DECEMBER 29, 2013
ALL CREATURES GREAT AND SMALL
For the final images of 2013 we leave you folks with this somewhat wistful
fellow standing all by himself on a postage-stamp lawn here on the island,
wishing everyone a happier and better new year.

NEW TIMES! NEW TIMES! NEW NEW NEW TIMES!
Its been a slow news week with the kids out of school, all the public
employees attending holiday functions instead of screwing us up some more.
and loads upon loads of retrospectives. The Planning Board did sit down
to talk about plans for the 22 acre Jean Sweeny Open Space Park. Most
worrisome comment made was by PB President David Burton who said, "This
is a gigantic parcel of land and there is a wide variety of things that
could happen here."
Well you know you all could just leave it alone. But no. Something will
just have to be constructed.
In other news fellow blogger Lauren Do made some ascerbic comments about
Tony Dasog heavily using Twitter during a City Council Meeting. Ms. Do
found it kind of wierd that a councilperson would do that during a meeting,
indicating that probably paying attention would be a better use of the
paid public employee's time. Interestingly Daysog responded in a manner
that clearly missed every salient point made by blogger Do in classic
politico fashion by recognizing an issue and then addressing a number
of points which had nothing to do with it, inexplicably citing the Sunshine
Ordinance before dismissing it as irrelevant.
It is clear why comedy clubs do not fare well in this down - as Mr. Daysog
indicated, attendance to any council meeting is free and available to
all.
In the police blotter we note a whopping 10 persons 5150'ed, or "detained
for psychiatric observation", which usually means being sent to John
George for 72 hour hold. Five of those were reported on Friday alone.
As expected we see a plethora of burglaries and grand theft and the usual
raft of public drunks. Two cases of dog and cat bites apiece. Could be
worse.
Nice pics of the defunct Neptune Beach in its heyday on pages 2 and 3
of the Sun, BTW.
New Year's means that this will be another broken week for some people
getting a day off Wednesday only to return to Scrooge and Marley for the
painful days after.
New Year's also means a return to the Avoid the 21 cash incentive program
-- excuse me, we mean the concentrated law enforcement initiative -- to
snag drunk drivers. On the Island virtually every restaurant and venue
is doing something, including the gala at the Hornet. Josh Kornbluth will
be gracing Rhythmix this year in stiff competition to Silly Hall.
Our readership as shrunk so we cannot afford to lose any of you; so do
not drink and drive. We want to hear from you in the New Yeark.
SEE YOU IN THE CELTIC NEW YEAR
So anyway we come now to the final days of the year 2013, which has seen
such political acrimony and hardball style that the Commonweal got injured
in all the fracas. The Body Politic had taken significant beatings before
this, and the Constitution stands now in need of a few stitches and some
transfusion to replace all the blood loss. The Nation shall survive, but
rehab shall likely be a slow and painful process. Fortunately now is the
case that no one can be denied health care because of a previous condition.
With the schools closed Ms. Morales (now Mrs. Sanchez) has been spending
her time the way most schoolteachers do on their days off - writing up
new lesson plans, mending torn textbook covers, purchasing supplies the
District fails to provide, and catching up with former pupils of hers
at Longfellow and Encinal.
She has seen a number of generations come and go, from Edison (Go Otters!)
to Longfellow and the Home of the Jets high school ("When you're
a Jet, You're a Jet all the way") so there is a fair amount of catching
up to do. The troubled Karen has managed to stay in college after finding
a group of goth kids just like her, and so one potential human arc remained
on her trajectory up and out of the small town corrosion that nearly destroyed
her.
Some others -- not so lucky. As a teacher you can never take full credit
for the failures or the successes - you do your best to be there for them.
Her friend Sharon, the Crisis Nurse Practitioner at the Creek Psychiatric
Crisis Center sometimes would burst into tears on the phone, saying, "I
lost him! I lost him" about some casualty of the 8.5 million metropolis
that embraced, sometimes roughly, the tiny little Island city. But then
she worked over in Oaktown, where life is a waiting game for many.
Because the Island has no real mental health services she saw many neighbors
on the brink drop in there.
"I hate this place!" Sharon says angrily. "Why did they
not case manage him when I asked? I should move away tomorrow!"
"Well, you would like St. Paul," said Ms. Morales, who had
visited only one other place in the United States other than the Bay Area
since coming to this country from the Phillipines.
"O heck no. Too cold in the winter! I would rather go south. San
Luis Obispo maybe."
"We would miss you," Ms. Morales said. She knew that Sharon
would never move. The sick little island, as she called it, needed her
too much.
On the streets of the island, Officer O'Madhauen prowled in his cruiser,
looking for the stray crosswalk scofflaw, the speeder, the stoplight shuffler.
There had been a rash of burglaries on the Island, but sooner or latter,
they'll run a red light and then! He'll have 'em!
In the Almeida household, Pedro is enjoying a couple days off from hauling
crab, puttering about the house, repairing the chicken coop, resealing
the toilets, and fixing the wretched wiring by running number 10 ground
wire down and out to the rod, trying to undo years of lousy two-wire knob
and tube that reversed polarity about as often as regulars to one of those
fancy dives where the men dress as women.
In other matters he got underfoot and in the way of Mrs. Almeida who
was heartily glad the Hollardays were coming soon to an end before she
could get pregnant again.
At Marlene and Andre's household on Shoreline, all sixteen souls who
called that place home due to the obscene rental situation had been living
cheek by jowel during the cold snap when normally the pressure would have
eased by folks sleeping on the beach or at the Shelter. As the night extended
itself langorously with a purring stretch, the ragged and battered Xmas
tree glimmered in its washtub. Deep into the night, as snores and sleeping
rustles filled the cottage, a small marsupial snout emerged from the hole
in its trunk, followed by a bulbous form that lumbered quietly across
the bodies wrapped in sleeping bags, over the coffee table that housed
Occasional Quentin and prowled along the floorboards looking for an escape
from the madness without success. The opossum sat and wept quietly when
no egress was to be found, before it grabbed a macaroon someone had hung
from the tree and there sat on its haunches to eat it as a sliver of moon
watched through the window.
The animal then crawled back into the washtub and into its hole and curled
up there to sleep with the others of that dysfunctional family household.
In the Old Same Place, Padriac and Dawn and Suzie handled the Hollarday
business efficiently and with success while Denby plunked on his guitar
in the corner. Suzie observed the rituals, the lines, the dances and the
happy unifications that departed the bar entangled arm in arm with equanimity
before opening late into the evening her anthropology text. "The
Bonobo forgo the tedious courtship rituals found in other tribal groups,
preferring to simply state the preference or offer, which is usually accepted
with alacrity as they enjoy mating at any time of day and any season for
procreation or simply for the sheer joy . . .".
As for Suzie, the jewel yet undiscovered, the Hollardays consisted of
visits with friends and a single, small, roasted turkey. Per Island Life
tradition.
An expletive broke into her thoughts as the door opened to let out a
happy couple. The expletive came from a blonde with crooked lipstick at
the bar, who said, "Lost him! Nearly had that guy and then that Valerie!
Such a bitch! Gimmee a gimlet."
"Life's tough, girlfriend," Suzie said as she liberally overpoured
and delivered the drink.
"Thanks pal."
Down by the Estuary near the Park Street bridge abutment Wootie's tame
moose herd snuffled and shifted in the darkness. Eunice the moose, for
once remained quiet, but deep within her she dreamed of the perfect escape,
running through forests in the far north, far distant from these trammels
and imagining the cries of dismay from Wootie Kanootie: "Lost her!
I've Lost her!".
Eugene Gallipagus tosses in his own dreams in his bed. Of the time the
Great Golden Trout appeared to him at Lake Martha. And his great dispair
as the line parted with a snap. The big one that got away. Lost him.
Father Danyluk paced in his chambers before going over for the traditional
annual nightcap he enjoyed with Pastor Nyquist who seems genuinely happy
as Sister Profundity lets the Lutheran into the rectory annex where the
fireplace is already burning bright.
It has been the habit of the two friends to have this forbidden meeting
each year. As Pastor Nyquist put it, "You and I we have made our
seperate peace."
Indeed the Lutheran pastor enjoyed the high quality of spirits kept by
the Catholic priest in the larder and the Catholic priest had long enjoyed
the superior singing skills of the Lutheran congregation as loaners during
the Xmas pageant and Easter.
"You look troubled," the Lutheran said.
"Ah. The Mendoza family would not hear of any help and now Jorge
has gone off to San Quentin on assault with a deadly weapon. On top of
the robbery charge."
"I heard about that one," Nyquist said.
"Afraid I've lost him," said the priest.
"Can't save everyone," the Lutheran said, inviting a distracting
evening of debate.
And as per usual, the social evening ended the same way each year. Both
men asleep in their armchairs before the fire.
The Editor bid everyone a good night and a happy new year as the place
closed up for the final issue of the year. The Editor stood before the
window watching the granddaddy racoon run back and forth in the yard,
cigar firmly in place, hands clasped behind his back like Admiral Horatio.
He never knew exactly how to wrap things up. Everything, including Life,
seemed always so tentative, subject to last minute revisions. A lot of
issues last year had turned out wretchedly bad. But cannot dwell on that.
The past year had been packed with many, many disappointments. Old friends
had died and others had gotten married. Many things had not gone well.
An old friend had come to him complaining about all the evil in the world,
all the assholes. She, an otherwise pacific person, said she wanted to
line them all up against a wall when the spirit moved her. See them fall.
And for some reason he thought about the replicant in Bladerunner who
tried to prolong his life, such as it was, by driving a nail through his
palm so as to prevent the hand from closing into a fist.
What kind of poetry is that, to imagine that death is the hand closing
into a fist?
And yet as the replicant died and the fist closed, a dove escaped from
his other hand. So that is the way it is -- one hand closes into a fist
and becomes death; the other opens and becomes human, allows life to continue.
That's always the way it is -- can't take credit for the wins or bemoan
the losses. Life is tough, girlfriend. Life is being there at all.
In a little while, bottlerockets, fizzlers, M80's and all sorts of ruckus
would terrify all the neighborhood dogs in bringing in the New Year. Might
as well get ready for whatever comes next.
The long howl of the throughpassing train ululated from far across the
water where the gantries of the Port of Oaktown stood glowing with their
multi-kilowatt sentry lights; it quavered across the waves of the estuary,
the riprap embankments, the grasses of the Buena Vista flats and the open
spaces of the former Beltline; it moaned through the cracked brick of
the old abandoned Cannery with its ghosts and weedy railbed, it keened
between the interstices of the chainlink fences as the locomotive glided
past the shuttered doors of the Jack London Waterfront, headed off to
parts unknown.
That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.


DECEMBER 22, 2013
I AM WALKING THROUGH YOUR TOWN IN THE SNOW
This time of year sees the rare opening of the clenched fist in charity.
Here is a shot of the County Stone Soup drive installation in front of
the basement ROV windows in the corridor that links the parking garage
and the Courthouse.

WE PRINT ALL THE NEWS THAT FITS
Anyone wandering down Park Street will notice a new storefront tenant
in the form of Delauer's newsstand. The original Delauers remains on Broadway
in Oaktown, where they have been serving the news to East Bay folk since
1907 through two world wars, Korea and Vietnam. They are a welcome presence
here on the Island and certainly encapsulate the sense of history required.
The Island edition has been up and running now about three months.
That scamp who has been robbing the weekly paper kiosks is back with
a vengeance, swiping virtually every paper from downtown within a matter
of hours. Witnesses report a well-dressed man driving a clean white automobile.
The distribution desk at EBX says this sort of thing happens periodically
for various reasons and that even though it is a crime, stealing papers
from the kiosks tends to be low priority with the police. Perhaps because
traffic infractions seldom take place during the theft. The license plate
has been recorded and given to authorities. Perhaps the jerkoff can be
nailed for double-parking?
One retail manager is reporting that sales this holiday season have been
flat. Bloomberg.com reports overall national sales up a Scrooglike 2.5%,
with most shops hoping for a series of late runs before the Big Day. Other
reporting entities were even more pessimistic. "Purchases at stores
and websites fell 2.9 percent to $57.4 billion during the four days beginning
with the Nov. 28 Thanksgiving holiday, according to a survey commissioned
by the National Retail Federation. While 141 million people shopped, about
2 million more than last year, the average consumers spending dropped
3.9 percent to $407.02, the survey showed."
Analysts generally blame the fact that disposable incomes have inched
up a scant 1% or less, which number supports the observation that affluent
folks are riding high on stock market surges while middle income America
has seen nothing of any sort of "Recovery" from the dismal slide
that began furtively in year 2000 and hit a precipitous drop in 2005,
causing the Great Recession.
According to Businessweek, "More people shopped this year than in
2012, but it looks like they spent less."
Almost everyone is saying that is this the fourth straight year of spending
pullback, with some blaming "mission buying" for the numbers.
Mission buying is when the shopper goes out to buy one targetted object
and does not engage in "impulse buys."
You might not know the name of Harold Camping but you sure have seen
sign of his Family Radio Network, which earned world-wide notoriety by
failing to predict the Apocalypse in the form of The Rapture twice, which
was announced over the radio and by means of thousands of billboards posted
around the country. Campion lived here on the Island on Gibbons Drive
until his death at age 92 last Sunday.
Now if only Fred Phelps would kindly kick the bucket we would all maybe
live in peace for a while.
As the old year winds down we are still seeing a table-tennis match of
accusations over the Animal Shelter, in which the FAAS looks to be marshalling
responses that praise the shelter's efforts while critics slam the shelter
for excessive euthanasia and some kind of management beef that seems to
point at quixotic and cavalier treatment of staff -- not exactly a surprise
in the non-profit world where bad managers collect like bilge water detritus
in agencies that can scarely afford to hire and retain the best and brightest.
It may be said that the well-run, well-managed non-profit (look at the
Food Bank!) tend to be as rare as food oyster pearls and the real measure
of an entity is if the basic work gets done despite the internal hindrances.
We checked into an expert for animal control at shelters and the feeling
from the expert is that "no kill" shelters are bad for the animals
and bad for society, so perhaps some of the criticism needs to be quantified
at this point. There does seem to be a problem, but let the FAAS address
this without apologias that resemble high school popularity votes.
AUSD, which seems to always be hurting financially these days, wants
to float a bond to pay for infrastructure improvements and maintenance.
Well if some of that goes to fixing up the old high school for repopulation
and removal of its "Berlin Wall" against the continued use of
the hideous "modern" buildings behind it, we are all for it.
The old school has so much more character than those Berlin "housing
development" structures we cannot begin to say. Right now it is just
a shell, but dammit, the old school has soul whereas the newer buildings
have none.
Finally we note with interest Harbor Bay Realty's revision of plans for
the property now occupied by the Harbot Bay Athletic Club. Instead of
a bunch of homes that would jack population density and increase traffic,
Ron Cowan's group now proposes building a hotel, nevermind that the property
is not yet transferred for any reason and nevermind that the entire project
is based on the premise that HBR is somehow "owed" property
space. And nevermind that maybe some people just do not want any more
development of any kind, period.
You talk to any genuine "old timers" here and you will encounter
quite a bit of acrimonious feelings about Ron Cowan and the first development
he authored in 1978 that created more than 3,000 luxury homes and a business
park, all of which made him quite a rich man. It looks from this perspective
that his group is facing an uphill battle for anything they propose, no
matter how salubrious. It is pretty obvious there is some bad blood in
this.
NOW IS YOLE A COMMEN

On the longest night of the year, at the tail end of the shortest day
of the year, on the occasion of the Midwinter Solstice Island-Life took
part in the annual tradition of the Christmas Revels at the venerable
Oakland Scottish Rite Theatre.
The Xmas Revels began some 27 years ago as a combo theatre/improve/audience
participation ceremony to mark the passing of the year, the midwinter
solstice and, of course, Xmas.
Briefly, the "plot" of the event is the arrival in 1929 of
the 9th Duke of Rutland to his ancestral Haddon Hall castle, which is
slated for economic reasons to be demolished on the following day to make
way for a freeway connector. The Duke, a thoroughly "modern"
pragmatic man, is suddenly surrounded by hundreds of people dressed in
period garb ranging from the late Middle Ages to the late 1700's, most
of who claim to be prior Dukes of Rutland and Earls of Haddon. These spirits
enage in an all-night annually traditional revelry of song and dance,
including members of the "present day" Duke's family and audience
members, the substance of which forms the night's performance/event.
At one point cast members enter the "pit" and engage all ambulatory
members into a snaking dance with hands held high throughout the balconies,
the lodge and the orchestra seats.

We found the event to be engaging, magical, and consisting thoroughly
of what good theatre should be: spectacle, resolution, catharsis, grand
moments, sparkling talent, and delightful transports of emotion. We cannot
say enough about how wonderful the experience was and hope to see all
of you there next year.
Needless to say, as the Present Day enters with a loud knocking and chatter
on a cell phone, Haddon Hall is saved and the spirits abide to revel another
year.
Directed flawlessly by David Parr with Fred Goff as Music Director and
Associate Music Director Shira Kammen, who also performed on stage the
fiddle. Callie Floor produced the sumptuous period costumes with Costume
Crafts Artisan Jocelyn Herndon and Wardrobe Supervisor Emily West.
Bill Batty choreographed the Morris dance team brought over from merry
old England while Jeri Reed choreographed well over one hundred people
on a packed proscenium. Jeff Raz entranced the crowd with his whimsical
Roger Japes, the fool.
Robert Sicular presented an appropriately stuffy, conservative 9th Duke
of Rutland while James Galileo delighted as the doddering 1st Earl. In
fact the entire cast deserves commendation. We will be sure to include
everyone for the portfolio PDF review.
There is, in fact, a real Haddon Hall in Rutland which was periled during
the 1920's, just as this storied one was, and which was saved in the nth
hour by the 9th Duke for reasons we do not know. By doing so, that Duke
granted the succeeding generations a great gift of ancestral heritage.
And to all of us the satisfying sense of an eternal continuance of a tradition.
There is, in fact, a real Haddon Hall in Rutland which was periled during
the 1920's, just as this storied one was, and which was saved in the nth
hour by the 9th Duke for reasons we do not know. By doing so, that Duke
granted the succeeding generations a great gift of ancestral heritage.
And to all of us the sense of an eternal continuance.
XMAS ISLAND
So anyway. The longest night of the year arrived at the end of the shortest
day. Now is the time of long shadows extending over the chill road. Bare
tree bones scratch at the pale sky until evening comes on with spectacular
plumes of cloud painting vivid golds and incarnadine stripes from horizon
to horizon. Bundled overcoats and boots clamber awkwardly from automobiles
as friends come a-calling, bearing small packages. The yellow school busses
make their last rounds of the year to park for a while in the yard, collecting
rime and icicles, looking for all the world behind the chain link fences
like prehistoric artifacts, strange dumb animals out of the Ice Age patiently
waiting for an archeologist.
The kids scamper from basketball courts, happy in youth to be wearing
t-shirts and shorts, blissfully unaware of the pneumonias and influenzas
yet to come with middle age. Silent trees glitter with orniments and lights
through foggy windows.
Breath puffs out in clouds from the mouths of Jose, Martini, Javier,
Tipitina, and Pahrump as the gang returns from their tree-hunting expedition
with their Flexible Flyer wagon loaded with a discard of some battered
repute, a gift fallen off the truck. Or so some say. In any case the crew
takes a small street parallel to Grand, jogs left to get over the bridge
crossing the lagoon and then hurries down a side way as Tipitina follows
behind to pick up the trail of needles and branches shed along the way.
Finally the joyful crew arrives at the house where Andre and Marlene
have prepared the old washtub with a cinderblock to be the stand. When
it arrives and gets erected with more dramatic effort than seen when the
Marines raised the flag on Iwo Jima's summit, they all plotz to stare
up at the most miserable, deplorable, raggedy-ass assembly of sticks and
piney hideousness ever displayed. One third of a side was bare of needles,
branches appeared to have been grafted on from another species of fir,
and spiders had made many homes near the summit. Perhaps to escape the
place where some animal had carved out a home in the overly thick trunk.
Andre went at it with a can of insecticide and several writhing forms
fell to the floor to painfully die, while fragments of a vine managed
to fill out much of the upper portion and conceal the crooked ascendancy
of the center.
"I hope you guys didn't pay much for that thing." Suan commented.
They carried it out to the porch where a can of bug killer and the garden
hose managed to rid the thing of most of its animal residents and a third
more of its needles. Brought back inside, and placed in the tub, the tree
resembled more a skeletal frame for a conceptual art piece or a bridge
truss than a holiday decoration.
"Man, that tree sure be ugly," little Adam said.
"Well," said Martini, "It's sorta like us. Cast off and
somewhat worse for all the abuse, but still with promise."
Marlene hung a small figure of Saint Blither of Inane near the top. "I
think it fits right in. A bit of tinsel and he'll be fine."
So the gang all pitched in with what they had: tinsel made of torn aluminum
foil out of the dumpster, stars made of beercan tabs, condom packets,
dollar store laser pointers jerry-rigged by Martini, paper-punch confetti
"snow", metal spirals cut from cans that had once held 8 hour
energy drinks, spray-painted balls of scrap paper, and bunting from the
Voter Registration Drive booth. As well as whatever else could be found
of any sort of shiny quality.
By the time they had substantially finished, the sad little tree did
not look so half bad with a quilt that had been fetched from the UCB dumpsters
covering the washtub.
At the end of day Lionel closed up the Pampered Pup and walked with a
calculated air of unconcern and aimlessness down Park Street -- nearly
getting nailed in front of the Slut Hut Coffee Shop when he failed to
pay attention to the light change, causing some turbulence and a stream
of imprecations about family ancestry to float on the holiday air between
the notes of "Joy to the World" drifting from the doorway of
Bjorn's A Touch of Wonder massage parlor.
He paused at the entrance to Mervin's Merkins before stepping inside
to emerge later with a small gift-wrapped box. At length he found himself,
almost by accident at the window to Jaqueline's Salon where Jackie and
Maeve were sweeping up the day's tresses. Maeve noticed Lionel standing
there, shifting from one foot to the other and nudged Jackie who looked
up, saw who it was, and then bent down again with a half-smile on her
lips.
So it was up to Maeve to go to the door and let the hesitant Lionel into
the shop with its banks of hairdryers and gleaming seats and arrays of
multicolored potions for hair and nails. Mrs. Blather and Mrs. Cribbage
sat next to one another in the final stages of hair curling, purling and
tinting beneath the buzzing beehive helmets.
"Well who should it be now but our friend Lionel come to wish a
merry Xmas. Or perhaps neaten up that do a bit with a snip here and there
and maybe a bit of mousse beside. Come for business or whats your pleasure,
Lionel," Maeve said. She was such a one that if two words sufficed,
invariably employed six or twelve more.
"Uh . . . happy . . . uh holidays. Jackie."
"O now, I see I am maybe a bit in the way." Maeve said. She
did a brief curtsey and said, "I think I'll have a look at the loo.
See what I can do with the mirror and a spot of powder to see what I can
do to get a gentleman to wish me a merry. Ta ta Lionel!"
An awkward pause stretched itself like a dog before dropping heavily
down between the two people. The dryers hummed. "Well now,"
Jackie said.
"Ah, there's the Native Son's Holiday Bash, you know," Lionel
said.
"I know that," Jackie said.
Another pause enjoyed another stretch. The dryers continued to hum.
"Have any plans?" Lionel said.
"Plans? O I think I'd like to retire in Cabo San Lucas some day,"
Jackie said. "Ah! But if you are meanin' the Native Son's annual
bash, well no. I haven't a date."
Eventually Lionel got around to asking the question and Jackie accepted
and Lionel got all flustered until Jackie asked what was that in his hands
there. Looks like a present.
"O now I am not so sure," Lionel said.
"For me? Why thank you Lionel!" Jackie said, taking the small
box from Mervin's.
That's when Maeve came rushing back and it was all too late now and she
got them to go with her across the street to Juanitas for dinner simply
by means of force of personality.
Over at the Old Same Place Padraic wore a fake beard over a red shirt
and trousers with black Wellies for boots so as to somewhat resemble St.
Nick while the girls had been got up in elf outfits. Naturally the outfit
for Suzi featured a microskirt which scandalized Dawn to such an extent
she made the girl put on hotpants underneath, much to the disappointment
of Padraic.
"And you are supposed to be the Father Xmas, I suppose, Old Schmidt
said to Padraic.
"Right." Padraic responded.
" I sink you look more like the Knecht Rupecht or Krampus, Mister
Poorrrrrruck."
Suzie laughed.
Out on the chill high seas, Pedro Almeida piloted his boat on the last
crab run of the year, his trusty labrador, Tugboat beside him and a hired
helper named Fiodor to assist hauling up the pots by way of the old hand-cranked
crane, and as they worked they sang the old songs, each in their own language;
Pedro in Portuguese and Fiodor in Russian. And because Someone somewhere
has a special love for fishermen the swells were calm on this longest
night of the year.
And on the longest night the Editor paced the length of the silent offices
as the penultimate issue was put to bed and all the slippery galleys laid
into the box. The machine blinked with a message, probably from Sharon,
who was wondering when he would be coming home after work. There in the
largely darkened place lit by screensavers and LED glow, the Editor relit
his cigar before the window to see the Old Racoon who had escaped being
captured during this year's early brough-haha turn on the motion sensor
light in the back as he ambled across the broken lawn from the woodpile
to the leaning pine, unceremoniously clambering over the stacked pile
of windsurfing paraphernalia at its base. The Longest Night is not so
bad for crepuscular creatures who enjoy the darkness.
And like those creatures, the Editor enjoyed this time when all the world
was calm and silent.
The racoon and his family had been here for ages before the Editor and
all the invaders from the East and he and his family would abide long
after their passing. He was a scamp who got into the trash and made merry
with the back stoop cat food left out for Mr. Smithers and Lunita, often
creeping through catdoors to raid people's pantries. Yet, something about
him pleased the Editor and he felt secretly glad the old guy had outlasted
every effort to eradicate him and his family. So the Editor poured and
raised a glass to the animal out there Old Schmidt called Der Waschbaer,
because of his fastidious habits of cleanliness.
Here's to you old fellow. Like you, I have been left for dead before,
but still fight on. Don't wait up, leave the light on. I'll be home soon.
The long howl of the throughpassing train ululated from far across the
water where the gantries of the Port of Oaktown stood glowing with their
multi-kilowatt sentry lights; it quavered across the waves of the estuary,
the riprap embankments, the grasses of the Buena Vista flats and the open
spaces of the former Beltline; it moaned through the cracked brick of
the old abandoned Cannery with its ghosts and weedy railbed, it keened
between the interstices of the chainlink fences as the locomotive glided
past the shuttered doors of the Jack London Waterfront, headed off to
peaceful parts unknown.
That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.

DECEMBER 15, 2013
O TANNENBAUM
This week's headline photo is from the end of the annual City Hall treelighting
ceremony.

Just goes to show you that a giving spirit goes further to getting the
girls than being young and slender. . . .
WHAT'S THE BUZZ
The weather has turned quite a bit chilly in the final days of the year,
just as predicted by the Farmer's Almanac. Even sunny San Diego has been
reporting frost warnings with days starting up hovering around 44 degrees.
Now that this weather has settled in, people are plugging in all sorts
of heaters all over the Island to take the edge off of the cold. They
also are setting small fires -- not for warm but by accident -- by stressing
those old knob and tube two-wire cloth-insulated systems in old houses,
many of which have developed reverse polarity over the years of tinkering
on various circuits. This kind of dangerous situation can turn a cold
ground into a "hot rod".
Now is the time for property owners to have a good hard look at those
aging subpanels and faulty sockets where some sub-genius has swapped out
dipole plugs for dangerously ungrounded three hole sockets. Knob and tube
used to work well enough -- sort of like Harley brakes -- back in the
day when houses were built with just two breakers. Nowadays owners are
looking at 30 amp pairs just for the appliances and 20 amp singles for
separate circuits for overhead lighting, for kitchen outlets independent
of the fridge, for room plug-in sockets, adding up to over eight circuits
for just a single family dwelling.
The indoor panels cost barely $20 for a 100 amp unit. The breakers go
for $5 each at Home Depot. The big cost is hourly rates for a licensed
electrical contractor who will match up the appropriate wire gauges to
the breakers. Electricity is no place to be penny-wise and pound foolish.
With the Hollardays advancing upon all of us like a juggernaut fueled
by brandy alexanders, a quick look around for NYE gigs and Xmas reveals
. . . meh. There are the usual suspects rolling into the area, as in local
boy Les Claypool with his Frog Brigade outfit, however this time around
the newly repackaged Primus will be doing the venerable Fox in Oaktown.
Yoshi's in Oaktown will have R&B singer Bobby Caldwell doin' the
croon, while the other side of the Bay will feature The California Honeydrops.
Bill Graham Civic in Babylon will be hosting a sort of thematic extravaganza
with the more interesting band to be Thievery Corporation, a group that
sometimes features David Byrne. The rest of it will be techno house, disco
and rave.
GAMH will feature a raucous bill featuring the Melvins and Frightwig.
Old folks better bring earplugs for that one.
Slims will have The Brothers Comatose with The Sam Chase.
The Warfield is promoting its NYE with a bit of class in its emergency
orange brochure that presents a man expelling dinner and everything else
under the title NOFX NEW YEAR'S HEAVE. NOFX is an LA punk band that originated
in 1983. These are the guys who put together the Rock against Bush CD
collections.
Calexico under the purple chandeliers of the Fillmore seem the best bet
for 12/31. Their musical style is influenced by traditional Latin sounds
of mariachi / conjunto / cumbia / Tejano music and also the Southwestern
United States country music as well as '50s-'60s jazz. They also do a
killer cover version of Joy Division's "Love Will Tear Us Apart",
so expect the unusual.
To get something a tad familiar and with some bluesy style you will have
to hike out to Livermore's Bankhead theater to catch New Years Eve
with Roy Rogers and the Delta Rhythm Kings.
Here on the Island, there are likely to be tiny events here and there,
with most folks staying at home or venturing out to some open space to
see all the fireworks blast off up and down the estuary from the marinas
and shoreline road shoulders.
A LIFE WELL LIVED
So anyway, the Farmer's Almanac prophesied a cold, bitter winter, but
none of the digital wonks in Sunnyvale or Apple pay much attention to
that. Now we see ice and storm from the coast all the way to Boston and
hereabouts temps hovering at the frost line.
It is California, and some people believe it should not be that way here
ever, despite the DeAnza reports of the soldiers having to smash the creekbanks
with their spearbutts so the horses could drink through the broken ice
near Monterey.
The cold around here tends to surprise folks who come from far colder
places, as if they expected that by changing location and undergoing some
minor inconveniences they had paid sufficient dues to be let off discomfort
in the course of things. This an island, of course, so the cold will be
accompanied by a fair amount of humidity, which makes for sniffles and
flu.
People grumble and complain, but there is so much about which to complain
that this sort of noise tends to get lost in the vast melting pot of regional
dissatisfaction and disappointment. One could own a ridgetop house with
a swimming-pool and parking garage and still people will find reason to
bitch and moan.
That is one reason why Midwesterners are valued at holiday parties. We
Californios have endured massive firestorms, earthquakes, vigilante committees,
astounding wholesale destruction of our environmental habitat, wretched
corruption and railroad octopus up the whazoo, so we really do not abide
minor complaint very well.
This is the season when all the companies hold holiday parties, apparently
to foster the old sentiment -- even if only briefly -- we are all in this
together. Ever since 2000 the parties have shrunk in scope and ambition,
becoming smaller with fewer invitees each year since that time.
Now, since the Economy is in Recovery ever since 2005, one would expect
a bit more largesse among those happy, well-fed companies that now enjoy
such a surfeit of gross profit.
We have just a bare week and a half until Xmas, a day that is important
to more than a few people. The fenced lot at Luckys and outside Safeway
have been set up as usual with their stock of firs and conifers and the
noble larch, while Lucky's has yet to truck in its supply from the snowy
Sierra.
The low white picket fences are draped with electric candy canes and
inflatable snowmen bob in the yard breezes all down Santa Clara Avenue.
Thompson Avenue is once again ablaze with lighting installations of angels
and sleighs.
What's hot on the presents list? iPod accessories, as in solar chargers,
automobile handsfree bracket mounts, designer cases, even the devices
themselves. Then there are the iPads, iPods, and iSnickerdoodles that
light up your cat like an Xmas tree and scare the dog.
There is not much warm and fuzzy out there; even the obnoxious Tickle-me-Elmo
and the hideous Cabbage Patch Dolls have disappeared. Maybe because the
Japanese and the Chinese don't do warm and fuzzy well. Obnoxious and hideous
certainly have not gone out of style. Just look at George Bush's paintings.
On second thought, please spare us.
Back in the day kids got gifts like power tools and sheet metal for the
older ones and Legos or plastic log cabin parts for the younger set. A
boy might get a model airplane kit and some polyurethane glue, while a
girl would get a box of parts to make a dollhouse. It was always "Some
assembly required", because back in the day, even with an outright
gift you still had to work for it. Your dad didn't go out and bring, like
they do today, a fully assembled bicycle with the Huffy tires and the
banana seat; you had to indicate ardent desire by pooling the paper route
and lawn mowing money over many painstaking months so that you could pay
for half of the thing which came in a cardboard box -- Some Assembly Required.
That was a time when everything, just everything was all about learning
something about worth. Even punishment involved work. You got punished
you got sent out there in the yard to cut down a branch and whittle it
until it was smooth enough to be presented for inspection. Not thick enough?
Go back out there, son, and cut me another. Whack!
Back then mothers didn't pour mixes into a dish and just pop it into
the microwave. To serve a store-bought pie was considered an insult, a
sign of poor organization skills or an upbringing inside an orphanage
or a Convent for Fallen Women. You wanted a pie, the mothers all used
raw flour, eggs, milk, and spices. Filling was from what you had jarred
yourself. Eugene's mother could not cook worth beans. In fact, she could
not cook beans or even an egg sunny side up very well. As for vegetables,
Mrs. Gallipagus maintained an approach typical for the English - boil
it until you are sure it is safe, no matter what it happens to be. Which
is hard to imagine, but explains why the boy always buys Mrs. Callenders
and eats out of cans. Bar-B-Que features heavily in his diet. Pan-fried
fish in the summer. With a side of canned beans.
The Hollardays represent one of the few times in the year the tall, gaunt
Eugene manages to get a fresh meal, for this is a time customary for house
visits to friends, especially bachelor friends. Recently Eugene got invited
up to Marin to the Alguacil family whom he had known for many years. They
had also invited their friend from Finland, Heidi, who had been divorced
for what Marybeth Beatrice both felt was long enough. Heidi worked with
textiles and was an avid musicologist and could play the flute. Heidi
started the conversation by asking Eugene, "So what do you do?"
"I like to hunt and I like to fish."
"Okay. . . what kind of fish?"
"I like Goldens. And Rainbows." Eugene said.
"They sound like they would be very beautiful!" Heidi said.
"Yeah, they look real purty. Until you guts them and the colors
all seem to run out."
"I see."
"You know California trout are the smartest trout in the world.
I'll bet the trout in Finland aren't half as smart." Eugene said.
"Greg, what time are you thinking of leaving . . ."? Heidi
said.
It seemed Eugene would remain a bachelor for the long distant future,
for he had never learned the essential lesson about men and women: Some
Assembly Required.
Mr. Terse was in the Old Same Place Bar recently, taking a break from
his surveillance of the Greek Orthodox Church where the whistleblowing,
secrets-leaking Joshua had taken refuge from the CIA, FBI, TSA and NSA
all because he had blown the lid on the clandestine wiretapping of the
toilets belonging to the Mayor of Albany, Newark and San Leandro. The
news story had outraged the Mayors of Richmond and Piedmont, who felt
that omitting them from wiretapping indicated some kind of snobbery, as
if their little towns were not important enough.
In any case, Joshua had holed up in that cold chapel for some months.
Fortunately, there existed secret underground passageways between the
chapel and huge grottos delved by the Latter Day Saints and these places
were kept warm by means of geothermal activity channeled by the Sons of
Moroni. It would be a dark and furtive Xmas for the man on the run, but
sometimes Life plays its hand that way.
So anyway Terse was taking his break with a Gaelic Coffee, so called
by Padriac because in his view no decent Irishman would ever confabulate
decent whisky, the Water of Life, with base ingredients. That was when
the talk came around to world news, as it often did in that place and
someone commented about Nelson Mandela recently passing away.
"O that bad old Communist," said the Tea Party Mr. Terse.
All the bar went silent for embarrassment, for although open to all,
the general tendency around these parts is more to the kinder and reasonable
side of the Center.
Padraic put both his hands on the bar with his elbows pointing outward.
"I don't give an effing rats ass if he was a Communist or a Socialist
or any such kind of thing, because it does not matter! So what if he was!
The truth is the man was a Statesman, a pioneer for justice and liberty,
a point man for freedom in his country for which he suffered a great deal,
including imprisonment, and he had a main hand in bringing down one of
the most detestable systems -- known as Apart-hate -- this world has ever
seen and it is for that he will be remembered. What then, are your puny
accomplishments in comparison to his? Nothing!"
"Well," said Mr. Terse. "If the Socialist push through
their agenda, you will see your precious freedoms fly out the door!"
"Not if the People have anything to say about it," Dawn said.
"We won't have some small bloc of extremists nattering at us with
their impositions."
"Whatever do you mean by that," Mr. Terse said, intending to
come back with a more forceful rejoinder, but he was interrupted by Suzie.
"I think,"Suzie said. "We mean that by Freedom, some Assembly
required."
The long howl of the throughpassing train ululated from far across the
water where the gantries of the Port of Oaktown stood glowing with their
multi-kilowatt sentry lights; it quavered across the blowing waves of
the estuary, the riprap embankments, the amber grasses of the Buena Vista
flats and the open spaces of the former Beltline; it moaned through the
cracked brick of the old abandoned Cannery with its ghosts and weedy railbed,
it keened between the interstices of the chainlink fences as the locomotive
glided freely past the shuttered doors of the Jack London Waterfront,
headed off beneath the endless skyway to the purple mountain's majesty,
from California to the New York island; from the redwood forest to the
Gulf Stream waters and other parts unknown. Nobody living can ever make
it turn back
That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.

DECEMBER 8, 2013
FOXY LADY
This week's photo was taken by associate artist CB Harris down near her
home in Atascadero and features a creature more vilified in legend than
appreciated.

