Looking for history

An excavation began south of the Mai Wah on July 12. We hope they will find out more about the Chinese neighborhood that used to stand there.

Condo Town

Butte faces changes. As much as it remains the same vociferous contradiction in which I grew up, it is no longer the 19th Century industrial city memorialized in countless books and newspaper articles and magazine articles. It still sticks in the journalist's and the artist's craws, but below the rough beauty of its urban landscape moves an evolutionary imperative.

If you go to the Butte Archives and look up old newspaper articles about life in Butte, surprisingly modern-sounding problems recur. Immorality, in the forms of substance abuse, infidelity, lewd behavior, greed, gluttony and lack of charity glare from the headlines. Fires, earthquakes, packs of stray dogs, pigeon infestations and epidemics of disease show the difficulty of survival on this urban island in a high desert. Politicians are made and broken by the whims of big-money men. Nothing has changed, but everything has changed.

We have to adapt, and not all the adaptations will work. The first fish to develop landgoing organs was a mutant. I'm sure it was reviled, as are all harbingers of change. Change is frightening; it invites mockery, terror and hatred. Creatures of habit and comfort, we view change as an aberration rather than as an inevitable fact.

As 21st Century humans, we have to evolve faster than ever, and in the harsh environs of the American West, this change will be more painful than any before to us.

Get ready to morph; the time to adapt or die is close at hand--or digital device, more likely. The old corporate model of a beneficent parent caring for its workers is dead and buried. Likewise, the charitable government is a casualty of the world-wide economy and dwindling social conscience. It's either a survival of the fittest, fattest rat or it's a survival of the smartest rat. Use what you have.

Not all of your current skills are relevant, but a lot of forgotten skills may be useful. Try to remember what you know. Practice it. Try using it for new purposes. You may have to do it sooner than you feel ready. Think of yourself as MacGyver with a straw, a wad of gum, and an old battery. How do you get out of the jam, Dude?

Sunday Sunday

I'm getting ready for the 4th of July. Dave and I made signs for the van and got it cleaned up for the big parade. I wrote a snarky e-mail about the upcoming week's entertainment. Why not? Everyone just keeps asking the same questions, over and over and over and over again whether I provide information or not. Let's just post pictures of pretty stuff and cut up colored paper, why don't we!

?

From the Ziggurat...

Those cold hills are magical and hot beneath with greed and lust for gain.

Seduction

The Artist Formerly Known As Robinator

Here's The Story Of Millie The Moocher

My old friend Bob Hanson used to ask, "You ever notice, a crowded elevator smells different to a little midget?"

(Note to myself: I have to tell you about Bob later. I've got tears starting just remembering him. Generous doesn't describe this gentle, aloof clown of an observer. He was a comic's comic, and he lives on in the road comedy of the Northwestern United States through the many comedians who learned more about their craft from him and who still tell his magical jokes today. I miss you, Bob! Knock 'em dead! You own the room, Baby!)

This alley to the east of the Millie building on Granite Street looks and smells different to a cat. It's a special storehouse. New mice live in the three wells I will show you later today. There's a dead bird in the shadowy right hand corner below this picture. Glittering jeweled bricks and glass baubles line the path. The bush hints at possibility beyond the alley, and the sky is bright with summer's promise. What fights we'll have, and what love we'll make in the bright moonlight of the Solstice. Songs will be written and some will lose an eye or a corner of an ear. Nicknames have to be chosen for the survivors: Scratch the Yellow-eyed, Old Bess O'The Dumpster, and Will Runamok will write new tales for telling in the long, cold winter.

"Weird," I mused as I snapped away at the alley.

I heard a gentle, bemused laugh behind me. It was Mark Reavis, another gentle giant who was showing the Millie building to my right. It's a historic structure, more notable for its survival and its total ability to blend into the landscape so as to appear invisible to the long-time resident. Mark walked down the steps behind me as I stood up.

