Swanson has never married. He says he's used to being alone. And though he clearly enjoys it when folks approach him with stars in their eyes, he says he doesn't go looking for Busey sightings. He doesn't want to jinx it.
"If I worked at it, it would probably [go] kaput," he says. "I don't go out and say 'This will be a Gary night.' I go out and say 'This will be a lucky night.' But I probably get more Gary than I get lucky."
Steven Dewall
Everywhere he goes,Jeff Swanson gets mistaken for Gary Busey.
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Swanson may own a massive island retreat, but his Belltown condo is your basic bachelor pad: a six-pack in the fridge, a week-old boxed pastry from nearby Macrina Bakery still untouched on the counter, and no place to sit save for an unmade bed. He boasts the boyish charm of someone who's never quite grown up, and the swagger of a man who's led a charmed life. In addition to the plane and the island escape, Swanson is an antiques nut and world traveler who's always searching for treasures in unexpected places, including close to home. A few years ago, he bought a 5-foot-tall drum that he found under a blanket in a small shop in Pioneer Square. He nicknamed it the "mongo bongo." Turns out it was a Baga male drum from Guinea, one of only 13 in the world. He sent it to the Smithsonian and a handful of other East Coast museums for viewing, had it appraised for $1 million, and ultimately sold it with the help of Sotheby's for $180,000.
Swanson describes the drum as one of his "surprises in life." He often characterizes his favorite moments in such terms, and talks about them with an almost religious reverence. Whether it's the notable (finding a rare antique) or the mundane (the chance meeting at the Two Bells that led to this article), Swanson says it's life's unexpected events that give him meaning. But there's an underlying loneliness there, the feeling that Swanson is still searching for something—something that's perhaps sated by sometimes pretending to be someone else.
"I think he's probably one of the loneliest guys I know," says longtime friend Todd Dean. "I'm probably one of only a handful of individuals that are his friends. I think people just don't understand Jeff. He can be hard and abrasive, and inappropriate."
Dean then relays one of his favorite "Jeff stories," an outburst during a dinner party at Swanson's island retreat. One of the guests, a woman, was leaving soon for a spa in San Francisco. "And Jeff kept saying, 'You're going to the fat farm,'" Dean remembers. "[Her] husband said, 'I'd appreciate it if you didn't say that.' And Jeff just smiled and said, 'Well, it's true.'"
Swanson admits tact isn't one of his strong suits. He says he's never been the kind of guy women have been anxious to bring home to Dad. "I'd probably say something inappropriate," he says, grinning broadly and brushing the hair out of his eyes.
Though being Swanson's friend has been "trying at times," Dean says, "When you get to know who he is as a person, he brings a tremendous amount to the table. He has integrity, does what he says he's going to do—an extremely rare quality."
Swanson and I meet on a recent Wednesday for a drink in a quiet corner of the W Hotel. He's accompanied by his pride and joy, a Pomeranian named King that he shares custody of with a former girlfriend. Set down on a leather loveseat, the dog sports a rhinestone collar and is shorn of all but a lionlike poof of fur that rings his miniature head.
I ask Swanson if he's worried that once this story runs, his adventures as Busey will be over—or that people will be angry. "It's all about who you are. People will probably say [they] sympathize with the poor bastard," he says. "But there will always be those who want you to play along. People in Seattle are so hungry for celebrity that you can pick a country bumpkin like me and turn him into a folk hero."
"He's a character, there's no doubt about it," says Dean Swanson. "Jeff is just Jeff. You kind of accept him for who he is."
Or, if you live in Seattle, you accept him for being Busey.
acurl@seattleweekly.com