Life can get wild, but wildlife is always beautiful when you are not
on the menu.
THIS ISLAND LIFE
In a move that is bound to raise eyebrows Don Perata has been hired to
represent the Island in Sacto. Former state Senator Perata was known for
a cigar-chomping smoky backroom style of bluster and insider deals, the
aroma of which cost him the Oakland mayorship against Jean Quan, so it
is interesting the Silly Council unanimously chose him to go for the dollars
as a lobbyist in what feels like an understanding that if the job is dirty,
then get a dirty fellow to get it done.
There is so much scuttlebutt on this we have not the time right now to
wade through it again, but it just may be that someone had a stroke of
genius in this action, for it puts the man in a place where he supposedly
cannot do harm and can use his savage skills to get some gold in the coffers
here. We will see what happens.
In the Letters to the Editor we always can mine some gems. Someone called
the stone bench "Friends" sculpture damaged by the falling tree
an "eyesore" a bit quickly a scant week after the tree had been
removed. Patience, my friends. Patience.
In another letter someone called attention to Attorney General Kamela
Harris' comments about the strange rezoning down along McKay Avenue. Harris
noted that public land should be retained and administered by public entities,
not summarily turned over to private interests, and hinted that the Attorney
General may step in to police the matter of land that had been originally
designated as Park property.
As a refresher, federal property, which had been understood to eventually
turn over to East Bay Parks and Rec, got suddenly and mysteriously rezoned
as residential in a backroom deal, then sold at auction to a developer.
This property, hard by the Crab Cove park, has a narrow unimproved lane
serving it for access, which creates in itself all sorts of interesting
scenarios as to who will pay for improvements. The unsuspecting developer
looks to be stuck with a once promising parcel that is surely developing
into a major headache fraught with lawsuits and a full-bore internecine
battle between two public entities over what happens there. Now steps
in the Attny General to make peace.
Well now, does good prevail once in a while?
NSSN THIS TIME

We renewed a decades-old family tradition here in going out to the annual
LIVE 105 Not So Silent Night Concert. We have people who have been going
to this event since it was the Not So Green Xmas acoustic show at the
Galleria, in which David Byrne came out with an acoustic dreadnought,
so we go back with the alternative station that far.
We have experienced some extraordinary performances at this annual event,
but in in recent years, it seems that ticket costs rising into the stratosphere
coupled with the urgent demand to shuffle on and off five to eight bands
in an evening quickly in massive stadium venues has resulted in serious
injury to the music.
It can be said that if you want to experience a band for the first time,
by no means make NSSN your pitstop.
Piles of equipment are bolted on in modular fashion, the sound board
is coupled in ad hoc with predefined channel levels and balances are dialed
in mid performance to get the vocals somehow in synch with the heavy bass.
If you know the performers and songs well enough already and just want
to hear loud noise and see your favorite musicians jump around energetically
on stage, well, NSSN is the thing for you. But you are not going to get
musical accomplishment at these things. Aint gonna happen.
We dropped in for Night 1 of the two night run. The event begins around
five pm and runs to midnight with five to six bands playing short sets
of five tunes.
Arrived in time to take in the Arctic Monkeys whom our Social Event Coordinator
had been following with interest since Whatever People Say I Am, That's
What I'm Not came out in 2006. Arctic Monkeys are an indie band from a
suburb of Sheffield, UK. The band consists of Alex Turner (lead vocals,
lead/rhythm guitar), Jamie Cook (rhythm/lead guitar), Nick O'Malley (bass
guitar, backing vocals), and Matt Helders (drums, backing vocals). One
of the first bands to be primarily publicized via the Internet, the band
has won accolades in England and garnered two Grammy nominations.
The band are also regarded as one of the most prominent bands to be part
of the post-punk revival in the UK, after achieving commercial success
and spawning two number one singles with its debut album.
We found the group energetic, upbeat and very young. Wish the lads all
the best as it is clear the band is still evolving musically, which always
is promising in bands that get out the gate with such an explosive start.
Native sons AFI showed up for a loud, raucous show that featured lead
singer Davey Havok climbing up onto amp equipment and leaping out into
space in ways that usually prompt a disclaimer, "kids don't try this
at home." Although billed as Oakland boys, the band members actually
formed their group in 1991 while still in high school in Ukiah. The band
dissolved for a while and then reformed to achieve commercial success
in 2003.
It may be one of those odd traditions, but we noted that AFI has returned
to NSSN for at least three or more shows. Each show is no question compelling
with energy but after 20 years we are beginning to wonder when Jade Puget,
lead guitarist, will start to branch out more. Some audience members clearly
sat through the set, waiting for it all to get over, while others screamed
and jumped up and down, so we would have to say the reception to AFI,
getting long in the tooth in a way that Iggy Pop has avoided, was mixed.
Again, we would have to blame the hyperefficient rapid set swap style
that is now part of NSSN, which has gotten as good as it gets in speed,
but severely lacking in soundcheck control.
After AFI we all sat through an unfortunately truncated set of a spare
five short songs from Queens of the Stone Age, who certainly deserve better.
These fellows from Palm Desert, California formed in 1996. The band's
lineup includes founder Josh Homme (lead vocals, guitar, piano), alongside
longtime members Troy Van Leeuwen (guitar, lap steel, keyboard, percussion,
backing vocals), Michael Shuman (bass guitar, keyboard, backing vocals),
Dean Fertita (keyboards, guitar, percussion, backing vocals), and recent
addition Jon Theodore (drums, percussion).
The style is straightforward heavy rock and the band has been known to
work with members of ZZ Top. Jim Harrington, a critic who is definitely
one difficult to please, praised most of the First Night concerts. About
QOTSA, he said, "Queens was all brute force, rocking the capacity
crowds with a heavy mix that was part Melvins-style sludge and part Iron
Butterfly-esque psychedelia." Which is true. Knowing subtlety would
be lost when packed into a five band gig with no sound check, Josh Homme
and Co. blew out the stops. Homme commented in mid set, "We know
why we are here: to get f---d up and have a good time!"
Vampire Weekend is a deceptively named group that performs African and
Central American-influenced melodic rock with as much more nuance than
QOTSA as Led Zeppelin is to Flamenco. The gap is jarring but pleasurable
in the variance of dynamics between the acts. VW, formed in New York City
in 2006. The band consists of four members: lead vocalist and guitarist
Ezra Koenig, guitarist/keyboardist and backing vocalist Rostam Batmanglij,
drummer and percussionist Chris Tomson, and bassist and backing vocalist
Chris Baio. The band released its first album Vampire Weekend in 2008,
but appears to have really hit commercial and critical stride with its
recent Modern Vampires of the City.
The group has had a lot going against it, starting with its misleading
name -- the band is not about goth or vampires or exotica, but about world
beat sounds made edgy with a punkish flair and average everyday people
in the lyrics. Coming out of Columbia University, where the members attended
by support of grants and scholarships and working through school, they
have been derided as "the whitest band in America" ripping off
subcultures and ethnic music, pretty much in the same way Paul Simon was
criticized when he opened all of that stuff up to popular taste a few
years ago.
Yeah well, anything in music that claims to come ex nihilo is automatically
suspect.
Of all the acts that night, we would have to award the prize for Best
in Show to these young fellows who really managed to flavor the sound
with unique, distinctive beats and rhythms.
Finally, Kings of Leon stomped on stage to end the night appropriately
as a monsoon slammed into the O.Co. Arena, tearing loose weatherproofing
all along the outer edge of the building. Those guys basically put aside
pretense in a way that had Harrington saying "It was hard to understand,
however, why the Kings' sound is considered alternative. Back in the 1980s
and '90s, it was simply known as: Aerosmith." Yes, well, tearing
the roof off is pretty much what the Nashville-based band did. Well, we
sense that the boys sound quite a bit different in more congenial venues
and we are rousting out a CD of their we have had for a while to give
them a better listen.
As we said, if you want to really experience a band for the first time,
NSSN is not the place to do it. But even though it is only Rock 'n Roll,
we like it.
BRIGHT WINTER'S DAY
So anyway, now that the Thanksgiving Day Poodleshoot Bar-Bee-Que Massacree
has happened with all its sanguinary pleasures and all the wounded have
been released from Highland's Trauma Unit -- because the Island hospital
has no Trauma Center -- and all the leftovers have been tucked away there
in Tupperware tubs in the freezer to bring out in Spring the Island segues
now that proper weather has happened to us into the Horror Days that end
with some dissipation in the New Year.
A proper dockwalloper slammed into the Bay Area Friday, reminding everybody
that even the Golden State, a state that extends some 900 miles north
to south along the Pacific coast and which features several mountain ranges
with peaks topping 14,000 feat in elevation suffers weather in winter
time.
Readers from the North Counties report snow down to the 200 foot line.
It's that time of year when NorCal shrugs into heavy coats and boots
despite its ingrained repulsion against nastiness. People come here expecting
palm fronds and beachwear weather and exit sorely disappointed.
Early reports of the de Anza expedition described the soldiers pounding
holds through the ice at stream crossings so the horses could drink so
there may be something to this global climate change thing.
General exuberance persists in this time, despite the chill, which surely
does not compare to upstate Minnesota, but makes a bit difference around
here underneath palm trees bedecked with blinking red, blue and yellow
strands of lights. Garlands of lights appear draped along lintels, bay
windows, scraggly front yard scrubs, children, mailboxes, stray dogs,
the occasional raccoon, and the seldom seen, save in the early hours,
fat opossum waddling from fence to fence.
Apples on sale Monday at Raleys, five pounds for five dollars. Thompson
Lane once again erupts in glorious splendor and in that cul de sac off
Grand once again the official North Pole postal box appears beneath the
coastal sequoia. This is the time everyone pulls down deep for old traditions
in the Land of the Lotus Eaters.
Old families here run through the half-remembered gamut of things listed
in the translucent scrolls of family heritage as Things To Do, generally
falling back on visiting old friends, reconnecting with people gone halfway
around the world and back, and rallying quietly around that staple of
paganistic ritual, the well-bedecked Douglas Fir in the living room.
Most of us tend to staple things together from our odd assortment of
memories and guidebooks, like Better Homes and Gardens, Julia Child's
cookbooks, and Ebony magazine. Since we who fell to earth here some time
ago arrived often with the hinterland in flames, families shattered into
so many sharp fragments that cut to bleed, we make our own rituals like
Red Diaper babies reclaiming the Flag from the savage Right Wingers who
stole it from the People. And so we generally fall back on visiting old
friends, reconnecting with people gone halfway around the world and back,
and rallying quietly around that staple of paganistic ritual, the well-bedecked
Douglas Fir in the living room. The difference being in that ancient memory
does not play a favorable part in these random acts of kindness. Or perhaps
the rituals are impelled that much more forcefully.
On the couch that usually provides a bed for Suan in the Household, Marlene
curled up exhausted after the ad hoc Food Bank-supplied dinner and Andre
held the waif-girl punk with the raven dark hair against him and felt
the beating of her terrific injured heart. Peace, when it comes, appreciated
that much more with gratitude to those who have learned War.
Heard to tell the new Big Box store was packed to the rafters with people
trying the patience of hapless workers from Thanksgiving Day on through
that execrable 24 hour period filled with meaningless scrabble and clawing
that follows.
Denby drove up to Marin to meet up with old friends that day, to reminisce
and recall the absences, for the really wretched thing about getting older
is that when the table is set and all laid out and the feast presented
there are conspicuously fewer place settings than in years past and there
feels a chilly vacuity in this or that corner which used to be a favorite
spot for Jim and Lynn and Penny and Joe Bailey or whomever.
On Black Thursday, the company went out to Lagunitas Lake and walked
around it, deploring the low drought levels, breathing the air, greeting
others seeking the healing power of the wood while the rest of the world,
or so it seemed, descended to atavistic snarling and tearing at carcasses
proffered at bargains.
Clebia, seeing the fallen fruits of the buckeye began gathering them
up into her pockets. She had already pestered a man coming up for the
persimmons on his tree with some success and so several of the company
walked with pockets loaded with half-ripe persimmons. Paul warned her
to not go about trying to eat one of those but AK said it was just Clebia's
typical way of collecting natural things to display at home.
Above the dam, Mary Beth, formerly of New Jersey, turned to Clebia, formerly
of Brazil, and said, "Do you think this year will end well?"
and Clebia answered in that Portuguese accent she has, "I do not
know, Mary Beth, I only hope the next one starts off better!"
The day passed along and Denby and Paul played a bit beside the iron
stove before Denby returned to the Island with the light failing and all
the throngs still assaulting the shelves. As he drove towards the E-ville
mudflats he saw that the long absent figure of Snoopy had been returned
to his position chasing the Red Baron offshore. "10, 20, 30, 40,
50 or more. The Bloody Red Baron was lookin' to even up the score . .
. ".
For many years those figures had hovered on sticks posted way out there
in an endlessly recurring virtual "dogfight", but some time
ago erosion, weather, or Officiousness had knocked them down, leaving
only the dank muck of the flats. It seemed this occurred about the time
that magic had left the world. Now, in the fading of the year, the onslaught
of the Hollar Days, the pair had returned.
The long howl of the throughpassing train ululated from far across the
water where the gantries of the Port of Oaktown stood glowing with their
multi-kilowatt sentry lights; it quavered across the waves of the estuary,
the riprap embankments, the grasses of the Buena Vista flats and the open
spaces of the former Beltline; it moaned through the cracked brick of
the old abandoned Cannery with its ghosts and weedy railbed, it keened
between the interstices of the chainlink fences as the locomotive glided
past the shuttered doors of the Jack London Waterfront, headed off to
thankful parts unknown.
That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.

DECEMBER 1, 2013
DON'T LET THEM TAKE ME TO THE CADDILAC RANGE

The DeSoto was an American automobile marque, manufactured and marketed
by the now-defunct DeSoto Division of the Chrysler Corporation from 1928
to 1961. It was one of the most popular pre-war models ever sold. This
detailed close up, taken by Chad, shows a 1948 De Luxe Business Coupé,
which was the last model to feature the bulbous pre-war look, a touch
of nostalgia and history that is so much a part of the Island's public
presentation. Old fashioned graft, backroom deals and corruption we do
as well, but with film noir neon lighting for effect. Fergeddit Jake:
it's Chinatown.
THIS ISLAND LIFE
After we printed news about the damage to the bench at Jackson Park (we
mistakenly relocated the bench to Washington Park) The Sun printed a bit
on the fabled bench, which was installed in 1920. Isabelle Clark, of 1173
Park Avenue had the bench made after the death of her husband George.
The original design featured stone statues of cats, dogs, birds, etc.,
but only the inscription "To all my dumb friends" was completed.
The bench was severely damaged two weeks ago during the severe wind storms
that followed a solid dockwalloper of rain. A palm tree decapitated onto
the concrete structure, sending rubble flying in all directions.
Meter holidays. The City is setting the four Saturdays in December as
parking meter holidays to aid the downtown merchants under the wise recognition
that retail sales taxes will do more for the budget than draconian parking
enforcement on those scant four days.
We reported on the planned melding of the financially troubled Island
hospital into the Alameda Health System a while ago. This action will
most like save the 120 year-old institution now facing a mandated multi-million
dollar earthquake retrofit on top of its steadily bleeding finances. The
hospital will report losses of half a million dollars for just October.
The board of directors had tried to keep things afloat by means of acquisition
of satellite clinics and facilities, but it was a case of too little too
late. This merger will help to keep the doors open but will not kibosh
the already committed $280 parcel tax as these revenues are stipulated
to continue as a condition of the merger with AHS.
Now that the Horror Days are well on the way, kicking off appropriately
with a riot on Black Friday at a big box store and people getting tazed
by store Pinkertons, signs of the season are rapidly advancing upon us.
Got the ice skating rink up at South Shore, since the old Goode Chevy
parking lot is about to become a Walgreens. Or a CVS. Or ... something.
Workmen there are trenching and laying conduit, which pretty much means
that one is a done deal with permits and everything.
IPD reports they are handing out speeding tickets like candy lately with
an astounding 232 tickets for speeding during the two week period between
September 24 and October 8th.
Lots of 5150 detentions going on with about five on Sunday last and five
on Friday, plus the usual two or three per day going on. Separate arrests
for public intoxication and narcotics not included in this mix. O, and
one dog bite.
Got some incomplete gossip on the apartment fire on Briggs Avenue caused
allegedly by a Mr. David Prado. Seems one resident had tried to secure
a restraining order against the man, but was told by the judge she could
not restrain someone living in the same building. The man had been acting
erratically for days, and County psych services should have gotten involved,
however the current philosophy of the the County is to withhold attention
for cases not considered totally incapacitating or directly threatening
to life and/or property.
The Letters to the Editor are always entertaining and instructive. The
ongoing kerfuffle over the Animal Shelter continues, with some writers
commenting, with some reason, just because the Shelter houses cute and
fluffy things does not render it and its administration immune from criticism.
A couple opinions mentioned "Laura's Law" in connection with
psychiatric care. According to Wiki, "Laura's Law is a California
state law that allows for court-ordered assisted outpatient treatment
or forced anti-psychotics in most cases. To qualify for the program, the
person must have a serious mental illness plus a recent history of psychiatric
hospitalizations, jailings or acts, threats or attempts of serious violent
behavior towards [self] or others. A complete functional outline of the
legal procedures and safeguards within Lauras Law has been prepared
by NAMI San Mateo
The law was named after Laura Wilcox, a mental health worker who was
killed by an American citizen who had refused psychiatric treatment. Modeled
on Kendra's Law, a similar statute enacted in New York, the bill was introduced
as Assembly Bill 1421 by Assemblywoman Helen Thomson, a Democrat from
Davis. The measure passed the California Legislature in 2002 and was signed
into law by Governor Gray Davis."
Implementation is disgressionary by County and to this point, Alameda
has not joined Los Angeles and Nevada Counties to endorse this statute.
Although it is generally assumed that Laura's killer, Scott Harlan Thorpe,
refused treatment the truth is he had sought treatment in Nevada County
on several occasions, but was denied.
While it seems that in the aftermath of things like the Sandy Hook massacre,
the Newtown School shooting, and some six other mass shootings by unstable
persons that have occurred during the past year we ought to take decisive
action to deal with the mentally ill among us, it is clear that we should
not leap collectively onto a wagon of treatment du jour that has failed
to present evidence of solid efficacy. In other words passing a law in
the manner of prescribing a "fixit all cure" pill when the pill
is proven not to work is worse than useless.
The situation is very complex and needs to be handled by knowledgeable
and experienced people. Right now the County is handling its share of
the Prop 63 funds now being disbursed from a trust fund that consists
of surviving funds from the original 384 million approved by State voters
in approximately $41 million dollar annual MHSA chunks divvied up among
projects selected by competitive bid, with each project whittling a bit
more off of the available funds.
While that seems like a lot of money to start with, some 38 million people
live in the Golden State in 58 counties. Alameda hosts some 2.5 million
souls, but it is certainly not the biggest or most populous county in
the State.
Of those funds mentioned above about $1.7 million per project are encumbered
for capital improvement projects at four facilities in Alameda. These
projects all have been years on the drafting board. So one can see that
any new implementation of any kind almost certainly would need Countywide
voter approval and probably some additional source of funding. Read my
lips: more new taxes.
THE POODLESHOOT THIS TIME - THE 15TH ANNUAL POODLESHOOT AND BBQ
So anyway, it is hardly to be believed that this year marks the 15th
Anniversary of the Annual Thanksgiving Island Poodleshoot and BBQ. Yes,
its been 15 years of 49'er Spirit in blazing away with all sorts of firepower
with red-blooded American zest on a day that makes every decent breed
of hound thankful to high heaven he or she is not a member of that atrociously
barbered breed of dingle-balls and yaps called "poodle".
One may ask the question "Why poodles?" Indeed the question
has been asked many times, and not only about the Poodleshoot, oftentimes
descending to theological argument, featuring the Primary query: "If
god does exist, why does he or she allow poodles?" and "If poodles
exist, does this presuppose the existence of Satan? If Satan exists because
of poodles, does then this presuppose that god does, in fact, exist?"
as well as numerous Secondary Queries coupled with Propositions and Conundrums
enough to puzzle Pope and Curate for the next one thousand years long
after the poodle and Man are both extinct, and at the end of it you just
know the disputation will continue, no doubt among the higher lifeforms
as in the chimpanzee, the cockroach, and the Welsh Rarebit of Hibernia.
The current pope is a feisty fellow with much on his plate to repair
or devour and he has been jetting about fixing up all the problems caused
by those impish Cardinals having elected a stodgy German last time against
all good common sense. One of his encyclicals, which is a sort of paper
composed by popes while riding the official Papal Bicycle -- hence its
name -- is titled "Divinity and the Poodle -- A Call for Investigation",
so something may come of all this theocratic folderol after all. Give
or take 500 years.
This may have all began with the ancient Romans who presented the poser,
"Viaduct?" Vy a duck? I dunno vy not a horse. I am all right
myself, how about you?
Even Pastor Nyquist has gotten into the fray, having written a paper
to the Collected Lutheran Bishops entitled, "Canine Manicure and
Simplicity". As for the folks in red robes who hang out at the Tibetan
temple on Santa Clara, let us quote the Buddha from his book of Five Ways.
"Wisdom lies in the abnegation of Yappiness. The tranquil mind attains
Nirvana."
Still comes the question, "Why poodles?" In a world fraught
with immense tragedy rife with Newtown massacres, pestilence and ebola,
child soldiers of Sierra Leone, Somalian pirates, kidnapped girls chained
for years in shipping cartons, imbecilic Tea Partiers, Sarah Palin, wretched
mental health, loud people who drive SUV's, Klaus Barbie and all his kind,
Hitler inventing the baby-kissing photo op, and even worse, how can one
spend any time being concerned about a miserably coddled Fifi shaved to
look like a large trout lure?
Indeed, within the question resides the answer, an answer worth pondering.
As per Tradition, on the day of the 15th Annual Poodleshoot, rosy-fingered
Dawn arose and pushed back the shutters of night to allow Phoebus to mount
his golden chariot and so, preceding the day, she trailed her gauzy banners
across the firmament, traveling across the yard from the battered old
half-moon privy hard by the weeds to the house back porch, leaving behind
a sort of dew after her passage. Gently, she flushed, and gently she tugged
upon the coverlet, and gently she kissed the eyelids of the sleeping Padraic,
but he stirred not. Gently she nudged the man, who only mumbled and snorted
as he remained held fast in the soft, wooly folds of Morpheus. Playfully,
she noodged him once again, but he remained walking in that shadow kingdom
of the most somnolent God.
Her fingers becoming rays of sunlight, turned the dial so as to allow
the sweet strains of muse Calliope to thrum the air as guided by the goddess
Rosalie Howarth of KFOG, but Padriac snored and stirred not.
Then Dawn gave him a mighty thwack, and that got him up all right, for
Dawn O'Reilly was not a woman to be trifled with at any time of the day.
And so Padraic bestirred himself to make ready for the Annual Island Poodleshoot
and BBQ.
So it was that Padraic rolled out the barrels of the Water of Life and
set up the Pit for this year's festivities under bright, chill skies once
again down by the disputed Crab Cove where servants of the Dark Lord had
been plotting to seize the land so as to build yet another series of Dark
Fortresses not unlike Cirith Ungol. Yea, the place known as Neptune Pointe
(sic) was entangled in the multifaceted eye of the Developer of the Spider.
The affair began with the traditional playing of the Paraguay National
Anthem, as arranged by Terry Gilliam, and performed by the Island Hoophole
Orchestra accompanied by the Brickbat Targets chorale ensemble.
The ensemble group which has made something of a name for itself by inventing
entirely new parts for voice, consisted of Mayor Marie and Councilperson
Lena as soprano alla pique, Councilperson Chen as Loki with his distinctive
rubato tenor, and Tony Daysog as mezzo soprano mournful, with Councilperson
Marilyn in her reprising alto triumphale in the esoteric work La Chambre
à l'arrière Enfumee Boogie. Former Councilperson Rob
Bonta appeared in cameo basso infernal as Iago from the Doubtful Friend.
Many reviewers have called this piece amazingly impossible to accomplish.
The East Bay Express found "this game of smoky backrooms is too much
to believe." Karen D'Souza of the Contra Costa Times has called it
"devilishly complicated" and "hard to believe it goes on.
And on. And on still more," while Jim Harrington has called this
performance, "the most dreadful rubbish since the last time I wrote
a mixed review. I never fully approve of anything but this gave badness
a new name."
The Chronicle, always more reserved due to the heavy influence of conservative
ACT in the City, has commented, "It should be interesting to see
how well this thing floats in the future amid this stormy time for companies.
Please, we cannot afford another Phaedra."
Of course, their theatre/music review got mixed up for that issue with
the economic report and the elections special, so the meaning of that
is up to interpretation.
The Examiner, as usual, ignored Reality and talked about the batboy who
had been abducted by space aliens.
In any case, after spirits had been revived with a sloshing round from
the kegs, the Hoophole Orchestra launched the proceedings with spirited
instrumentals. The elaborate instrumental section performed Sousa marches
and works by Debussy in true Island tradition, and featured vocals as
well as strings, horns, thorns, woodwinds, and bloodhounds.
Performing on the Retroviral Trumpet and Smashed Manager were Carol Taylor
and Pat Aston of St. Charles.
Lou Cadme did a standup job upon the Howling Organ Stroker, while Carolyn
Masters wowed everyone with the Flammable Pedalpushing Accordion. This
complemented Kristin SweetMarie Coomber and Jessica McGowan-Vanderbeck,
both with Incendiary Bustier Shriekerspritzers. Nice pair, those gals.
Jeannemarie Coulter contributed her skills upon the Tin Blathermouse
with great effect and Jodet Paloma Ghougassian sounded affectingly sweet
with the Mugwhump Twinkie-smasher upon Persian Carpet.
Jade of San Franciso performed upon the Inflateable Cross with Crossbow
Zinger and the Crawford Makeup Mirror Shriller.
Antimacassars and doilies were supplied by James Hargis.
Once this essay at musical endeavor was done to everyone's great relief,
the Native Sons of the Golden West, Parlor 34 1/2, gathered in a circle
for their Invocation,led by Doyle McGowan of San Francisco, and chanted
in the language of E Clampus Vitus. The men, wearing their ceremonial
robes and colorful fezzes, moved in a circle with their pinkies interlocked,
first clockwise, then anti-clockwise, before intoning, "Heep heep
Hepzibah!" and all jumping into the air simultaneously. They then
sang their parlor charter song, "Die Launische Forelle,"
After they had done this, they moved again in a circle as before, concluding
by bowing deeply, dropping their drawers and thence emitting a sort of
21 gun salute.
After the ritual pouring of Wild Turkey libations, the Official bugles
were blown by Pat Kitson of Mountain View and Tally of Marin, after which
the hunters moved out into the field. Soon the air was filled with the
gleeful holiday sounds of AK-47s, the cracks of freshly oiled Winchester
rifles, the occasional crump of percussion grenades, cries of "Poodle
there!", and the homey whoosh-bang of old-fashioned bazookas and
modern RPG's. In short it was a jolly, fine beginning for a Poodleshoot.
This year, the White House representation was headed by Mrs. Clinton,
who never really has left the White House and who still has one of her
vanity tables there in a small room. She was accompanied by Department
of Health and Human Services Secretary Kathleen Sebelius, who stated that
although she was not a fan of hunting per se, she did feel a need to get
out of DC for a while to get some rest.
The Conservative Party, which always seems to enjoy gratuitous violence
and bloodletting, especially when it involves someone elses children,
sent Ted Cruz, while the Pee Tardy folks sent Bernhardt Stoor.
The rain weather which had been forcast turned itself around into a gorgeous
set of days of clear skies just perfect for popping doggies on the run.
Mrs. Clinton, ever much the hawk, overflowed with exhuberant excitement
of the chase after a brace of Russian Blues, and managed to declare war
on Iran, Russia, China, both Koreas, San Leandro and Newark within two
hours, quite forgetting that she was not yet elected President.
When reminded of that fact by her companion, she expostulated, "Not
elected?! That did not stop George Bush!"
Down by the Crab Cove playground the Angry Elf gang set up their base
of operations and they had a great deal of fun firing off 1950's era Thompson
submachineguns. The Angry Elf was greatly enamored of the old gangsters,
especially Meyer Lansky and he loved to emulate that man, even to the
brown suit the mobster had worn. His gang did not do any hunting so much
as fire indiscriminately at any sort of likely target, whether it be palm
trees, lavatories, kiddie slides or other hunters and so everyone soon
learned to stay well away from there until they had gotten deeper into
Padriac's home brew which significantly worsened their aim.
The Angry Elf was there with Brian Grump, Toshie Fan, and the Toad and
they were a fell lot with their guns and primitive torture devices. There's
always some in the crowd who ruin the joy of things by way of their earnestness.
There in the middle of their camp they builded an hearth of human skulls
and fueled with foul tinder so as to produce a billowing reek that clogged
the once pristine sky.
Over on Otis Drive Officer O'Madhauen had caused a massive pileup at
the intersection of Grand and Otis when he had tried to vigorously enforce
the speed limit, the turn signal ordinance and the jaywalking ordinance,
which morphed into enforcing the traffic light itself, the crosswalks,
and the vehicular equipment advisory, not to mention the driving with
a cell phone law that no one else seems to enforce. The officer had such
a time scampering back and forth across the street, detaining vehicles
and pedestrians right and left that he had to call for back up and have
Officer Popinjay go commandeer one of those nasty metermaid cabs so as
to round up malefactors like a sheepdog, for it required time to write
up all those citations properly and he could not simply let them go with
a warning and finish off the paperwork later.
Besides, the City gets 17% at least from every citation fine.
He walked up and down the rows, idly pepper spraying the people who
sat there compliantly
Eventually, the two officers, by dint of zeal and obtuseness, had detained
some 150 people, whom they corralled into a space on the lawn of Wood
Middle School and somebody asked if it was alright to enjoy a bite to
eat and get some drink while arrested and Officer O'Madhauen could find
no entry about that in the big green CVC book so everybody there had a
fine time being arrested and noshing on turkey schmier on bagel toast
and drinking champagne until Officer Popinjay did what California police
are sometimes known to do. He walked up and down the rows, idly pepper
spraying the people who sat there compliantly and waiting for something
to happen. He did this because he was bored and because he had the power
to do so. And this really put a big damper on things and there was no
more turkey schmier or schmier of any kind to be enjoyed and the errand
boys ran away on their bicycles, weeping uncontrollably.
Elsewhere, the day proceeded with only the usual joyous mayhem. AK Glass
armed with a crossbow firing explosive darts managed to nail a fine catch
estimated at five pounds prior to dispatch down at the windsurfer clubhouse.
Not much was left of the carcass for the BBQ however, and size was estimated
by the length of the ears so the points earned were recorded by the scorekeeper.
Clebia, formerly of Brazil and now San Francisco, managed to catch two
miniature toys in a soup kettle fitted with a sieve, which made for easy
dispatch and immediate paella stew, plus some left over in a doggie bag
for the little terrier at home.
an IED-DP (Insanely Evil Doggie-Doo Pinata) that exploded
The Native Sons of the Golden West party, led by Doyle and Susan Laing prowled
carefully in the vicinity of the bicycle bridge upon reports of Sympathizers.
Sure enough a squad of dog walkers dressed in pink and lavendar with green
pumps clashed with our boys after setting off an IED-DP (Insanely Evil Doggie-Doo
Pinata) that exploded with a terrific stench, knocking Eugene Gallipagus
flat on his back. The resulting TBI and PTSD would affect the boy for years
to come. The squad was pinned down there at the trestle as the poodliers
assailed them with missle weapons not unlike the Persians against the Spartans
at Thermopylae.The Angry Elf Gang, seeking gain and notoriety, had made
secret pacts with the Evil One Eyed Poodle and so had instituted machinations,
deviltry and all sorts of nasty mayhem, chiefly featuring this assault.
The air filled with the reek of poodle, obscuring the sun and simultaneous
attacks were launched, seemingly at random all over the Island.
Things would have gone exceedingly bad for the squad with Doyle getting
the majority of his clothes torn from his body and Susan getting more
of an eyeful than any proper lady of her age should enjoy, but she laid
upon him his wounds such unguents found in the Houses of Healing as in
Kingsbane and Thriftfoil and Hunkythane which art known to produce visions.
And she laid upon him her body so as to warm his cockles proper and undulated
not unlike the healing sea.
"M'lady," said Doyle. "We are being attacked at present!
We are at war!"
So much is written in the Annals of the 15th Poodleshoot of the Island.
Things would have gone severely ill for our patriotic squad outposted
on the edge of the frontier, but save that Beatrice, glowing in robes
of white came leading a pack of noble reinforcements. Among them terriers
in the foreguard, followed by dashing golden collies. Next up in the phalanx
appeared the strutting Great Danes on the left flank and the wooly sheepdogs
on the right. Up the middle charged the Shepards with a tremendous bark!
Following these came the leaping basenji's, they of the curly tails and
silent attack, and among them the swift whippit along with the much misunderstood
and maligned pit bull
All these and more fell upon the enemy and they were vanquished in dismay,
even among the picnic tables, and they scattered like leaves before the
joyous wind. Thus was the party at the bicycle bridge rescued and avenged.
All around the Island, the dismal fogs roiled against the sun as pitched
battles ensued on this formerly sacrosanct holiday. The Lady of Jackson
Park, Tammy Chadwick, held forth her ring of power and invoked her Elvish
powers to hold back the legions of grim visaged Wargs. To the North, the
Wiccan power of Tony Savage beat back battalions of fell hog riders seeking
to impose the will of their Dark Lord.
And lo! It was come unto the third day of destruction when the skies
filled with the children of Gwaihir, mentioned elsewhere in the chronicles,
and so the julu, the hummingbirds, descended in large flocks to cause
confusion among the rampant orc-like poodle-lovers. The dank mists fostered
by the Angry Elf gang which sought to exploit the dissension caused by
excessive development rolled back to reveal gorgeous heavens.
The iridescent wings of julu and his clan descended among the rabble
of the Angry Elf and caused confusion and dissension and so the Angry
Elf gang was disbursed from that bad camp which celebrated Development
and Building upon every square inch and the gang ran through the streets
all undone with their shoe laces untied.
The battle at Crab Cove thus being resolved, the battle at the Boatworks
settled down and the Wargs withdrew and the battle at the Pointe (sic)
settled down to a truce. Then it was come time for peace, blessed Peace
to take hold of the Island and all who had wounds were assuaged at the
Houses of Healing, thanks to Brother Obama who granted that no preconditions
should interfere and all who were with no income nor recompense were allowed
to be healed for now the word of Law held sway.
We have fought well against false sentiment and artificial emotions
and the lathered coverall of fascism
And was come unto the time that the last trump was blown and the last
rack of Fifi laid upon the barbi well slathered with sauce of Everett
and Jones and the final speech was given unto Padraic who said, "Brothers
and sisters, today we are well met. We have fought well against false
sentiment and artificial emotions and the lathered coverall of fascism,
and we say on the occasion of the fifteenth Poodleshoot and BBQ, here,
here! To all a grand year and next year best of luck at the Annual Island
Poodleshoot and BBQ! Drink up me laddies, for last call is now upon us!"
The long howl of the throughpassing train ululated from far across the
water where the gantries of the Port of Oaktown stood glowing with their
multi-kilowatt sentry lights; it quavered across the waves of the estuary,
the riprap embankments, the grateful grasses of the Buena Vista flats
and the open spaces of the former Beltline; it moaned through the cracked
brick of the old abandoned Cannery with its ghosts and weedy railbed,
it keened between the interstices of the chainlink fences as the locomotive
glided past the shuttered doors of the Jack London Waterfront, headed
off to thankful parts unknown.
That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.

NOVEMBER 24, 2013
ROCK STARS GO BOOM LIKE THAT
Island-Lifer Tammy knipsed this one of the palm tree that used to stand
behind the memorial bench "To All My Dumb Friends". We have
had a couple dockwallopers pound through here after a period of no rain
followed by substantial windstorms, which may have caused this contretemps
of palm and bench. When it clears, we will get out there to take a pic
or two, but it looks like the bench took a beating as well over a thousand
pounds of trunk came down on the concrete structure, which is entirely
concealed by the fronds.