"Just taking some pictures. It's neat back here," I said. I didn't feel uncomfortable, even though I probably looked pretty stupid squatting in an alley on a Thursday afternoon.

"Good word," Mark said. "Weird." He laughed again, and I felt something like understanding. Weird indeed, since I had been thinking about how loud and overenthusiastic his partner Dory had sounded as she tried to interest me in getting a "developer's packet" for the Millie. I think of them as these tall, overenthusiastic boosters, but I'm realizing they are just as gawky in love with this town as I am. We aren't really very graceful, and we don't explain how a beam of sunlight or a found fragment of a long dead Butte life make us giddy at the past and the possibility of this burg. We're like a young boy in love with a mischevous spinster aunt. How can we tell our mother that she stirs our loins when she laughs?

Mark and I stepped into the cool basement of Millie. An open suitcase blocked the doorway, so we stepped over it. An envelope on the floor said "John Shelton." The room was shadowed and slightly musty.

"Where was the fire?" I asked.

"They pushed a couch over in the corner." Mark showed me a dark corner. Plaster hung like limp hunks of dead hair from the bowing ceiling slats. A dim lump sat in a pile of paper and clothing and discarded existance. "It was closed in."

"Smoking in bed?" I asked absently.

"Nope, couch. Recreational." I liked Mark's laugh. It felt like we were part of the same club, "recreational." The word identified us as part of the same generation.

"Can't leave a couch anywhere," I laughed. "The night of the Art Walk, some guys took an old couch out of Julian's dumpster and set it on fire smoking."

"No!"

"Yes!" We laughed. "Bound to happen." It seemed naughty, like skipping school, knowing that people did these things inches from where "important" people were doing "important" things like trying to revitalize the old urban neighborhood. There they were, sipping just the right amount of wine and saying the pat phrases about the neatly hung photographs. "Ouevre," "Texture," and "Atmosphere," had been bandied about with mannered casual droops of the eyelid that night. Meanwhile, smooth-bellied youth, bound for lives of installing carpets and toilets, were smoking pot in an alley on a purloined couch.

Did Mark secretly imagine himself popping a cold can of Coors light with the boys in the moonlight or giggling over a flickering glass pipe in this basement?

How would I know? I was just Robin the Cat, exploring the neighborhood. I decided I liked Mark.

Looking at the shell of the Millie, I wondered if it would really have a place in the new dream of gentrifying and condofying Uptown Butte, but I knew if they tore her down that people would notice. She'd be like a missing front tooth in the craggy smile of Granite Street. She'd be a gaping hole for a while, showing way too much of the alley-mouth behind her and reminding us that she used to be there, but in a few years, we'd just think it was always like this and we'd forget to stare.

Would Millie be worth fixing? Even if she were shorn up and straightened and polished and decorated, she'd still just be a little old tooth in the smile, not good for a lot. She might get bad again if more boys moved into the basement and started smoking and drinking. She might go up in a more spectacular fashion, bursting into flame in the night, and screw up the whole pattern of the street. Decisions, decisions! What would people say?

Oh well. Same as it ever was. I suppose some people will talk about it and study it and mull it over and observe and make charts, but I'm moving on.

There's always a lot to do when you're a cat in an alley.


Here's a song about Minnie the Moocher
She was a real hootchie cootcher
She was the meanest, toughest frail
But Minnie had a heart as big as a whale

Hi de hi di hi di hi...



Just see what the boys in the backroom will have and give them the poison they name
Just see what the boys in the backroom will have and tell them I'm having the same
And when I die, don't pay the preacher
To talk about my fortune and my fame
Just see what the boys in the backroom will have and tell them I sighed
And tell them I cried
And tell them I died of the same.

And when I die, don't spend my money
On flowers and my picture in a frame
Just see what the boys in the backroom will have and tell them I died of the same.

(June 23, 2007)

Hamilton Street

More Magical Buildings and Haunted Alleys

What people cooked and slept and dreamed in this building?







