sought to find out from Shelly if she was one of them. "Why a Disease Quilt?"
She straightened her horn-rims. "That is exactly the type of thinking, pig, that enfringes lesbians to the margins of Disease Culture. Someday, lesbians everywhere will consider it Disgusting and an Outrage that we have had to go to the extreme of making an enormous quilt in order to get our message across. All that fine anger deserves a message which is clear and compelling. For example: whatever this lesbian disease turns out to be ... did you know that lesbian women suffer from it disproportionately? Where is the sharing there? Where is the caring?" She straightened her horn-rims. "I am outraged."
I nodded thoughtfully, and passed my hand over the quilty piles of failed dreams. Lesbian Distemper ... Lesbian Palsie & Fleshblighte ... Lesbian Smegmitosis. Uncompelling messages, these, perhaps because Disease buffs assume that it can't be a real problem, if it's not a real disease.
But it is a problem. To a lot of hard-working young activists. And it is so easy to help them right now, with quilt prices starting at only forty cents a square yard, and you'll be helping to raise money to assist in the ongoing search for a disease.
One sad quilt attracted my deepest pathos: the Lesbian Early-Onset Myelitis Quilt. It begins with bold, colorful stitch-work ... only to end, suddenly, a few shreds later. You'd think it not too much to ask that just one brave sufferer of this disease exist. But no. Not one. And then my pathos, too, was gone.
Quilts stacked up like headstones, I murmured. In a graveyard run by a loon.
Shelly really hated my honest wordcraft. "That's the sort of thinking, pig, that -"
A couple of complaints. Maybe it's me but ... the Lesbian Disease Potholders. They're cute, and only $8. But ... are you really going to want to handle your food with such things?
Also: would it be too much to ask to maybe have heterosexual women actually craft the Quilts? You pick them up and they just fall apart. Again, maybe it's



Rockeroky
Every Wednesday and Thursday night starting at 8pm, Bush Gardens Lounge offers an intriguing variation of karaoke called Rockeroky. One and all are invited up on stage to share their favorite make-believe-rocker routine. "Smash" foam-rubber Stratocasters (or really "play" them: they'll show you where to hold your hands), communicate your angst (they will also explain that) and otherwise "rock" on in silence as the audience watches with interest and enjoys complimentary pot stickers until 10pm. Then towel off and help yourself to a groupie or two, which, I found, are more than happy to pay for drugs and motel accomodations.
Sun in my eyes. Traffic noise. Hangover the size of a tractor-trailer hauling pain across the backroads of my head. Lay there a while, getting my bearings, let this carousel ride of a shitty motel room spin down a bit ... where the fuck am I?
Somebody moves next to me. What the ... some kind of chick. Jesus Christ: it all starts coming back to me. Last night. Man, I really rocked that joint. I was cookin', Jack. It is so fucking electric when you click with an audience like that. Then groupie, doobie, motel, free cable.
Same old same old. Holy shit. It blew me away all of sudden. When did my life get like this? Crazy. Out of control. Is this what I worked so hard for? Jesus. All those hours of practicing and studying the moves and dreamin', just so I could wake up with a hangover in a strange motel next to a fat girl. Fuck, it didn't feel "glamorous" at all.
Who have I become?
"Hey, dude? Wanna get some breakfast?"
I am not shittin' you. That is what the bitch said. Man, I think it's the fans who freak me out the most sometimes. Like: when did I become a commodity? When exactly? Why do people think they own a piece of me? I'm just Keenan, man. Keenan Van Goth. I'm more than just something you can pull out of your pocket every time you need to be entertained. But that's not how people see it.
I rolled out of bed and picked up my shades. Where's my fucking cap? I need my cap, man! MOTHERFUCKER! Goddamn it man. Fuck it. I gotta get out of here. Let me outta here. I looked at the groupie. "Keep the cap, babe. Have fun with it. Show it to your little friends," I thought. And I hit the streets.
Walkin' down Aurora Avenue, fresh air blowin' away the cobwebs, traffic hummin' by like a steel breeze. The streets, man. The streets can bring you alive or they can eat you alive. It's all about attitude. See, I'm a product of the streets. And when I'm out in the streets, out in my element, and I'm just hangin' with the pimps, hookers and junkies, the poor old winos covered with piss and puke, my attitude is sometimes I wish I wasn't a product of the streets because I really don't want to be associated with that behavior. I'm not really into that. I'm more of an artist.
Sometimes I feel like I should do something to help. Give something back to the community. But I just don't know. Because you gotta have more than faith, man. More than hope and love and belief. You gotta have more. You gotta have energy. And I don't really have very much. They have just drained me dry. I just have no more to give.
I truck into The Mecca Lounge; the bartender brings me my brew. Eddie's there, and Krist, and Candlebox is over in the corner drowning their miseries. They try to make eye-contact, I suppose, but I'm just not into it. In the early days, makin' music was about the joy of it. But things aren't the same since Kurt was murdered. It's different. And now I look at those guys and I know -- I just know -- that I will never go corporate.
Sometimes I feel like chucking it all. "See ya." Get myself a little place up in the woods in Vermont and just hide. Just me and my guitar and my babe, drinkin' sweet wine, that's all that I need.
But then reality checks in. Who am I fucking kidding?
Fuck it, man. Fuck it. Can't fight -- ooh, babe! -- can't fight this angst I'm feelin'.
Whoa! Excellent! I grabbed a pen and a napkin. The juices were really flowing. For five minutes I just let the inspiration pour out of me. Wow! It is so electric when everything just clicks. For the first time that day it felt good to be alive. I actually felt kind of fortunate, thankful that I had friends and good health and that all true art comes from tragedy and pain.
So that's the story of how "Can't Fight This Feeling" was born. It's a great tune, about four minutes long, with excellent lyrics, hard-edged and intense but you can definitely dance to it. "Thumbs up" indeed. (Mr. Van Goth can be contacted through the offices of this publication.)