This location is Park Avenue Jackson Park on the south end.
NOVEMBER'S GOT HER NAILS DUG IN DEEP
This November brings the anniversary of JFK's murder, one of the largest
and most influential mysteries of our generation. Who killed him and why
may never be known -- certainly not within the lifespan of anyone that
matters, but the assassination of the popular President has cast a shadow
and shadow influence over American life each day since then.
He was one of the last Presidents to present himself with a genial, uncontrived,
un-spin doctored image. We have staff at Island-Life with relatives who
worked for him when he was a Senator, and their comments have universally
been that John F. Kennedy was a genuine article, gifted with a substantially
above-average intelligence with some estimates of an IQ well over 186
coupled with a voraciously fast speed-reader's skill. It was said he could
read the entire War and Peace in two hours and was able to recite back
entire paragraphs from anywhere in that book.
He was the Man of the Hour when friction developed with the USSR on several
occasions, although his pullback for a Cuban invasion cost the Democratic
Party the Cubanero Florida vote for the next several generations.
He was an All-American athlete, war hero, strikingly good looking, loved
by a beautiful wife and everything one could ask of a leader in a very
troubled time.
Successors to his office have yet to rise to any of the high points he
reached in social progress, in world peace, in foreign relations, in economic
development, and a number of other areas.
Spaced years apart, but also a commemorative anniversary of something
tragic, Bay Areans gather to remember the nearly 1000 local people who
died at Jonestown, sending a wave of shock through this region from 1978
up to the present. Reverend Jim Jones began the People's Temple in Indiana
in 1955 as an experiment in Socialist thought combined with Christianity
-- he was ordained and part of the Methodist Church. Around 1965 he moved
a portion of his congregation to Ukiah for a while, but found the sparsely
inhabited area restricting on growth. In 1971 he set up Temples in San
Francisco and in Los Angeles. Membership reports vary wildly, but it can
be documented that the San Francisco temple regularly hosted 3,000 devotees
who helped shape local politics by way of their idealism.
The Temple was a positive force for social integration of the races, and
many very good projects and legislation was carried forth by the positive
energy of that group, a fact that is often glossed over by people researching
what happened latter.
According to Wikipedia "At the same time, Jones and his church earned
a reputation for aiding the cities' poorest citizens, especially racial
minorities, drug addicts, and the homeless. The Peoples Temple made strong
connections to the California state welfare system. During the 1970s,
the Peoples Temple owned and ran at least nine residential care homes
for the elderly, six homes for foster children, and a state-licensed 40-acre
ranch for developmentally disabled persons. The Temple elite handled members'
insurance claims and legal problems, effectively acting as a client-advocacy
group.
It is generally believed that the group was instrumental in getting Moscone
elected mayor of SF in 1975 via canvassing efforts.
The fact that they did so much good is all the more tragic, given the
terrible decay in the organization propelled by Jim Jone's increasing
monomania and authoritarian rule. He removed a substantial number of his
followers to an agricultural enclave in northwestern Guyana and the community
there swelled to 900 people, mostly Bay Area Californians.
In November of 1978, Congressman Leo Ryan (D - San Mateo), accompanied
by his aide, Jackie Spier and several journalists went down to Jonestown
in Guyana to investigate claims of abuse. On returning to the airstrip
November 17 with several defectors from the Jonestown group, Ryan was
shot and killed in an assault upon the returnees by gunmen from the Peoples
Temple. Jackie Spier was shot in the back and remained on the tarmac for
over 8 hours beside her dead boss before soldiers from Guyana arrived.
Three journalists were also killed, including Bob Brown, whose camera
recorded the initial gunshots and his own death. There was a battle between
survivors and the gunmen which proceeded from one of the planes, which
had been disabled, into the cabin of the working plane that lifted surviving
journalists and defectors to safety along with one of the gunmen who had
been disarmed by the pilot.
The gunmen returned to Jonestown where most of the 980 inhabitants there
either committed suicide or were murdered by means of cyanide injection
and poisoned Kool Aid. Some fled into the jungle and listened as the massacre
continued.
A tape of unknown origin presents 45 minutes of gunshots and people screaming
during the mass suicide/murder. The tape is currently in possession of
the FBI.
The killing did not stop there. Surviving administrators of the People's
Temple, Michael Stokes killed himself during a subsequent press conference
and Guyana's Ambassador to the United States, Lawrence"Bonny"
Mann killed himself and Temple member Paula Adams along with their child.
Jackie Spier survived the ordeal and has been serving the people of California
capably and well since then as an elected official.
The effect of this massive loss of life has rippled through Bay Area
culture for thirty-five years, with entire families being wiped out. Acrimony
persists as a physical memorial listing the victims at Evergreen Cemetery
in Oakland includes Jim Jones on the role without comment. 409 bodies
are interred there, however Jim Jones was cremated and ashes scattered
in the Atlantic Ocean.
YOU CAN GET ANYTHING YOU WANT
So anyway, a couple dockwallopers soaked the Bay Area, followed by blustery
set of wind storms that knocked down quite a bit of squirrel habitat.
The weather has effectively stated its preference for Season and the boys
at the Household are scrambling to snap up those "seasonal worker"
jobs that pay well enough, don't ask too much of intellect, and promise
to end some time after they have become unbearable existences.
Last year nobody got drunk on the job or punched any kids in the nose
Last year nobody got drunk on the job or punched any kids in the nose,
so Pahrump and Jose and Javier look to be good on recommendation as Santaland
Elves at Macy's. Jesus never got over the ribbing he got when playing
the Nativity scene (Hey! What's Jesus doin' tending the sheep? Put a diaper
on him and stick him in the crèche . . .) so he is aiming for UPS
assembly line. Do well during the early part and they make you a driver
assistant. That's the guy who hops out in all kinds of weather with the
package to run past rabid dogs and antsy guys with homemade AR-15s to
get the signature while the driver sips his coffee laced with Amaretto
in the warm cab.
Sarah is hoping to avoid reprising her role in the Macy's History of
Northern California Living Diorama as Sigmund Freud and get through the
Horror Days with gigs in her band In Memory of Sister Rosetta Tharp.
those boys see green in scalping nonprofit charities
One would think a blues band has a hard time finding gigs during the
"Happiest Time of the Year", but in truth, the Blues are in
high demand, due largely to aging Boomers who can never get enough of
dunta-dunta and I-IV-V shuffles. Indeed, given the current state of economics
amid this Bogus Recovery from a slide that most intelligent people admit
started January 1 year 2000. Rolph is looking to supplement his meager
income as a doorman for the Hubba Hubba Club by driving a Xmas tree delivery
truck for N. Eptatood Contractors (Fabrication, Construction, Auto Repair,
and Odd Jobs), who generally make do all year performing odd jobs, welding
sheet metal and pretending they know something about automobiles. When
it comes around to the Hollar Days those boys see green in scalping nonprofit
charities right and left. Generally, Rolf tosses in an extra fir when
he can to sort of even things out. Since the Depuglia brothers of N. Eptitood
were a bit slow on the accounting side, this was fairly easy to do and
resulted in satisfied customers all around. The Depuglias felt good about
believing they were scamming liberals, and the nonprofit people felt good
about getting stuff for free.
That is the beauty of this world -- somehow it all works out.
Naturally all the hubbub down at the Old Same Place Bar amid this blustery
weather has been about the upcoming Poodleshoot and BBQ. Its looking like
foul weather will set in on that august day, which by conservative count
has been enjoyed by some 20,000 netizens over the course of fifteen years.
So all the hunters have been stocking up with Cabela's foul weather gear
and Big Five ponchos and special covers for their extended magazines.
So its been merry in the snug with the Jamisons and the Arthur Power
flowing like the Water of Life from the Source and old crusty 49'er types
have been trading recipes for things like "Glazed Ribs of Fifi"
and "Lemongrass Bowser". Then there remains the ever popular
"Boshintang Brigitte Bardot Memorial Special".
this Favoritist Time of the Year. So jolly with apples and kibble
Yes, the Seasons do have their well-loved peculiar traditions and the
interminable recurrence of popular theme songs. Roasting Rover Over an
Open Fire. Singing Old King's Hide. Away in a Kennel and Fried in Peanut
Oil. Yes, we all look forward to this Favoritist Time of the Year. So
jolly with apples and kibble. This year should be fun, fun, fun. We have
even heard rumors that Sarah Palin may attempt an incursion. That brassy
bitch. No one knows what will happen on the day of the Annual Poodleshoot.
But the Shadow knows . . . .
In other parts of the country the first snow has painted all the world
with broad strokes and covered all the yuck that usually offends the eyes
and all the world is turned into something wonderful. Up in the Sierra
we hear of the first foot deep snowfall. But down here, we have storms
with another dockwalloper set to arrive right on Thanksgiving, while we
are given to understand the East Coast is about to be punished for all
the stiff-necked sins of which it is guilty and which send scads of people
fleeing to California every month.
Look look on my works you mighty and despair.
A 2.3 shaker hit right underneath Silly Hall on the 12th this week at
7:17am. Not many people felt it but it served as a reminder that all shall
fade, all is ephemeral and from dust thou art and unto dust thou shalt
return. It is a great reminder that nothing built of stone shall last
forever. The recent explorations to Mars, the Red Planet have revealed
this explicitly. Once Mars was a lush planet, rife with water and atmosphere,
although now it shows itself as a burnt and frozen stone where something
once dwelled. Some colossal being named Ozymandias stands there laughing,
and saying, "Look look on my works you mighty and despair. They destroyed
everything, including their own water-rich nutrient-laden atmosphere in
their greed. A million years pass and Nothing beside remains. Round the
decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare, the lone and level sands stretch
far away."
Pastor Nyquist, troubled by events, takes his walk as is customary around
the block and pauses as Father Danyluk appears in his oilskin cloak approaching
from the opposite direction, a dim figure in the foggy, misty air. Fr.
Danyluk, of Our Lady of Incessant Complaint, is much troubled about the
fact that in the land where the ground shakes, instead of people looking
up in those moments for Salvation, they get inured to disaster, which
comes to the Golden State with such appalling regularity as to turn everyone
into agonistical cynics.
"My house burned down again yesterday. At least we saved the cat
this time."
Almighty Jesus! Awwwwwlmighty Jeeeeeeeezus . . ."!
He has had this discussion with Reverend Fred Rectumrod of the First
Primary Really First Before the Other Guys Baptist Church in the East
End. Its a church that by virtue of its location unfortunately caters
to the well-to-do, which makes for terrifying people properly with the
Word most arduous. Reverend Fred is wont to exclaim, "Not even the
earth beneath your feet is certain! In whom then do you place your trust
when the terrible, scalding, searing, smoking fires of Hell -- of Hell!
-- approach, but Almighty Jesus! Awwwwwlmighty Jeeeeeeeezus . . ."!
Its enough to embarass a decent Christian. enough even to embarass a
decent Baptist. Fr. Danyluk caught one of these sermons and one was quite
enough for him. It was the obviousness that put off even him, a Catholic
where the Truth gets pounded in with pandybats.
He much preferred the Baptist church on the West End where people at
least had a great time singing and praising and everything. The good Father
was always scouting out talent he could borrow or steal -- say not steal,
but mildly embezzle -- to be returned with dividends of purity and righteousness
-- for the musical talent in the Catholic church was, quite frankly dreadful.
Not more than one or two of his flock could carry a note to the corner
mailbox and he was always in a pickle every year trying to fill out the
chorus for the Xmas pageant. So what if the songs were a bit different.
It was all fine and Xmasy and all pretty much about the same thing, save
for details; let the hair splitters sort out the differences. Father Danyluk
had a show to put on.
This accounted for much in the way he encouraged his friendship with
the Lutheran Pastor Nyquist, for Lutherans not only could sing -- they
knew the words as well.
The Island has more churches than Ireland per square meter
The Island has more churches than Ireland per square meter -- or maybe
about the same -- but with the difference is that there are so many variegated
denominations, not one House of God, beyond the Lutheran Emmanuel Church
with its bevy of gorgeous women, can muster more than a dozen souls on
a good weekend. Not even El Luz de la Mundo de la Occupado Parkingspace
can collect more than fifteen people, and this outfit serves up great
buffets to fuel its three hour jubilations of atonal shrieking.
In Marlene and Andre's Household, the girl lays out the materials, sparse
though they are, that will somehow be combined into a semblance of a feast
on Thursday, and she is wondering, is it acceptable to present sweetpotato
latkes for Thanksmukkah? Such weighty questions of import.
The long howl of the throughpassing train ululated from
far across the water where the gantries of the Port of Oaktown stood glowing
with their multi-kilowatt sentry lights; it quavered across the waves
of the estuary, the riprap embankments, the grasses of the Buena Vista
flats and the open spaces of the former Beltline; it moaned through the
cracked brick of the old abandoned Cannery with its ghosts and weedy railbed,
it keened between the interstices of the chainlink fences as the locomotive
glided past the shuttered doors of the Jack London Waterfront, headed
off to parts unknown.
That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.

.
NOVEMBER 16, 2013
SQUIRREL SANCTUARY
We had to reach for that one. There are not a whole lot of pop songs
that reference squirrels, but Jesse Colin Young does in his song "Ridgetop".
This fellow is a typical ground squirrel photographed by Islander Nancy
Grey.

RECAP - THE MOST INTERESTING MAN IN THE WORLD
Readers may remember that a couple weeks ago a famous personage titled
The Most Interesting Man in the World made a cameo appearance in the monologue.
The character has been used in advertising for a dark beer sold in the
US and is portrayed by Jonathan Goldsmith, who we found out, is quite
interesting on his own merit. He currently lives on a boat in Monterey
but is planning on moving with his new bride to a cabin in the Sierra
foothills soon. Now that weather has started, he may already be gone.

The charities supported by the actor were listed in that issue of Island-Life,
and include agencies that fight human trafficking in Cambodia, provide
artist hook-up programs to help abused children heal, provide protection
for the Siberian white tiger, and he is on the advisory board of the landmine
victim assistance group Clear Path International. Clear Path has engaged
directly in ordinance removal, overseeing the largest landmine removal
project in history along the Vietnam/Laos border, as well as unexploded
aerial bombs, but now is handling mostly medical issues for civilian victims
of military ordinance.
Just knowing that makes us want to rush out and buy a case of that beer.
You might not drink beer every day, but when you do you might as well
drink a beer endorsed by the Most Interesting Man in the World.
THIS ISLAND LIFE
You may have noticed that the seasons have changed. Not by the weather,
certainly, but by the rumbling under the ground and the sudden pullback
of the waves which signify the massive tsunami of Hollarday Advertising
that will advance in solid walls to batter your home, your patience, your
sense of sanity, and your wallet.
In any case, the plastic "ice rink" for the kids has been set
up and notices for the December 7th tree-lighting ceremony at City Hall
are going out. The Ceremony has grown in recent years to include guided
caroling, performances by people who really do know how to sing, and the
curious Island anachronism called the "Dancing Xmas Trees" who
are so adorably cute you just want to punch them. Just kidding. The troupe
even got invited to the White House one year.
Then there is the Island-Life tradition and Alternative Radio's seasonal
love fest called Not So Silent Night. This began years ago as an acoustic
setup, but has grown to feature some Rrrrreeeeely Big names. Foo Fighters
have done it. Courtney Love has done it. No Doubt and Gavin Rossdale's
group has done it. Even Iggy Pop has done it. Bad boy local Billy Joe
showed up unannounced with his Green Day one year. It typically sells
out, so do not wait to get tix. This year's lineup includes Arcade Fire,
Lourde, Kings of Leon, Vampire Weekend and returnees Queens of the Stone
Age plus AFI, who seem to have actually learned how to play their instruments.
Its a bummer, we know, but there outta be noise enough for you.
Remember the stunningly beautiful Natalie Cole? She is still beautiful
and she will perform with the San Francisco Symphony over in Babylon at
Davies Hall 11/25. Better get those tix now.
The juggernaut of development continues on the Island, but not without
some hitches in the plans of a few get-rich-quick developers. The old
naval warehouses that had been warehousing nothing but derelicts and sterno
bums for years and which stood hard by where the new Target stands have
been torn down and soil remediation for toxics is well underway. The lot
where Goode Chevy used to stand looks to be finally in the process of
arriving somewhere, as crews have been trenching and laying conduit, signs
that plans for building have been approved and it is all a matter of time
former Auto Row lives again as a commercial district.
In an interesting development Kamela Harris, the State Attorney General
has stepped in to examine the questionable doings surrounding the McKay
Avenue property that was mysteriously rezoned to benefit developers after
the federals decided to let the property go. Problem is that the access
down there to that plot, which everyone had assumed would proceed gracefully
to East Bay Parks, is by way of public land, which is developed for, well,
park access, not residential.
So the sidewalks and street itself may become part of the sale deal.
Which creates the interesting scenario of an entirely gated, walled-off,
privately controlled subdivision that will block public access to the
beach from that angle.
The GSA is threatening to seize the access property by means of eminent
domain before turning this public land over to private interests. That
part really has the Attorney General's office steamed and for good reason.
Her office is known for being extremely tough on corruption in public
office and this one certainly seems to fit the bill.
The future of Sweeney Park was discussed at a recent meeting of the Park
and Rec. Proposals include a gazebo, an outdoor classroom, formal gardens,
a picnic pavilion, bike and hike trails, and -- our favorite -- restrooms.
We kinda like the idea of a "food production garden" behind
the Food Bank trailor.
Incidentally, did you know Mr. Leaper is no longer Director there? Now
you do. Troy Gilbert comes in with 25 years of experience in higher education,
including organizing and directing services for students at Stanford University
and UC Berkeley. Originally from Indiana, Troy came to California in 1988
and to the bay area in 1991. His involvement with the Alameda Food Bank
began last May when he became a board member and subsequently volunteered
assisting operations and set up. Troy also serves on the Board of Directors
of the First Congregational Church of Berkeley.
The Annual Turkey Distribution will be on a first come, first served
basis on Tuesday, November 26 from 11am to 1pm at the Food Bank warehouse
at 650 West Ranger. 1 turkey will be provided per household. This year
the Bank expects to hand out 1000 turkeys -- an increase over 750 from
two years ago, due probably to the mythical end of the Great Recession
and the oh so marvelous recovery that does not include minor things like
wages and employment. We hear that at least one grocery is offering a
"2 fer 1" deal. Heck, we know what you can do with that extra
free turkey. Pass it on.
The Letters to the Editor remain always entertaining. This week we note
a more upbeat tone in that many letter writers wrote to thank programs
like "adopt a classroom", the public library, and the women's
shelter. Still, the debate over whether the Animal Shelter is run by a
cruel bloodthirsty tyrant or is a model of clean, caring operations continues
unabated and we wonder what really is propelling this acrimony. We have
heard dubious reports about one of the shelter's administrators, but we
tend to shove hearsay where it belongs. We have to give the benefit of
doubt in favor of a person who devotes their life to caring for animals
absent definitive factual reports about abuse.
Some of us here have been abused -- we know the bar for proof is high
and difficult to hurdle when the victim is in all truth the first to be
doubted, the first to be blamed. So if there is any truth in the accusations,
do not let things ride on slander -- hitch up your boots and get facts
and figures, documentation and swearable witnesses. There really is no
other way.
Speaking of abuse, the rise in vehicle theft on the island has gotten
so large as to attract media notice. Seems a good year for Oaktown is
a mere 280 auto thefts, with a high of some 330 one year. We are experiencing
a sharp uptick, so now may be a good time to purchase a steering wheel
club or something similar. Barring that, since we now know the police
response to crime here is to tell victims to move away -- so nobody around
her talks about the extent of what is happening -- it may be coming time
for Committees to form that will be Vigilent in protecting the citizens.
Since the boys in blue have no interest in doing their jobs save to strut
around in uniforms and attend pancake breakfast fund raisers. We don't
want another incident where they let someone die in the water on Memorial
Day to prove a point about the budget.
FALLING ON MY HEAD LIKE A MELODY
So anyway, looks like snow has hit the high Sierra and the first wharf
sizzlers look like they are on the way next week. The season is coming
on when people slip into traditions like old mules beside the easychair.
We have the Annual Poodleshoot and BBQ coming up and of course, for those
inclined to masochism, there remains the tripartite Murder the Native
Americans Feast, Thanksgiving, and the rare co-occurance of Channukah,
all of which means no oyster stuffing and no ham canapes this year.
Nevertheless, this is a time when food, comfort food, traditional food,
homemade food steps forward as a main actor upon everyone's stages. The
women throw open the kitchen windows to let out the heat and send the
pungent savory aromas wafting through the neighborhoods. Rosemary. Oregano.
Cinnamon. Cloves. Garlic. Five Spice Powder. All the odors of the world's
kitchens mingling in the street.
Over at Marlene and Andre's Household, all the capable members have been
stocking up on Food Bank supplies to the extent possible given the limited
means of locomotion and transport. Pahrump has gone out to the trailer
with his scooter to garner veggies, while Martini and Jose have taken
the bus, toting their wire cart. Xavier and Jesus and Jose have done the
two mile walk with the House Flexible Flyer red wagon, stocking up on
broth and potatoes. Suan has been forthright and direct, eschewing both
bus and cab as being too demeaning. She's been out there in her signature
winter raincoat, boots, and negligee offering blowjobs for rides to West
Ranger.
It's all for the Cause of the Household, seeing some reason to give thanks
to something even when the entire world has been taking a huge dump of
crap on their collective heads. Some people think foodstampers and the
indigent are taking free rides of luxury. No, being poor is quite a lot
of work. So much so, a period of surviving poverty should be a job qualification.
It takes ingenuousness and effort to get by when there is no car, no phone,
no money for the bus.
This being Thanksmukkah, a conflation of two observances which shall
not be repeated for another 1000 years, Marlene has opted for the straightforward
mushy apples, canned fruit stuffing. Not that she ever would employ oysters
or clams (dreadful! trafe!) in any situation. Other tables may present
their disgusting hams carved in the shape of rosebuds, but not Marlene's
household. No matter how hungry, tinned ham and spam and clams go straight
down the street to the Shelter. A girl has to have principles. Still,
there is wine to obtain. Candles to light. At least nine of those in the
ironmongery contraption Martini welded one year. And then there is the
matter of grating all those potatoes for the latkes -- fortunately the
Food Bank has supplied plenty of applesauce.
Marlene spins a little top upon the kitchen counter while going about
her business of preparing food for the household, putting away groceries.
Nun. You get nothing. She puts the starch up in the cupboard and spins
again. Hay - take half the pot. But then she is only playing imaginatively
with herself. Spins again. Shin - you must add something to the the pot.
Of course the pot cannot exist unless people put something in. All must
contribute. She folds up the reusable grocery bags. Spin - Gimel. Winner
take all -- the worst of all results, according to the Ohlone, who despised
the aquisition of wealth. For with gimel, the game is over and the winner
sits, glum with all that had been given, a selfish beast. Even though
it all spells out "A Great Miracle Happened There."
Which may summarize the Household in general where kindness, truth, beauty
and justice have become the norms, unlike the vicious world outside their
walls. Within the walls governed by Marlene and Andre, a warmth of goodness
and kindness pervades, where the spin comes up to Shin -- all must contribute
in this little household of fifteen souls who have taken refuge in the
one bedroom cottage hard by the Bay. For these times are hard and Mr.
Howitzer, the landlord, offers no respite to anyone less fortunate than
himself.
Marlene places the menorah in the window to wait for the evening of miracles
and thanks to arrive.
In the Almeida household, located at some distance from the shore, Mrs.
Almeida stirs her specialty, Portuguese bacalhau and wraps up the box
printed in Norwegian, the name "lutefisk" boldly stamped, as
if in warning. Bacalhau uses dried salt cod as its main ingredient and
happens to be the main comfort food of Portugal. Unfortunately the Portuguese
were such excellent fishermen they exhausted the oceans around Portugal
and Spain -- indeed the entire Mediterranean region -- of cod. It is thought
by some that this disaster was the only thing that could bring down the
dictatorship of Salazar, but no -- the benivolent despot died in his bed
of old age, allowing the Azores to close its terrible prison and finally
become a country.
But it was distant, frosty Norway which came to the aid of desperate
Portugal, for the Norse had a great supply of salt cod preserved in lye
and, for some reason, no longer consumed the stuff in large quantity.
So, Portugal's national dish was saved by Viking fisheries, who had been
shipping only small quantities of the stuff to remote towns in northern
Minnesotta now had an entire nation to consume it. Only a few old folk
in Norway, Sweden and parts of Denmark that also enjoy wierd things like
matjes herring still ate lutefisk -- and even then only after and with
several glasses of aquavit. Somehow it never occurred to the Vikings to
mix the reconsituted cod -- which resembles in texture and taste soapy
dinosaur phlegm -- with a tomato base. Go figure.
Some say lutefisk was invented by the Vikings in an effort to poison
their enemies. That is patently untrue. Lutefisk was invented by the Irish,
who never consume it, no matter how wretched the English cuisine that
was foisted upon them. The Irish grew tired of being pillaged by the Viking
raiders to the point of poverty and starvation, so they concocted what
they imagined to be the vilest thing imaginable. They took cod and hung
it for weeks on a clothesline, then buried it in the ground immersed in
lye until the flesh jellied and then dug it up again to dry it some more.
This they offered to the Vikings on their next raid. See how poor we are
now; this is all we have to eat. To everyone's great surprise and to the
dismay of the Irish, the Vikings loved the stuff.
Nevertheless the Irish beat the pants off the Norwegians at the famous
battle of Baile ath Cliath, The Ford of the Hurdles, and some say it was
all because the Viking digestive tract had not then inured itself to lutefish.
Hence the Ford of the Hurdles. Or Hurls. Or . . . whatever. The Irish
won the day, which they seldom do, and the Vikings went away and never
came back, preferring to attack Greenland instead.
So much history and tradition and culture in a simple bowl of bacalhau.
Eugene Gallipagus, strolling back from his truck after a nice target
practice session at Davis Gunnery Range, notices something jammed into
the carved pumpkin on the steps of the apartment complex. He's been getting
into shape for this year's poodleshoot. Now that the first winter storm
is due to hit on Tuesday night, the temperature is dropping everywhere
and everyone is wearing fingerless gloves at the range. Time for gloves
and for steaming hot chowders, cream soups and cassaroles.
A squarish box similar to those used for Chinese takeout pokes awkwardly
from the pumpkin, which has an appropriately astonished expression carved
out of its rind. Eugene opens the box and discovers what looks like someone's
leftover hotdisk flecked with what look like green chilies. He closes
up the box and absently tucks it inside the foyer in Ms. Marple's letterbox
before going upstairs to heat up a frozen pizza.
The long howl of the throughpassing train ululated from
far across the water where the gantries of the Port of Oaktown stood glowing
with their kilowatt sentry lights; it quavered across the waves of the
estuary, the riprap embankments, the grasses of the Buena Vista flats
and the open spaces of the former Beltline; it moaned through the cracked
brick of the old abandoned Cannery with its ghosts and weedy railbed,
it keened between the interstices of the chainlink fences as the locomotive
glided past the shuttered doors of the Jack London Waterfront, headed
off to parts unknown.
That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.

NOVEMBER 10, 2013
THE LAST TIME I SAW RICHARD
Someone momentarily triumphant, yet so empty with his two failed marriages
and his lapsed sense of morality.

Richard got married to a figure skater
And he bought her a dishwasher and a Coffee percolator
And he drinks at home now most nights with the TV on
And all the house lights left up bright
I'm gonna blow this damn candle out
I don't want Nobody comin' over to my table
I got nothing to talk to anybody about
All good dreamers pass this way some day
Hidin' behind bottles in dark cafes
Dark cafes
Only a dark cocoon before I get my gorgeous wings
And fly away
Only a phase, these dark cafe days
THIS ISLAND LIFE
So much is happening than what is chattering down in Silly Hall and in
the blogs we are hardly able to pause to report on trivialities such as
the flack over the the Shelter's approach to killing pets or the administrator's
prickly habits of verbally demeaning staff and visitors. Appears this
one is true, but we doubt the more serious charge about excessive use
of euthanasia. That just feels like an add-on to the more legitimat complaint.
Well, people who do non-profits can be difficult -- this is, after all,
their only attachment to power denied in other spheres. We have beaucoups
reports of annoying, abusive, martinet non-profit administrators.
Still, do you want to do their job and humanize that area? Well, then
apply. . . . See . . . .
In other news we drove out to the new Target to troll the aisles and
gander at the prices and what we found was . . . meh.
It is good that what wound up there happened to be Target, which tends
to be humane in its corporate treatment of employees, but we were not
impressed with prices which varied wildly from fair to twice-as-much as
Lucky's. As for selection, we found some abundance in odd areas, like
sporting goods and kitchenware doodles, but absurdly wanting in practical
areas, such as hardware, tools, automotive, housewares, etc. They did
have a Hannukah endcap, but it was populated with geegaws. In other words
the place has promise, but remains potential. The store has no pharmacy
or eyecare center, which is a problem.
This Target is not exactly a go-to store for something specific you want
for the house. It is a dawdle and dabble sort of place stocked with crystal
knickknacks, ceramics, and girl's hotpants for people who want to ramble
among the aisles. We wonder how long this sort of thing can survive in
the flinty-eyed world of the practical Island where we are seeing so many
businesses belly up in the post-recession time.
In the meantime, folks are gathering the Force to combat what is happening
down there at Neptune Pointe (sic) and others are gathering to deal with
the obscenities planned for the Point, which seem to have forgotten a
major open space preserve for the Least Tern.
HARVEST MOON
So anyway, now is the time when when the bracing wind comes sweeping
down out of the North, stirring the spirits and bringing blood to the
cheeks. This is the time when leaves swirl about the ankles of Jane and
Brad as they scamper through the woods in matching camo fatigues, their
cheeks ruddy with the snapping, crisp Fall air, and exertion, and that
powerful Desire that fills young girls and young boys at this time of
year around here. Yep.
Hunting season is upon us.
The little filly longs to wrap her fingers around the firm, smooth, hard
stock and, with a squeeze that is eversomuch a caress, blow Fifi to smithereens
with her brand new 32-20 Mossberg loaded with hollow-points. The apple-cheeked
boy wants to plunge his fire-tempered blade deep into the juicy vitals
of a tender, moist well-coifed Wirehair Breed. Ah, the pleasures of the
autumn hunt! The delights of poodle blasting! The baying of hounds in
the crisp Autumn air. The scent of seared animal flesh. The joy of sanguine
violence. Put aside all thoughts of wimpy Palin snagging those frilly
moose from the comfortable safety of a plush helicopter. Boots on the
ground and dog meat is what we are after each Poodleshoot in America,
with its savage, atavistic descent into the bloodlust fury of killing
in honor of those original American brigands and thieves, the Puritan
Poodleshooters.
Autumn is a special time on the island. kicking leaves, traipsing through
woods with Dick and Jane, smelling the clean fresh air and blowing Fifi
away in joyous abandonment so characteristic of nubile youth. O the apple-cheeks!
O the firm thighs! O the short pants! O the delightful carnage rife with
body fluids splashing about a la Tarantino!
Yes its time to prepare for that annual convocation of delight, mayhem,
and bloodshed so enamored by so many Island-Lifers -- the Annual Poodleshoot
and BBQ. We have posted the official rules for this year already, but
of course you are free to peruse last year's ruleset so as to get yourselves
into the proper All-American frame of mind for snaring some decent poodlemeat
for your Boshintang and your 'Que.
Everyone is invited. Even Republicans who seldom bother with the nicities
of purchasing hunting licenses.
This year, the 15th Annual Poodleshoot and BBQ shall be an august occasion
replete with grand dignitarties from all sides of the political spectrum
and plenty of delightful ultraviolence besides. It is hard to believe
that we have enjoyed fifteen years of poodleshoots, but time passes and
these sorts of things revolve with the slow turn of the years into our
little Island Traditions. In fact every year is an august occasion with
elements of high opera combined with the best aspects of Where's Waldo
in that so many personages do make cameo appearances, it can be quite
the enterprise for folks to comb through the after-poodle Report so as
to identify themselves or a neighbor.
One can just imagine the joyous dismay on locating the visage of one's
own Aunt Therese in the crowd, slinging an explosive morning-star with
all the gusto of an octogenarian who has truely found and resurrected
her savage, atavistic roots next to next generation's little Baby Booby
Beeber trundling his inflammable diaper set in his kevlar onesie. Yes,
this is quite the family event.
This year is especially significant in that Channukah crops up during
the same time as the BBQ so we expect the side dishes with be tasty and
kosher.
Devoted readers can click on the sidebar where this year's rules have
been posted, along with acknowledgements for accomplishments in past years.
The weather finally began to turn around into something resembling Fall
and more in other places. It's been gray and overcast and cool and people
who are not self-deluded go around now with boots and jackets instead
of shorts and flip-flops. Of course we do have our Denialists, our great
Denialists, who insist that because this is California we therefore must
enjoy three or more growing seasons -- makes no difference these growing
seasons involve different crops. You see people out there planting corn
and peas in October and of course these things do not do well -- the sunlight
is a necessary component in this when you live in a latitude not far off
from that of Maine and Vermont.
In Marlene and Andre's Household the various members have begun gathering
in towards the warmth and dryness of shelter. The evening fogs have begun
leaving dews that have driven Snuffles and bums like him to any old place
where the bulls will not raid your camp and cart you off to some cold
cell, bereft of your cartload of belongings. Snuffles creeps up in the
night to the hole in the porch floorboards created during Javier's fiftieth
birthday celebration which went so awry and neartl killed the entire Household.
There the bum makes his secure camp for the storms of November are coming
on for sure. This does not go unnoticed, for Marlene, angel of truth and
justice, brings out a plastic bowl of bread soup and some day-old from
Snob Hill and a bit of cheese, which he mumbles with his ruined mouth.
Others gather to this sanctuary of sorts as the temperatures drop, making
sleeping on the beach difficult and the overnight sand restoration project
impossible and Marlene finds a way to feed them all from the slim and
bare cupboard, for that is the way she is, the ruined girl with the ruined
womb and the pristine heart of gold. Victim of bullies, she grants succor
to those who, like Tiresias, have crept among the lowest of the low.
Some enter into this arena romping and stomping like warhorses, like
conquistadors. She is not like that -- she is among her own kind, those
who have been brutalized and she wishes only that the conquistadors would
go away with their pretense and leave her with her agony and her people
with theirs alone and in peace.
In the warmth of the Old Same Place Bar there is a bustle and a scurry
and period of quiet as folks murmur about the upcoming weather, as to
how much rain we expect and how much cold now that Fall has settled in
with certainty and the hobbitfolk make do with industry to make ready
with their stores for the long cold season now advancing under the heavy
premonitions of thundercloud. Winter is coming on and this is still the
time of the Nazi striding triumphant across the land, whether he call
himself a Jew or not, the hooked cross glares with power over us minor
folk. There is no comfort in the Land of the Lost and the Roma remain
hunted in every land, which of course means that no land for the gypsy
can be called home.
Yet still in the shrubbery that borders the College the hedgehog pair
keep their den, snug and dry and warm. There Don Guadalupe Erizo and his
wife Dame Herisson cook up their crepes for dinner, chattering together
affectionately their hedgehog language away from the strife of this terrible
world. If only for a while.
We beg and plead that there be no more wars, no more atrocities, no more
Angry Elves stomping with their big boots and raping. Yet this mild request
seems too much for the little folk who inhabit the sedge.
In the Almeida household, Sarah Almeida kneels down to say her prayers
and these prayers were for all the world. "Now I lay me down to sleep
. . ." . And in this prayer this innocent girl prays for protection
for the hedgehogs of the College shrubbery and the hobbitfolk of the tavern,
and the Gypsy caravans along the Estuary and all this was observed from
the periscope of the Iranian spy sub El Chadoor.
And it was a great wonder in that spy sub so far away from home how these
people, so close to one another could be so cruel. Even as the season
of thanks approached.
The Periscope descended and the submarine propelled itself out of the
estuary and through the Golden Gate, running silent, running deep, out
to the boundless and merciful Pacific Ocean.
The long howl of the throughpassing train ululated from
far across the dispassionate water where the gantries of the Port of Oaktown
stood like mute sentries; it quavered across the waves of the estuary,
the riprap embankments, the grasses of the Buena Vista flats and the open
spaces of the former Beltline; it moaned through the cracked brick of
the old abandoned Cannery with its ghosts and haunted railbed, it keened
between the interstices of the chainlink fences as the locomotive glided
past the shuttered doors of the Jack London Waterfront, headed off to
parts unknown.
That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.

NOVEMBER 3, 2013
IF YOU MEET THE BHUDDA ALONG THE ROAD
This week's photo comes from Tammy. Apparently if you are to meet the
Buddha along the road you are to ring his chimes.
WHAT'S THE BUZZ
The latest Island news has been largely about the Ron Cowan proposal
to move the Harbor Bay Club in favor of building a number of upscale homes.
Most letters and commentary have been solidly against the project, generally
citing worsening traffic problems and population density.
There is a flap over the Animal Shelter, in which some people claim that
the management there has taken to euthanizing animals without proper protocol
and in far too speedy a fashion so as to avoid fuss and bother. Naturally
the Shelter has responded in defense of its policy of putting down animals
with behavioral problems, as these animals would probably be slow for
adoption, and in case of adoption, would require special care.
Congrats to Sergio Silva, who won three competition medals in October,
taking two golds in Santa Cruz at the US Open tournament in the Senior
I heavy weight division. Silva owns and operates Team Silva Brazilian
Jiu Jitsu on 1701 Lincoln Avenue.
Small businesses on the Island will need to get honest with the City,
which is seeking to bolster revenues by hunting down those doing business
here without proper permits. This kind of revenue generation by snagging
fee evaders and imposition of subsequent fines is becoming big business
by many governments across the country, including the Feds. A basic cottage
industry home permit costs at the low end some $80 per year, depending
on income, and the permit can be useful for smoothing the way in dealing
with other government entities, so you might as well get over to City
Hall and file. The City has hired Fresno-based Municipal Auditing Services
to go for those fee evaders.
IN YOUR HASTE ON HALLOWEEN, YOU LEFT YOUR CAMERA ON THE BED
Here are some images taken by our staff photog as well as others of this
year's Halloween house decorations.
Here is an introduction to Haunted Fairy land.






Haunted Fairyland . . .
Teddy bear's picnic and Red ridinghood.

A Goldilocks trophy, Jack's beanstalk, Alice's Mad Hatter
. . .

Someone forgot to wake Sleeping Beauty . . .
Don't be afraid of this little guy crawling at you with
burning red eyes and no legs . . .





Even businesses get into the spirit of the season. Paganos
hardware has a classic install every year.

The bartender at the Lucky 13 dressed up as Regan from
The Exorcist. Note the strategic placement of the crucifix. To safeguard
maidenly virtue?

This popular display was photographed by Benjamin Lekashman.
Of course most of the displays look most impressive when
lit up at night. Nancy Gray, of the Lunatic Asylum of St. Charles took
these spooky images.

DOWN IN THAT SUBWAY STATION/ THE DEAD DON'T TAKE NO VACATION
Fruitvale once again held the largest celebration of Dia de los Muertos
outside of Mexico. The blocks around Fruitvale Station from 23rd to 27th
and the big parking lot were blocked off for ofrendas, vendors of sucre
calaveras, performance stages, and impromptue performances, including
the famous Aztecas with their extraordinary headdresses.

It's America and vendors will take advantage of the crowds. No stall?
No problem.

The ofrendas vary from the simple, including things that the deceased
liked to eat, to the very elaborate.
.

For all the innocent children who have died. . .


Los Dias del los Muertos is a participatory festival. All
share in their common grief.

There are many communal offrendas, such as this one commemorating
all those who died by homicide in Oakland in 2013.

The Latin population is very conscious of its place in the
world community. This is part of the Azteca ofrenda where their headdresses
are stored prior to the incantations.

"This is Mr. Death. He is a reaper."



"To the virgins to make merry with Time . . .".


Like Life, this elaborate temporary display consisting of
thousands of cinders and wood chips is destined to be completely destroyed
in a day.


Being interviewed by Telemundo, one of the largest Spanish-speaking
media outlets in the country.

Of course one can find some politics mixed in to spice things
up. This one commemorates the "dirty wars" conducted by the
CIA during tne 1980's. Another ofrenda commemorates all those murdered
by graduates of the brutally savage School of the Americas located in
Miami.


Detail from an ofrenda commemorating a well loved abuelita.

With all the gabacho noise about multi-generational
legacies, it is easy to forget that the Hispanic population has been in
Alta California for well over four hundred years. The rituals that invoke
the "five directions" commemorate not only the recently deceased
but also the ancestors. This ofrenda recalls five generations of one family's
presence in Oakland. San Antonio was the name of the estate given to the
Peraltas by way of desueno. It extended from San Pablo Bay down to roughly
where Fremont now is located.

This is Don Piedro Liebres on display in a museum in Jalisco.
In the old days, the poor purchased rented graves. When no one from the
family showed up to pay the rent, the tenant was evicted. The bones typically
were tossed into a charnel house, ground up, and then added to soil for
crops or simply discarded with the trash. This was done here at Mission
San Jose. The Don died recently enough to the end of this practice that
upon his "eviction" his remains were taken by the government
and put into a museum. Some people still remembered him as a local personality
-- Piedro Liebres is a nickname, not his real family name. The maker of
this ofrenda is trying to locate more information about him.