Looking down Hamilton Street, one can believe in magic.

More pics

Bill Weatherly, Man About Town

Don't Panic



If This Be

What The Hell Do We Do Now?

Mark Jordan, 81

MARK W. JORDAN, 81

Mark Wesley Jordan died peacefully Wednesday, June 13,2007 at the Butte Convalescence Center after a long battle with cancer.

Mark Wesley Jordan was born in Winona, Washington October 30, 1925, a son of Frank and Virgie Jordan. He was raised on wheat ranches near Winona and Chewelah, Washington. He was a graduate of Jenkins High School (1943)in Chewelah and much later attended the University of Montana Law Enforcement Academy.

Mark served in the U.S. Navy during World War Two, in the Pacific Theater. At war’s end his unit was in Okinawa preparing for the invasion of Japan. Following his release from active duty he moved to Butte. He worked for Hennessy’s, and Bertoglios in uptown Butte before becoming a partner in the Butte Bozeman Delivery Service. He then worked as a Teamster for F & S Construction, and The Anaconda Company driving in the Berkeley and Alice Pits, sometimes hauling waste for fill for the growing Interstate Highway System. A strike led him to Kunkel-Wills Pontiac GMC where worked as lot manager for several years during the 1960's. Mark was an active member of the Butte Vigilante Saddle Club and was Major of the Silver Bow Count Sheriff Posse. This led to his being deputized by then Sheriff Bill Dawling. He served eleven years as a deputy sheriff and twelve years as a police sergeant for Butte-Silver Bow County. He was proud to have served as court bailiff for judges Mark Sullivan and Arnold Olsen.
Mark was variously active in the American Legion, the Loyal Order of Moose, the BPOE, and was a Life Member of the VFW.

The Jefferson Valley was a very special place for Mark where he had many close friends and where he brought his family so that he could share his country roots with them. He loved horses and knew every inch of Whitetail Park where he loved to hunt with the Strozzi’s, Von Mills and his dear friend George Bechtold . Ed Judd, Roy Hastie, and Cliff Sanders hunted all the rest of the area with him at a time when deer and elk meat where worth more than a “rustlin’ card” with the ACM. In later years Mark and Little Roy Hastie may have shot a million gophers, more or less. After he “retired” in 1988 he made his home in Waterloo and Whitehall.

For better or worse, Mark Jordan was married three times and raised three families. His first wife Phyllis (1928-2001) bore him two sons. David M.(Robin) Jordan, Butte, Montana; and Richard G. (Melody) Jordan, with beloved Granddaughter Desiree Rose in Seward, Alaska.

Mark’s second family tragically lost three children David, Steve, and Danette over the
years they where together through accident or disease. A stepson Mark (Kari) Beuthien with their son Scott in Federal Way, Washington were greatly loved as Mark loved all Judy’s kids.






Mark’s third wife Dorothy Nudd Dubois, who preceded him in death in 2007, brought him three fine stepsons to raise as his own in Whitehall. Mark was very proud of them and their young families: Kenneth “Gus” (Nickie) Senst, Whitehall; Rickie (Amy) DuBois, Douglas, Wyoming; and Waylon (Detra) Dubois, Whitehall. Among them, they gave Mark eight more step-grandchildren who filled Mark’s last years with love and joy. Although, none will miss him more than his dear little Austin.




Also preceding him in death were his parents, brother Orville, and sisters Jerrie and
Norma.

He is also survived by his brother Virgil (Betty) Jordan, Winona, Washington; and sisters Jeanie (Dale) Gough, Spokane, Washington; Lois (Arnie) Bowman, Pendleton, Oregon; and Carol Jacobson, Walla Walla, Washington. He will be sorely missed by many nieces and nephews who loved their dear Uncle Mark.

A visitation funeral service will be held at Gold Hill Memorial Church in Butte on Monday, June 18, 11:00 a.m. with luncheon to follow. All friends and relatives are cordially invited to attend.