Thrills and Spills
Gamblers and race-track fanciers have long enjoyed the annual Breeders' Cup, the prestigious horse-racing classic for heterosexual horses. Well, now comes out of New Orleans the Breeders' Dance Company. And you'll be amazed at how nimbly these well-meaning young dancers can get themselves about the stage. Wagering takes place at a well-lighted counter in the lobby, and licensed medical practitioners are waiting in the wings to keep the stage clear of lame, hobbled or otherwise


Banned Art
Using art to help a fascist or dictator grow and change and learn can sometimes convince him to ban the art that dared to reach out. Then, forever after -- and even if the banishment is eventually lifted -- that work of art carries with it, like some sort of indelible mark, the overriding reputation of coolness.
Well, change is a nebulous thing, and let us not underestimate the complexities of modern times. All too often nowadays, a young artist with fresh ideas will introduce a bold, strongly provocative work onto the art scene. Then, despite the work's merit -- and despite the public interest, appeals from the arts community, even threats of lawsuit -- the hand of government or some other powerful social institution simply will not ban it.
Now comes Felder-Kline Gallery, a new Pioneer Square gallery focusing exclusively on works of art, photography and sculpture which they ban.
The owner and curator, Scot Felder-Kline, gave me a tour last weekend. I found the art to be colorful, interesting to the eye and, like all banned art, both bold and provocative.
"A lot of these we banned in '96," said Scot. "Remember? That was the year Reagan really went off the deep end. Some of our paintings we ban more than once, of course, as needed." He indicated a colorful watercolor. "This one we only partially banned."
Indeed. I liked its subtle interplay of banned and not-banned. Controversial.
Scot both bans and creates most of the works on display. It must take tremendous courage to do that. "I should not ban them, of course. Banning is wrong. It's a free-speech matter. That's why I have a number of works-in-progress which I also should not ban that I will dedicate to free speech afterwards."
And that's why banned art is so important. I didn't buy any of the works -- they're pricey -- but I did bring a small Frank Frazetta print for Scot to ban for me for a small fee.
Young people today often confuse "banned art" with "band art." "Band art" is art relating to bands: album covers and such. "But since band art is idiotic, and repulses the eye of the beholder, it is unnecessary to 'ban' it. Hence the confusion," I explained to Scot, who



Lyle Derby, 1-900-783-7855
Like most people, I've long wondered how I might own and operate a successful small business that would combine high profits with no overhead, no labor costs, no expenses for merchandise or supplies, no investment of personal time from my otherwise busy day, all while helping society. Well, I finally came up with such an idea, and my inspiration came from the same source that has inspired so many other entrepreneurial success stories: Generation X.
Last summer, during a Boston radio show, Pearl Jam's Eddie Vedder recited his home phone number over the air. As a result of the subsequent, literally constant flow of incoming calls, which continues to this day, Mr. Vedder -- who has of course disengaged the ringer on his phone -- needs merely to pick up the receiver at any time, 24 hours a day, to speak to a potential customer. Needless to say, he cannot make outgoing calls.
And I thought: imagine. If a local entertainer can get this kind of response, just think of the response a local businessman could get.
I purchased a minute of interview time on local radio station KISW. Enough time to say, "Lyle Derby, 1-900-783-7855," a few dozen times. Then I went home.
The phone was already ringing. And not the customary ring-ring. But one continuous riiiiiiii ....
I picked it up and listened. My mistake. "Um ... hello? Is this ... is this that dude?"
Egads! The private hell Mr. Vedder must know. I swore to myself: never, ever, answer the phone.
I turned off the ringer and began to count my profits. Few people and even fewer teens are aware that 900-number charges kick in even during the ringing period. At $8.99 per minute, even if a teen only lets it ring for 5 or 6 minutes, I can expect an after-tax

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