THE CROSSING
So anyway, Pedro went out during the uncertain weather time of autumn
in his boat El Borracho Perdido, accompanied only by his faithful labrador,
Tugboat. He motored through a brief bluster bit of weather and then the
waves settled down to a rate and unearthly flat sea, a dead calm at night
under the new moon. The moon, being New, remained as silent as would be
expected. But the gentle, nearly imperceptible swells remained brightly
lit by way of the broad band of stars that some say is the real heart
of where our haunted planet spins out on the edge. Out there the whisps
of the fog scraps glimmered by the light of stars and pilot house lamps,
specters wringing their hands, lamenting, or simply passing from one room
to the next.
It being calm and there being time before he arrived at the grounds,
he took out his dogeared copy of You de Pongyou Pong Zi Yuen Fong, an
anthology of translated classical Chinese poets and poured still hot black
coffee from a thermos into a cup. Some people may express surprise that
a relatively uneducated fisherman would pass the time reading poetry of
any kind, let alone ancient Chinese, but those people probably lack some
education as well.
Solitary
drinking without a friend
I raise my cup
to invite
the bright moon
With my shadow
we make three . . .
Well, the moon being new, the yardarm spotlight would have to do as a
surrogate for the moon. Tugboat, always black and beside him dogging his
heels would have to be his shadow.
For the moment
I'll make do
with moon and shadow
This year El Dias de los Muertos had been filled with cacophany as the
kids built their ofrenda in the livingroom for their abuelta, gone now
some five years. Now the kitchen was littered with sequins and clipped
No. 22 wire used for armatures, modeling clay, acrylic paints -- a purple
swash of which made itself into the carpet -- the scattered efforts to
make sugar calaveras. In a little while , it would all get cleaned up
by maman and the dead would go back to whatever place they inhabit the
rest of the year.
Beyond the boathouse the spectral whisps continued their march across
the black water, all heading back, all going home to the clouds above.
Meanwhile, Denby drew the shortest straw once again, thus restoring Tradition
and giving poor Jose a reprieve. And so the musician was sent out by the
Editor on his special mission on the night when the normal flow of things
reverses itself.
Every year, the Editor assembles the staff in the Island-Life offices
at night after the sun has gone down to draw straws by candlelight, all
according to tradition. Every year, first the one, then the other approaches
the cup and, trembling, removes their little stick. Every year, Denby
approaches the cup, draws a straw, and every year, according to strict
tradition, Denby draws the shortest straw.
He has tried drawing first. He has tried drawing last. He has tried drawing
in the middle and he has tried to avoid the ritual altogether, but tradition
is very powerful when the spirits are at work. It is 14 times now that
he has suffered this bad luck.
And so it was he put on his coat and he put on his hat and so walked
out the door, this year the same as the last, with people gathered in
fearful little knots, whispering among themselves as he went. "Sure
glad it's not me."
As in all Traditions, there is a sense of repetition, of revenance, each
time the ritual is repeated.
"Lasciate ogni speranza voi ch'entrate!"
From the offices he walked along the path that borders the Strand and
came to a stone wall. He could not remember a stone wall being there,
about two and a half feet high and extending for infinity in both directions,
but this one seemed to have been there for eons, with scraggly weeds crowding
up against lichened stones. There was no gate or path through but something
called from the dim otherside and so, hesitating a moment to leave the
relatively well-lit path, he slogged through the sand before the wall
and stepped over into a dark mist and a voice seemed to echo in the darkness,
"Lasciate ogni speranza voi ch'entrate!" and the words flamed
inside the skull as if poured in molten steel.
As per Tradition. Crap.
A large owl, about two feet tall, perched on a piling and looked at him
with large owl eyes.
"Hoo! Hoo!"
On the other side the ground sloped down as usual to the water for about
thirty yards, but he could not see the far lights of Babylon's port facilities
or the Coliseum. In fact, the water had the appearance of extending out
beyond to Infinity. But all up and down the strand bonfires had been lit,
as is customary among our people in this part of the world to do during
the colder winter months along the Strand, and towards one of these he
stumbled among drift and seawrack.
A small child, barefoot and wearing a nightdress ran past and disappeared
as quickly as she had come.
At the bonfire's edge a bright familiar voice greeted us, "Denby!
Back again so soon?"
A sort of pale glimmer drifted over the dark sands, a woman dressed in
white with frizzy platinum blonde hair. She reached out with her left
arm. But her hand went right through his arm, leaving a clammy, cold sensation.
"Almost crossed over a few times during the past year, Penny,"
he said to the apparition.
"I know; I could feel it in my bones." She laughed. "Don't
be so lugubrious! Come along, meet some people . . .".
"si lunga tratta / di gente, ch'io non avrei mai creduto / che
morte tanta n'avesse disfatta . . ."
As he stepped out of the sawgrass area to the hardpan of compacted sand,
he looked up and down the beach to see a myriad bonfires arranged in a
broad arc off into the distance. Strange words in another language reverberated
inside the skull: "si lunga tratta / di gente, ch'io non avrei mai
creduto / che morte tanta n'avesse disfatta . . ." the words echoing
and echoing down long hallways of mirrors into eternity. None of this
seemed to make any sense at all. It never did each time, even though this
same thing happened time and again, like an old fashioned stuck record
on a phonograph.
"I sure would like to know who's the big voice who keeps shouting
things in Italian," Denby said.
"What are you talking about? Don't be silly," she said, skipping
down the slope.
"Well . . . nevermind."
Another child, dressed in a private school uniform, but barefoot, ran
between them laughing. She too, disappeared into the darkness.
They came to the bonfire where a number of people sat around on logs,
pillows, blankets, talking.
An elderly, harsh-looking woman with flaming red hair sat in a straight-backed
oak chair and glared at him.
"You reprobate. Have you made anything of yourself?"
"Olga." Denby said.
"You disgust me," Olga said. "You should have joined the
Army or the Marine Corps."
"I was underage, Olga. When you tried to sign me up."
"Makes no difference. Plenty of others got around the rules. If
they cared at all about what was happening at the time. You could have
joined the Children's Crusade! The Crusade against Communism! History
was on our side!"
"Olga, I would have been killed right away."
"So what! So what! You would have earned honor to yourself and the
family. All those hippies -- I spit on them. We could have won that war.
Save for weak ungrateful scamps like you. The Army would have made a man
out of you!"
"A dead one, I assure you. Not very useful to already grown men
in combat."
"I got others in there! I pulled strings and got them to Saigon!
I did my part -- all through the Senator's office," Olga said.
Two figures wearing tattered army fatigues came jogging up to the camp
there.
"Hello Johnny. Raymond."
They were arguing about something.
"It was at Ba Ap," the heavier fellow said. That was Raymond.
"No it was not . It was Ap Ba." Johnny said.
"O for pete's sake," Raymond said. "What difference does
it make where you died? All the villages were the same and had nearly
the same names."
"Now listen, I happen to think it is very important to know where
I died. It is important to me."
"The village is meaningless!" Raymond exploded. "They
were all meaningless except people died fighting for them! I don't care
WHERE I died, the end result is the same!"
"Or we destroyed the village," Johnny said. "That made
them really meaningless. Heck, for me its personal. I have to know."
Here I am, Denby thought to himself, listening to two dead people in
hell's waiting parlor argue about where they died and how important it
was.
Olga broke into this discussion with her own opinion. "The important
thing is that you grabbed your bootstraps and you made yourself men through
the forge of military service. All the others can go to hell!"
The two soldiers looked at her.
"You know, Denby," Raymond said. "That woman is really
a bitch."
"Hey," Denby said. "That is my aunt you are talking about."
"Nasty little sniveler! Your mother had no right to haul your broken
casket around to the church when she did. She was supposed to endure stoically
the way a soldier's widow should!"
"Now you are talking about my mother, you old harridan you,"
Raymond said.
A couple translucent girls in nightdresses ran laughing through the crowd
and vanished.
"Hey, that is my aunt . . .", Denby said, meaning Olga.
"Things do not seem to be very smooth this time around," Penny
commented.
"What did she think she was going to find using her dead husband's
powertools to crack open that casket sealed in the tropics? Some waxy
figure with a pale face? Even so, she had no right to drag what she found,
a body killed in the hot tropics with the casket wide open to the church!
To the church!"
"I suppose it was because she found three arms in there," Raymond
said calmly.
"So what! So what! War is ugly and hell. Everything she did ruined
the nobility of it. The valor."
"I think, when my buddies had to go around and fetch body parts
for several guys and toss them into a bag because the CO says do that,
that is the thing that ruins valor for me. Just saying."
"You ingrate! Wretch The more that died, the better! All for our
Country and Honor!" Olga was winding up for one of her famous diatribes,
when suddenly she paused. She spit out a gold coin into the palm of her
hand. It was the obolus.
"My time has come! I get to cross over! At last! At last! Good riddance
to you ignorant people who still have something to learn! I am crossing
now. . . ".
Indeed the glimmer of the ferry could be seen rapidly advancing toward
the landing.
"I don't understand any of this," Penny said. "It sounds
like the Vietnam War."
only god knows what dark energies, what howling emotions came to play
Raymond explained. He signed up on urging of his family and family tradition
for the Marines. He was killed in combat and his body shipped back to
Reston Virginia in a sealed coffin, where it resided prior to burial in
the family garage. His grandfather had served in World War II and had
died at Malmedy, been shipped back and buried with full military honors.
His father had served in Korea, been wounded at Choisin Reservoir and
died of complications from injuries a couple years afterwards and then
buried with full military honors at Arlington. His two brothers had died
in Vietnam, and both had been buried with full military honors. This left
his mother as the last family representative and in that dark night of
the soul only god knows what dark energies, what demonic emotions came
to play in tat grieving mother's breast, for with herself alone in that
house with that casket, she had used the power tools belonging to her
husband to force open the metal casket lining in a kind of frenzy that
only a deprived mother can understand, some kind of mindless, insane rage,
to discover body parts for more than one person in that box. Sort of jumbled
together.
So she hauled the casket and contents into the back of the station wagon
-- they still made those things back then -- and drove to the church where
she declaimed, "This is what your wars have done to my children!"
There had been something of a brough-haha then, for one of the arms had
been distinctly Black.
That meant somewhere a Black soldier was unaccounted for. The resulting
furor did have the positive effect of easing race relations in that district.
As for Johnny, he had been able to sign up underage because his father
was a colonel and thought it a very good thing the waifish boy finally
became a man, tempered by fire. Instead the firefight used him up.
the Ferryman with eyes that were wheels of fire
Olga strode down to the ferry dock with her flaming red hair, her eyes
aflame with triumph and desire, confident her final reward was at hand.
At the landing, the Ferryman with eyes that were wheels of fire, sorted
out the souls, pushing some of them back with a long hook. Others he seized
and threw into the skiff, roughly taking their obolus. The dog snatched
some of them who tried to escape, and they began to wail, for now, too
late, these souls knew that their destination would not be the City of
Light. They had not learned anything during their time on earth or in
Limbo. They had retained intransigence, contempt, scorn. The Ferryman
hooked Olga with his gaff and tossed her in among the rest of them who
began to wail, for this passage would not go West, but South, to the land
of Dis, the lake of fire.
"Hey! That's my aunt!" Denby said. They ignored him.
"Well that is a funk," Penny said.
A tall man with grizzled hair came up to Denby and greeted him just as
a bevy of girls ran by with their skirts flapping, their girlish laughter
easing the air which lately had been so acrimonious.
Denby looked at the man, not remembering him precisely. He reminded Denby
of the actor Morgan Freeman.
"Bin lung tyme sin eu spik da gullah," the man said.
"You Geechee-Gullah," Denby said.
"Ah, you remember."
"I don't know you," Denby said with wonder. "How are you
meeting me?"
"Your great grand-uncle sew the wood as if cloth. He made things
and he helped us in the early days. Because he could sew the wood he helped
the trade between the Island and the Carolinas. That is the connection
working its way through the blood down the generations. And you remember
but do not remember me."
"This is amazing! This goes back generations, for hundreds of years
and the escaped slaves of Sierra Leone!"
"Yes, the Dias de los Muertos are that way. I have been waiting
for you a long time. Long time I wait."
Another girl, translucent, ephemeral, the way certain girls are of a
certain age, light footed and quick, she ran between them off into the
darkness.
"I remember a man named Vincent. It was the Carolina coast . . .
but why now"?
"Vincent; that is me. You know we have an Island. Just like yours.
Now time is come and all Gullah there lose homes. Carolina wants tax levy,
even though we always independent, never slaves since Sierra Leone. We
been there five, six, seven generations now. Young ones go away and sell
the house to Ofay. Now the property tax and we lose it all. Island becomes
the place of the wealthy, not the Gullah. The daughters of the dust go
blow away through the world."
"Um okay. And what does this have to do with me?"
"You must see the Gullah is you."
"You must see the Gullah is you. You will lose your homes same way.
All passing now this age. You must tell about this. Or you surely lose
your Island."
Vincent started and removed a gold coin from his mouth.
"You have carried your message, Vincent. Now you are free to go."
"We Gullah always free," Vincent said. And with that he strode
down to the landing where the skiff had pulled up to take on more passengers.
It became clear that by the means the passengers were gently herded and
others kept at bay by the dog, Cerberus, that this passage would head
due West where a faint glow indicated the City of Light.
"Well," Penny said, "This has certainly been an unusual
and educational visit, Denby. Have you any more delightful surprises?"
"I just saw a member of my family get dragged down to Hell. What
more do you people want of me?"
"Unfortunately," Penny said, "There is always something
more asked of you. We are a non-profit enterprise you know."
A figure walked past them dressed entirely in black and singing to himself.
And, everyone who ever had a heart
They wouldn't turn around and break it
And anyone who ever played a part
Oh wouldn't turn around and hate it!
Sweet Jane! Whoa-oh-oh! Sweet Jane! Sweet Jane!
He walked right down to the landing and nonchalantly gave up his fare
for the passage.
"So how does this guy get a direct pass to the Other Side?"
"I suspect," Penny said. "He has suffered enough in this
life."
A young girl ran up to Denby and stared at him with big dark eyes and
he looked down at her with a mixture of feelings, of frustration and somekind
of loss. "Papi?" she said. A faint odor of cinnamon and cloves
wafted over him. Her eyes were large and deep as deep Carribean pools.
And then she turned and ran off into the darkness.
An iron bell began to clan.
"Time to go back, Denby," Penny said ruefully. "I was
hoping we could talk more this time."
"Not much these days seems to go according to what I like,"
Denby said.
Penny took him back to the wall, which he would not have found otherwise,
as sight seemed to have become blurred by some saltwater carried on the
air.
Fling yourself into Life while you still have it
"Oh, you'll be back before long," Penny said. "Try to
enjoy your stay where you are at for now. Fling yourself into Life while
you still have it; at this point I don't regret a thing except waiting
far too long to take up skydiving." She paused at the wall and looked
with big eyes, a half-smile on her face. "And practice your singing.
You really need lots of practice." A wet something touched his cheek..
"Didn't you say something like that last time . . ." Denby
started, but she was already gone. Ephemeral and evasive as she had been
in life.
And after he climbed over that low wall, everything back there receded
into a mist and there was only the stretch of water out to Babylon and
the lights of Bayview and Hunters Point and the ring of the Coliseum.
One by one the distant bonfires winked out until there was only the long
and lonely empty length of beach with the lights of the apartment houses
behind him.
Instead of going directly back to the Offices to make his report he wandered
back to his own apartment cubbyhole. The sparse mite of a place now allowed
by the savage landlord in his overweening greed in this time. There he
poured himself a glass of wine, delaying the inevitable, thinking about
those gone to the Other Side. Thinking about the moon.
I sing
and the moon
wavers to and fro
I dance
and my shadow
gets all mixed up
Eventually, he made his way back to the to the Offices where only the
Editor sat there behind his desk, his eyeglasses perched on his nose and
his remaining hair flying about in an aureole about his head.
"How was it this time," the Editor inquired, not expecting
any sort of rational answer from someone who had just ascended like Orpheus
from the Underworld.
Denby remained silent. The Editor went to the cabinet and broke out the
Jamesons. He clinked several cubes of ice into the glass and splashed
a goodly amount of whiskey in behind, then did the same for himself.
"Any idea how the midterm elections will go?"
"Somehow", Denby said, "That did not come up."
I am convinced that the misery of the world is a bottomless pit
"I have seen the world of the entire world's misery pass over the
transome of this desk, you know," said the Editor. "Murder.
Torture. Mutilation. The most horrendous crimes against humanity. The
salt bread of exile and many things worse. And the average day-in-day
out insensitivity and obnoxiousness we all take for granted. Sometimes
I am convinced that the misery of the world is a bottomless pit, an ocean
into which our tears blend without a trace. Always I hold out hope that
there will be some sign that things will get better."
"I am not the person to say," Denby said.
"Taciturnity does not become you." The Editor relit his permanent
cigar. "I am thinking about somebody now who is very far away, so
far I doubt he even knows I exist any longer and some days I wonder what
I would say to him or he to me. Probably no more than a joke. I had another
friend who was a great practical joker. They tell me on his deathbed he
opened his eyes wide and called someone over to whisper in his ear, 'The
treasure chest of jewels and gold is located precisely under the . . .".
and then he just closed his eyes and in a little while he passed away
with a smile on his lips."
The two of them remained silent for a while with their drinks and the
cigar, the unseen presence of another in the room. Or just the blank moon
and the shadows. The mists gathered among the trees in the backyard, keeping
Company in the hours before dawn.
We three
forever-silent friends
will meet some day
in the clouds up above.
The long howl of the throughpassing train ululated from
far across the spooky water where the spectral gantries of the Port of
Oaktown stood like metal demons with glowing arms, it quavered across
the black waves of the estuary, the riprap embankments, the grasses of
the Buena Vista flats and the open spaces of the former Beltline; it moaned
through the cracked brick of the old abandoned Cannery with its ghosts
and haunted railbed, it keened between the interstices of the chainlink
fences as the locomotive glided past the shuttered doors of the Jack London
Waterfront, headed off to parts unknown.
That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.

.
.
OCTOBER 27, 2013
SHAKE YOUR TAILFEATHERS
As it turns out there really is a blues song called "Chicken Cordon
Blues", but as aficionados know the Blues and chicken shall be forever
entwined. And well fried at that. We decided to pick up on the Ray Charles
assisted tune in the first Blues Brothers movie.
This week's headline comes from Tammy's storehouse of treasures and features
a little gal who could just as well be one under the care of Mrs. Almeida
from our monologues. We had a lot of fun coming up with titles, as in
Chicken Cordoned Blue, Picasso's Blue Fowl Mood Period, Hen's Azure, Coq
au Bleu Sans Fromage, etc.

Anyrate now that we are getting rules about raising "livestock"
on the Island -- where before hogs and beeves enjoyed seemingly unrestricted
freedoms until some officious inspector came to fine your potbellied sow
-- it seems appropriate to showcase this plucky lady.
WHAT'S THE BUZZ
We are back from a mini-vacation of sorts these past two weeks. Got a
lot of stuff coming up and we see by the stats that the old readers who
have been following us are flocking back for the big milestone issues.
Had a touch of pneumonia, but we are back in the saddle again.
WHAT'S GOING ON
Lots of great stuff happening now that we swing into the "Hollarday
Season". The Fox Theater has a smashing series that kicked off with
local boy Joe Satriani 10/26 this Saturday. Mark Knopfler will take over
10/28 that same venue. It may be cold along the tollgate, but the wagon
is creepin' through. God knows what he is going to do to you.
Warren Haynes drives his Government Mule team beneath the gilt idols
for 10/31 for some proper stomping and snorting, while the much more sedate
Iron & Wine of Jim Beam, that impish Boy with a Coin, will take over
on 11/1 for some acoustic delights.
For the magic date of 10/31, the Flaming Lips will present a Halloween
Blood Bath at the Bill Graham Civic over in Babylon, while local boy Tommy
Castro will wake the dead and ease the pain of Dias de los Muertos on
11/1 at Yoshi's in Oakland.
You may of heard of Joe Bonamassa. His tour kicks off 11/2, but he will
not appear in Oakland at the Paramount until 12/6. You have better get
your tickets now, however. The guy has put kick-ass back into the Blues,
and he looks to be on a roll right now.
On the 11/2, Saturday, a benefit for Seva will feature, appropriately
enough, the Blind Boys of Alabama beneath the purple chandeliers of the
Fillmore. Seva is an international organization which provides medical
eye-care services to people living in the Third-World. That event, hosted
by Wavy Gravy, will also feature Dumstaphunk and Hot Tuna, which these
days consists of originals Jorma Kaukonen and Jack Cassidy along with
multi-instrumentalist Barry Mitterhoff. Dumpstaphunk is the brainchild
of Ian Neville, and sometimes includes . . . well, some pretty remarkable
talent in addition. GA Tix for that one going for $48, but VIP tix at
$105 will include a post show meet and greet with the performers.
Word has it Richard Shindell's next tour will again remain on the East
Coast.
Somewhat of an eye-opener was the item about "Resurrect Sex Workers
Fundraiser Day of the Dead Celebration happening at . . . The Fireside
on Webster Street here on the Island 11/1, which is a Friday. Fundraiser?
All proceeds will go to legal defense fun for Erotic Service Providers.
Well, it should be interesting.
Our Oaktown Peralta House Museum, the last vestige of the grand estate
that once stretched from San Pablo Bay down to Fremont and the Mission
San Jose, will host a Halloween party at the 1879 Hacienda house. That
one is free and runs 5pm to 7pm. Location is Coolidge Avenue around 35th
near the Patton Christian Acadamy.
The Oakland Museum continues its 19th "Days of the Dead Community
Celebration" in the Hall of Natural Sciences and the Fruitvale District
will again have a street closure near the BART station for its special
display of personal ofretas and the ever popular Aztec dancers.
Over in Babylon they'll be having the usual range of riotous and raunchy
delights, as in the Hooker's Ball, the Exotic Erotic Masquerade, and the
Fencesitter's Ball (for those who just cannot decide which way to swing).
Word has it that these entertainment have gotten more infected with ennui
and scads of folks just not trying, as if the Bush years had worn everybody's
interest down to a nub what with all the outrageous malarkey juggled in
public by that Administration of Clowns.
ARE YOU HAPPY NOW?
So anyway, all hell broke loose in the Island-Life offices when it came
time for the annual drawing of straws. Because Denby was accompanied the
last time in an highly unusual situation involving Jose and a wheelchair
that went exceedingly against Tradition, people started going nuts with
anxiety now that it seemed just about anything could happen.
Jose, the wheelchair pusher and chanter of his grandmother's Inca Spell
("Okay, say "tahui" four times. Repita!""What
means 'tahui?" "Heck if I know," Jose said. "Mi abuelita
told me to say it just like that.") was totally petrified to the
extent of forgetting all of his English as well as all of his native Spanish
as well.
Outside the Offices a front had kicked in from the Arctic and banshees
were knocking the tree limbs and howling all about the chimney.
Rachel found the coffee pot inexplicably inoperable and offered to go
on a run to Starbucks. Which the Editor forbade, ordering her to sit.
This is not something one tells a New Yorker expat, but the Editor remained
stern.
"Habberdy jibberty wooble foo woot an wooten kanickickerbocker .
. .".
"Jose," Rachel said, "If you cannot remember your languages
just shut up." Sigh. "I want a beer."
"Hey!" Denby said. "Who took the hinges off the bathroom
door?"
The Editor relit his permanent cigar. "We'll have no more lavatory
sequesters and no childish government shutdowns on MY watch." He
rattled the hinge screws in his waistcoat pocket.
"Humperty boo." Jose said, shivering with fear.
"Jose, shut your filibustering. You make as much sense as the Pee
Tardy Party," said the Editor. "And you Festus, quit pretending
that you are hunting for something in the circular file. Come on out!"
Festus, the Island-Life messenger hamster, poked his head up above the
brim of the wastebasket. "Just looking for nesting material, boss.
Isn't this a human only sort of thing?"
"Get up on the table you wretched rodent or there will be no more
nuts for you!" scowled the Editor.
Everyone in the office went "Oooooooooo!" at that and Festus
scampered up on the desk beside the inbox.
"Hey," someone said. "The coffeepot wasn't plugged in
. . . Now it's working . . .".
After the Editor made sure everyone was in attendance, with a special
interactive hologram for the Euro desk glimmering in a roll chair, he
had Rachel fetch the Official Cup of Straws. As Rachel came gliding along
the aisle the way dance instructors of certain experience will do, Jose
unceremoniously fainted and fell down.
Javier kicked him until the kid got up again to sit wan and shaking in
a chair.
Now what this Tradition is all about, to inform newcomers to the Life
here is the Annual Drawing of Straws to determine who must follow the
same path that Orpheus, Ulysses, Persephone, Virgil with his Italian Companion,
Nicholas Cage, and a very few of others, have done through the ages. The
Island-Lifer's charge was to go down, sniff about so as to gather good
information about what the future might hold, and, of course, come back.
Otherwise there was no point to it all, really. That the fellow or gal,
whomever it might be, must do. They must return through what generally
is regarded as a one-way door.
This, by Island-Life Tradition over the past fifteen years, always takes
place on the last day of Los Dias de Los Muertos, which in the past has
been the night after October 31. What makes this trip so much more terrible
- in addition to the fear of Death, the infernal Ferryman with wheels
of fire for eyes, and the three-headed dog, the usual accouterments of
howling, wailing, eerie specters, etcetera and so on -- is that the visitor
must encounter all the people he or she has known and who have passed
beyond. This is not exactly comfortable. This is not exactly fearful --
necessarily. One can only imagine it. It is definitively wretched and
tearing to the soul on a case by case basis.
Perhaps we shall get the good Richard Dawkins to do a study on the matter.
He probably has the tools and necessary know-how to get the metrics of
everything. All the emotions involved. Even, the metric of lost desire.
Of lost hope.
Naturally this not entirely all the way over on the Other Side. That
path is forbidden and no one has gone there. Well, maybe Virgil and his
friend Alighieri Possibly Milton. Doubt it about Milton, though; he liked
Oliver Cromwell, and that is not a sign of humanity nor perceptual acuity.
Still, no one knows for sure. No, this place is a waiting place where
souls abide for a while, to learn something, pay a final debt, figure
out which direction to go from there. Call it Hell's Anteroom. Or just
Charon's Wharf.
So you see nobody wants the short straw on this one. Traditionally, for
13 years, Denby drew the short straw. Even on the 14th he drew again bad
luck. But confined to a wheelchair at the time, he needed a second for
that trip.
So the big question this time around -- actually several big questions
but mainly this: would the previous year's break cause a new game of chance?
Or would Tradition reassert itself. The clock ticked. The tension mounted.
Everyone's nerves on edge.
"I am all for a new game," Denby said. "How about we get
the dice and cup from the Yahtzee set . . .".
The Editor told him brusquely to shut up. And told Rachel, as the cupbearer,
to draw first.
"Okay I am closing my eyes . . . I am reaching in . . . O god, o
god, o god, o god, O! O! O! O! O no! O yes! Yes, yes, yes, yesyesyesyes!
Not me! Yippee! O gawd! Yesssss!"
"Well, I am glad it was good for you, Rachel. I too, felt a little
something just listening to you, the Editor said, dryly. "Next!"
"Can I have a drink now?" Rachel asked.
"O for pete's sake. Next!"
The 3D specter of Hildegard stood up and walked over to the cup. She
reached down with a ghostly finger and a longish straw arose from the
cup.
"Oy gott sei dank!" said Hildegard.
"How did you do that?" Denby said. "She's just a transmission!"
"The magic of Cloud Virtualization," said the Editor. "Next!"
One by one, each by each, the staffers drew their straws and reacted
each according to his character. Javier removed his straw and put it between
his teeth while leaning against the wall with his arms folded, grinning
his macho grin.
Jose fell off his chair.
As for Denby . . . "Crap!" Tradition had been restored. There
a little giddy party erupted while folks clapped Denby on the back and
commiserated, each more or less secretly glad it was not him or her. Someone
got out champagne. Someone else put on music. Chris Smither's "Train
Home".
Later as relieved folks whooped it up Denby sat on the iron landing with
Rachel and a bottle of tequila between them while Rachel smoked a cigarette
between hits off the bottle.
"What's it like over there," Rachel asked.
Denby commented she could always go in his place and find out.
Rachel demurred. "Too many skeletons in the closet already."
The wind blew in gusts, making the huge box elder writhe as if alive in
the fitful glow of the motion detector light mounted above the garage.
"Its been fifteen times now. Each time you come back you took paler,
more shaky, like you are closer to some other world. Or you are headed
to turn around any moment to go back there and not return."
"Lets not talk about any more," Denby said.
Life in the Old Same Place Bar carried on riotously and with great zest
for a noted Celebrity had returned to enjoy his favorite dark beer. The
silver-maned gentleman with the distinguished beard regaled the regulars
there with stories of his prize-winning guacamole, his ghost pepper salsa,
his nearly capturing the Olympic gold medal in tandem luge, the time he
zip-lined a perilous track down 5,000 feet in elevation during a forest
fire by shooting a crossbow loaded with parachute cord at one tree crown
after another. He sat with two gorgeous women, a platinum blonde wearing
crushed red velvet, and a stunning redhead wearing a jet black gown hanging
onto each arm.
He was, of course, The Most Interesting Man in the World.
"All of this may be interesting to you, but I am bored of such adventures.
The mako shark is really not such a bad fellow and I would loath having
to kill another one. And the Bengal Tiger, I have to tell you I am rather
fond of the Bengal Tiger; he is more endangered than dangerous. But there
is one thing -- perhaps two things -- I simply must share with you. For
one cannot be interesting unless one shares what one has. And being interesting
means also cultivating all one's gifts, especially the heart. Not true?"
All had to agree to that.
"My friends, I do not donate every day, but when I do I give to
at least two wonderful organizations. The first is Clear Path International.
These are truly courageous, wonderful people with a few interesting stories
of their own. When I met Colin King he had his head and torso inside a
metal tube with fins on it and I said to him, 'My dear sir what do you
have in there?' And he calmly responded, 'About three kinds of explosives
plus about 12 pounds of napalm and 80kg of phosphorous. I am defusing
this bomb right now and I should not stand there if I were you'."

All ears were rapt.
"Clear Path International engaged in the largest bomb and mine removal
project ever conducted in the world and that was in Vietnam after the
war there was over. They now handle the rehabilitation needs of civilians
injured by mines throughout the world. And you know they really are interesting,
so I help them out when I can. You can as well if you have a computer.
You Madame. You have a computer do you not?"
"Of course sir. We all do."
"Madame, you look mahvelous, as my old friend Fernando used to say.
In that case you can go to CPI.ORG and
learn all about what they do cleaning up other people's messy business."
Suzie brought another round of dark bottled beers to the Man.
"My dear you look absolutely delightful, but I'll bet you are near
dead on your feet as I guess by looking at the hour. You shall not have
to bring another round. And remember, it is better to look good than feel
good."
He turned back to his audience. "My friends, you must know that
to be truly interesting you must always hold the heart of a child in your
heart. Maybe run the risk of being called childish at times. This charge
you can do by helping children, for I have been told by a wiser man than
me that anything you do for children is never wasted. That is why another
group I like to help out once in a while is called Freearts Organization.
These very interesting people put artists together with kids who have
had someone try to steal their childhood away. You know what happens --
the sudden seriousness. Broken bones. Bruises. Nightmares. Worse things
than you can imagine, for as the poet says, "some monsters must slumber
or they wake to devour us." My friends, although there indeed are
true monsters out there, there also are my friends at Freearts who match
up artists with kids who have been abused. You so fortunate to live in
a place where everyone has computers. You can go to http://freearts.org/"

The Most Interesting Man in the World stood up to go. "My friends
the hour is late and I must be on a plane tomorrow to Cambodia to handle
another problem that concerns children. I bid all of you adieu and hope
that sharing my little hobbies has not created ennui among you."
"My good man," a woman said as Jose and Javier came in through
the door, giddy about their sudden release from doom. They greeted the
MIMITW in Spanish. "My good man, I so adore your accent. Where are
you from?"
"Ah, well I just came from my boat in Monterey. But do you Madame,
also love this man's accent here?" He indicated the rather haphazardly
mussed Jose.
"Ah, well, he does have an accent," the woman said. "I've
heard him."
"When a person has an accent, it means they can speak one more language
than you," said the Man. And with that, he left.
The long howl of the throughpassing train ululated from far across the
water, across the waves of the estuary, the riprap embankments, the grasses
of the Buena Vista flats and the open spaces of the former Beltline; it
snaked through the cracked brick of the old abandoned Cannery with its
ghosts and weedy railbed and chainlink fences as the locomotive glided
past the shuttered doors of the Jack London Waterfront, headed off to
parts unknown.
That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.

OCTOBER 14, 2013
HEEL YA HO BOYS! LET HER GO BOYS!
This weeks photo comes hopping via Farcebook friends from John Curley.

WHAT'S THE BUZZ
This week we are taking a little break to recover from pneumonia and
tidy up some administrative matters, including getting the Island-Life
Stories section up to speed. For newbies, this section includes reposted
and rewritten "monologues" featuring the various characters
who re-appear from time to time, including Bear, the Iranian Spy Submarine
in the estuary, Marlene and Andre's Household, and Eunice the Moose.
We will try to gather together our dissolute radio-active actors, and
try to keep them off drugs long enough, so as to foist yet another execrable
work of faux-musicianship and drama on CD. This CD has been known to cause
both Professor Schikele and Al Yankovic to retch violently in disgust.
We will return to the Island Life News Offices where the dreaded annual
drawing of straws shall pursue Tradition, the end result determining which
unlucky soul must cross through the ominous gates and follow that terrible
path right up to the Landing of the Infernal Ferryman, there to learn
from Those Who Have Passed what the future holds for us all.
The Editor will do anything for a scoop.
After that, we step into the mush of November and you know what that
means. The 14th Annual Poodleshoot and BBQ. We wonder what celebrity from
the augustan estates of Washington D.C. will attend this time.
Much to ponder. And now, as Mr. Peyps used to say, to bed.
The long howl of the throughpassing train ululated from far across the
water, across the waves of the estuary, the riprap embankments, the grasses
of the Buena Vista flats and the open spaces of the former Beltline; it
snaked through the cracked brick of the old abandoned Cannery with its
ghosts and weedy railbed and chainlink fences as the locomotive glided
past the shuttered doors of the Jack London Waterfront, headed off to
parts unknown.
That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.

OCTOBER 6, 2013
INTO THE MYSTIC

This week's nautical photo comes from Island-lifer and sailorgirl
Tammy.
WHAT'S THE BUZZ
We'll be taking a little break for a week or two to recharge the batteries,
possibly doing a mini-issue. The Snublican Party has put the kibosh on
a Mountain Sabbatical this year -- all parks are closed.
THIS ISLAND LIFE
Some carnival stuff happened near downtown on a weekend of gorgeous weather
that followed a couple blustery sirocco days. A lot of folks got out and
about and of course, this was the weekend of the annual Hardly Strictly
Bluegrass Festival out there at Hellman Meadows in Babylon. Warren Hellman
has passed away, but made sure to leave an endowment that will ensure
the festival, featuring the best and the brightest in music for three
days, continues for another decade. As usual the ageless goddess, Emmylou
Harris, finished up the fest as final performer.
Due to illness we canceled a number of attendances this weekend, but
we expect the wildly popular festival drew another percentage of a million
folks to enjoy Steve Earle and similar roots musicians.
We just wonder who is inhabiting the "silver suit" wandering
the grounds nowadays.
Closer to home administrators celebrated the ongoing efforts of the beach
sand restoration project in which an offshore barge is pumping sand through
a 14 inch pipe to the Strand. The idea is to return the profile of the
beach to its 1986 footprint. Which, come to think of it, marks the last
time a beach restoration project was completed.
Time and tides wait for no one.
Our Dizzney Small World After All sort of self-image took a bruising
when protesters kiboshed a planned flag-raising ceremony that would have
honored the dubious "sister city" status with a burg in the
PRC and commemorated "National Day". Well in advance the Chinese
consul begged off attending this controversial ceremony on report that
Tibetan protesters would also attend.. Protesters came to remind people
of China's forcible occupation of Tibet as well as the brutal crackdown
on the Tianamen Square demonstrators a few years ago in which tanks ran
over unarmed civilians.
Chinese National Day is diffidently celebrated in several Bay Area cities
as a measure of recognizing our large Asian populations. San Leandro recently
approved a flag-raising ceremony during a meeting so contentious that
the assembly is planning to reconsider its decision.
So okay, why not have a pan-Asian festival with Japanese sumo wrestlers
and sushi chefs together with Chinese scarf dancers combined with Imperial
Circus acrobats and Indian mahouts riding elephants and Pakistani food
concessions and Vietnamese Pho. Toss in some Israelis and some Palestinians
and Lebanese for good measure and stir fry in a wok with tons of kim chee
-- nevermind the boshintang. All together. Everyone happy and in one harmonious
blend of Orientalism seasoned with Falun Gong.
But raising the flag of the PRC to recognize all of Asia?
Where is Edward Said when we need him?
On a more homey note, the Target out at the Point is set to open next
week, while the Walgreens megastore located on the former site of Goode
Chevrolet has just begun construction and is expected to open in Spring
of next year.
The Letters to the Editor remain entertaining and provocative. More letters
protest "Ron Cowan's Latest Plan" which refers to his company's
attempt to build 80 homes on the site of the present day Harbor Bay Club.
We had thought nobody cared about that location -- and apparently Cowan's
people thought the same -- but it seems people are quite up in arms about
shifting the club from a rather charming location to a place located directly
under the main flight path of Oakland International Airport. Try focussing
on your backhand swing on the courts underneath the roar of a 737. Someone
else asks people not to heed "a bunch of malarkey" about the
McKay Avenue boondoggle and an OpEd piece calls for a "Change in
Leadership" over the multiple dwelling developments now in the works,
citing the demonic dimension of traffic.
An Editorial on the miserable state of health care in the Golden State,
as compared to other states (we rank 20 out of the 50 state selection)
reminds us about the tragicomic results of the ludicrous government shutdown
engineered by callous jackasses in Washington. This entire shutdown was
meant to be a protest against the healthcare reform initiatives termed
by the Conservative party as Obamacare.
It is wildly ironic that, since the Executive Branch determines essential
services that must remain open, Obamacare swung into action on October
1st and essentially locked the programs into place as a defacto law-enforced
structure. The entire shutdown has been rendered meaningless save for
the harm it causes the country domestically and world-wide and there is
virtually nothing the Republican Party or its extreme branch of Tea Baggers
can do about it, like it or not. It was passed into law by a bipartisan
coalition the way government is supposed to operate, with neither side
getting all of what it wanted.
Protesting the debt ceiling at this point is a damaging charade of posturing,
as defaulting will invalidate any debt ceiling gains in the past and cause
interest payments to skyrocket, ruining the nation's credit. At this point
the Democrats are gleefully celebrating almost certain wins in the House
next election cycle due to the dissatisfaction with Congress, as many
people see quite rightfully that the GOP has given over to extremists
who do not mind harming the Republic for the sake of making futile and
idiotic points. This, we must remind you, is no way to win power in a
Democracy. That one party should be so obtuse, so resistant to common
sense, so heedful of absolute mindless moronic idiots among their constituency,
and so insistent on a clearly destructive path is no way to gain power,
for people are not persuaded then by reason but by avoidance. The end
result is sure to end in tyranny.
IT TAKES A LOT TO LAUGH, IT TAKES A TRAIN TO CRY
So anyway, a brisk sirocco blew in sending local temperatures into the
eighties as a consequence of Pacific typhoons. Howard Schecter has forecast
a dry Sierra October and we are looking at a gradual temperature decline
into something reasonable for this time of year. Unfortunately for folks
seeking high altitude respite and taking advantage of warmer than usual
temps at elevation the intransigent Party has shut down the parks and
park access to the best locations. Despite all that the aspens are turning
their leaves in the foothills rising up the slopes and autumn pursues
its annual rite of changes.
Now is the time when shadows reach across the road with cold penumbras
dictated by the fading lights and things fade into colors of burnt umber
and oranges and browns. The scent of blown leaves mingles with the exhaust
that now pervades our days. We are coming up on the most terrifying days
at Island-Life, when Denby must perforce pursue Tradition and descend
to that awful place from which no traveler -- save Denby -- is allowed
to return. We are coming to the august 14th annual Poodleshoot and BBQ,
which is always an event not to be missed.
The days are fraught with anticipation and histrionic buildup. Just as
they are the calmest days of the year, embedded into deceptive Indian
Summer, so hard to get warm now, so easy to get burned.
So now as the dregs of the year drain into the limiting possibilities
and scenarios we see the following: Wally's son, Joshua, remains harbored
in dubious sanctuary at the Greek Orthodox Church where he took flight
after whistleblowing the illegal wiretapping conducted by Hometown Security
Aegis of Alameda. Mr. Terse and Mr. Spline have been taking turns watching
the front door of the church, hoping to snag the traitor/whistleblower
for some weeks now.
He has been able, however to periodically escape this false imprisonment
by pursuing secret tunnels delved many years ago by the LDS neighbors,
risking only encounters in those dank Mormon tunnels with the notoriously
savage horror of the Taetzelwurm, described in other pages by sages more
wise and knowledgeable and dispatched with some effort and attention with
nothing less than a solid Smith and Wesson .45 caliber pistol. The tunnels
were delved ages ago, supposedly by the First People who preceded the
Ohlone, and were subsequently enlarged for the Latter Day Saints to store
their gold and be used potentially as means of escape should California
prove as unfriendly as other parts of the Country. Few go through there
these days without substantial company and decent firepower, for in those
tunnels which descend to regions not seen since the god turned aside his
face dwell creatures like the chupacabra and the Taetzelwurm, which arise
from the fetid darkness of some diseased intertextual imagination more
fantastical than Tolkein or Pynchon.
Over at the Native Son's Parlor 33 1/3 the budget impasse has resulted
in a totally frozen set of conditions. Wally has sequestered himself into
bathroom with the Encinal Cheerleading squad causing a total moratorium
on Encinal games and also resolution to the Parlor budget which causes
a cessation in all Parlor projects, including the ones seeing amelioration
of birth defects in newborns. People listening through the door hear what
sounds like Wally filibustering one or all of the cheerleaders with Penthouse
letters.
Quite a lot of people are pissed. Especially since no one can use the
bathroom.
Swinging into October, the Island and the entire Bay Area prepares for
that month-long orgiastic festival known as Halloween, culminating in
the night of trick-or-treat and El Dias del Los Muertos when strange creatures
walk the shadows and the Dead return, and Denby returns -- unwillingly
-- to visit the Dead.
Speaking of strange creatures, Old Schmidt is in the Old Same Place Bar
entertaining Suzie with tales of the strange creatures he has seen in
his travels back in the day when he worked as a merchant seaman.
"Ja, de strangest creature I haff zeen was certainly the Wolperdinger.
This fellow inhabits die Alpen and in form and shape resembles an elongated
bear. Ja. Mit de wuschelkopp und de ears and furry like nobody's business.
Und because he liffs all his life on the hillside, the two legs on one
side are shorter than the odder. So he can only run in the one direction.
For evermore."
"Have you ever seen a unicorn?" Suzie asked.
"Bah! De unicorn is fantasy! It is not real anymore. Totally extinct."
"I don't want to believe that!"
"My dear, only a pure knight of unquestioning honor or a virgin
can find a unicorn. Nowadays, just look at the twelve-year old girls and
the way they dress! Not to mention the Hannah Montana. So ein Schlampe!
It is quite impossible."
The conversation at the bar turned to the government shutdown and politics,
fantastical made-up pseudo-realities and the modern day Republican Party.
Babar, who possesses unimpeachable qualifications as a True Conservative,
so Conservative he wears two pairs of pants, was of the mind that his
party needed no costumes for the season as they all appeared to milling
about towards Halloween dressed like dunderheads with duncecaps already.
Padraic was doubly disappointed to hear about Hannah Montana, for he
had wanted to dress Suzie -- or undress her more precisely -- as Miley
Cyrus, but Dawn really put her foot down. Hard. So hard all the glassware
had rattled behind the bar.
Indeed, Suzie thought, or perhaps spoke to someone. Sometimes it seems
that all magic had left the world, leaving us groping for processed visions
that promise some kind of larger cosmos -- UFO's, the Loch Ness Monster,
haunted houses. As if the mysteries we do have for real are not enough.
After the bar had closed, the unusually warm night air drifted scents
of leaves and that tree which always smells like a wet dog come in from
the rain. Chrysanthemums along the fence had suddenly erupted again with
their sharp perfume and remnants of the sirocco stirred the upper branches
of the trees along Lincoln Avenue while recessed pools of shadow behind
the low picket fences of the yards with their arched trellis gateways
draped with roses and trumpet vines seeped mysterious odors of other flowering
plants. The unusually warm air had enchanted the night and as Suzie turned
to look at a noise she saw a form of some horse-like shape in the Abodanza's
hedged and bushy front yard. It turned its massive head and blurred in
outline, Suzie saw, or thought she saw a tine protruding from the thing's
head.
From that front yard drifted the unmistakable horsey scent of a very
large animal and Suzie gasped, stepped backwards and promptly fell off
the curb into the street, landing on her rump and jarring her eyeballs.
After she had picked herself up, the apparition had disappeared. Startled,
no doubt, when she had cried out.
She strode home briskly, her head going a mile a minute, wondering about
this vision. In the end, as she brewed a cup of chamomile tea. After downing
a couple shots of Patron, she decided to tell nobody about what she had
seen. She hardly a virgin anymore and she did not want people talking
about the impossibility. Nevertheless, she did feel a little special.
So she had another shot.
Meanwhile, Eunice, Wootie Kanootie's ever eloping female moose ambled
from the Abodanza's yard over to the Almeida's, but Tugboat's loud barking
sent her in a loose shamble over to the Cove where she was wont to go
when she escaped from the herd Wootie kept in a corral near the base of
the Park Street Bridge. There she would stand knee deep in the marshy
rushes, listening to the geese collecting overhead and smelling the salt
sedge reminiscent of distant Ontario. And that is where the weary Wootie
Kanootie, famous Canadian moose tamer found her to bring her back home.
The mystery is how she keeps on getting out of the corral, and Wootie
worried someone may have seen her. He did not need to worry, for no one
would ever speak about these things.
In the Iranian spy submarine AIS Chadoor that drifted now in the San
Francisco Bay, a visibly disturbed Omer came up to the First Mate, Mohammed,
saying he had seen something extraordinary through the porthole, normally
sealed up so as to avoid emitting traitorous light. But Omer had been
taking to closing that area off with the lights off and opening the seal
to gaze at the aquatic life swimming by.
"It was a woman! Or half of one!"
"A woman! Was she drowned and dead?"
"No, she had green eyes and she waved at me!"
"A woman in the middle of the Bay. At night. How could you see this
woman, Omer? She cannot be there."
"She was lit by a phosphorescence from below. I don't know where
it came from. But she is real, I tell you! Her arms were slender and she
wore a veil of seaweed!"
"Omer, I think it has been too long since you have been with a real
woman. Now you are seeing djinns and visions. Go to bed."
So Omer returned to his bunk, mentally notching the note never to speak
about what he had seen to anyone again. And he fell into a deep sleep
and dreams of swimming among the fishwomen.
Meanwhile an aquamarine tail three feet wide at the flukes slapped the
water's surface and a girlish laugh drifted over the choppy Bay as the
spy submarine ran silent, ran deep, out through the Golden Gate to the
open sea.
The long howl of the throughpassing train ululated from far across the
water, across the gentle waves of the estuary, the riprap embankments,
the grasses of the Buena Vista flats and the open spaces of the former
Beltline; it snaked through the cracked brick of the old abandoned Cannery
with its ghosts and weedy railbed and silent chainlink fences as the locomotive
glided past the dark and shuttered doors of the Jack London Waterfront,
headed off to parts unknown.
That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.