Final funeral services will be held at the Assembly of God Church in Whitehall, Montana on Tuesday, June 19, 10:00 a.m. with luncheon to follow. Internment will be at Mountain View Cemetery, Dillon, Montana at 1:30 p.m.

K & L Mortuaries of Whitehall are in charge of arrangements.

Memorials encouraged to Easter Seals / Highlands Hospice.

by David Mark Jordan

Texting

Some photos with thoughts.

Jill's Alley

Java Jill's, 27 W. Park, is a great coffee house. You never know who's going to be there, the coffee is always great, and the company is weird and outstanding. The topics range from music and art to politics to complete balderdash to sexual abandon and love.

The alley behind Jill's is charged with emotion and potential.

I love to take photographs in all weather there.

Here are some.

Medusa

Medusa

(Medusa is a ceiling fan found in the garage behind the Butte Weekly offices in the spring of 2007 by Robin Jordan. What she made of it, only her Posterity Knows For Sure.)

Medusa is one of the grooviest of mythic beasties. She was able to turn men to stone if they looked directly at her. She is portrayed as having snakes for hair.

Like Medusa, this innocent ceiling fan, baring her glowing, serpentine wires, turns modern man to stone. The stare becomes blank or contemplative. He wants to put his hands and tools into it to figure it out and make it work. The more he looks at it over a period of minutes or hours or years, the less it works "the way it's supposed to."

Woman in general has always had this effect.

The more Man tries to fix her, the less she produces the desired effect. He eventually throws her out and buys a new one in this society.

If he looks at her through the reflection of photography or poetry or song, she takes on a permanent beauty that he can live with, at least in memory. Once she has been captured in a moment, her mystery fades. She is his forever.

This ceiling fan is a slut. A pretty jolly slut, and they shared some great times, but damnit, she never understood him. If only things had been different.

(It's okay to hate me now.)

More Pictures and stuff

I just like this foyer in front of the elevators on the main floor of the Metals Bank Building.

Unintended Consequences

One of the reasons I take pictures is to remember. My "artistic" and "egotistical" goal is "to be remembered." I want to take a picture (or pictures) that will tell future generations something about what we are. It's a complicated job, and as my admired friend Bob Berisford, a great photographer said, I'm not going to get rich doing it and it probably won't get me any fame in my lifetime.

Call it my little contribution to the thing they call Butte Culture.

I named this picture This Magic Moment, but it could be called Unintended Consequences, because it is probably going to be the most misunderstood picture I have shown you so far.

This photograph is of Ellen Crane, director of the Butte Archives. Ellen is not only a fine historian and curator of Butte history, but she is a tireless champion of Butte. She speaks to local groups about the work she does to preserve this town's legacy and make it a true resource for future economic and social development. I really like and admire Ellen.

The reason this photograph is going to be singled out and misinterpreted and misused by future viewers is the time that it was taken, June 15, 2007. In fifty years, even those who were alive at the time will vaguely remember that there was a war on and that soldiers from Butte were killed. They will look at the statue (Hey, Pops Weaver, do you like it on the steps of the Courthouse?), and assume that Ellen is the mother of a war hero of the War In Iraq. Hell, some well meaning organization will probably be using it to sell the future equivalent of War Bonds or to encourage the recital of the pledge of allegiance in schools. It will have the legend, "Never Forget," which is something that will make all of us in the Heavenly Choir laugh our celestial asses off.

The truth about the picture is that it was taken at a dedication ceremony for the new boundaries of the historic district, now the largest in the United States. Ellen was accepting the flowers and the plaque for her part in the effort to gain this recognition for our city of Butte, Montana and our larger southwestern Montana community. It's an honor that is going to add to the fame and notice our area receives in the world. It's very important for the success of Butte as a location for business, industry, and development.

I just happened to be the cat who happened to walk by with a camera.