SEPTEMBER 29, 2013
BRIDGE OF SIGHS

Feast your eyes while it still stands.
EAT REAL FESTIVAL
Oaktown touted it and we got scads of promo, so over to Oaktown we went
for the "Eat Real Festival", which presented itself as a major
foodie sort of thing at Jack London. Okay, so we went with jaundiced eyes,
expecting overpriced this and that and much hullaballoo about not so much
other than merchants seeking another dollar.

As it turned out, the three-day semi-street fair turned out to exceed
expectations, largely because unlike the ballyhooed Outside Lands and
Treasure Island and Coalinga festivals, no exhorbitant entrance fee was
applied and some genius set the max cost per food plate at just five bucks.
In addition, the vibe was uniformly pacific and friendly. No gang bangers
broke up the celebration, nobody got into a knife fight and nobody got
shot. The cops all looked laid back and relaxed.
People from all places and races mingled without any static, making this
festival a grand triumph of color and flavor for embattled Oaktown which
finally had a chance to show the world the joyful, vibrant, living color
of which it is made. Vendors drove trucks from as far away as Birmingham,
Alabama to show up here, and the result was more than just all right.
We sampled noodles from Cera Una Volta and Vietnamese beef stew redolent
of lemon grass and anise and also hot pepper sauces and dips from a variety
of vendors.
We never attend a festival without music and were fortunate to catch
Mirage doing their latin jazz thing at the main stage on Saturday. Mirage
has selected an unfortunately popular name for their group, as seemingly
hundreds of bands across the country have glommed onto this moniker. Anyway,
this incarnation featured Chazz Alley on sax for the duration of the gig.


There was lots of good food and good people and pleasant
vibes with excellent weather and no Angry Elves and so a fine time was
held by all.
WHATS THE BUZZ
School is in session so be on the watch for careless kids crossing at
intersections, especially around the old highschool on Encinal. Remember
when you were a goofy, unaware teen? Okay then . . .
The Sun misreported the name of those bigwheel vintage 1800's bicycles
that appeared during the Alameda Origins Bike Tour. Those devices were
called "Pennyfarthings" and were the first machines to be termed
"bicycles," whereas the machines it replaced were solid-wheel
"velocipedes". The large front wheel, although increasing danger
for the rider, made for a far superior and comfortable ride over bumps.
Many of the original velocipedes, lacking rubber tires and springs were
-- somewhat -- affectionately called "boneshakers."
Their heyday extended from about 1869 when the wire spoke wheel was first
put into use until about 1890.
The invention, or say rather the application, of the pneumatic tire by
John Dunlop in 1888 and the chain drive effectively put an end to the
need for an oversized front wheel. By 1893 the colorful machines had ceased
being produced in favor of the "safety bicycle."
The City is looking at a sounder financial situation now that lawsuits
over the defunct telecom enterprise appear to be on the way to be quashed.
The City won the suit levied by investors who felt misled by false promises
regarding the failed venture in telecom.
There is a bit of brouhaha over Comcast cable fees which the City collects
off of cable service bills. Chabot College claims it is owed the money
because its television station provides programming resources for Alameda-based
public programming.
Chabot is claiming that DIVCA fee charges on subscriber bills, created
in 2011 by Alameda ostensibly to raise money for educational programming,
should be turned over to Chabot. The amount generated is about $374,000
since 2011.
Comcast collects these fees and turns them over to the City, which has
used the funds for City Hall capital improvement projects that are related
to broadcasting.
Clearly Chabot would like something for the use of its resources, but
it stands on shaky ground when it comes to fees that were originated by
the City for its own purposes.
Finally, S&P upgraded the City's bond rating from AA to AA+, citing
strong financial management here and an improved Bay Area economy. This
bond upgrade means the City will save close to half a million dollars
in lower interest payments.
This news may quash any of the rumors of City Hall insolvency which got
bruited about last year.
Letters to the Editor and even a front page item in the Island Gerbil
indicate rising irritation with at least two proposed development projects.
The Cowan outfit that wants to move the Harbor Bay Club is hitting some
pretty strong resentment over the inclusion of 80 homes on Harbor Bay,
which many feel is already too crowded.
The other project is the variously named McKay Avenue/Neptune Pointe
(sic) that is proposed for the spit of land adjoining Crab Cove and which
the EBRP wanted to annex for administrative purposes to Crown Beach. Other
than some members of City Hall and, of course, the developer, nobody seems
to want this project to fly. The people who live down there do not want
it and the general populace of the Island does not want it, preferring
the land be rezoned back to its original use. Somebody at GSA seems to
have gotten into a Balkanized territorial hissy fit over the little plot
and so strange threats keep coming from that quarter without attribution.
It would be good if one of the investigative bloggers got some names and
titles from that direction to find out just why the massive federal GSA
gives a fig about what happens to the tiny bit of property there.
In this post-911 world the local governments are all looking to establish
contingency plans fitting their scope and size. The County has not one
but two Emergency Offices to which the surviving council members are supposed
to retreat in the event of disaster. The older and more well-known EOC
is bunkered out at Santa Rita beside the Sheriff Department's firing range.
Well, we humble islanders will be getting one as well, to be located
at Grand and Buena Vista near the long closed Firestation #3. Last June
voters rejected a sales tax that would have paid to replace the current
shelter in the basement of the main police station as well as the old
fire station, but the Council voted to refinance lease revenue bonds originally
intended for earthquake retrofitting of City Hall. The S&P upgrade
makes this project more feasible.
THE LEAVES WERE FALLING, JUST LIKE EMBERS
So anyway, after the recent dockwalloper, the sun has returned to bathe
the earth in golden hues however the shadows thrust themselves across
the paths at a different, longer angle than only a few days before. The
kids are about in shorts and sandals however the oaks along Central Avenue
have taken on an umber tone to their leaves. The Canadian geese suddenly
became numerous overnight and squadrons of other birds arrow through the
low skies.
Now is the time when old Gaia turns her weathered face
Now is the time when old Gaia turns her weathered face creased with valleys,
arroyos, hills, deserts, plains, mesas, continents and the liquid seas
of her deep dark eyes away from the direct gaze at her son, Phoebus Appolo
riding in his hot bright chariot as she sits and rocks ever so slowly
in the ticking wicker chair, the folds of the quilted Universe draped
across her lap, the rocking becoming the dance of Shiva, the ticking the
ever ceasless count of time's advance, ticking each second, each century,
from the first moment of creation until that rocking chair comes to the
moment of that last terrible silence and motionlessness.
As Gaia turns her face away from the light, the world enters into that
time of cold pristine shadows with measured steps and everything is precisely
where it needs to be right at this moment. The children shouting and running
around the entrance to the Adelphian Hall which now is a sort of church
run by a sect of "charismatic" Xians who believe that the minister
there is come as an apostle. Tomorrow is another school day and they are
busy enjoying the time they have before being sent to bed and then to
the terrific droning waste of time that is sitting at a desk looking at
the chalkboard or a book while magnificent fleets of birds sail free across
the sky outside.
Some may sense that this droning desk is just a foreshadow of the future
to come, sitting in a cubicle with blue-grey nap and a computer screen
for hours broken only by the annoyance of the next generation of adult
bullies roaming the corporate playground. Hence the wild screaming abundant
joy of children who are not yet damaged. The droning three hours supplied
by the charismatic apostles of La Luz del Occupado Parking Place was bad
enough.
Over at the Native Sons of the Golden West Parlor 33 1/3 there has been
a great commotion all over the budget battle bettween the Pee Tardy folks
and the Libation group. The Libation group is aiming to redirect funds
to free beers and the Pee Tardy folks want to invest funds from fees and
special events into hedge funds and the revivified real estate mortgage
market. A main sticking point concerns the health benefits administered
by Eugenia Felcher. Some see the health benefits as a service coverage.
Some see the benefits as insurance.
The groups are at such loggerheads that a virtual shutdown of club activities
appears inevitable and there is much handwringing and argumentation over
this. One member, Charley Bluster, went so far as to filibuster debate
and up or down vote by reading the entire canon of Dr. Seuss. His rendition
at the start of his filibuster of The Cat in the Hat was emotional
and full of nuance, but by the time he got to Green Eggs and Ham,
the entire place was asleep and Charley droned on and on, barely a living
human being. Some wag did comment that this seemed a curious statement
to the vox popli about the maturity of Representative Bluster's political
party.
Last week things decayed into a melee that involved gunshots, tossed
soup tureens, and ultraviolence, involving Wally's .50 caliber pistol
and herds of rats and people standing on chairs, which would have shocked
the most stoic Stanley Kubrick fan. Or even Tarantino. It got that bad.
A few of the membership have voiced concerns, toowit how does all this
acrimony benefit the constituency. The response has been tart and brief.
"Mind your business. We have Ideology at stake here."
Down the street the organizers for the Fighting Otters Lemonade Stand
fundraiser got into a similar, albeit smaller tiff over budgetary issues.
This tiff was smaller due largely to the fact that the organizers were
all students at Edison in the Grades 1 through 5 and none of them rose
higher than 48 inches in height.
Little Tommy Tucker's contingent favored donations to the Sisters at
Our Lady of Incessant Complaint, while Bobby Bruze and his gang threatened
to shut down the entire enterprise if funds were directed instead toward
cool swim goggles and maybe some halloween stuff from the Spirit Store.
Bobby's dad owned the lemon press and the tree, so there was a reality
to this threat.
"I am not afraid of you, Bobby Bruze" Tommy Tucker said. "We
can get lemons from the Almeida's yard."
"I'll sequester your all mighty lemons up the wazoo," Bobby
said, who had been listening to his parents talk about politics. He didn't
know exactly what sequester meant, but he knew it was really bad. "Step
over this line, I dare you!"
"You stop acting like sissy Congressmen you!"
Little Tammy Chadwick stepped in and shouted at both of them. "You
stop acting like sissy Congressmen you! Start acting like the Fighting
Otters.
Well, there was more of that and it looked like the acrimony was so intense
that there would be no fundraiser at all.
In the Old Same Place Bar exhaustion settled in among the tables and
chairs and the soiled glasses waiting to be collected for wash. Suzi slumped
behind the bar with her book and Dawn sagged in her stool, dozing as patrons
finished up desultory conversations about the national blather about the
condition of things and their softly deliquiscing beverages, becoming
more diluted and warm with each advancing minute of the hour.
It has been a long time since anyone has enjoyed a vacation and even
longer since a payraise. Outside the wind kicks up to bring in the cooling
change of the seasons and, hopefully, some common sense into the dense
heads of people who handle budgets.
The long howl of the throughpassing train ululated from far across the
water, across the gentle waves of the estuary, the riprap embankments,
the grasses of the Buena Vista flats and the open spaces of the former
Beltline; it snaked through the cracked brick of the old abandoned Cannery
with its ghosts and weedy railbed and silent chainlink fences as the locomotive
glided past the dark and shuttered doors of the Jack London Waterfront,
headed off to parts unknown.
That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.

SEPTEMBER 22, 2013
EXCELLENT BIRDS
In humble Oakland we have wildlife. No, we do not mean Jimmie's Nightclub
and Eli's Mile High.

This family lives up near the Mormon Temple, but has been known to roam.
Nervous staff at a school request the the head of maintenance to kill
the turkeys. Fortunately the sane man called Environmental Services, which
is charged with removing critters like skunks, raccoons, and lizards from
property. They told him the wild animals are protected and it is illegal
to kill them. The Maintenance Man simply waved his arms and said, "Shoo!"
The birds left. He was last seen walking away, shaking his head and muttering
under his breath, "Kill the turkeys! Kill the damn turkeys!"
SHE'S HOT THAT CHILI PEPPER
You want real "off the grid" you got it here on 26th Street
in Oakland at a true entrepreneurial style bistro that sets up, serves
and takes down in a couple hours. Street tacos at $1.25. Fresh and good.

Cash only -- no plastic.
WHAT'S THE BUZZ
Rob Bonta co-authored AB1008 with Joan Buchanan (D-Alamo) which removes
the requirement that hospital workers must join the ACERA union pension
system. The financially-strapped Island hospital will join with San Leandro
Hospital in merging with the Alameda County Medical Center system for
the sake of survival. Neither local hospital was capable of surviving
financially on their own. Gov. Brown just signed the bill into law.
You remember those commercials for a texmex restaurant that featured
a stuffy man with an English accent flagging down a waitress so as to
identify foreign objects on his plate?
Punchline: "Those, sir, are fresh vegetables."
Well Chevy's, a national company with 39 corporate-owned restaurants
in 33 states plus 16 franchises, began life here on the Island in 1986,
but the original flagship restaurant has stood vacant at 2499 Mariner
Square Drive since 2006. The building has been for sale since then, but
had no takers until recently when Oakmont Senior Living put in a bid to
acquire the site, demolish the struture, and replace it with 52 unit assisted
living facility.
Well okay it is hard to get sentimental about a gaudy family restaurant
chain, but we have fond memories of taking the kids out to the water's
edge there many years ago.
This week the Letters to the Editor featured more folks against the McKay
Avenue project as well as three opinion pieces, both against the development
of the land into dwelling units. The Sierra Club, of course, weighs in
on behalf of guiding the land towards an addition to the Crab Cove park,
a local resident in the area describes the area as rife with old oaks,
sycamores, cedars, and diverse fauna, including hummingbirds, squirrels
and raccoons. Another writer compares TLC, the prospective developer to
the odious Suncal. Which may be a bit much, as TLC does not appear to
be deceptive about what they want to do -- its just what they want to
do is not in the Island's best interest in that parcel.
For some odd reason there are parties hell-bent on ram-rodding this one
through, what with Council members calling the beautiful area "blighted"
and some cuss at GSA threatening seizure by "eminent domain"
to force this deal for TLC.
On the upside we see the Fall season lining up with a return to more
challenging theatre and some concerts worthy of note.
WAKE ME UP WHEN SEPTEMBER ENDS
So anyway, a major dockwalloper blew in Saturday, driving everybody indoors
who could get there quick and sending havoc to roam the freeways. The
Household of Marlene and Andre filled up with all the members not working
and everyone looked at each other, steaming with sad eyes, the whole place
smelling like wet dogs and people wondering if this was the start of the
long bitter winter. But Sunday dawned clear and sunny and soon folks were
back out on the street again.
Linneaus was not Norwegian, and probably not Lutheran
Fall is encroaching. Leaves are falling and sudden squadrons of Canadian
geese and other birds appear in the low skies. Other animals are also
on the move, especially given the increased bout, or as some say, increased
plague of new construction on the Island. It is an Island after all, with
marinas and boats and the troubles that come with the territory, and with
the territory of marinas docking boats come the famous rattus norwegus,
not to blame dear Norway for rodent issues, but that is just how it all
fell out when it came to naming things according to the Linneaus manner.
Linneaus was not Norwegian, and probably not Lutheran according to the
details we can glean, so he probably felt perfectly fine naming the smooth
coat rat after Norway.
Or perhaps someone introduced the man to lutefisk without sufficient
aquavit to wash it down and this nomenclature was the product of a small-minded
man's revenge.
We also enjoy the pleasures of the scruffier cousin, the roof rat, which
according to our unimaginative Linneaus is Rattus Rattus. Which
just goes to show you the man had no brains and probably could not be
trusted with your wallet.
Roofrats, sometimes called woodrats, although the species is different,
look like Norway Rats which have taken a beating and reacted by getting
hooked on heroin and glue sniffing. They are scruffy and nasty and they
like to live in your attic right here on the Island. They enjoy Oakland
too, as they have few scruples.
Racoons have been enjoying the cat food and squirrel leavings people
have been leaving outside their backdoors. Roof rats love this stuff too.
Mrs. Blather typically leaves a pile of kibble for Mr. Sachs and Mr. Goldman,
her two Persians, but latterly the two kitties have taken to cowering
in the tulip magnolia while a raccoon has been feasting on the dinner
intended for them.
They can hiss all they want, but little that will do.
Over at the Native Sons Parlor 33 1/3 there has been a big hullaballo
over the Parlor budget. Which seems to have gotten more acrimonious in
recent years as two factions have gotten to loggerheads over spending.
The more conservative members of the Pee Tardy group feel dues and income
from various instruments should be re-invested in worthy entities like
Goldman Sachs and The John Birch Society. They also feel too much money
gets wasted on public uses, like water for the bathroom and that people
should just "hold it in" until they get home. Hence their name,
The Pee Tardy folks.
The more generous members of the Parlor feel that when income arrives
it should be spent on any of the worthy humanitarian causes the group
supports, such as amelioration of child birth defects and distributing
golden poppy seeds.
Wally is threatening to filibuster the next debate until past the fiscal
year and Janice is threatening to withhold payments on any outstanding
or revolving debts, like PG&E, which would propell the Parlor into
a state of crisis, which made Myron Plotz, the accountant, start tearing
his hair while weeping uncontrollably.
David has been calling the Pee Tardy folks a lot of dangerous imbeciles
which only made Mrs. Cribbage throw the official silver tureen at his
head, fortunately missing, but causing a goodly amount of damage to the
glass fantod case.
"For goodness sakes and goodness sakes!" Tammy shouted, stamping
her foot. "All of you stop acting like children or I will invoke
the Goddess!"
They all stood back at that threat and some people crossed themselves
and rolled their eyes. Nobody wanted the Goddess involved, not even Myron.
The stamping did have the effect of dislodging a huge redwood burl clock
from the wall and it fell to the floor of the that old hall beside the
Marina with a loud crash.
This proved too much for the family of roofrats which had been living
in the wall near the couch and they scampered across the floor towards
the door -- about five of them.
Mrs. Cribbage screamed and got up on a chair. Mr. Blather screamed and
got up on a chair too. With both of them screaming, Myron grabbed a pool
cue and began wacking all around the rats who ran in confused circles
instead of heading for the door while Wally went to get his gun.
Myron managed to bing one of the rats on the head and another rat, being
feisty and of a mood to defend himself grabbed the end of the pool cue
which by now had been fractured to the point it was of little use anyway,
so Myron tugged and flailed his damaged weapon while the roofrat snarled
and glared with beady eyes at his tormenter and cursed Myron in rat language.
Wally let loose a round that blasted a two foot crater in the floor
By the time Wally had returned with his .50 caliber pistol the other
rats had gotten away and Mrs. Rampling was up on the counter on her hands
and knees with Mr. Scott and more people stood on chairs. The rat gave
up on teaching Myron a lesson and ran away from the door back into the
room, perhaps to return to its formerly comfortable hole in the wall.
Wally let loose a round that blasted a two foot crater in the floor and
another that took out a wall support beam in a spectacular eruption of
fire and splinters. The roof sort of groaned and sagged but stayed up
there, however the lights went out so the only light came through the
open door.
That's when the sirens began to sing louder and louder.
The sirens stopped outside and a sort of disco effect of flashing red
lights drifted through the now silent room.
There came a series of raps from somewhere and then David's voice could
be heard clearly, "I would now like to call this meeting to order.
If you please"
Later on, Myron was trying to explain some of this to The Man from Minot
at the bar in the Old Same Place, but was having little success in sounding
reasonable.
"Why the rats," asked the Man from Minot.
"Why the rats? I dunno why not a duck. Or a horse. I am all right
myself. It's an Island and it's got marinas and the marinas got boats
from all over the world. With boats come rats. You want nice doilies on
your downspouts and a canoe ride with plastic alligators go to Disney
Land."
The long howl of the throughpassing train ululated from far across the
water, across the gentle waves of the estuary, the riprap embankments,
the grasses of the Buena Vista flats and the open spaces of the former
Beltline; it snaked through the cracked brick of the old abandoned Cannery
with its ghosts and weedy railbed and silent chainlink fences as the locomotive
glided past the dark and shuttered doors of the Jack London Waterfront,
headed off to parts unknown.
That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.

SEPTEMBER 15, 2013
WHEN THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER PRICKS MY FINGER

Jerry Garcia did not sing many songs he had written himself; the vast
majority of the Grateful Dead canon was written by Robert Hunter, but
as one gets older Black Muddy River acquires some resonance. This week's
headline photo of a luminescent rose comes from our staff photographer,
Tammy.
ISLAND-LIFE PERSONAL UPDATE
Our HTML coder, Chad, was stricken with a heart condition which propelled
his great heart to pulse at 169 bpm, which is pretty damn fast even for
Punk music. He has been in the Island CCU since Friday and only recently
was un-intubated.
Our thoughts and whatever prayers to whatever Spaghetti Monster or Cosmic
Muffin may be up there go out tonight as our man fights for his life.
WHAT EVERY GIRL SHOULD KNOW
Impact Theatre at La Val's
La Val's Pizzaria may sound like an odd venue for cutting edge theatre
in the Bay Area, which has made an international name for itself in the
realm of avaunt garde, but the basement to the Berkeley eatery has held
sway for well over twenty years as a bastion for black box productions
and companies which sometimes go on to own their own spaces. The Shotgun
Players began their production career down those narrow steps and look
at them now.
Black Box often refers to experimental learning exercise skits conducted
by 2nd string university strugglers who did not make the cut for mainstage
Aunte Mame or Fiddler on the Roof. Around here, Black Box refers to no-frills,
stripped down, guerrilla theatre of the type popularized by the Mime Troupe.
Sets made from ad hoc found materials and costumes made of whatever the
performers can afford and looks somewhat approximate to the role. Acting
ranges from rank amateur shouters who "saw the air thus" to
spectacular presentations. Direction and choreography trends toward "walk
here and look at the vase and find a reason to do so beforehand."
The latest production by Impact Theatre, we are happy to say, hits all
the highest notes in virtually every category of dramatic arts, and this
production is worthy of a "mainstage" presentation. The production
values are very high for something like this and we were impressed by
the extraordinary choreography employed in such a tight space, with actors
all moving simultaneously and sometimes lifting one another in tandem
seamlessly.

Abigail Edber, Arisa Bega, and Carlye Pollack
play four teen girls discovering their power as women at a Catholic reformatory
in 1914, in What Every Girl Should Know at Impact Theatre. Photo: Cheshire
Isaacs
Briefly, the play concerns four teen girls thrown together
in a New York reformatory in 1914. Within the walls of their small room,
together they discover their sexuality and personal power as they reveal
the horrifying events that led each to that dormitory room. The newcomer,
Anne, reveals that her mother was involved with Margaret Sanger, a real
historical figure who promoted logical birth control and provided the
structure that developed into Planned Parenthood later on. Sanger, a nurse
and progressive-thinking activist on behalf of reproductive rights felt
that women needed to take control of their bodies. At that time, women
were still denied the right to vote and the suffragette movement was just
starting to develop momentum. Sanger established the first birth control
clinic in New York.

The girls rip out a page from one of Anne's birthcontrol pamphlets which
features a photograph of Sanger and build a sort of ofreta with oranges
and other items filched from the reformatory's stores and from that point
a series of unearthly events and revelations ensue. The girls, each of
whom possesses an icon for her particular name saint, shift their allegiances
to Sanger as the new patron saint for girls.
In the end, several of the girls rebel against the hypocritical and damaging
theosophy of the reformatory, deciding to leave and risk the streets rather
than be subjugated.
Arisa Bega portrays the ingenue Lucy with clarity and heartfelt innocence.
Abigail Edber portrays the complex Anne with her "big bone"
issues and her passionate longings and her damaged psyche with multifold
nuances. Carlye Pollack portrays her Theresa with a hypersexual, girlish
delight up until her final "confession" after which she huddles
sobbing in the corner, as heartbreaking a victim of child abuse as anything
ever portrayed on stage. It was a quite a pleasure to watch her work,
and that is not true for many more supposedly more accomplished actresses.

Arisa Bega plays a teen discovering her
power as a woman at a Catholic reformatory in 1914, in What Every Girl
Should Know at Impact Theatre. Photo: Cheshire Isaacs
Elissa Beth Stebbins enters as the most world weary fifteen-year old
one can imagine and never lets go of a severity of disposition born of
savage hurt.
The 1hour 30 minute show is performed relentlessly without intermission
and seemed to fly by in fifteen minutes. Erika Chong Shuch supplied choreography
for the four actors, with chops pulled from experience with Cal Shakes,
Berkeley Rep, Shotgun Players, and ACT -- to mention a few.
We think this production is a triumphant success and everything that
progressive, forward-thinking theatre should be: challenging, sharp, professional,
and spot-on the issues.
THIS ISLAND LIFE
Front page information on the Island Gerbil revealed that adding 1,425
homes pluse 5.5 million sq ft of retail space will increase traffic seems
a surprise to some folks.
Duh.
The Native plants people are up in arms about eliminating some cordgrass.
Ok. How about kill a few developers and real estate magnates in addition.
They held a faux celebration of Neptune Beach this weekend. Whoopee.
Now on to more important things. .
The Letters to the Editor in the Sun featured fewer entertaining cranks
this week. Fallout against Ron Cowan's latest project proposing new toney
housing on the site of the present day Harbor Bay Club continues with
a homeowner's association weighing in against any more development out
there. Increase in traffic is the main reason people don't like the project.
We still are chuckling over one letter describing the developer as continually
popping up like the Wack-a-Mole.
Another resident (1990) provides most of the comic relief by stating
he placed "blind, indeed purblind, confidence in the Alameda Planning
Board." With a start like that you know the guy is not serious. But
he did note that Safeway is apparently planning to sell beer at the all-night
gas station planned for the Point, which is a revelation in itself. We
did not know gas stations could even apply for a license to sell alcohol.
Then again we did not know that the ever contentious In-n-Out Burger will
feature a 42 foot bell tower which some bright bulb fears might interfere
with local airplane traffic.
Man, if you are flying that low, please file your route plans away from
my neighborhood.
Which is interesting, given that councilpersons want to raise the gateway
height limit to 82 feet. Go figure.
Finally we took an amused gander at Councilperson Chen's Understanding
Neptune Pointe (sic), in which he claims the entire McKay broughhaha has
nothing to do with the City government, but is entirely an affair between
the Feds and EBRPD. Of course this ignores the fact that the City did
rezone the land against EBRPD in advance of the parcel sale, so Mr. Chen
is blowing just a little bit of smoke here.
Most of the L2E in the Island Gerbil were steadfast against the McKay
development, against the Ron Cowan Harbor Bay development, and even against
any West End development, all citing traffic as the main reason.
Finally, we note that the popular seasonal Spirit Store has returned
to Southshore Mall, bringing back its lifesized animatronic zombies, robotic
spiders, costumes and the ever favorite ghost duck.
LIKE THE WILD GEESE IN THE WEST
So anyway, Howard Schecter reports in the Dweeb Report, which has trended
to extreme accuracy for the past twenty years that seasonal "trofing"
has occurred in the Pacific and that we can expect steadily cooling dry
temps in the Sierra for the next few weeks. Farmer's Almanac said this
winter shall be a cold one, so get out there and buy woolens now.
This is the time of steadily advancing shadows, of changes. Leaves turn
from verdant to brilliant reds and yellows and dull ochre, eventually
spinning down in a revolve of season. Coming home along the byways of
Fruitvale and Laurel and Diamond to Snoffish Valley Road where the old
coachway cuts between earth embankments and hedges, settling in the way
old comfortable roads do with time counted by the century mark. There
the penumbra of the oaks stretches longer than before at this time of
day and Percy Worthington Boughsplatt motors with his bare companion,
Madeline, still a striking redhead member of the Berkeley Explicit Players.
But as the temperatures drop, even Madeline must pay heed so she wears
at least a pillbox hat and Victorian leather boots.
One must be reasonable.
Mrs. Almeida is out back cleaning up after the graffiti vandalism scrub
down. Some wag had spraypainted the coop lime green and all the chickens
bright neon orange. This being the Island our vandals considerately employed
water-based paint, so a little work with the hose and all was well again,
save for some irate hens flapping orange dewdrops.
There were no other animal mishaps, save for the usual dogbite reported
in the police blotter, but for a few days, Bosco the Disputed Pig was
kept in hiding. Bosco is the Disputed Pig for a meddling city official
had Bosco removed from his yard a while back and arrested, we assume,
in the Animal Shelter, where sad Bosco pined for his grubs and his yard
behind the concrete and steel lockup, all for committing the crime of
being a pig in town.
Someone complained that you cannot be raising livestock in a City. Think
of the children.
Someone else commented, "You call this burg a 'City?' What's wrong
with you?"
There were a lot of bad words about the affair and much disputation over
pigs, for if pigs then why not ducks and, god forbid, roosters, cows,
horses and kangaroos.
Then of course there was the matter of Wootie's trained moose herd over
by the bridge abutment. But then Wootie was Canadian, and different rules
applied.
As it turned out, the City has no real ordinance against a pig living
in a yard, especially one which would never attain any size greater than
twenty pounds, and all the neighbors got together a Free Bosco petition,
as they all dearly loved Bosco, which so shamed the City they released
the Pig of Dispute and Bosco returned to munch his grubs in his yard once
again.
It does seem that once all the kids got busy with school, things like
spraypainting chicken coops, exploding mailboxes, and toiletpapered trees
sort of tapered off, giving all the parents the vacation for which they
had longed all summer.
As the days get shorter, the fog rolls in as a solid wall through the
Golden Gate and pouring over the hills of Babylon across the water.
At Marlene and Andre's Household, Marlene moves about the kitchen, trying
to turn odds and ends, scraps, orts, into something similar to a meal,
her jet black hair getting a little loose-stranded under her bandana.
Kids free from chores and homework took noisy advantage of the last shreds
of the day with a ball beneath the glowing streetlamps outside and she
pauses with her hand on her belly and the empty space below and beneath.
In the Old Same Place bar all the talk is about how war has been averted
-- never mind how and by whom -- the main thing is that war shall not
drag us in to another unspeakable mess. Putin, of course is no great prize
of character, nor is his governent, but at least there shall be no war.
Old Schmidt sighed. "War is very terrible. Terrible for effry vun."
Someone scoffed. He should talk, coming from that birthplace of Nazis.
"I am old, but not so old to haff been soldat during ze Krieg."
Schmidt said.
O I suppose none of you knew about the brutality. The camps.
Old Schmidt sighed. "I vas nine and sent to Niedersachsen. My people
knew of course. They all became partizans. Perhaps too early, while it
was unpopular. We fought his Brownshirts in the street even before the
Hitler took power. Some joined ze French. My Vatti joined ze Poles. But
it didn't work-- we were too few and the US waited too long. The Gestapo
executed 2,000 of us. My Vatti did not come back. That is why Oma has
no relatives. You see things are not always so easy to make black and
white. Except one thing."
What is that Schmidt?
"War is evil. Maybe some wars must be fought, but all wars are evil."
In the little church on Santa Clara, Pastor Terrabonne finished up his
sermon on reconciliation. The subject was the anniversary of the terrible
bombings in Birmingham in 1966 which had murdered four girls and injury
about thirty people. "Now, I say to all of you brothers and sisters
we must remember these things and we must talk about them, but not to
harden our hearts, not to feed anger. No. We recall these terrible things
done to our people to reconcile ourselves."
"Say it brother!"
"O yes!"
"Glory yes!"
"Reconcile I say! Not so much with any other man, any other group
responsible, any other race, but reconcile if you will that man of hate
who comes to learn. Is that the main point? Do we stop there, reconciling
with our enemy? No! We reconcile ourselves so that we do not live our
days in bitterness and hatred and anger that turns to evil. Reconcile
I say! Go on and reconcile! Reconcile, reconcile, reconcile! Reconcile
with God, people! That is with whom you must reconcile!"
"O brother!"
"Hallelujah!"
There was more passionate speech in that little chapel tucked away in
the row of other churches, great and small. For such a small island we
enjoy a plethora of churches, temples and synagogues; one would expect
that our people would be saintly for all of that, or at least move through
the world with some rectitude, some upright morality instead of grubbing
after petty vengeances, pursuing petty cruelties.
In the Offices, after all had shut down, the Editor wound up the day,
wondering how to summarize all of this before moving on to other topics.
He thought about the time he had met Guy Stern, one of the Richie Boys.
The Richie Boys were the very real, actual, living blood, Inglourious
Basterds. But they were not nearly so cruel or vicious, for all of them
were, in fact Germans.
They were immigrants who had been interned at Camp Ritchie, pretty much
with the same spirit that the Japanese-Americans were interned elsewhere.
Like some of the Issei and Nissei, some of the Richie Boys signed up for
the Army, which sent them to the very front lines to employ their language
skills.
Nearly all of them were, besides being German, Jews as well. Including
Guy Stern, who described how they had to alter their dogtags which, like
all army-issue tags, were stamped with their religion. Which of course
would be a death sentence to anyone caught by the German army.
Guy's job was to go to the front lines and use a loudspeaker and his
native language to pursuade snipers to surrender. In this he was very
successful, although it was fairly dangerous in that before somebody decided
to surrender they might decide to train their weapons on the loudspeaker.
As for the Inglourious Basterds part, well, "We were good Jewish
boys. We did not want to hurt anyone. We just wanted the war to be over.
When I rolled into my hometown with the advance troops and saw everything
bombed out and destroyed, I cried. It had to happen, of course, for that
Hitler and his people were terrible and had to be stopped. But afterwards
I could not live there again and so I returned to the United States."
The Editor sat on the verandah with his own memories of war in a distant
southeast Asian country.
The crescent moon looked down through the tendrils of fog upon the sleeping
little down with its potbellied pigs, its chickens, its miniature gardens
and its many churches, a town asleep and at peace, not waging war.
The long howl of the throughpassing train ululated from far across the
water, across the gentle waves of the estuary, the riprap embankments,
the grasses of the Buena Vista flats and the open spaces of the former
Beltline; it snaked through the cracked brick of the old abandoned Cannery
with its ghosts and weedy railbed and silent chainlink fences as the locomotive
glided past the dark and shuttered doors of the Jack London Waterfront,
headed off to parts unknown.
That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.

SEPTEMBER 8, 2013
SOMEWHERE BEYOND THAT BLUE HORIZON

This week's photo comes from Carol of the St. Charles Lunatic
Asylum. She has been posting this foto challenging people to recognized
all the famouse outlines depicted in the distance. This shot is taken
through the Island marina. Hint: Coit Tower is furthest right.
FUN WITH TEGAN AND SARA
Toddled over to the Greek with low expectations for what turned out to
be a surprisingly vital and exhuberant two concerts from two poppy groups.

According to Wiki, "Tegan and Sara are a Canadian indie rock duo
formed in 1995 in Calgary, composed of identical twin sisters Tegan Rain
Quin and Sara Keirsten Quin (born September 19, 1980). Both play the guitar
and keyboards, and write their songs."
They began energetically performing and recording while still in high
school, using the school equipment to record their first album. They have
won scads of awards, and probably because of their relentless touring
schedule which began in 1998, tend to think of themselves as "old
timers" on the circuit, having done virtually every major open air
venue and event in the United States.
They have toured with Neil Young and The Pretenders, Ryan Adams, Weezer,
Bryan Adams, Jack Johnson, The Black Keys, Ben Folds, Gogol Bordello,
Cake, Death Cab for Cutie, Hot Hot Heat, The Killers, New Found Glory,
Paramore and Rufus Wainwright, among others.
The openly gay pair got some internet buzz when they did a parody song
a few years back based on the absurd homophobic comments made by a Fundamentalist
preacher against gay marriage. The preacher claimed that if gay people
were allowed equal rights with straights, then anyone could then marry
anything alive, including a duck, with the clear insinuation that gay=bestiality.
The music video featured the two girls cavorting with a rubber duck.
They are the darlings of the post-Indigo Girls/Chrissie Hynde set and
are heavily favored by the young, deliberately sexually vague camp of
college women just figuring out the riot grrrl thing does not have to
be a rubber stamp of Steinem and Stein. It's okay to be girly and still
learn how to lock and load a Glock 9. Their self-deprecating humor and
emo flavor of honesty has garnered them a devoted fanbase.
In concert the two fill out their lineup with Ted Gowans guitar,
keyboards, Jasper Leak bass, John Spence keyboards, and
Adam Christgau drums. Both of the sisters play guitar, synth, and
-- notoriously -- the shaker.
By this time, they also have developed smooth stage showmanship. Tegan
(or was it Sara?) provided a brief humorous intro to a song by describing
how difficult it was to perform the shaker and that the audience should
cheer whenever her shaker fill came up -- and she would be sure to highlight
the event by pointing at herself. The adoring audience ate it up and six
thousand fans screamed when the "shaker bit": rolled around.
This was, by the way, a rare case of the venue being packed at the get
go so people could catch the warm-up band.
For the record and for the fans, here is the setlist for T&S.
Drove Me Wild
Goodbye, Goodbye
Back In Your Head
The Con
I Couldn't Be Your Friend
I Was A Fool
Now I'm All Messed Up
Alligator
Where Does The Good Go
Living Room
Shock To Your System
How Come You Don't Want Me
Feel It In My Bones
(Tiësto feat. Tegan & Sara cover)
Closer

We are not sure wussup with LA and fun's spectacular flop down south
where they began their tour. Reviews of the poppy Broadway-influenced
band were uniformly negative and sour. LA also has a venue called "The
Greek Theatre", but we can bet a bottom dollar the band will never
play there again.
Reviews were so bad that we were a bit concerned about even staying through
the show in Berkeley, however from the first notes Nate Ruess and company
pulled out the stops to great success and a warmly enthusiastic, welcoming
crowd that seemed to inject Ruess with some badly needed push. "Man
I gotta say, I feel good tonight," he said early at one point. Later
on he said on stage during a breather, "After LA I was sure we were
washed up as a band and nothing we did mattered any more. I felt it was
all over. But now you guys made me feel good about performing, about being
in a band again. Thank you!"
It is hard to understand how things went so badly in LA as Friday night
the band really cracked out a superbly orchestrated show with lights and
confetti cannons and fist pumping and Ruess hamming it up Broadway style,
clearly enjoying every second the spotlight shone on him. It is really,
really nice to experience a performer who has been knocked down getting
back up and smashing a homer out of the effing ballpark and that experience
was precisely what it was like in Berkeley Friday night.
The band was assisted by a very sexy multi-instrumentalist Emily Moore,
who threw in tenor sax, keyboards, guitar and sweet vocals to boost the
band with the sort of style for which the talentless Yacht strives and
fails to achieve.
The East Bay is home to quite a lot of people who have been dissed, looked
down upon and suffered severely hard times, so there were a few moments,
as during "At Least I'm Not as Sad" and "It Gets Better"
when people really connected emotionally, driving Ruess to further heights.
The band is unabashedly pop, the lead singer is more enamored of Broadway
glitz and style than Liberace, the most inspiring songs are frankly anthemic
rock at its most inane, yet nevertheless, fun completes its mission and
deserves its name. We are glad the East Bay welcomed the group so well
and we are happy that Ruess was re-invigorated and we definitely know
that virtually every person in the venue had a blasting good time, so
we see nothing wrong with that. You cannot have Patti Smith every day
and everybody needs a break from Nick Cave, also a fellow Canadian with
Tegan and Sara, once in a while. In short, fun came to the Greek Theatre
for a resounding triumphant and explosive success, and we wish Ruess,
et al, all the best in going forward. They dominated the night. You could
do worse than have some fun in your life, given the abysmal depth of misery
in store for all of us. We're all gonna die someday, so kick out the jams.
. . .
Set List:
Some Nights Intro
One Foot
Walking the Dog
All Alone
Why Am I the One
At Least I'm Not as Sad (as I Used to Be)
All the Pretty Girls
It Gets Better
Barlights
Carry On
The Gambler
You Can't Always Get What You Want
We Are Young
Take Your Time
Encore:
Some Nights
Stars
THIS ISLAND LIFE
The fun and games continue with locals getting steamed about the juggernaut
of greed-driven development that threatens the character of the Island
and Ron Cowan's group pushing forward with plans to relocate Harbor Bay
Club under the Oakland International Airport main flyway so as to make
room for more toney housing out there where people already speak different
accents. He may find for all of that people who are used to giving orders
instead of taking them may prove to be bad opponents with which to pick
duels. Remains to be seen how that one plays out and whose palms get greased.
Commuters may have noticed that the start of the school semester everywhere
suddenly produced monster traffic jams at just about every island egress
point. We also noticed the sudden increase in bridge lifts at both Fruitvale
and Park Street during the supposedly anathema time of rush hour, causing
tempers to fray and blood to boil even as Brock de Lappe, the marina harbormaster,
is seeking to evict nearly a hundred houseboat folks, who apparently,
as one letter writer indicated "do not move in the same social circles
as Lappe."
We are sure that charge of social elitism is unfounded and that de Lappe
has noshed pork and beans heated on a sterno can under the freeway and
washed that down with 99 cent box wine many times. So let's be fair.
The increased drawbridge lifts just when the roads have clogged with
seasonal traffic seems curiously timed by somebody, but we are not sure
who is responsible or what their game plan happens to be. We do know that
about a hundred people who have lived all their lives on the water in
hand-me-down boats that probably would not make it out of the estuary
under their own power, let alone have the funds for fuel to do so, will
be thrown on the street to subsist in some ad hoc manner that probably
features a good portion of yours and ours tax dollars in the form of shelters
and resettlment programs.
Basically, these folks have been living like gypsies on boats without
SHOCK! paying rent to somebody, or SHOCK! vehicle registration fees. Of
course if your vehicle never travels anywhere that was not an issue until
now. We suspect the rent issue is what really is driving this. That and
the desire to purge the Island of "undesireables". You know
them -- those people who do not know how to mix a proper Manhattan or
shop at Trader Joes.
Gee thanks, Brock. You German by any chance? Ja, die Untermenschen sollen
weg!
The general hubbub in all the big issues that are plaguing Silly Hall
these days circle around a couple philosophical camps and a couple nasty
movements that involve power and property.
There is the camp that would like to keep the Island as it has always
been -- well, to be short they are going to lose. It may be unfortunate
and it may be sad and it may be the worse direction, but that should by
now be a given. Big question is where is the space for each one of us
in what comes up.
Then there is the camp that says, "Finally we are going to make
the changes that we wanted to make the Island into what we want it to
be." Which seems to be a sort of Yuppie game preserve solidified
by sky-high rents, smarmy shops that cater to the iPod set and "lifestyle
stores" instead of groceries.
Finally there is the camp that says, if it has to change, then lets at
least protect the least terns, lock in some liveable open space, and get
half of it right while the pirates loot and pillage. We may have a chance
of a liveable space after they are done wrecking what used to be.
The Letters to the Editor remain a highlight of comedy and cranky opinions
that never cease to delight and amaze. This past week
we saw someone respond to Abbie Halliday's complaint that there are "too
many beggars" flocking like pigeons and that we should kill all of
them.
A curiously oriented person wrote a letter that caused guffaws throughout
the newsroom when the letter writer complained about the timing of the
Origins Bicycle Tour for Sunday, 9/22 at 9am to 1:30pm. The letter writer
felt this timing excluded churchgoers from participation and that this
was very likely intentional.
O the godless bicyclist!
Someone else complained that the finance-bleeding hospital was in danger
of absorbtion into Highland Hospital (actually, in terms of accuracy,
the hospital will join the County system, of which Highland serves as
the central trauma center, and this deal is all but done). The letter
writer indicates that Highland will fill our little "hospital emergency
room with all of its patients" causing longer waits and crowded facilities.
Now wait. We understood the Island hospital to be shipping in the past
scads of trauma patients over to Highland so as to avoid paying for indigent,
low income cases. So now the reverse situation is somehow a bad thing
when our hospital's red debit page makes it out to look pretty indigent
in itself? Tut tut tut, my dear fellow.
Another fellow, clearly a newbie, wants to know what all the recent road
closures are for. My good man, says Ms. Marple, please have another cup
of chamomile while I tell you every long-term resident knows that they
tear up each and every street periodically because it is fun to do so.
And some say because we simply cannot get organized well enough to coordinate
all the different projects that involve digging up a street.
It's an Island, of course, with a high water table and earthquakes, which
is another reason. Things just crack up.
So there you have it.
I HEAR THAT OLD PIANO DOWN THE AVENUE
"So anyway," Professor Smurfy said to Jose, still trying to
understand his experience a week ago at the art exhibit, "no one
can identify a true Sociopath by looking at his face or into his eyes.
I am not sure if I am capable myself of decerning such a fellow or worman
-- in fact, I know for a fact I cannot, even though I have studied this
pathology for well over thirty-five years.
"It is not possible. A Sociopath is not like Hollywood Hannible
Lecter with a funny or terrible mask. He does not have dripping fangs
and bloodshot eyes. You do not get this literary chills down your spine
or intimations of something wrong. John Wayne Gacy, a socialized pyschopath
of a different sort than what we are speaking, did not put 30 people into
quicklime in his basement by looking like the monster he was.
"A Sociopath is comfortable to you. He feels somehow useful and
helpful and friendly. Consider Klaus Barbie, later termed the Butcher
of Lyon. All his French neighbors protested even as he was taken away
for horrible war crimes as a Nazi that he always was "un bonne Camarade".
The very French whom he savaged so bestially. They are very good at faking
the emotions which they do not have. Meyer Lansky was a good family man.
"Yes, to such people you are always a good buddy, a fine friend.
Often volunteering in the community, as Gacy did as a clown for children's
parties.
"Truth is there moves through the population at any one time well
over one hundred thousand Sociopaths and very rarely do any of them commit
murder. As far as we know. These Sociopaths continue their careers as
useful members of society.
"Most of them understand that if they get caught committing murder
or any sort of crime there is a vast machinery of legal apparatus that
will set in motion to deny them what they want. You will never see even
the murderous Sociopath directly by looking into their face -- you can
only see them like physicists see mesons and quarks -- by the vapor trail
they leave behind in a vacuum chamber, by the extraordinary damage left
in their wake after they have gone. Their usual method is that of manipulation,
of an exchange of favors which always seems to benefit themselves the
most in some way.
"When you look at a suspected Sociopath, do not talk to anyone that
person knows in the present -- talk to people who knew him in the past.
You will learn that everyone who knows him in the present calls him "un
bonne camarade", but everyone who knew him in the past calls him
an asshole.
"A Sociopath cannot feel any emotions other than a profound self-pity
and a deep-seated anger based in narcissism -- this often gives the impression
of a depth of feeling which is simply not there. He feels no love, no
real empathy to other human beings, although he can mimic such emotions
quite well. You will notice how the Sociopath never laughs unless it is
a joke or story told at someone's expense, someone suffering because of
some complicated machinery of entrapment. This he likes very much.
"The Sociopath is a shell of something similar to human, but he
has no attachment to humanity and could not care if anyone or any number
of humans died beyond how it would inconvienience himself. In the Sociopath
there is the example of a person without a soul, the most chlling thing
anyone can encounter, and you will find in your studies that people who
have been affected by a Sociopath feel their entire trust in the human
species has been destroyed.
"That is the destruction of the Sociopath. That is their vapor trail
-- the annihilation of human beings, rarely by killing their bodies, more
usually by destroying their spirits. There is no known cure for Sociopathy.
You can only incarcerate them forever or kill them by means of the death
penalty. That fact alone is enough to cause sufficient damage by its knowledge.
Their habit is to cause hate to arise from once fertile minds.
"Such a person is the Angry Elf of which you speak. "
All of them in the Old Same Place Bar were silent, pondering. What kind
of evil had infected their town and what had any one of them done to deserve
it.
Sociopaths or Psychopaths or Shining Path -- that sort of thing was more
proper for New York or LA. Or at least Babylon until they got a handle
on it.
Outside the coastal breezes knocked the crabapple tree branches and a
few let go deadfall that thumped when it hit the ground.
The door flew open causing everyone there to startle with wide eyes,
but it was only Old Schmidt, coming in for his regular nightcap.
Out beyond the Golden Gate, Pedro Almeida piloted his boat El Borracho
Perdido through the swells of the fishing grounds. Tugboat sniffed
the air and woofed. Pedro opened the door and sniffed the air as well.
The fog had gotten denser of late and the new moon of Thursday last now
waxed greater sliver by sliver on seas that took on a deep ultramarine.
The seasons were changing. Soon time for the crab pots and other things
that like colder water.
The radio talked about the drumbeat of war, getting louder with each
passing day. Stories of atrocities, real and not filled the bloodlusted
media. They are getting us ready for another war in the usual ways. Pedro
changed the channel to the one that carried his favorite televangelist,
Pastor Rotschue.
"This is the last week of reruns for the Lutheran Hour and we will
be coming to you live once again from that little town we all love so
much, the town that Time bypassed, leaving out an off-ramp on the highway
of history. This week we return to a show we did last fall in Jackpot
Nevada at the famous Top Hat Lounge . . . "
At Marlene and Andre's the Household was midways through Rosh Hashanah,
which began more or less appropriately before the New Moon. They now were
getting towards Yom Kippur and the entire Household was being dragged
along willy nilly.
"Okay now," Marlene said to Martini. "I want you to apologize
to Sara. You have to be sincere about it."
"She hates me."
"She hates you because you were an asshole. Maybe if you apologize
things will start to change."
"So what if she just spits in my eye like the last time?"
"It don't matter so long as its sincere. You gotta enter the New
Year free of all your shayt. And believe me, Martini, you are really full
of shayt."
One might think that Marlene's doctrinaire approach stemmed from some
kind of 12 Stepper Graduate infexibility or post-therapeutic attachment
to formalized spirituality that is so often employed to stitch together
the pieces of ruined human beings (in addition to Sociopaths, the world
suffers Psychopathic damage enough) however the simple truth is that the
one bedroom cottage home to fifteen souls could not allow dissension in
that tiny space to continue for long, and so keeping the peace was a very
important task when open war would ruin all of them.
It is getting time to perhaps tell some of Marlene's story, how she was
born, how she survived the thing sometimes called childhood by some, how
she came to the Island and how she met Andre. Tell some but not all, for
there was enough white knuckled gripping horror in her past to cause one
to recall the words of a famous poet: "Alas! ... the Demons . . .
must sleep, or they will devour us - they must be suffered to slumber,
or we perish."
The Editor paced back and forth in the darkened offices, slippery galleys
left strewn on the floor. All the news that had come over the transome
had been forboding, diluting the happy news that the Island kids had been
improving their API scores against a declining trend Statewide and making
muddy the Neptune Beach celebration. Someone had spraypainted Mrs. Almeida's
chickens bright neon orange, while doing the coop entirely in vivid green.
Mr. Howizter's firm had chopped down a cedar on Alameda Street which had
stood on the property for over one hundred and fifty years.
Then the bickering about begging on Park and the squabbles about putting
in a single fast food burger joint out on the Point -- it was enough to
make the old Editor want to tear out his few remaining white hairs.
He walked to the back veranda where the unruly lemon tree sent sprays
this way and that with abandon and lack of pruning, such that branches
heavy with fruit regularly snapped to endanger the crowns of passersby.
He relit his cigar. He really ought to do something about that lemon
tree.
The troubles of the world are multidinous. As the Woodman once said in
one of his movies, "Life is divided between the horrible and the
miserable. The horrible consists of things like lepers begging on the
streets of Calcutta, amputations without anaesthetic, ebola, war with
all its horror. The rest of us are just miserable. Be grateful for misery."
Beyond the veranda, the darkness of the yard extended to the old coachhouse,
now a garage where neighbors stored a 15 foot kayak. The immense box elder
tree, thoroughly infested with the notorious box elder bug and shrouded
by various species of parasitic vines loomed under the sliver of the waxing
moon as the fog tendriled itself in. If he shut his eyes, the Editor saw
again the tracers arcing out and the flashbangs and the screams of the
nighttime firefight at Ba Ap, 188's going off with all the clamor of the
Final Trump, again and again and again. And the morning's discoveries
embedded in the mud, once human beings, now meat.
The captured NVA commander had said, "We did not think Ba Ap was
of any importance to us, but since you came here, we thought it must therefore
be important in some way. That is why we came and we fought for that hill
over there . . ".
Beyond the yard the ocean of human misery sloshed and chopped, its depths
unplumbable by anyone of sane mind, for down there, in the inky depths
where luminous memories flashed with all devouring maws packed with razor
teeth. Just when you think you have descended past the unimaginable there
floats up from some deeper place a thing worse than Klaus Barbie, worse
than the things the doctor at Auschwitz ever did, things beyond language
or image. And always, way down deeper than any human that calls itself
such ever will go, breeds yet more sickness, ever mutating, ever changing,
ever arising to inflict new pain yet undiscovered.
O, Klaus Barbie. His French neighbors in that quiet suburban district
all called him genial, "un bonne camarade." Even as the authorities
took him away to be charged as the Nazi "Butcher of Lyon."
The Editor puffed his cigar and thought to himself, when will we ever
learn that to be human, you must act humanely. When will we learn to be
like the physicist who sees the meson, the quark, the subatomic particle
not by looking at its face, but by the vapor trail it leaves behind, the
fragmentation of the target, the wake of its damage? And know that for
some, there is no forgiveness save what g-d intends.
The long howl of the throughpassing train ululated from far across the
water, across the waves of the estuary, the riprap embankments, the grasses
of the Buena Vista flats and the open spaces of the former Beltline; it
snaked through the cracked brick of the old abandoned Cannery with its
ghosts and weedy railbed and silent chainlink fences as the locomotive
glided past the dark and shuttered doors of the Jack London Waterfront,
headed off to parts unknown.
That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.

September 1, 2013
THE CROSSING
This week the obvious foto to headline the issue is from our seafaring
Tammy.

THIS ISLAND LIFE
Summer is just about done with school starting up and the long multi-year
project that is the new Bay Bridge opening up presently.
For those seeking nostalgia and maybe learn a bit, the Oakland Museum
has a suprisingly neat exhibit on the Bay, featuring an alcove dedicated
to that old Bay Bridge, its construction, repair and the signature event
that propelled the new bridge project -- the Loma Prieta Quake.
That quake, called by some the 5:05 quake, because of the time of day
and the day it took place. As the first pitch of the World Series was
just winding up, thousands of people who normally would have been on the
bridge and the Cypress connector had taken off work early to get seats,
resulting in virtually empty roads when normally hundreds of thousands
of cars nosed bumper to bumper.
It was also a special World Series as both Bay Area teams, the Giants
and the A's were facing off against each other.
Just one person died when the "fuse joint" section of the upperdeck
dropped down.
After the section had been replaced engineers welded an iron "bridge
troll" to the outside girder. People on sailboats could see the troll
from below if they used binoculars, but it otherwise remained hidden to
drivers on both decks.
So the question now stands as the old bridge goes through a three-year
"deconstruction" -- what to do with the troll? Does he move
to the new bridge or does the new bridge rate a modernized version?
The 18 inch high sculpture, designed and made by blacksmith Bill Roan,
was welded on the north side of the outside rail. It was removed August
30th by Caltrans. The troll's whereabouts remain unknown.

The new bridge opens up at 5am this Tuesday. Until then Caltrans is routing
all transbay busses to BART. Monday all busses run on a Sunday schedule.
Every week it seems there is a real prize in the Letters to the Editor.
This week one irate person noted an increase in "beggars" on
Park Street and at the malls. Um, sir, do you pay rent in the Bay Area?
Have you noticed what has been happening here?
The sand erosion project has the go-ahead to start the beach replacement
so expect a little noise when it happens and wider beaches when its done.
"NOLI TIMERE"
So anyway, Jose peered dubiously at the works on display at the exhibit
tucked away in the warren of Pumpus Steel and Glass Werks. The beginning
of the scholastic year for all ages means that all over the place art
galleries and museums threw open their doors for the edification of new
students
One piece of glass, a sort of muddy reddish-brown and shot throughout
with irregular bubbles caused Jose to pause. The name of the Angry Elf
attested to its creator.
"Isn't it delightful!" said Maxine Felcher.
Actually, it resembled a goodly dinosaur turd, thought Jose, but he said
nothing.
"Usually we try to keep out these inclusions, but this artist has
left them all in. What genius! He has turned flaws into gems!"
A gentleman wearing a top hat and formal tails entered the room. He peered
closely at some of the wall pieces with a monocle.
"O dear!" said Ms. Felcher. "It's the Tribune!"
Jose asked Ms. Felcher who the man was.
"That's Percy Tuttle, the most savage art critic in the Bay Area.
Even Harrington of the Contra Costa Times is afraid of his trenchant wit!"
"O really!"
"They say he so criticized his mother's art collages that she threw
herself off of the Dumbarton Bridge in despair." Ms. Felcher whispered.
The august man paused before the cube holding the Angry Elf's work just
as the little man came around the corner.
"So buddy, whaddya tink?" asked the Angry Elf.
Ms. Felcher and Jose stood back.
"What do I 'tink'," said Percy with a slight British accent.
"I 'tink' this reminds me of dried sea snail snot."
"You no lika my work?"
"Sir, this is not work. No effort to learn craft has gone into it.
The soul of glass material is clarity, not inclusions. Inclusions weaken
the matrix. This is onanistic rubbish."
This did not make the Angry Elf as visibly angry as Jose expected.
"Yeah, well get yer own exhibit then, buddy. I got's an in here
with all the rest of the arty mucky mucks, so you buzz off with your talk.
But you better be careful, I am warning you."
"You are a little man with little talent or skill," Percy said.
"I am warning you, buddy."
"Pshaw!" Percy said, and left, followed by Jose, who did not
like the Angry Elf. He overheard the Elf asking Ms. Felcher what kind
of car Percy drove. She said she thought Percy owned a Lexus.
"How on earth did such an odious man get into a place of good reputation
like this," Percy asked.
"I think he just wants to hob nob with rich people," Jose said.
"A membership at the Commonwealth Club would be simpler," Percy
said, and then he paused half a beat before saying, "but then he
would have to be capable of holding an intelligent conversation."
Jose wandered through the building, looking at seascapes, chiascuro nudes,
textured abstracts laid over thick gesso on wooden blocks, and every once
in a while something interesting and beautiful and strange. Since the
rents had shot into the Outer Limits, artists had been fleeing Babylon
in droves to come to the East Bay, causing a mini Renaissance to flourish
in buildings once occupied by sheet metal shops and foundaries. This activity
had attracted patrons from all over the world and these well-heeled people
were the targets and the reason for his sudden new-found interest in making
art. Percy was right in that the Angry Elf, who made his living as an
arsonist, never bothered to take classes, subscribe to magazines or learn
from other people how to work with glass. He just stole a book from the
library and a potter's kiln from someone's backyard and set up his little
factory and had his boys do most of the work making things that could
pass as something artistic. What he really wanted was names, addresses
and the bank account numbers off of checks, for the artworld is a last
holdout of business by paper and a handshake.
Jose left the building about the same time as the art critic. Across
the street a white Lexus stood engulfed in flames as wailing sirens approached.
"Goodness," said Percy. "I almost bought a Lexus myself."
He walked down the street and to Jose's astonishment, unlocked the door
of a low-slung British car.
"A Morris Minor! The Bay Area's most formidible art critic drives
a Morris Minor?" Jose exclaimed.
Percy looked up at him. "The engine is a BMW. It was easier to just
replace it than keep going to the shop."
"I can't believe it!" Jose said.
"My other car is a Fiat," Percy said before driving off with
a throaty roar of his engine.
Things were somber over at the Old Same Place Bar when Jose finally dropped
in late in the evening. Ireland's Nobel Prize Winning Poet, Seamus Heaney
had just passed away and Padraic was inconsolable. Unlike the other three
Nobel Prize winners, Seamus maintained a comfortable soft-shoe and modest
presentation about himself. Not as Agustan as Yeats, but nevertheless
quite his equal in intellect, he remained close to the land and humble
origins, with many of his poems focussed on the relationship between himself
and his father, whereas Beckett became an expatriot producing work which
does not appear to have any specific attachment to any geographical region,
and Shaw occupied himself with the drawingrooms of the upper middleclass.
"Oy me laddies, this is indeed a dark day," Padraic said.
"That's because its nighttime now, you doofus," Dawn said.
"Hush now ya sheela. Ireland's diadem of language has fallen to
dust."
"Well he left behind a body of work that lives," Suzie said,
trying to keep the peace. "Why don't you read us one of his poems
now."
"Well I don't know, I don't know," Padraic said. "This
bein' a local and not a library. People want to drink and socialize here."
"All right now!" Eugene stood up. "I say let's have Padraic
read us one of the man's poems and put this to bed. All you all with me?"
A chorus of ayes and "Come on Padraic!" and "Read! Read!"
came from that humble collection of boozers and losers who had nothing
of greatness in them, but were common folk, welders and blacksmiths and
mechanics and the sort of raggedy lot that probably hung around that radical
socialist Jew in Palestine some two thousand years ago. Even the Not-From-Heres
all wore frayed shirtcuffs with thready collars and looked a little worse
for wear, like they had been carrying Willy Loman's tattered samples suitcase
for the past half century.
These, then were the people of the Old Same Place Bar and there was nary
a yuppie or a stockbroker among them, but bitter-eyed admin assistants
and harried front desk file clerks and orange vested roadmen and roadwomen
and big rig operators who flew in the wee hours of radioland through those
distant country-station zones where they sing eternally of love won and
lost in all futility and despair while the eyes get crusty with lack of
sleep on the flamelit horizon of sunsets on that long eternal highway.
"Well all right here is one appropriate to our situation here. Ireland
you know is a bit of an island and so are we." Padraic said as Eugene
finally sat down.
THE DISAPPEARING ISLAND
Once we presumed to found ourselves for good
Between its blue hills and those sandless shores
Where we spent our desperate night in prayer and vigil,
Once we had gathered driftwood, made a hearth
And hung our cauldron like a firmament,
The island broke beneath us like a wave.
The land sustaining us seemed to hold firm
Only when we embraced it in extremis.
All I believe that happened there was vision.
There was a moment of silence before Dawn announced Last Call. Then there
was the flurry of highballs and shots with which Suzie had to deal and
the last minute hook-ups in those still having hope and the last minute
immersion in those who had lost any pretense of the pick-up fiction.
Eugene asked Suzie what she thought it meant. Like many men in the bar,
he was always trying to find a way to get into the beautiful girl's pants.
He imagined that if he sounded smart and intellectual it would improve
his chances. He did not know Suzie well.
"I think," said Suzie, "It just means that you must hold
the place you love close to your heart, knowing it all will erode away
even though all of it is really just inside your head. And that is why
this poem works for our island, which is really just a Mayberry of imagination,
another Yoknapatawpha County."
"Aye," Padraic said. "He was the perfect mix of Viking
strength, Spanish sensitivity, and the immortal qualities of the Tuatha
Dé Danann. A royal vates for sure."
I wanted to grow up and plough,
To close one eye, stiffen my arm.
All I ever did was follow
In his broad shadow round the farm.
I was a nuisance, tripping, falling,
Yapping always. But today
It is my father who keeps stumbling
Behind me, and will not go away.
The long howl of the throughpassing train ululated from far across the
water, across the waves of the estuary, the riprap embankments, the grasses
of the Buena Vista flats and the open spaces of the former Beltline; it
snaked through the cracked brick of the old abandoned Cannery with its
ghosts and weedy railbed and silent chainlink fences as the locomotive
glided past the dark and shuttered doors of the Jack London Waterfront,
headed off to parts unknown.
That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.

August 25, 2013
SUNFLOWER SUTRA
Every year, every August, while the invasive European grasses turn the
hills to gold and dragonflies do little bombing runs over the glassy lake
surface, we publish an image of one these fellows.

Nothing gives quite the same sense of sunny warmth and simple pleasure
as the heliotrope.
PSA - LATE BREAKING
Clarence Johnson of Media Affairs ACtransit sends us this info via Cynthia
Vincent regarding the all-important 51 busline.
Community Workshop on AC Transit's
"Line 51A&B Corridor Delay Reduction/Sustainability Project"
AC Transit and the City of Berkeley Public Works Department
will hold two community meetings to gather input on potential improvements
to the Line 51B bus corridor.
The first meeting will be held from 6pm to 8pm on Monday, August 26, 2013
at La Quinta Inn, 920 University Avenue. The second meeting will be held
from 6pm to 8pm on Thursday, August 29, 2013 at the Julia Morgan Center
for the Arts 2640 College Avenue
Lines 51A & 51B are two of the most heavily used bus routes in the
East Bay, carrying a combined 19,000 passengers a day to Berkeley, Oakland,
and Alameda. Service has been unreliable due to bus bunching, late vehicle
arrivals and overcrowded buses.
AC Transit has received a $10 million grant to design and implement infrastructure
modifications along the route that would increase reliability and on-time
performance, decrease travel time, and improve safety for AC Transit riders
and pedestrians.
The meetings will be working sessions to present and review proposed improvements
for the portion of the Line 51 bus corridor which runs along University
Avenue between Acton Street and Shattuck, followed by small group discussions
about the potential changes.
For more information about the proposed improvements, go online at http://www.actransit.org/planning-focus/projects-in-the-works/projects-in-the-works-4/.
Written comments on the changes can also be submitted by 5:00 p.m. on
September 9, 2013 to Tammy Kyllo, AC Transit, Administrative Coordinator
at 1600 Franklin Street, Oakland, CA 94612 or by email at planning@actransit.org.
All comments will be part of the official public record. The City of Berkeley
Transportation Commission will review the recommended options on September
16, 2013.
THIS ISLAND LIFE
You know it was a slow news week when the front pages of both the Island
Gerbil and the Island Pun featured stories about events more
than half a century old. Ah, but the Island moves at a leisurely pace
of its own.
The Gerbil presented Chuck Kohler, Pearl Harbor survivor, who spoke on
board the USS Hornet this weekend. Pearl Harbor's anniversary is December
7th, but Chuck is 89 and still married so we guess we need to snag him
while there is time.
We should inform the Mayor of that little Minnesota town where all the
women are strong and all the men good looking that Island kids improved
their standardized test scores, bucking a statewide trend of declining
scores, so we can now say quite truthfully that our children are all above
average.
Crimestoppers Notebook tells us that hullaballoo on Park last Saturday
was a high speed chase down the main drag when four men crashed their
stolen Honda after trying to evade capture. Police found a semiautomatic
pistol and a high-capacity magazine in the car after the men fled on foot.
Call 510-337-8340 for information if you know anything.
What is it about the brick minds of developers when it comes to naming
things? After the community stood up protest when developers tried to
renamed Southshore Mall into Towne Centre (sic) now we have the same perps
trying to foist the same name on us, but for a complex planned on the
Point. Then there was Neptune Pointe (sic) for the disputed McKay Avenue
area.
O for crissake!
The Planning Board will meet for a special session 7pm Wednesday in the
Council Chambers at Silly Hall. It would be nice if one of our excellent
English teachers would show up to teach somebody a lesson about misplaced
"e's". Where is Andy Rooney when we need him most?
Dennis Evanosky tracked down what happened to the funds collected a while
back for the purpose of paying for the restoration of the City Hall clocktower.
The original tower, built in 1896, was damaged during the 1906 quake that
destroyed San Francisco and had to be torn down.
The committee which set about to collect donated funds came up with so
little towards the multimillion dollar projected cost of reconstructing
the 120 foot high Romanesque structure, the money was used to install
a plaque
describing what the building originally had looked like.
Letters to the editor seemed crankier than usual, many to do with the
projected development plans and the disputed McKay parcel. Same with the
OpEd pieces. Tim Lewis Communities, private developer and prospective
purchaser of the parcel had a representative cobble together something
in favor of their plan to put 48 tony dwelling units down there. It basically
does not add anything new other than a suggestion that TLC would be paying
for the necessary improvements to supply utilities such as water, power,
sewer, gas and electric services.
In a balance of opinion effort, Eugenia Thompson issued a stinging rebuttal
to Ezzy Ashcraft's letter that basically stood in favor of the TLC project.
You are enjoined to go to www.friendsofcrownbeach.com to read about the
point by point rebuttal. Eugenia expresses dismay that City Council politicians
show "lack of respect" to the people. Welcome to politics, my
dear.
Finally we note the curious boosterism of the report that indicates retail
sales tax leakage would be less if more of the vacant storefronts were
occupied. Well, those storefronts don't come for free or cheap -- that
is why they are vacant. Business owners on staff are getting flyers from
properties like Marina Square offering three months of free rent should
a business move in. Yet the rents, when they do kick in, are reportedly
astronomical. One business on Park Street (name withheld) reported having
to pay over $30,000 per month for the privilege of putting in a cash register
there. When its like that, no way anything seeking to startup can pay
the cost. Indeed, the obscene rent situation has already driven out many
well-established businesses.
WHAT IS A PIER BUT A DISAPPOINTED BRIDGE
Wednesday will be a good evening to attend that Silly Council Meeting
for you sure as heck are not going to be able to drive to Babylon as Caltrans
is closing the bridge at 8 pm. In fact, you might as well give up getting
over there until September 3rd, for that is when the new eastern span
is scheduled to open up. Yep, the entire Labor Day weekend, Babylon will
be accessible only by BART, ferry and that thing to the north which connects
Marin to the City.
You know old timers when you hear somebody mutter under their breath
about the Golden Gate, "They never should have built that bridge."
FOLLOW THE DRINKING GOURD
So anyway the threatening thunderstorm promised by KTVU weather never
happened -- not even a sprinkle -- although we did hear of some lightning
strikes in the Valley near Pleasanton. It is that time of year when parents
go collecting bookbags and supplies from Walgreens, start toting up the
expenses and time commitments for the soccer games and the lunches and
the uniforms for those kids suffered unto the unique punishment known
as Private School.
Sister Rosencranz and Sister Felipe and Sister Maria have been scurrying
about the rooms of Our Lady of Incessant Complaint cleaning up blackboards,
stocking the chalk, opening boxes of new textbooks and shoving chairs
and chattering about scheduling with their black habits flapping behind
like a murder of crows.
Old Gaia, sitting on the porch of the world has begun without the slightest
sign of having done so, to turn her craggy face from the splendor of her
Son, Phoebus Appollo, in his golden chariot. The summer of 2013, which
ought to have been, numerologically speaking, a time of mishap, is quietly
passing out the door in some verdant veld bedecked with sunflowers and
poppies.
Unless you happen to have friends in Syria or Egypt, where certainly
life has taken an unfortunate turn, life on the Island continues apace
as it has for the past entire century of uneventfulness. The apocalypse
did not happen.
The Angry Elf gang torched a car in front of La Penca Azul this past
week so as to issue a warning to the establishment to pay up their "insurance."
The gang never approaches the owner or head chef directly -- such people
always maintain such an upright bearing that the activities of the gang
would have long since been shuttered by the Law. They typically find a
lower echelon employee with access to the funds to extract and make payments
on a semi-regular basis. It is really quite ingenious, for if caught,
the employee is tried and sentenced for embezzlement, all the while claiming
that they were innocently trying to protect the business against mobsters.
Other than that little warning, the only fires of any consequence raged
far to the east near the charming swash of tree-bordered kitsch known
as Groveland, California.
Officer O'Madhauen's speech entitled "Mindfulness and the Turn Signal"
went over really well at the regional meeting of the National Association
of Traffic Enfeebled and Directionally Challenged. Floyd, head of the
Non Compos Mentis chapter of Rotarian Affiliates, did comment privately
to Officer O'Madhauen that it seemed the language of the speech and its
title could not possibly have been written by him.
The Officer did admit, privately, that he had enjoyed a bit of help from
a Sgt. Carbondale. He did not add that Carbondale's main job at the department
was in the capacity of Admin Assistant. Why clutter the field with details
and facts?
On a quietly cooling evening at the close of summer, the high fog began
its age-old roll through the Golden Gate, creeping over the hills in battalions
of Tolkein ghosts. Ms. Morales sat at her table preparing lesson plans
for the coming year at Longfellow Middle School.
Officer O'Madhauen sat in his cruiser in that wide space on Sherman where
it crosses Buena Vista beside the Old Cannery, sipping his styrofoam coffee
and watching for a yellow light dodger.
Up in the Greek temple, Joshua bedded down for the night next to the
altar, after a humble meal and preparing to spirit out in the next week
so as to board a plane for Venezuela, there to taste the bitter bread
of exile and enforced expatriotism for the rest of his life for the crime
of whistleblowing on the corrupt Security Service, which had practiced
torture, illegal wiretapping, drug smuggling, and perverse consort with
poodles. The moon, bella luna, stroked his brown to sleep through the
stained glass windows.
Outside and across the street, Mr. Strict sat in his SUV with his Colt
.45 ready beside him, reading his Soldier of Fortune magazine and making
notes on where to send money for eavesdropping equipment.
In the Old Same Place Bar, the clink of glasses tinkled with the splash
of water behind the bar as Suzie performed the Sisyphian task of washing
bar glassware and Denby trickled his guitar arpeggios next to the snug
where Eugene planned his next trout expedition.
Down Snoffish Valley Road, the kids ran a few drag races point to point,
but because the cops never came and nobody interesting showed up and it
was all lame, they went to get Ben & Jerry's ice cream. So nobody
crashed and nobody went to the hospital that night.
The Editor paused after doing what he had to do. He then went about the
place turning off lights, shutting down machines left on. All the staffers
had left for the night and he was left alone in the offices by himself.
Earl would not come by to empty the trash until morning and tonight was
Darlene's night off this time of month. He sat then in front of the computer
monitor, doing what he had been doing each week for the past eighteen
years, quite alone. Doing all for Company.
It was a quiet night on the island. People slept well, those who slept,
and those who did not passed the time with equanimity. It was a quiet
night with no one screaming and no one got shot. It was a rare night for
all of that.
The long howl of the throughpassing train ululated from far across the
water, across the waves of the estuary, the riprap embankments, the grasses
of the Buena Vista flats and the open spaces of the former Beltline; it
snaked through the cracked brick of the old abandoned Cannery with its
ghosts and weedy railbed and silent chainlink fences as the locomotive
glided past the dark and shuttered doors of the Jack London Waterfront,
headed off to parts unknown.
That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.

August 18, 2013
ALL AROUND YOUR ISLAND THERE'S A BARRICADE
This week's photo comes from the sea-going gadabout Tammy and is proof
positive there are other islands in the Bay besides Alcatraz. Population
on this little rock is just one -- the lighthouse keeper.