"Hilarity Ensues"

Scarlet Ribbons--Picture of Katie Richards as Ruby

Scarlet Ribbons, a play by Susan Faye Roberts, was performed by 7 women at the Covellite Theatre June 7,8,9, 2007 for benefit of the Dumas Brothel restoration project by CPR Butte. The production's performances raised over $1000 and sparked interest in the historic building, the last standing Victorian style brothel structure in the United States. Photo by Robin Jordan.

THEATER: SCARLET RIBBONS SHOWCASES BUTTE MEMORIES

Review by Robin Jordan


(Scarlet Ribbons was presented June 7-10 at the Covellite Theatre as a fund raiser for the Dumas Brothel renovation project of Butte CPR)

Scarlet Ribbons, a series of seven monologues written, produced and directed by Susan Faye Roberts, is a lively exploration of the social motivations of women who worked in Butte’s brothels at the end of the 19th Century. Showcasing the individual acting abilities of seven local talents, the production was staged minimally but featured opulent costuming by Rediscoveries Vintage Clothing and Antiques.

Lasting less than an hour with a brief intermission, the production invites an expanded production, perhaps including folk music performance, as suggested by the inclusion of lyrics from an American ballad in the first vignette.

The play explores the circumstances and motivations of each character for her choice to work at the infamous Dumas, considered the last known example of Victorian Brothel Architecture in the U.S.

Roberts, the writer, focuses on the dichotomy between the ideals of “true womanhood” and “the cult of domesticity” with the harsh economic reality of woman’s plight in the mining west. Her characters are forced by circumstance of birth and accident to chose prostitution, one of the few means of earning a living available to women of the time.

Forced, perhaps by the brief length of the production or short time spent preparing the production, to reduce the “problem” of prostitution to an economic necessity rather than a conscious choice, even in the case of “Babette,” a character played with lusty verve by Melissa Morin, who chooses prostitution as a means of competing with men on an equal footing, the play never touches the women who might have simply enjoyed sex and getting money for it.

At least those few lucky women of pleasure enjoyed a few moments of remembrance by some of the older gentlemen who knew them and who were reminded of their charms by this performance. A few rheumy male eyes twinkled in Butte’s night spots after Scarlet Ribbons.

DVD Review: The Illusionist

DVD Review by Robin Jordan

THE ILLUSIONIST
Released September, 2006
Director and writer: Neil Burger
(Based on a short story, "Eisenheim the Illusionist", by Steven Millhauser)
Stars: Ed Norton, Paul Giamatti(Chief Inspector Uhl), Jessica Biel(Sophie von Teschen)
Leopold: Rufus Sewell(son of Franz Joseph)


Synopsis: A popular magician and performer first entrances crowned heads and the rest of a fictionalized 19th century Vienna, then shocks with “mystic” revelations from beyond the grave that topple a crown prince and lead to a populist revolution mirrored in the love affair between a commoner and a titled lady.

Ed Norton, an actor who has made a career of playing quirky outsiders in popular hits like Fight Club and Red Dragon, plays a gifted illusionist named Eisenheim, a commoner who rises through his skill in crafting ever more complicated and amazing magical feats for the amusement of the crowned heads of Europe. The story is told in flashbacks, beginning with the attempted arrest of Eisenheim and his disappearance into thin air after the death of fictional crown prince Leopold (Rufus Sewell).

The Illusionist successfully casts Norton, an unconventional romantic lead against Jessica Biel, hardly a likely choice for a 19th century lady, with surprising success. Largely because of the masterful portrayal of Chief Inspector Uhl by Paul Giamatti, who seems more at home in the expansive characters of the period than the leads.

Neil Burger, who wrote the screenplay as well as directed, evokes the elaborate magical themes of Steven Millhouser, Pulizer prize winner, who wrote the short story that inspired this film. While critics have complained that the script has little to do with the focus of the source material, Burger manages to craft a compelling mystery and romance for the popular screen while keeping intact a baroque attention to noticing detailed complexity of scene and emotional state that is present in many of Millhouser’s short stories.