WHATS THE BUZZ
It's been a while since we did an international survey of the media,
from the Middle East, all of Europe and a touch of Africa and Asia. We
are getting some interesting contacts from the Land Down Under and hope
shortly to have some insights into such things as why Tongans hate and
despise Fiji Islanders with an enmity going back hundreds of years, what
is happening in Samoan cricket matches, to the latest scutttlebutt from
Chinese kids getting wild via online gaming.
We so hate to be Euro-centric, but we deal with what we have in linguistic
ability at the time and Le Monde, El Mundo, Frankfurter Allgemein, Der
Spiegel and that foreign language rag, the Telegraph, remain our staples.
That's all coming up, so stay tuned.
GLITTER IN THEIR EYES
Right now its all about Land. No, not Patti Smith's double CD release
-- which actually has a few songs that would provide a good background
theme music to our opera here -- but development in the Contested Areas.
Well, the Point, Boatworks, and Crab Cove/Neptune Pointe (sic).
People protesting In-N-Out Burger in a futile toss against done-deal
action got a front page rebuff from the IPD, which appears to be on a
major image-improvement campaign, what with the memorial to slain officers
(all of two in forty years), pancake breakfasts, and social media outreach.
To be sure the Department badly needs this Positive PR as we well know
doing what we do, nobody notices you when things go well, but when things
go off the rails, your ass is on the griddle right away and nothing of
the past will help you.
The IPD has done some things well; it also has done some things wretchedly
bad. The Island remains much safer than its neighbors in terms of violent
crime and perception of threat. It also lost the City Jail for a time
because of malfeasance on the part of officers in the cells and it went
through a nasty episode when officers were caught blathering racist cant
on their radios and they let a man die for the sake of making a point
about the budget only a year ago. There is also an attitude among some
officers who feel that if the issue is not solidly defensible right away,
then the entire matter is not important and so the citizen might as well
take a hike and seek therapy for being robbed and violated.
We will not go into the couple of overtly corrupt officers that everyone
knows about, and which chills the entire approach of some people towards
using the IPD for any reason.
Well, nobody is perfect. Which is well to remember going forward. A couple
bad apples in a force this size is pretty good odds, most experienced
people will say, and in a broad sense, the police sort of generally do
their job. They probably will not take care of your needs if you get robbed
specifically, but generally speaking, it is less likely the event will
happen than in some other places, which seems to be the thrust of their
operation - to preserve social order. If you feel the Social Order does
not support or endorse or protect you and your family, then you fall into
the category of those who do not like police. If you have something to
gain by the Social Order, then the police more or less work for you.
The police see no connection between crime and the fast food outlet In-N-Out-Burger.
Of course there is none. There IS connection between the sum totality
of development at that site combined with ten others. Yes, crime will
happen, but not because of one burger joint.
In other development news, people are now talking about a coherent and
reasonable plan for the Crab Cove/Beachfront area. This should have happened
a while ago, but now an Op-Ed piece in the Sun talks about "A Common
Sense Approach for Crab Cove." Unfortunately, bad sense may prevail
as the City inexplicably allowed a zoning change to permit the Texan developer
to build a pile down there where everyone had expected the process to
lead to assignment of the former federal land to the EBPRD. Blather about
"housing elements" and state law compliance are just that -
a lot of blather.
Development on the Island in many places does not make sense, but the
Neptune Pointe (sic) project is a particularly egregious example of how
greased palms enabled some really bad decisions.
PSA
Hey people! Bay Bridge is closed Labor Day Weekend all Weekend! Check
the signs!
I AM AN ISLAND BOY
So anyway. Wally's son is still holed up in the sanctuary of the Greek
Orthodox Church way up in the Oaktown hills while the TSA, the NSA, the
IRA and the NRA all are looking to nab him. Mr. Stark has been sitting
out there on that slope for weeks now, drinking bad coffee from styrofoam
cups and eating bagels he collects from the Boogie Woogie Bagel Boy before
driving over the bridge and up that hill to post himself religiously in
place of Cmdr. Stark who has sat there watching the door all night in
his 1977 Volvo, the only car ever made that can seriously intimidate and
do damage to an SUV or a Hummer. Its compact body fashioned of solid rolled
steel for the American Market caused freeway weight scales to groan from
two lanes distance. Once Stark cut a stationwagon in half without noticing
when he drifted through a stopsign while texting his buddies at Soldier
of Fortune Magazine, and only realized what had happened when he noticed
the poodle impaled on the radio antenna. That and all the screaming.
Mr. Stark eased his modest Eldorado into the space vacated by Stark and
got out his binoculars and camera.
Wally's Son, Joshua, got into a bit of a pickle after releasing top secret
documents about the Mayor's clandestine Predator program in which New
Mexico chilies were being smuggled over the border by some gay cowboy
named Oliver South to pay radical fundamentalist dognappers to secretly
spy upon the Schnauzer network that was working to destabilize the municipal
government of Newark, itself an hotbed of terrierist activity.
It might sound rough having to sleep in the pews of a rough hewn church
up in the fog belt of Oaktown, but the Greeks had long ago worked out
deals with their neighbors the Church of Latter Day Saints, which featured
as spectacular an underground network of tunnels and chapels and grottos
as the gold-plated ediface that had stood there since about 1839. Well,
not the exact same building, but a steadily improved model that began
about the time a shipload of Mormons arrived in California looking to
get away from the hated American flag so as to start a New Zion. Begun
in liberty and dedicated to the principle all men are, more or less, equal,
the American Republic had stomped on the toes of
Well it took six months in those days to sail around the Horn from Boston
to San Francisco, and what had been solidly Mexico when those boys started,
turned out to be solidly something else by the time they arrived, much
to their consternation, for when the Mormon battalion of 1000 faithful
sailed into San Francisco Bay, they looked up to see not the Mexican flag
flying at the Presidio, but the detested American flag, put there by Commodore
Stockton.
The Mormon battalion found it too much trouble to go to Utah from there
and so they stayed and built on the Oaktown hills their splendid temple
above the earth, and their splendid subterranean city below. This city
had its secret passages, known only to the Elect, the Illuminati, and
select members of the Order of Masons.
In this manner, Joshua was able to sneak underneath Mr. Stark's Eldorado
into the Mormon Complex by means of a door behind the Tabernacle and so
get some refreshment other than souvlaki and dolmas and that atrocious
retsina wine and then sneak back again to peer out and give Mr. Stark
a jolt now and then.
All Governments spy on one another of course, and so do one's neighbors.
Everyone knows that, but Joshua really cooked the bacon when he outed
the papers that detailed all the shenanigans and the hot tubbing.
He really did not think some people would get so angry -- after all,
no one seriously considers the government of Newark to be worth the slightest
notice, not even itself, for they do not even have a hall for the city
council to meet, preferring to gather informally in livingrooms for taxation
and tea with crumpets. After all, what kind of place has such low self
esteem that it names itself "Newark"?
In any case, Pahrump has been driving up from the lowlands on his scooter
to bring little care packages for the famous whistleblower.
Joshua even had an equally famous visitor who made his way through the
clandestine tunnels. Gobetweens arranged the meeting in a non-descript
passageway of dripping brick and moody backlit shots done in blue tones
with lots of shadow. He appeared wearing a cape in an archway. Touch of
fog, wisps . . .
Julian, it is you.
Oui, Mssr. C'est moi.
Julian, you have brought the power of the State to heel with your revelations!
Now they are after you!
Ah, Monsieur. I am nothing. The State is Nothing. L'Etat? C'est moi.
But you are admirable!
Me? Humble me? Why is that?
Me? I am but L'etranger. Even the pseudo-crimes they charge me with are
strange and somehow foreign. But you. You are American.
Man I aint nobody but Wally's son livin' in the damn church pews I gotta
watch out if I even order pizza delivery . . . .
America, America, Julian said. Look at yourselves. You now surround your
greatest monuments with concrete barriers like they are so important.
You surround your fabled White House and your Congress with concertina
wire. You hound your best journalists and you keep concentration camps,
you practice murder, and you have even gone to the furthest extreme no
despotic regime in history, not even Nazi Germany, ever did, you publicly
excuse the practice of torture. My god, what have you people done to yourselves?
You are not a Democracy. You are not even a sadass Republic!
You have become a nation of fools.
A Nation selling its freedoms for false security. A security that always
will remain conveniently aloof, just out of reach. Save for just a little
more concertina wire. A few higher walls -- along the border no doubt,
yes? -- a little more torture and you will be fine, just fine.
But you, my friend, have shown that L'Etat c'est ne pas moi -- c'est
nous. The State is Us! Yes? Me, they can always deride as one of those
cheese-eating frogs. But not you, my friend. You have the red blood in
you and you must fight now for your country and your life. Me, I now only
fight for my life and . . . certain abstractions. Don't waste your time
protecting cold monuments to what used to be; they are just rocks. The
Nation is its people and you can never be totally destroyed.
But Julian, what can I do? Who am I?
Never forget who you are in reality, Julian said. You are a rebel. And
that is what you always must be. Now I must go. . . .
Down on Central the Central Baptist Church held its Rock of Ages festival
which featured a large Bounce House, a novelty that had gained some popularity
at big parties. A Bounce House featured a huge inflatable structure in
which over-amped kids could jump and slam themselves around to their heart's
content and so weary themselves out to their parents ever grateful admiration.
\
Nobody was exactly sure what this all had to do with the Gospel and so
forth but unlike the Gospel, this was hella fun.
Down at the Old Same Place Bar all the regulars are discussing the various
qualities of the In-N-Out Burger.
"The thing about the place is that they do one thing and they do
it well. Because they do only one thing. They make burgers. No frilly
and no sauce. I like that," Padraic said.
"Yeah but the one over on Hegenberger serves up junk," the
Man from Minot said. "It's not like the place in Fremont."
Everyone there had to agree. The Hegenberger place really stunk; the
burgers there were just too pedestrian with no effort put into them. They
all hoped the new one on the Island would take a different direction.
Better burger. Better fries.
Someone else recalled a joint in Escondido that was the pits while someone
else recalled a joint in either Pittsburg or Petaluma where the burgers
were pure heaven, especially at two in the morning.
Then there is the place on Grand Lake someone said, which has come and
gone and returned in quality, and someone else said, well that is not
an In-N-Out Burger so shaddup.
It was generally agreed that not all In-N-Out Burgers were the same and
the jury would remain out on this one until the grill was fired up and
all was said and done.
Suzie sat behind the bar and read her anthropology text for the next
exam. "The Bonobo are a jovial group, averse to the internecine warfare
that decimates other populations. For this reason, the Bonobo have thrived
in their native habitat for many thousands of years in peace and harmony
with neighboring tribes . . . .
The long howl of the throughpassing train ululated from far across the
water, across the waves of the estuary, the riprap embankments, the grasses
of the Buena Vista flats and the open spaces of the former Beltline; it
snaked through the cracked brick of the old abandoned Cannery with its
ghosts and weedy railbed and silent chainlink fences as the locomotive
glided past the dark and shuttered doors of the Jack London Waterfront,
headed off to parts unknown.
That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.

AUGUST 11, 2013
We thought we would take a break from sunflowers, the Bay Bridge and
your usual Island obnoxious chipper attitude to bring you a pic of one
of our native sons performing in far distant Deutschland. Kinda keep the
flavor of Outside Lands going for a bit.

This is Greg DeHoedt performing with Hounds and Harlots in Duelmen. He
is married to Stacey, a born and raised San Franciscan now transplanted
to Ohio, but both former Islanders. And such will they always be in our
hearts, along with their 8 month old new family edition.
HARD TO THRILL
JJ Cale, the man Clapton said was a far better guitar player than himself,
passed away a week or so ago. Old Slowhand played many of Cale's songs
and sometimes performed with the author of ditties like Cocaine and They
Call Me the Breeze. One of the disadvantages of survival is having to
watch a lot of old, dear friends walk on ahead of you.
Heard tell Outside Lands got socked in with a fair amount of fog for
its three days of outdoor music. This year Sir Paul McCartney joined in
for Sunday and a soulful piano version of Let It Be, with our favorite
native sons, RHCP, coming on at 8pm and Karen O of Yeah Yeah Yeahs at
8:45pm. Also heard the Killers did one of their in the slot shows.
Band of Horses, the group that fronted for the Counting Crows and during
which set obnoxious people talked all over held thousands of concertgoers
riveted this time.
Each one of those folks still out there in Golden Gate Park better like
their immediate neighbors 'cause the way it looks, if you are there now,
you will not get home until next morning with all the traffic.
It was all over the Journal this week - they nabbed the getaway driver
in last month's botched robbery of the Bonfare Market in which one would-be
thief was wounded and another shot dead by an off-duty sheriff. Elbert
McBride was arrested at his scheduled probation meeting. Because a man
was shot to death during a commission of a crime, McBride will be charged
with murder according to California law that handles accomplices with
the same severity as principal actors.
The wounded robber is Marc Traylor, an Island resident. He was arrested
for possession of narcotics when he showed up at the Hospital with gunshot
injuries. All men are 41 years of age.
The deputy's name is not being released at this time.
In another crime incident, the Webster Street branch of Citibank was
hit by another takeover heist, which is a normally rare event for a bank
-- despite the movies -- however in the past fifteen years virtually every
single branch on the Island has been robbed, some twice. The Bank of Alameda
on Park Street was robbed by a lone perp on July 26th.
The style of robbery and physical description of the lone robber matches
a robbery that took place in Hayward. In both robberies here and in Hayward
one man in his twenties wore a bright "Road Worker" vest. He
is described as being Black, six feet in height and between 150-160 pounds,
which would be rather slender.
As for the Citibank robbery, two men, aged 30-35, Black, and standing
about 5'6" and 5'9" respectively, worked together. They also
appear to have been better fed as weight for the two is listed as 160-180
and a chunky 180-200 for the taller fellow.
People with info can call IPD at 510-337-8340.
In more pacific news items we see that CVS will not be occupying that
vacant lot that used to be Ron Good Chevy. Walgreens is now expected to
take that slot. A brief review of plans indicates an 85 spot parkinglot
-- badly needed there -- plus plenty of bicycle racks, which ought to
please Patti St. John our local pedal activist. City planners are requesting
architecture that matches the neighboring Marketplace and no obtrusive
signage.
Could it be that something will finally go right with Development here?
As we reported a few weeks ago, Marina View Towers got purchased by SF-based
Carmel Partners, who summarily evicted every single resident of the 8
story, 84 unit building. Reason given - earthquake retrofitting required.
We expect that the costs will probably be "passed on to the tenants."
The new ones of course. Sheesh.
The Sun has a nice review of how SunCal, the obnoxious group that tried
to pull several fast ones on the City in developing the Point, finally
getting ousted when simple greed was insufficient for their needs. They
would have had us all paying for millions of dollars of sewer, gas, electricity,
and street conditioning as part of their deal and voters downed their
plan by an extensive margin. Ultimately they turned their backs and sued
us for several million since they are not very good at building stuff
here or it seems any place in California.
In the Letters we see people are still carping in rather jejune ways
about the anti-cigarette ordinance, which seems to be enforced by the
gendarmes about as much as driving while cell-phone blathering. Both acts
can kill people, but hey, there is a case for reasonable jurisprudence
here in which public safety and common sense need to start holding hands
with a recognition that you cannot absolutely guarantee perfect order
no matter what you do. People will be stupid and they will be callous
and rude and sometimes all at the same time and no amount of force can
prevent it, especially when some of these folks consider it to be a matter
of opinion and preference.
Look at all the jerks who still drive SUVs for example. Actually perfect
order sounds perfectly hideous -- we saw a good part of that back in the
DDR under Hoenecker and Co. The DDR, Bulgaria, Czechoslovakia, Hungary,
Romania, Mussolini's Italy -- they were all perfectly orderly places.
Anyway the Letters to the Editor always remains one of the more entertaining
sections of the paper, so we have to thank folks getting their panties
in a twist over trivialities when the entire world seems on a relentless
career towards crash and burn. There seems no end to some people's earnest
desire to control other people in some kind of Brown Shirt style on this
Island. Gotta love the . . . um . . . lady of years who wrote a response
letter a week ago defending her boos of one particular parade float during
the Mayor's July 4th Parade, recalling the onerous period of time when
women were supposed to sit down, be pretty, cross their legs, and speak
softly.
The response was to a vent from someone who felt she should keep her
political opinions to herself on July 4th, that festival which celebrates
rebellion. We suppose so that the physical parade in front of him would
more closely match the one traipsing through the Norman Rockwell diorama
of his own mind.
RIDE THE RIVER IN THIS BOAT
So anyway, Harmon, who caretakes the Church of the Sanctified Elvis
with its Grotto, has been hustling about the place patching up leaks
and vacuuming the 10 foot tall velvet portrait of the King in the Grotto
for the 16th marks the 36th anniversary of the death of Elvis, which annual
milestone always drew crowds to the Grotto which kept the dental crown
that some say probably was what killed the cultural icon. Addicted to
prescription drugs, Elvis had been taking Diazepam, Amytal, Nembutal,
Carbrital, Sinutab, Elavil, Avental, Valmid, Morphine, Demerol, Chloropheniramine
(an OTC antihistamine), tranquilizers Placidyl and Valium and the sleeping
pill Ethinamate, along with Qaaludes and a barbiturate -- all of which
were found in his system by the coroner -- however it is thought the codeine
administered by his dentist the previous day was the fellow that had provoked
anaphylactic shock. No doubt in combination with everything else.
In any case, the Island Grotto retained the King's crown in a glass case,
reliquary for the dead saint. The death is a curious date for remembrance
-- Elvis was born January 8 -- but show business is show business.
Officer O'Madhauen has been invited to speak at this summer's convocation
of the Non Compos Mentis Chapter of the National Association of Directionally
Challenged and Traffic Enfeebled once again. Again to speak on the use
and misuse of that seldom-used automotive feature, the turn signal.
you always can keep your hat on
A co-speaker on what promises to be a vastly interesting panel on signal
deception and evasive maneuver, will be Linda Lacelove Golightly, she
of the famous New York Tiffany dynasty of traffic specialists. Her
grandmother, Holly Golightly acquired some renown decades before this
current crop of gadabouts and honking wannabes in the field of Urban Traffic
Dissonance. Her grandmother's advice, on learning of Linda's decision
to pursue the family traditional avocation, was succinct: "Always
wear a really good hat when trafficking, my dear. I've always enjoyed
the most delightful moving violations while wearing my hat. And you know,
the one thing that is always allowed -- you can take off anything they
wish, but you always can keep your hat on."
The Department is quite happy to employ a body at 78 cents on the dollar
Officer O'Madhauen, inspired by such distinguished company, has been
writing and rewriting his speech for weeks with the help of the office
Admin Assistant, Susan Carbondale. Susan is actually a police sergeant
in the Department, but, needs are what they are in this time of cutbacks
and she is the only officer who can type. The Department is quite happy
to employ a body at 78 cents on the dollar compared to the regular Force
they can toss into a cruiser, run riot squad, do forensics, walk graveyard
beat and then type and file to boot. Can't see a problem there.
Susan has added some new twists to the annual talk about turn signals.
"That thing which sticks out of the steering column -- that is a
turn signal. It is not attached to your genitalia. Nothing will come
loose if you yank on it and you are encouraged to do so and often.
Most of you will enjoy the sensation -- the sound that echoes in your
head and the hot flash. The little light that comes on will not hurt you;
you can still have children after flicking the turn signal. You will not
develop hairy palms. People will know where you are going. Any questions?"
Officer O'Madhauen has never delivered a speech like this, but something
about it sounds correct, so he is keeping the changes.
if Steven Hawking is correct that we all shall go the way of the dodo
in a century.
Night fell and no one got hurt. The Editor hunched over his desk, his
few remaining white hairs flying about his head in the light of the desklamp
a corolla. All through the offices chairs pushed back, lamps snicked off,
computer fans whirled to a silence and night brought pools of shadow to
the corners where everything had been all chatter and clicking and telephones
before. The violet hour when the human engine sits over its desk had long
departed, leaving this gradual entropy, a mirror of things to come in
perhaps several thousand years, or sooner if Steven Hawking is correct
that we all shall go the way of the dodo in a century.
For the last humans the world will be like an entire office floor going
dark one cubicle at a time, the temperature having risen briefly to something
uncomfortable followed by the inexorable cooling of the atmosphere, the
chilly drafts blowing over the hard nugget of the earth and all the light
fading until the last led winks out and the last man on his hands and
knees keels over, barking into extinction, leaving only empty chairs witnessing
the end of history, ruins and silence.
Then come the roaches to devour whatever is left.
Out there the Angry Elf gang was at work,
But for now the Editor sits at his desk in a pool of desklight surrounded
by darkness, doing all for Company. In the Inbox sat the renewal to his
KQED membership and his endorsement for NPR, the thin wavy line of radio
waves that alone stood as the boundary against the Barbarian hordes. Out
there the Angry Elf gang was at work, their arsonists burning down another
restaurant, their extortionists extracting another dollar from a helpless
business at the point of a gun. Narita Lightfinger was shoplifting from
another store and her companion, Bryan Stump, was doing another 2nd story
job.
For now, there was Life and he was the man in position to defend the
City and rip loose the thin veneer of its placid exterior to show the
rotten corruption beneath.
The Masters of Destruction strode about their boardrooms, designing the
planet's wreck.
For now, there was Life and Art and Musik, slender dykes against the
tsunami of Evil and he was the man in position to defend the City and
rip loose the thin veneer of its placid exterior to show the rotten corruption
beneath. The Media Man.
Somewhere out there high in some technocratic tower a genius financier
ponders an iron mask. In some deep grotto, a troubled figure begins to
climb up the stone walls of an oubliette, while below the prisoners are
chanting. In the vast ravined desert a small figure casts his beloved
cookpots into the abyss, knowing there will be no return for him and his
companion as they trudge through the slag waste, bearing their charge
toward the fiery Unnamable.
Somewhere heroes and heroines wait to awaken, in some murky omphalos,
warriors of mankind remain unborn and Athena has yet to spring from the
brow of Zeus, hearkening his clarion call.
It's a dark night in a City that knows how to keep its secrets, but in
the Offices of Island-Life sat one man in a haze of purple light, pondering
Life's Persistent Questions.
The long howl of the throughpassing train ululated from far across the
water, across the merciful waves of the estuary, the riprap embankments,
the gentle grasses of the Buena Vista flats and the open spaces of the
former Beltline, and snaked through the cracked brick of the old abandoned
Cannery with its ghosts and weedy railbed as the locomotive glided past
the dark and shuttered doors of the Jack London Waterfront, headed off
to parts unknown.
That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.
Ride The River
Floatin' down that old river boy, all my worries far behind,
Floatin' down that old river boy, leave old memories way behind,
Yesterday is slowly fadin',
All my life, I've been waitin', for this time.
Floatin' down that old river boy, leaves me feelin' good
inside,
Floatin' down that old river boy, tryin' to get to the other side,
Yesterday is slowly fadin',
I been waitin', now forever, for this ride.
[Refrain:]
Ride the river in this boat, ride the river.
Ride the river in this boat, ride the river.
Ride the river in this boat, ride the river.
Ride the river in this boat, ride the river.
Floatin' down that old river boy, all my worries far behind,
Floatin' down that old river boy, leave old memories way behind,
Yesterday is slowly fadin',
I been waitin', now forever, for this ride
[Refrain]
Ride The River - J.J. Cale (Key of A, Capo 3rd Fret)

AUGUST 4, 2013
DAYS I DIVE BY THE WRECK
We forget sometimes in our busy lives that we do indeed live on an island
and this island has something big surrounding it. This week we have a
photo of something so common we no longer see him as strange and curious
and entirely unknown to many people cemented within the packed masonry
of States.

I HEAR THAT TRAIN A COMIN'. IT'S COMIN' 'ROUND THE BEND
You might not hear that train coming for a couple reasons. BART union
officials gave a 72 hour strike notice as talks stalled before the weekend
although talks plodded through. Governor Jerry Brown proved his worth
by requesting a 7 day hold on that which the Union seems to be respecting.
The Governor does, after all, have the National Guard at his disposal.
But behind this fracas has been the no less acrimonious CALTRANS labor
dispute which primarily concerns buses, but may rope in a number of other
entities. The union there elected to forestall strike tactics as a sympathy
measure for the Bay Area during the BART imbroglio, however it seems management
has pushed things a bit too far with this concession and now, in addition
to the subway system we very well may see the entire bus system go down
in days. Here is the latest hot item over the wire from ACtransit's spokesperson
Cynthia Vincent:
"At noon today, the Amalgamated Transit Union Local 192 gave the
AC Transit Board of Directors notice of its intention to impose a labor
strike involving 1,625 bus operators and mechanics. Although negotiations
are continuing, it now appears that the ATU employees may refuse to
work beginning at 12:01 AM, Wednesday, August 7, 2013.
A work stoppage by the ATU will shutdown all AC Transit bus operations.
This disruption would impact the 181,000 daily bus riders who travel in
the East Bay or on to the Peninsula and San Francisco.
The AC Transit Board of Directors and management want to assure riders
that the District is doing everything possible to reach a resolution and
minimize negative impacts on bus service. Through its negotiating team,
the Board entered into negotiations in good faith with sincere intentions
of offering competitive salaries, amenable working conditions, and a willingness
to consider reasonable ATU proposals.
AC Transit management, in an effort to avoid a service disruption, has
proposed wage increases totaling 9% over a three-year contract.
The District has proposed that ATU employees contribute 10% of the cost
of the monthly premiums for their health and welfare insurance. This contribution
would be phased in over three years and is in keeping with all other AC
Transit employees, management, executives, and Board Members who already
contribute 10% of the cost of their monthly health care premiums."
We do live in interesting times.
ON AN ISLAND
This week the editorial staff took a much needed break for a music holiday
up on the River. Life goes on without us however, and it seems more and
more people are getting steamed about the Manhattanization of the Island,
or at least about the odd McKay Avenue development which has some definite
weirdness about it.
Briefly, the Feds owned land on a point accessible by a single road that
abuts the Crab Cove Center, which is a part of the the East Bay Regional
Parks District. There had been an informal"gentleman's agreement"
or tacit understanding that when the Feds decided to unload the property
they would hand the parcel over to the EBRPD.
Voters approved Measure WW a while back to allow for expansion of the
parks and in this case, there really is only one direction for Crab Cove
and the Strand to go -- west toward McKay Avenue.
In a strange maneuver, City Hall, which supposedly has no vested interest
there, revised the zoning for the parcel and subsequently the parcel was
put up for auction. Due to fiscal limits the EBRPD could only bid a certain
amount for the land and so the parcel was purchased by a developer who
wants to put 60+ exclusive high value townhouse homes there. One can quibble
about the nature of the designs submitted and parking and so forth, however
the main sticking points concern the land use revision and the acrimonious
melee going on between neighbors, City Hall, the EBRPD, and the unfortunate
developer. Every interested party seems dedicated to puffing smokescreens
and distorting facts. Turns out now that McKay avenue itself and that
parcel will need substantial infrastructure put in if somebody wants to
put homes there, and somebody "assumed" the developer would
foot the bill for sewage, water, gas, electricity, and whatnot for an
area that has long been sheds and parkinglots.
As for the rezoning done as part of the City's compliance with state
housing laws, we have yet to see specific laws delineated and we have
yet to see how McKay Avenue became part of the General Plan Housing Element
and reasons for inclusion. We know of no state laws that force any municipality
to increase high end living space according to a strict schedule, and
suspect any such law would have serious problems if challenged in court.
In any case, as the Point is under consideration for development, along
with a number of other sites already slated for housing construction,
McKay Avenue is not required for any kind on General Plan.
As for In-N-Out Burger to the "northwest territories" and Safeway's
now permitted 24 hours of operation, people grumbled but no one really
took serious effective action against what are really minor pimples on
a fat toad of development.
In speaking with an SF landlord who owns substantial amounts of property
and has over 45 years of development experience we learned that $2200
per month and two months deposit is "sub-market" rent now for
a one bedroom in Babylon across the water. Well that sort of thing is
coming here and a lot of people do not like it.
Regarding the Point, City Hall is at very least going through the motions
of trying to establish just what people want for the former Navy Base.
People can go to www.alamedaca.gov/alameda-point
or to the Facebook page, www.facebook.com/AlamedaNAS.
LITTLE GLASS OF WINE
So anyway, What Would the Flying Spaghetti Monster Do (WWFSMD), that
is the question. Some people feel that the CFSM (Church of the Flying
Spaghetti Monster) is old hat. Been around too long. Well they don't say
that about the pope or the Catholic Church now do they? So when did Buddha
get so old fashioned? Was it two or was it three thousand years ago? Moses?
Sure, that old fellow been venerated by people maybe a bit much. So he
parted the Red Sea (with a little help) and maybe he wandered the desert
for 40 years in a time when the average lifespan of a human was about
thirty. A smarter macher would have stopped after about a year
or two and set up a frozen yogurt stand and some fake gates and charged
admission right there in the Negev. The CFSM is just getting started and
we are taking names and signups for our next prophets plus a few martyrs.
Bluebeard maybe. Richard Teach. The mind boggles. Especially when you
know that the malignancy of old pirates is just a Christian conspiracy
to conceal the truth.
Pirates are God's Chosen People
The real pirates were all nice and genteel and practiced charity every
day, promoted school lunches, and helped old ladies and children across
the street. They were not bloodthirsty hounds such as painted by the priests
and deacons. The pirates of yesteryear - not modern pirates like they
still have off the coast of Somalia and Malay and inside JP Morgan --
were indeed God's Chosen People.
So anyway some more. There has been quite a flap down in Silly Hall ever
since Wally's son, Joshua, released top secret documents about the Mayor's
clandestine Predator program in which New Mexico chilies were being smuggled
over the border to pay radical fundamentalist dognappers to secretly spy
upon the Schnauzer network that was working to destabilize the municipal
government of Newark. Which itself had been a hotbed of terrierist activity
and rebellious fomentation.
It sounds complicated, but really, it is all quite simple.
Most people -- well quite a lot of big people with strong opinions and
yellow ribbons glued to their SUV bumpers -- felt the program was a case
of defending the sovereignty of the Island against potential poodle-lovers
and other radicals. Others felt unwarranted surveillance of citizens by
a municipality was going a bridge too far in terms of overreaching authority,
but the Mayor insisted that no cat-owners or innocent owners of decent
canine breeds were ever violated. In this way, at least. Uh . . . meaning,
by the program. Uh . . . just keep reading when it gets confusing. Trying
to make sense of inanity will not work.
In fact quite a number of pet owners were outraged.
"Where is the accountability?" shouted Ms. Pandora Thighripple
of the Island Hostesses of History at a recent meeting. "How am I
to know my budgies are safe?"
Indeed, the entire affair, now called the Coin-o-Mat scandal, because
information was exchanged in doggie bags in the Laundromat on Park Street
which suffered a mysterious CIA drone strike a year ago, seemed tailor-made
to bring down the Presidency of the Native Sons of the Golden West.
"Facts", as Senator Benton used to say back in the day, "are
useless things."
Of course the Native Sons had nothing to do with this ugliness or with
Cpl. Ollie South who cowboyed his way up and down 101 ferrying illegal
immigrant poodles packed into slatted pickup trucks, and kegs of Happy
Powder as part of this devious scheme, however the Conservative Party
never has paused for long in consideration of facts. "Facts",
as Senator Benton used to say back in the day, "are useless things."
Indeed, his thoughts have been the bulwark of the GOP for over one hundred
years after Lincoln was laid safely to rest.
But anyway that is not what this is all about. This is about the very
human tragedy of Wally's son, Joshua, who was forced to take refuge in
the Greek Orthodox Church up on the hill with the gendarmes, the CIA,
the ASPCA, the TSA, the HSA, the California Native Plants Association,
and the Island Secret Police seeking his blood. Of course he will never
be able to come home now, not with all those folks and FOX news along
with rabid Ann Coulter hating on his sorry ass.
Every once in a while Joshua peeks his head out the door and Ann Coulter
barks at him. It's enough to make a man swear off sex for a year to look
at that woman foaming at the mouth.
Proud of the boy sticking up for his convictions
People say, "Wally are you not ashamed of your traitor son?"
and he responds, "Heck no. Proud of the boy sticking up for his convictions
and taking it on the lam. Not like that Witherspoon boy who just surrendered
all meek like to the Marines. If my boy wants to borrow my .50 cal pistol
and wipe a battalion of them poodles, hell, he can just take it up any
day."
Well the situation is quite complex, let alone what all that Happy Powder
Olllie South brought in did to places like Oakland. These days Ollie South
lives in a compound in Turlock surrounded by barbed wire and machine-gun
emplacements, so perhaps justice is done in that the man, living in fear
of all the sour deals he foisted on savage thugs lives pretty much in
the same emotive state he generated in Fruitvale where pretty much everybody
lives in expectation to die in a hail of gunfire.
So anyway even some more. Pahrump drove up the hill on his scooter with
Jose to deliver a care package of bialys and cream cheese and bagels and
wine from Rosenblum cellars -- Ruth and the tzadik of Temple Beth
Israel put that one together so you can just imagine what else was in
the basket -- and Jeremy from the CFSM included a Tupperware container
of pasta, all of which was fully appreciated up there on the hill in the
fog where the golden spires of the LDS temple reach to whatever heaven
is allowed the likes of us.
Down through the fog and the remaining conifers of Oaktown descended
Pahrump with Jose on his chattering scooter to return to the Island on
the last ferry.
And all these things were observed from the periscope of the ever vigilant
Iranian spy submarine El Chadoor. "Captain, how can it be that such
people can demonstrate such kindness to someone so embittered and cast
out?" The First Mate asked of his superior officer.
"It is said by the Prophet," said the Captain, "And verily,
whosoever shows patience and forgives that would truly be from the things
recommended by Allah." (42:43).
"I think I should go forth and say this to the men, for they do
not seem to understand why we do not launch our missiles right away and
so demolish them in a fury that would of course demolish ourselves as
well," said the First Mate, who was inclined to be rash.
by the Mercy of Allah, you dealt with them gently.
"Mohammed, verily you are aptly named for unto you must come the
whispering in the ear and a command thence to recite for know this. It
is also said, "And by the Mercy of Allah, you dealt with them gently.
And had you been severe and harsh-hearted, they would have broken away
from about you; so pass over their faults, and ask Allah's Forgiveness
for them; and consult them in the affair. Then when you have taken a decision,
put your trust in Allah, certainly, Allah loves those who put their trust
in Him." (3:159)
"You have given me much to ponder," the First Mate said.
And with that, the periscope descended beneath the surface of the estuary
and the spy sub ran silent, ran deep out through the channel and under
the Golden Gate unseen and undetected to the open sea.
That night in the Old Same Place Bar the discussion was about whether
Joshua's revelations about the spy program had aided and abetted the enemies
of the Island and there was a lot of acrimonious discussion about the
matter until Padraic spoke up. "I tink it seems to me, you should
know and set out just who these enemies happen to be." Here he paused.
"And it was said in the Book of Pogo, "I have met the enemy
-- and they are us."
The long howl of the throughpassing train ululated from far across the
water, across the merciful waves of the estuary, the riprap embankments,
the gentle grasses of the Buena Vista flats and the forgiving open spaces
of the former Beltline, and snaked through the cracked brick of the old
abandoned Cannery with its ghosts and weedy railbed as the locomotive
glided past the dark and shuttered doors of the Jack London Waterfront,
headed off to parts unknown.
That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.

JULY 28, 2013
I KNOW WHY THE CAGED BIRD SINGS
This lady might be in need of some blow dry, or perhaps this is a metaphor
for the marginalization of feminine cognitive discourse. Or it just might
be the answer to knowing why the caged bird sings.

Maybe she just wants her nails done while formulating an additional component
to string theory in physics. This week's headline foto is from the storefront
at Mary Rose's hair salon on Park Street, where you can expect the unexpected,
as well as really good treatments. Mary Rose shills on the evenings as
an assistant bartender at our favorite Local, the Lucky 13, where the
beer is cold and the women too hot to handle.
You can always count on drama at the Lucky 13, and you can count on Mary
Rose's salon to hear all about it under the dryers.
THIS ISLAND LIFE
Summertime is a time for most places to chill and for the newsroom to
slack off on stories about stranded kitties in trees and boat problems
at the marina. Things got rather hot around here when an off-duty sheriff
popped a couple wannabe robbers at the Bonfare Market on High Street with
his revolver. One fellow died -- his name was Laroy Brown -- and the other
fellow appears to have checked into the hospital, although reports vary
as to whether this man was the same man who tried to rob the market at
gunpoint.
Yes, so many people seem to be getting shot around here nowadays, it
is so difficult to locate and identify them all.
The two weekly papers carried the same story with essentially the same
language, although the bylines for the Sun are for Evanosky, and for the
Journal Bender and Hegarty. Both stories wrote substantially about the
previous robbery where a customer or employee of the market was pistol-whipped,
so there is little info to collect, save for the fact that businesses
near any one of the bridges face some high risks now for violent crime.
The Bonfare is a fairly innocuous store with a small frontage on a section
of High Street in an area that features narrow streets possessing the
narrow form factor created back in 1850. Part of the opposite side of
the street is the Lincoln Park. It is six short blocks from the High Street
Bridge and does not feature any major alternative routes for someone seeking
to flee a crime scene as the store is barely one block from the estuary
cutout. Some of us are wondering what kind of imbecile would pick a target
with such limited exit possibilities, but that goes into the lamentable
state of public education as it has become today, where the kids just
do not seem to be getting critical reasoning skills.
This sort of rough-stuff is adding fuel to people's anger about the sundry
development projects that all seem to be reaching fruition within a ten-month
period, resulting in a net addition of some 12% -18% local population
increase.
These days we may be looking at the end days of Island life as we knew
it, with our little festivals and music in the park, our calm tree-lined
avenues devoid of urban weirdness and such quaint curiosities as kids
playing stickball in the street. In-N-Out burger has been fully approved,
Target is under construction, Safeway has the full go-ahead for all it
wants regarding hours of operation and the gasoline station out at the
Landing, McKay Avenue seems a done deal with a couple hundred folks going
in there with only minor noise about the sudden rezoning that made that
one possible, the Lincoln Street low income housing project is now getting
the roof put on, the Point has firm projects lined up for another 2,000
people, the Boatworks area looks like to be finally on a juggernaut headed
for more housing that will add another few hundred souls here to the traffic
and crime statistics and the "Gateway" folks seem headed for
victory to add another couple hundred while people are dithering regarding
the "historic" high school that enjoys its marvelously firm
and well-built fencing constructed -- or so it seems -- without benefit
of competitive bidding. Ron Cowan's outfit now has popped up like, as
one letter-writer put it, "a wack-a-mole" to try and secure
land belonging to someone else so that yet more housing can be built on
Harbor Bay Island. And now we seem on the fast track to raise the height
limit for the "Gateway" to allow even more people to come and
live here.
You all had better hope their music tastes match your own, because you
are going to get an earful, with people living cheek-by-jowel. Part of
the place across the estuary used to be called Brooklyn. Might as well
revive the name and go to a five borough arrangement, making this place
a mirror image of that other place where the Harlem River has not been
seen in years.
While people can point fingers and slam Silly Hall for all their foolishness
and complicity with what is happening, truth is, our officials are just
doing what seems best given the raft of pressures pulling in all directions
with a special recognizance of the fact that the money at play now for
high value land is such that it is well worth it to kill someone who stands
in the way of making whatever the concerned party sees as their due.
AINT NO WAY TO DELAY THAT TROUBLE COMIN' EVERY DAY
We have a contribution here from someone who takes pride in their hometown
of Oakland. This is what they had to say about the recent unrest that
took place after the Zimmerman verdict in Florida. This is from Laura
Boytz.
"Speaking of propaganda, I'm really angry right now, as a citizen
of Oakland, about the way the Oakland protests are being reported. I wasn't
part of them, but I saw some of them. Yesterday, hundreds of people met
at city center and stood peacefully, then several hundred marched away
from city center down toward the freeway near my house, where some of
them stood on the freeway and stopped traffic for about 20 minutes, then
moved on (no violence, no vandalism), then they marched around Lake Merritt,
tried to get back on the freeway but were turned away by cops (no violence,
no vandalism, followed cops' directions), marched around some more, ended
up back at the courthouse (these marchers easily did a marathon!). Numbers
were dwindling during this long march. Apparently, at around 11 p.m. (after
a protest that started in the afternoon), a few people who were left in
the crowd participated in some violence and vandalism, and the media says
Oakland had "violent protests." No, a few misguided idiots joined
the protests and engaged in vandalism. The majority of Oakland protesters
expressed their grief and anger in completely appropriate ways."
Laura Boytz is an accomplished jazz musician on the cello and plays with
various Brazilian-influenced bands in the bay area.
WORKINGMAN'S BLUES #2
It could only be Bob Dylan who could work a phrase like "The buyin'
power of the proletariat's gone down", but the union struggle continues
everywhere and today the mediator returned from his inexplicable vacation
in a flurry of acrimonious statements being flung by both Management and
by Union officials over at BART where a second strike is looming in the
face of the two party intransigence. We have been getting a lot of PR
from the BART office, threatening "double digit" fare increases
and quoting the high salaries of the premium workers on the line.
Neither side wants to back down and, unfortunately, the latest scut has
it that the mediator getting paid a nifty $399,000 for the job stands
to earn a lot of money should talks collapse entirely as he is fully invested
in a bus company that stands to make money from increased demand in the
event of a strike.
Management has thrown back the glove on that one, stating that the amount
of money he stands to gain is a pittance of some $500. Both sides are
waffling a bit on the "truthiness" here but it is clear the
mediator was hired by management and has served management interests in
the past and the Union people do not trust him for good reason.
Now the talk on the one side is that the Union force earns already quite
an enviable package in a country where things have generally gotten worse
for everybody else. We are hearing reports that an economic upswing is
taking most of the country -- just not California, where wages have remained
stagnant for the past 12 to 15 years. A few blips, such as the BART employees,
tend to soften the look of the median when you do the numbers, so anyone
who does averages knows they have to drop out the skew groups that distort
the big picture. If you know statistics you know what we are talking about
here.
Speaking of which, we sincerely doubt that every single rank and file
BART worker is earning six digit figure salaries. You mean the escalator
repairman? Including the guy with the trash bin pickup? The ticket vending
machine repairman? Let's get real with the numbers now.
In the end the point is not how much BART employees make in the face
of the argument they outta be satisfied with what they got, the point
is that do we shrug and allow things to get worse for them just to level
out the widespread misery? First it was air traffic controllers.Then it
was United Airlines retirees. Then it was Government pensioners. Then
it was on to the next group. Then the next group. And then the next. Pretty
soon Schwab and JP Morgan and Stanley and the rest of the corporate giants
are rolling in money to burn while you and me are looking for the best
price gas station and people seventy-five years old are having to return
to driving forklifts in warehouses to pay for their health care.
This is not just a fight about a few people who have what looks like
a lot. This is a fight about the entire attack on organized labor that
Ronnie Raygun's thugs kicked off in the 80's. From outsourcing to HB-1
visas to minimum wage, the corporate thieves will not stop until they
have all they want -- which is to say, unpaid slave labor. That is the
goal. That is what they want. And they mean to get it. And at the end
of the day they will not be reasonable or just or fair in the slightest.
Because they never have been, not since Haymarket or the 1916 car strike
or countless times before.
For those of you who do not believe it, "Have a Jeffers day".
SUMMERTIME, WHEN THE LIVING IS EASY
Okay, enough now for bitterness and people acting badly. Times are hard
and getting harder, however we still have summertime and folks who essentially
are decent people trying to make ends meet and have a good time. This
weekend we hosted the 29th Park Street Faire. Some of us lived our lives
as if the Island remained the isolated province it used to be.