Burger and his cast paid scrupulous attention to authentic details in The Illusionist. Norton did many of his own magic tricks, and Biel studied copious source material on habits of speech and dress of the period, right down to the habit of lifting her voluminous skirts with one hand (to indicate that her character is a lady, not a prostitute.)

This film lends itself to the DVD format. As a theatrical entertainment for modern audiences, it fails by its very complexity of plot. As a DVD, which can be paused and reviewed for clues to what is illusion and what is real, the film becomes an interactive game for the viewer. It seems crafted for the video scenario gamer. The venues and possible choices for the characters are well designed and attractive, and the payoffs of clues and sensual titillation are well timed for gamers of both sexes.

I can easily imagine a couple who enjoy creative anachronism and fantasy gameplaying spending several happy evenings debating the merits of Eisenheim’s illusions and their own detective skills.

In a marketplace of quirky, non-sequential independent movies, The Illusionist ranks somewhere in the middle for innovative storytelling, but the gorgeous musical score by Phillip Glass and rich cinematography by Dick Pope (Topsy-Turvy, Vera Drake) raise the quality of the film above mere cleverness and the period “cuteness” of Merchant-Ivory-type vehicles.

The standard DVD has a director’s commentary, several behind-the-scenes interviews, and trailers.

The Illusionist is rated PG-13 for some sexuality and violence. Three stars out of four.

Stories My Mother Told Me

That reminds me of a story my mother told me about a girl she knew named Mabel Ringling. Mabel claimed to be related to the famous Ringlings of Ringling Brothers' Circus. Mabel had a habit of twisting her hair, which was curly--a mass of ringlets. Mabel decided to form an exclusive club; I believe it was the Jolly Four club.
Mabel's three friends were very happy for a time. Soon, though, they found that when they wanted to do things with other friends, Mabel always had to know all about it. Mabel was very jealous of those who were not in the Jolly Four club but who had the friendship of other members of the Jolly Four club. Soon, Mabel made one of the other girls uncomfortable enough about her other friends that she quit the Jolly Four club.

Pretty soon, the other two non-Mabel members of the new Jolly Three club quit for similar reasons, so Mabel formed the Jolly One club.

The rest of the girls felt kind of bad for Mabel, always planning great celebrations and adventures for the Jolly One club.

The moral of the story is that it's pretty hard to have a secret handshake when you are the only member of the club.

(Author's note: After speaking to my mother, a very different story emerged. I didn't remember the story correctly at all.)

Mabel Ringling was actually a girl who went to the University of Montana and studied music. My mother feels that she should have concentrated on Equestrian Science instead, since she was a marvelous horsewoman. My mother felt that Mabel didn't really belong at music school.

The girl who had the Jolly One Club was a sadder case indeed, one that makes my mother feel bad to this day.

The club was actually the Jolly Seven Club. The little girl, Dee-Suse, was NOT included in the club. My mother was. She and her little friends excluded Dee-Suse because her family was not quite as "normal" as the other girls' families. Dee-Suse was not excluded for being snobby, but for wanting to be part of the smart girls' set. Dee-Suse made up "The Jolly One Club" as a little solace for her own lonely little self.

Sad, but true. It's not easy not to be just like everybody else. Especially if everybody else is young and petty and cruel.

Numbered Alleys

I'm exploring alleys and garages and basements for clues about our present civilization. What they call civilization here is a confusing amalgam of passageways that the natives fear and color with superstitions and folkways. I met another traveller today and it felt good. The kind of good that makes your fingers feel light and your feet skip tirelessly even while your guts tense with anticipation and pious restraint. I am a nun with dirty habits, but my shame feels secret and as delicious as a cookie hidden for later, better in the anticipation than in the sweet devouring.

Welcome to Scalawags

Scalawags is art by Robin Jordan.

Enter if ye dare.