The Faire allows for local groups participation.

Here a little fellow enjoys some motherly attention with
help of a Big Bird puppet.


We enjoyed a long talk with these native Alamedans who
have formed a small enterprise to help drivers in the Bay Area. This couple
puts together a package for the automobile that handles emergencies.

The instrument this fellow is playing is called a Pie
Pah in Cantonese.

The Santana "tribute band" was a wild favorite
and the dance area remained packed. If you are going to be emulating Santana
you had better be good. These guys rose to the occasion with a cracking
version of "Soul Sacrifice."

Part of the fun of the faire is the age old sport of people-watching.

TAKE A WALK, TAKE A WALK
So anyway, summer in the Bay Area has taken an hiatus in favor of high
fog, however the weatherman promises, absolutely swears, that by Friday
all the East Bay peoples will bask in ninety degree sunshine.
So he says. You know men. They promise everything and when they get what
they want . . . ha! Hasta la manana, baby!
O and that weatherwoman! The one with the legs and the short skirt that
always threatens to slip up! Yeah right. Just another tease. Seen plenty
of those at the bar. Buy me a drink honey and I'll make sure the sun shines
in your back door. Some day.
Any way, so. Mr. Cribbage got into a terrible wax about his neighbors,
the Laffingstocks, on account of their lawn residing next to his. Lawn!
You could hardly call their wretched jungle a proper lawn. Mr. Cribbage
had spent a lot of money and time and effort to cultivate a pristine bed
of zoysia grass, so immaculate, so pristine, that Mrs. Cribbage actually
wondered if it were real. Never mind the space was barely eight by six
what with the walk and the drive -- it was a lawn to make his grandfather,
were he alive today, quite proud.
A lawn was a symbol of ownership of property in California, and that
was by no means a mean accomplishment.
To Mr. Cribbage, a clean lawn was the sign of a clean, well-ordered life.
It was what greeted visitors on their approach to the house and it was
a sign to passersby that this, indeed, was a well-ordered place in a well-ordered
neighborhood.
Side by side with his edenic conception, the Laffingstocks had first
let their entire yard go to sand and weeds. For an entire year. Imagine
that. The dandelion fluff. The rocket. The heather and . . . and sand.
Then they impetuously planted the entire ten feet of frontage with
poppies. Scads and scads of poppies. Bushes of poppies. All flowering
all at once. Then dying, leaving a great waste of shrubbery. Quite horrific.
Now this year they had gotten into corn. Rows and rows of corn standing
six feet tall alternating with sunflowers. All overshading his own little
space. Gad!
He caught the older Mrs. Laffingstock out there tending or watering or
something, god knows what other than decent weeding, and he had said quite
pointedly, "Don't you people know how to grow anything normal over
there?"
Mrs. Laffingstock had guffawed so loudly the pigeons erupted from the
staid avocado tree. A seed or something flew out of her mouth as she laughed
and it landed somewhere on Mr. Cribbage's waistcoat and he was forever
after that looking for what it was and where it had gotten off to.
"Normal? Aint nothin' so normal as corn, boy!"
He did not like being called "boy" like one of the porters
he had used during his excursion to Africa. He was used to being called
"Mister" and "sir" at the firm. For this reason he
refused to speak with the neighbor woman ever again.
He figured he would find a way to damage her and her family in some way,
given time. Those people probably came from Arkansas, while his people
stemmed from the Cribbages of Los Osos. Mr. Cribbage was like that. Many
Californians are; a little bit vindictive and a great deal self entitled.
The East Coast has folks like this and they always are either members
of the DAR or claim intimate kinship. There is a bright, cheery room in
Hell where these folks will meet for card games and plant eradication
programs and genealogy fests long after both San Francisco and Boston
have both become suburbs of Bombay. Or Beijing. Take your pick.
In the Old Same Place Bar the talk is about how the Angry Elf Gang
torched a Michelin star restaurant in Oakland to prove a point. The
point, as it always is with such scum, er, entrepreneurs, is that the
Angry Elf is not to be trifled with and insurance payments need to be
made. As a gang sign they left a strip of slumped glass infused with bubbles
on the register. The gang had taken after their leader's affectation towards
being an artiste. The Angry Elf now presented himself as a Grand Designer
in glass and hoped thereby to gain access to the matrons of Society and
their very copious coffers.
Only those who have seen it know that no one can illuminate the track
of a socialized psychopath until after the fellow has gone -- then all
the works are revealed, like a subatomic particle in a vacuum. You can
only know what is by what has happened. By then, for many, it is too late,
everyone's glassy eyes glazed over with bewilderment at all the damage,
the shattered lives..
As the night ticks over into the far reaches that become in the blue
penumbra of streetlamps and moons that yield eventually to morning while
the old ragman shuffles back and forth his dance of warmth preservation
or some kind of holy worship beside the hard concrete corner of the Adelphian
building on Santa Clara Avenue, the Editor wraps up another issue fraught
with all kinds of issues of import, greater and lesser.
Out on the dark blue swell beyond the Golden Gate, Pedro pilots his boat
with its golden glow of cabin light through the shoals and fisheries,
his trusty lab, Tugboat beside. Woof!
In these dark times, people do what they have to do to get by. We
are cursed to live in interesting times, times that will be reported
back much later in a way that might give us pause.
Tonight each cabined space pilots through the unplumbed, uncharted seas.
The Editor's cube with its area lamps and LED's is a small craft churning
through a choppy set of waves, bucking this way and that to adapt to the
slams of chance. There he is, his remaining white hairs flying about his
crown in an aureole of fluorescent lamps. His shirtsleeves rolled up and
those slippery galleys gliding to the floor from his knee. Doing all for
Company.
No one knows and no one will. Mostly me and mostly you. In the Old Same
Place Bar the lovely and lonely Suzie cleans up and puts the bar apparatus
away for the evening. Another night on the Island gone to rest. For such
rest as there might be for the likes of us. It's a dark night in a city
that knows how to keep its secrets. But in the Old Same Place Bar sits
one bartender still puzzling over Life's Persistent Questions.
The long howl of the throughpassing train ululated from far across the
water, across the waves of the estuary, the riprap embankments, the grasses
of the Buena Vista flats and the open spaces of the former Beltline, and
snaked through the cracked brick of the old abandoned Cannery with its
ghosts and weedy train roadbed as the locomotive glided past the dark
and shuttered doors of the Jack London Waterfront, headed off to parts
unknown.
That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.

JULY 21, 2013
TWO TICKETS TO PARADISE
As Laurie Anderson says, "I always used to wonder who Id bring
to a desert island." This photo submitted by Tammy.
WHAT'S THE BUZZ. TELL ME WHAT'S A HAPPENIN'
BART UPDATE
Negotiations continue behind closed doors with news seesawing up and
down in terms of how well things are going. The last report from July
12th was an unpromising one in which union officials stated that they
will be prepared to go on strike for a lot longer next time.
BART managers, for their part, are sticking by the advice from the top
state mediators appointed by Gov. Jerry Brown, who have asked both sides
to keep the details of the talks confidential and not to disparage one
another publicly. This was after a very acrimonious series of statements
from minor labor officials who accused BART management of "acting
like children."
Now we hear that the reason there is no BART news is that no meetings
are being held at all for the next couple weeks.
No meetings at all will happen from July 22 to July 29, when BART's $399,000
chief negotiator -- transit attorney Tom Hock, who labor leaders view
as a union buster -- goes on vacation.
Um, tell us that again. Anyone else up for a bracing 9 rounds in the
middle of a firestorm?
BART's labor contracts with its five unions expired on June 30. The two
largest unions, SEIU Local 1021 and Amalgamated Transit Union Local 1555,
which together represent about 2,300 train operators, station agents,
cleaners, and mechanics, went on strike rather than agree to paying more
into their healthcare and pensions.
BART workers have not had a raise since 2008, but do enjoy health insurance
and retirement benefits that private sector workers would love to have.
Negotiations on a new contract began April 1, and to spearhead their dealings
with labor, the BART Board of Directors awarded a $399,000 contract to
Hock.
Hock runs an Ohio-based firm called Veolia Transportation that has a
history of coming into transit systems with labor disputes -- and more
or less breaking the unions, as the East Bay Express reported this week.
One of Hock's techniques in the past has been to stonewall to the nth
degree, and it is possible he is hoping to bluff the Unions into another
unpopular strike so as to force their capitulation via public opinion.
In the meantime, though, Union organizers are taking names and numbers,
pointing out that executives at BART earn six-figure salaries and if they
really cared about the taxpayer they would be writing checks to send some
of their high remuneration back to the State.
In the meantime, we have no data save this statement from Roxanne Sanchez,
president of the local Service Employees International Union:"We
will be prepared for the war that you all have launched on your workforce.
Unless the agency changes its stance at the negotiation table", Sanchez
said, "We will be prepared for the bloodiest, longest strike since
the 1970s," alluding to the 1979 strike that dragged on for three
months.
Tenants evicted at Marina View Towers, 84 unit apartment building. New
owners, Carmel associates, SF based seismic retrofitting. they have until
August 31 to get out.
Alameda Landing project - Safeway has the go-ahead for 24hours operation.
Opening slated for summer of 2014.
The sand restoration project we mentioned several issues ago will proceed
with dumping 82,000 cubic yards, work taking place on weekdays. Project
is funded by Measure AA, passed in 1988 by voters to maintain park land.
Project is slated to end in November.
We mentioned that a public meeting was to be held at City Hall regarding
proposed changes to the 51a bus line operated by ACtransit.
Changes are in sum total meant to reduce the 189 minute average travel
time for the heavily used line which now hits Fruitvale BART, Rockridge
BART in Berkeley, and runs the length of the Island. Changes feature relocating
most of the Island bus stops, generally shifting them to the far side
at lights and stop sign intersections, while "consolidating"
infrequently used stops. One change has a new stop proposed for Christ
Episcopal Church on Santa Clara and Grand -- the Santa Clara stop is across
the street and relocation would place the stop right at the church entrance
where happy couples depart from weddings. The Sun reported that "nearly
every resident" present at Tuesday's meeting expressed opposition
to the changes.
Various venues are hosting some spirited discussion about the ongoing
development projects threatening to change the character of the Island
within a very short span of time.
We also noted that the Hospital is constrained by budget issues and the
impending multi-million dollar earthquake retrofit cost to affiliate with
the lesser of several evils. In this case, we will be joining the County
system. A forum will be held this week on what's new for the Hospital;
details are in the Calendar.
Finally the Letters to the Editor in all public media, and even on a few
blogs, lament the various construction projects now in the works, with
a few more voices joining against the McKay Avenue development that came
about as a function of the weird backroom rezoning that yanked the mat
from under the East Bay Parks.
LATE UPDATE: YOU BETTER COME ON IN MY KITCHEN

A tropical weather system that was bringing rain to parts of the Southwest
over the weekend could push north to the Bay Area on Monday and Tuesday,
according to the National Weather Service.
The "monsoonal" air mass Sunday brought heavy rain to portions
of Arizona, and scattered dry lightning was reported in the hills around
San Diego, forecaster Diana Henderson said.
Some scattered light showers and a slight chance of thunderstorms could
reach parts of the Bay Area on Monday and last into Tuesday.
SEE WHAT LOVE HAS DONE
So anyway Rev. Jason Arrabiata, CFSM in search of a suitable chapel,
nook, hall or vault to host the semi-periodic meetings for his Pastafarian
church was nigh unto rending his holy dashiki in despair.
The island was so well-endowed with scads of churches all the best locations
had been taken. The Episcopalians had seized the prized corner on Grand
and Santa Clara, the Catholics occupied two entire blocks with their Basilica
and rectory and school in the Gold Coast, plus they had also outposted
the Church of Our Lady of Incessant Complaint across Encinal, the Unity
church had the Home of Truth further down Grand, the Buddhists had their
temple further up Santa Clara, the Methodists, Baptists and Chinese had
Central all sewn up, while the Lutherans had secured the only modest parcel
left in between. The Presbyterians owned the oldest building, so they
had enjoyed the leisure of building it in one place, then moving it to
Oak Street and then there were the scad of sects and divisions, charasmatics
and heresies, including the church of El Luz de Occupado Parking Place
and El Mundo de Shriekery en Disharmony. The Albagensians sat kitty corner
from the Merovingian Dynasty with Huguenots occupying a humble cottage
that doubled as a martial arts studio. Wiccans divided time between Crab
Cove and a ramshackle place by Washington Park. Here and there Satanists
gathered in livingrooms for tea and scones. It seemed there was hardly
any room to plunk down a decent church anywhere.
Jason had just about given up and was soon to resort to standing on a
milkcrate in the park, which idea is not so good for respectability or
indications of sanity, especially when your God of Creation happens to
be an invisible flying ball of spaghetti and meatballs.
Some people might consider the Flying Spaghetti Monster to be if not
outlandish, then somewhat parodic, but Jason would say, "Look dude.
All these churches tell you to worship some flying invisible being nobody
has ever seen and who is described in several books written thousands
of years ago which have undergone umpteen translations to the point nobody
really has any idea what the first text really said. If you have to worship
something, you might as well consider something tasty. After all, since
the Kansas School Board said Creationism is on the table because we want
to consider all points of view, here is my view which everyone can say
is just as valid, sane, scientific and reasonable as Intelligent Design.
The Universe was created by the Flying Spaghetti Monster."
Eventually Jason worked out a deal with the Native Sons of the Golden
West, Parlor 33 1/3, and so he got to setup his rig and hang his banners
of joy once a week in the hall where the pirates of faith would gather
on Fridays, the Holy Day, to roister and sing and drink.
"What's with the pirates?" Pahrump asked Jason.
As it turns out, Pirates are God's Chosen People. This image of them
being bloodthirsty, lecherous, thieving cutthroats is entirely a product
of a vast Christian conspiracy to conceal the truth. The original pirates
possessed very polite manners and were soft and affable folk who cared
for their mothers and looked after lost children and dogs. They did say
"Arrrrgh" a lot and wear eyepatches but their cutlasses were
used largely for carving beef, bread and nasty Christians looking to burn
witches and pirates both.
Witches have also been much maligned, but don't get me started, Jason
said. As for being made in God's image, all that is clearly claptrap.
God was drunk when he made the human race and we have only to look at
Occasional Quentin to understand this truth. Quentin! get your finger
out of your nose! Right now!
Lutherans are midway between Pirates and Sodom, you and they will have
to agree. The original Vikings were very much like pirates and the modern
day Norwegian Bachelor farmer, well, is very like a pillar of salt, and
most Lutherans ride the crest of the waves somewhere in between, so there
you have it.
So the Island welcomes, with some reservations, the newest addition to
its pantheon of churches. And this is especially good news to some folks
for journalistic research indicates that in the Golden State there are
but three entities given the power to administer marriage banns.
1. The County Clerk
2. Deputies of the County Clerk or a fully paid up Marriage Commissioner
for the Day.
3. Clergy
The County Clerk is a government employee with many duties. He is often
too busy to officiate marriages, hence the allowance for deputies who
generally have to fork over big bucks to officiate, while the Commissioner
for the Day pays some $200 to be effective for only 24 hours. Then he
has to start all over.
Clergy need submit no articles of proof of status -- to the State at
least. They pay nothing, which is usual for them. So people in a checkered
status seeking marriage need to find a clergyman and we really doubt the
local pastor or priest will officiate a same-sex marriage. Hence the CFSM.
Voila! We have on staff an ordained minister who can marry you at any
time. So long as you pay the State fees for the filing of course.
And now proud couples of any stripe can write home to mom and dad and
state entirely with truth that they got married within a Church.
It seemed after last week's set-to between Quentin and Sgt. Rumsbum,
which Reverend Arrabiata moderated and eventually cooled, could have led
to a round of public accusations and general nastiness, however Quentin
remained at the end of the day, even though he was wronged by being attacked,
reticent. Lawsuits are not his style. Rumsbum regained his proud Spartan
dignity and reasonably considered the consequences of pressing charges
against the helpless halfwit Quentin.
O you big strong man, that was you shrieking for help? Tsk Tsk.
At the end of the day, Rumsbum returns to work as a somewhat useful member
of society and Quentin returns to his life as a somewhat addled member
of society, but important thing here, due entirely to the noodliness of
the FSM, nobody dies.
That night the Editor sat late at his desk as all the other staffers
signed off and people caught rides home. The hours ticked into the far
reaches of the night, when shadows congeal solidly to their posts and
everything becomes difficult to move. The streetlights outside become
still-life Hopper paintings and the offices become cut-blue ice under
the flourescents with all sharp shadows slicing across the desks into
cubicles where chairs sit waiting for human warmth to make themselves
nervously whole again during another hectic day.
A motor whined somewhere on the second floor and the smell of hot copier
toner began to dissipate.
The Editor sat in his cubicle office, his remaining white hairs flying
about his balding pate like an aureole. A glass of Maker's Mark with ice
sat on the desk next to the papers and those irritatingly slippery galley
sheets that always threatened to slide off into nothingness from his knees.
Lights governed by automatic timers began shutting down one by one. Leaving
one man in a pool of light, surrounded by darkness. Doing all for Company.
Or perhaps the FSM.
In the Estuary a periscope silently descended after observing all of
these things. Captain Mohammed of the Iranian spy submarine, El Chadoor,
noted everything he had seen in his notebook. For many years the spy sub
had been lurking about the Port of Oaktown and the Island, taking notes
and sending weekly reports back to Teheran. For many years the crew and
captain had felt their original mission had been forgotten and their own
enterprise had become lost in the Byzantine labyrinth of bureaucracy.
Their reports were being filed, unread by some government bureaucrat.
Without initiative, everything had continued like this year after year.
Even the ship which provisioned t them was just following a routine set
up long ago without thinking about what it all meant. No one now cared
about the US and what it had to say. Teheran had more pressing matters.
With a command from the captain the spy sub dove and ran silent, ran
deep through the Golden Gate out to the Pacific Ocean.
The long howl of the throughpassing train ululated from far across the
water, across the waves of the estuary, the riprap embankments, the noodly
grasses of the Buena Vista flats and the open spaces of the former Beltline,
as the locomotive glided past the dark and shuttered doors of the Jack
London Waterfront, headed off to parts unknown.
That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.

JULY 14, 2013
BELLA DONNA
Okay Stevie Nicks never wrote a song about Brugmansia or Datura, but
all three will put you and your dog six feet under if you are not careful.
Um, the flowers, not Stevie Nicks.

This week's image comes from staff photographer, Tammy and was mislabeled
as "datura". Understandably so as this plant shares the name
Angel's Trumpet with some of the datura flowers. It is important to know
about these, which together with the pink lady amaryllis grow extensively
throughout the Bay Area and all plants will kill you and/or your house
pets should they ingest any part of the plant including seeds.
Brugmansia once was a source for the alkaloid drugs scopolamine,
hyoscyamine, and atropine, although nowadays these are synthetic in origin.
The plants have also traditionally been used in many South American indigenous
cultures in medical preparations and as a ritualistic hallucinogen for
divination, to communicate with ancestors, as a poison in sorcery and
black magic, and for prophecy. On a lighter note, some cultures have used
the plant to treat "unruly children", and, mixed with maize
beer and tobacco leaves, it has been used by the Incas to drug wives and
slaves before they were buried alive with their dead lord.
WHAT'S GOING ON
Crab Cove Concert August 9th 5:30 to 7:30 at Crab Cove
Alameda Meals on Wheels Community Faire & Wine Tasting Fundraiser--
Sunday July 21st 1 to 5 pm
Rock Wall 2301 Monarch Street, on the Point, Alameda
Pedalfest and Pig Roast
hosted by Lungomare
Saturday, July 20, 2013 from 5:00 PM to 7:00 PM (PDT)
Ticket Type Sales End Price Fee Quantity
Pedalfest Pig Roast Jul 19, 2013 $12.50
As a special addition to Pedalfest this year, Jack London Squares
newest restaurant, Lungomare is roasting a whole pig and serving it up
Italian style:
Whole Roasted Pig
Marble Potato Salad with eggs, quanciale, red onion
Summer Beans, pancetta, oven dried tomatoes
Watermelon, fennel, heirloom tomato, ricotta salata salad
Roasted Sweet Corn
The price is $15 for a delicious plate, and the roast will be available
between 5-7pm on the promenade, out front of the restaurant. As a special
incentive to committed pig roast fans, you can book early and pay only
$12.50 for this divine porcine experience. ($15 at the door)
Pedalfest rolls into Jack London Square to celebrate all-things cycling
at the Bay Areas premier bicycle festival. This free annual event
will pack the waterfront with more than 20,000 biking enthusiasts enjoying
bicycle-themed entertainment, food and exhibits including:
Cycling daredevils performing in a 30-foot banked wooden Whiskeydrome
Eye-popping two-wheeled stunts by pro riders Mike Steidley and Chris Clark
Rock the Bikes pedal-powered stage featuring live music
TGC Actions Sport/BMX Stunt Team performances
Oaklandishs kids bicycle parade
U.S. Bicycling Hall of Fame vintage bikes
Brompton Bike Folding Contest
Bicycle rodeo for children
Pedal-powered food
Pedal-powered rides by Cyclecide
Dazzling collection of new, vintage and handmade bikes
Bike Stand demo stage by Bay Area Bikes
Bike trivia dunk tank
Bicycle vendors, artisans and more
Selection of beers available from New Belgium Brewing Co., with all proceeds
going to support the advocacy work of the East Bay Bicycle Coalition
For additional information and/or to volunteer, visit www.pedalfestjacklondon.com
ARS VINCIT OMNIA
On a casual stroll down Park Street -- which really should become a pedestrian
thoroughfare -- when we dropped in to Pillow Park Plaza, where Aphrodite's
closet has temporarily moved while owners consider what to do about the
two-story corner house that caught fire some months ago. 1419 Park has
taken on a raft of new tenants after the move-out of the old bedding company
which had given the place its name. One new tenant is Artistic Home, an
up-n-coming brainchild of Rachel Gingold and JaYing Wang who have combined
their passion for domestic arts and experience as homemaker moms together
with cultivated child teaching skills to fashion an interesting all-ages
family-based enterprise which not only sells beautiful art works but also
teaches those driven to DIY furniture, chalk painting and glass fusing.
JaYing's highly energetic enthusiasm can sweep you off your feet, but
her high voltage energy is perfectly tuned to handle kids 9+ for the afternoon
Fused Glass Studios (no fee) that meet four times a week and for the Glass
Arts Summer Camps (5th Grade+).
The boutique studio is partnering with the estuary galleries on Ford
Street, like our friends at Gray Loft Gallery, as well as the Island studios
Gallery Redux on Lincoln, Julies Coffee and Tea Garden, 1223 Park
Street, PopUp Gallery @ Autobody Fine Arts, and Pixies & Peony on
Santa Clara.
Its nice to see this Renaissance of talent occurring around here as artisans
flee the high rents of the City in droves.
Word has it from our last talk with Danielle Fox of SLATE that although
the City is withdrawing support for the out of control First Friday's,
which morphed from art walk into disorganized street party, she and organizers
will continue to forge on to make events amenable to art patrons in the
exciting Uptown district, which is likely to benefit everybody. Every
Saturday Art Murmur holds strolls through the Uptown and you can go to
oaklandartmurmur.ort/saturdaystroll for details. Third Thursdays is a
special event localized to 25th Street where wine tastings and live music
prevail 6-10pm. So stay tuned for developments.
THIS ISLAND LIFE
Folks hoping to have a say in the Alameda Landing Project, which we might
as well term properly as Target et al., will be disappointed that the
final design has been approved by the Planning Board. This means that
save for a few geegaws and minor alterations the thing is a done deal,
especially as Target is already under construction.
The way these things work, the architect submits topo drawings that tend
to be extensive and expensive. People who actually will execute the work
will follow-up quickly with area plans detailing trenching, conduits,
power supply, etc. In reality, those plans have already been done with
expectation of approval. Remember that planners must think in four dimensions,
with the fourth dimension being time deadlines and time is money in construction.
All of this drives contracts and subcontracts which will proceed blindly
until someone issues a "change order", which is the last hope
of any additional input from outside this gargantuan juggernaut. So there
still is some possibility the In-N-Out Burger lights can be dimmed, shunted,
blocked or otherwise ameliorated for that part of the project which distresses
neighbors. It only means, however, that you cannot just sit back and complain,
as any change orders will involve additional time and therefore additional
money expense detracting from total profits. It is extremely unlikely
that the outfit will be ousted from current plans, however the possibility
still exists. Detractors will have to supply a concrete replacement suggestion
rather than resort to wringing of hands, however. The parcel is allocated
and that looks to be fixed.
The construction on Lincoln between Walnut and Oak in a largely off-the-radar
project looks well underway with walls and roof going up and completion
by end of summer for low income housing finished for nearly 100 folks.
Add that to your population increase meters.
In the letters to the editor the problem about which we first talked
some months ago regarding the obnoxious Neptune Pointe (sic) finally seems
to be hitting some nerves and developing some pushback as people realize
this thing was 1. reprehensibly bogus in its sudden rezoning, and 2. undesirable
in scope and location and combination with everything else going on and,
3. a wild misuse of land that should ideally be allocated for park use.
For whatever. Parking tractors or lawnmowers or storing sand sifters or
open green lawns -- it simply does not matter; any use by the EBPS is
better than shoving a glob of yuppies down there on McKay Avenue to choke
up traffic to the Tube and compact living in the area by another several
hundred souls.
Another OpEd piece by a newcomer here to the island commented that as
regards this city, "there have been multiple blunders, mistakes,
and poor decisions." This newcomer's comments are very insightful
and pointed and accurate. And right on the money. It is if our island
government has been living a wannabee dream of pastoral existence while
whoring itself in the most shameless fashion, pretending to be Mayberry
RFD with thick facepaint like some pathetic tranny wearing a gaudy neon
boa, scrabbling for self-esteem by playing old Frank Sinatra records while
selling blowjobs to the first Development bidder that comes along.
That is our City Hall in essence. That has been our Island government
for several years. That is what the newcomers are seeing is us, and we
had better be ready to provide something better than that if any of us
would like a town to which our kids can return after wandering the world.
Or give it all up and let the basket people have it all. Eventually they
will have it all anyway.
WE COULD BE DANCIN', DANCIN' THE NIGHT AWAY
So anyway, Mark Twain's summer has rolled into the Bay Area, blocking
the sun and sending some of our staffers out into the Valley (Egads!)
of all places to find some watersports and tanning potential. Sharon knew
it was time to go when people started calling her "paleface"
-- for a Native American this is an epithet to get rid of ASAP.
Summertime has begun and there are long lines each weekout out to places
people imagine are better or somehow a break from this place to where
all of them have fought tooth and nail to arrive and establish abode with
such a seasoning of ill-will that these folks from Ohio and Virginia and
New Jersey and Pennsylvania and Florida all develop a need to take a vacation
from, even though this is supposed to be the best place on earth. Or so
they say.
It would be nice if all those people taking vacations to other places
that are relaxing breaks from the frenzy of this place would just go live
there and save us who have raised our children here all the bother, but
we understand Disneyland and Yosemite have only so many vacancies and
Tuscany has more self respect than Vegas to be taking in so many ex-Californians.
This left the Island in summertime mood of people who actually have lived
here for some time spending some time living here among ourselves without
interference. It was a sort of vacation.
Given that the summertime is a time of relaxed attention, this means
that those who are given to the duty, sworn and self-appointed, to protect
the populace from malefactors must excercise double diligence.
For this reason, Sgt. Rumsbo, the mall-cop of the St.Charles Lunatic
Asylum, is given to double patrols about the building and heightened
vigilance, for as people engaged in relaxation and living therefore he
must perforce be on stricter guard against anything untoward.
Rumbo, the afterthought progeny of a long departed sailor and an alcoholic
bartender, never really could gain entry into the SFPD directly, but had
to satisfy himself with being a part-time traffic enforcer at City College
which he combined with moonlight jobs protecting the basement of IMagnin's
and Macy's from shoplifters. At home, inhabiting the same apartment in
which he had grown up with his mother for the past forty-eight years,
he acted as unpaid apartment manager/security officer in the converted
building which now housed a number of derelicts and indigent as part of
a County project for warehousing the mentally ill.
In the absence of a father and in the presence of a mother lacking quite
a bit of self direction, which eventually led to an early death due to
cirrhosis of the liver, the man cultivated an extreme sense of discipline
that local genuine gendarmes absent anent their own such discipline found
remarkable. Besides, they got a cop at fully half the price to save their
own salaries a hit come election day. Rumbo knew he got paid less, but
he enjoyed the power. He got to boss around the apartment building and
the hapless students at City College. The City knew they got a man stacked
with half a deck, but they enjoyed the price. Heck, they got a cop without
union benefits without protest.
So it was that Rumsbo, the wannabe cop, encountered a shadowy figure
tracing near the St. Charles Apartments one dark night with the full moon
cloaked in high fog as a fine drizzle began to fall. Normally a strange
figure lurking caused no concern, but this particular figure looked like
one of the tenants, and of course the rules stated implicitly that tenants
were not allowed to lurk. Whatever lurking might mean or entail.
One thing lead to another and the end result had Sgt. Rumsbo rolling
around on the ground outside the apartment building with this figure who
turned out to be Occasional Quentin looking for a place to get out of
the rain for a while.
Quentin, seeing this wierd figure looming out of the darkness, following
him, started acting self-protective and hiding in the bushes. Rumbo, carrying
his flashlight and his radio and his gun, saw this odd figure skulking
in the bushes, trying to hide.
Rumsbo called in a report about a suspicious character and the dispatch
told him to hang back and wait for people who knew how to handle these
situations. Rumbo, of course, took this as a challenge against his manhood
and so he approached the bush where Quentin cowered and blasted his flashlight
with full authority, causing Quentin to leap up shrieking for his life
with his hands in the air.
Rumsbo, feeling his authority impugned, drew his nightstick and that
is when the tussle began.
Now most of you know how this story usually ends. Rumbo, an inveterate
bully sort of guy starts getting the tar knocked out of him -- which is
just too much, as for a bully to lose his power is just too, too soul
destroying. Heck its practically being murdered for such a guy.
So Sgt. Rumsbo, the wannabe cop or whoever he might be this time around,
pulls out his precious nickle-plated revolver and shoots Quentin, or whoever
it might be, in the head and the long tortuous roadshow of public acrimony
begins all over again, a roadshow complete with riots and the injuring
of completely innocent people who just happened to arrive somewhere in
the wrong place as the wrong time to become society's necessary stupid
public sacrifice.
This time, however, my friends, Divine Intervention forstalled any of
the usual consequences.
The Island's newest addition to the pantheon of Churches in the form
of the newly ordained Minister, Jason Arrabiata, dressed in his full clergy
togs, which consisted of wide-top leather boots, billowing black trousers,
a silk sash for a belt, an open white blouse, gold chains, eye patch,
beard and a fabulously preposterous hat two feet in diameter bedecked
with ostrich feathers and scarlet plumes. Furthermore he carried in his
sash a cutlass at least three feet long.
"Stop this ruckus and cease trying to merge your brother's head
with the asphalt this instant, my good man, or I will cut both your heads
off." Jason said. "Arrgggg!"
Quentin, atop Rumsbo, and Rumsbo, under Quentin, both gaped at this apparition,
behind whom the full moon haloed his swarthy visage.
"You know when you see two people fighting, you seen a sign something
has failed. Have you been touched by His Noodly Appendage? Let me pray
for you two clearly demented and lost souls."
"Let us sing praise to the Flying Spaghetti Monster, for He is a
loving God. Of His might and dominion, there is no compare; of His mercy
and deliciousness, there is no equal. No other god can challenge Him;
in the taste test, He is invincible. Through His pasta, He has blessed
us with everlasting life, and holy is His Name. For He is the Flying Spaghetti
Monster: the One, True, and Most High God, creator of man and midgit,
giver of pasta, giver of sauce, from age to holy age; not created He was,
but ever He lives, through the glory of spaghetti, now and forever. R'Amen."
"Now Quentin rise up and take up your fool head and you, Rumsbo,
rise up and take up your weapons and go forth and be good for henceforth
life is given you and you so that you shall dine in peace. For thine is
the kingdom boiled, served on a plate and well sauced. Ramen."
And with that, great violence was averted and more on this incredible
story and how the Flying Spaghetti Monster came to be shall be discussed
anon and next week.
The long howl of the throughpassing train ululated from far across the
water, across the saucy waves of the estuary, the riprap embankments,
the noodly grasses of the Buena Vista flats and the open spaces of the
former Beltline, as the locomotive glided past the dark and shuttered
doors of the Jack London Waterfront, headed off to parts unknown, bearing
its mysterious cargo of meatballs.
Hail meatsauce, full of beef. The Spaghetti Monster is with you. Blessed
are you among sauces, and blessed is the spice from your shaker. Heated
meatsauce, monster of taste, pray for us non-pirates now and at the hour
of our hunger. RAmen
That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.

JULY 7, 2013
INTO THE MYSTIC
This week's jolly photo comes from our staff photog and occasional sailor
on the Bay.

Its good to be reminded once in a while that we do live on an island
in the Bay down where where the Dungeness play.
DECORATION DAY
This week was notable for the July 4th holiday as well as a transit workers
strike that shut down the BART subway system here for three days, causing
traffic snarls, impossible bus lines and bad tempers.
Some of you may know that a parallel strike by the bus workers union
was narrowly averted, which, had it taken place, would have effectively
shut down the Bay Area for over eight million people in the Five County
area.
There has been no agreement among any party other than its better for
everybody to call off strikes for the time being, or at least in the case
of BART, for 30 days.
THE PARADE THIS TIME
The annual Mayor's Parade, begun 38 years ago by Mayor Corica for the
Bicentennial, took place again with a well organized, smooth operation
that began smartly at 10:00 on Park Street and ended sometime around noon
on Webster. Over time the parade acquired some notoriety and length, with
this year's entries topping a brief 176 while past years have seen well
over 200 entries taking a full four and a half hours to pass the final
bandstand.
He used to trundle along near the end on a mini-tricycle, the spitting
image of the Little Tramp, Charlie Chaplin, but over the years he had
to graduate to a scooter. This year Mark Betz appeared in medias res as
entry 114.
Sad to say, our Scots piper of thirty some years, Louis Freeman (#85),
announced that this would be his last parade.
As the parade has gotten more organized, it also has gotten a bit blander,
more Rotarian and less Contrarian, with fewer eyebrow raising incidents
or wacky outlandishness along the lines of the fourteen-foot metal fire-spouting
dragon that threatened the powerlines one year. Nevertheless a fine time
was had by all and how can you possibly dislike a parade on the 4th of
July?
Here are some images taken by our staff:


It helps to have a brother who can drive. Except the way
this fellow swerved seemed to cause his sib some concern.


Dude. Hang ten. Its a parade! Whatever . . . .

Sikh and you shall find.

Lum Elementary School.

No No GMO! Every gathering needs a protest of some kind.

Didn't know we had one of these. Wouldn't it be fun .
. . !

Ben Frank demonstrating safety with power . . .

Proof they really do still exist! We sometimes have some
fun with these guys here, but they do good work fighting birth defects.

Anyone else notice we have a plethora of churches here?
Wussup with the cow in the pickup though?

Viva los caballeros!

WHAT'S THE NEWS TELL ME WHAT'S A HAPPENIN'
The Bank of Alameda was purchased by the Novato-based Bank of Marin group.
Not much will change save that the holdings of the new entity increase
from some $230 million to getting close to a billion with its seven or
so branches in various counties.
Everyone note that BUSLINE 51A changes are being reviewed. Get over on
Tuesday to City Hall for the public meeting to discuss. This line goes
down Webster and it is likely that changes will occur there.
The Supreme Court's Prop 8 decision is being applauded here. Changes
at a number of local companies are in the works to revise treatment of
Domestic Partners and newlyweds who need to file new affidavits with their
HR departments. There will be tax ramifications as the Red Zone faction
had instituted punitive measures against people who filed as Domestic
Partners. Being married does make a difference. Also insurance holders
will need to relist themselves variously as head of household or Family
+1 for medical. For a great many people, this is welcome news.
TONIGHT, TONIGHT, THE TIME IS RIGHT FOR RACING IN THE STREET
So anyway, while the rest of the country has been dealing with tons of
rain and floods and all sorts of mean, nasty tornado stuff we have been
enjoying an heat wave that broke recently. This heat wave crushed the
bejesus out of incipient Spring and with the lack of rain everything has
been browning over into a fast summer. All the schools have held their
graduations and proms and now its safe for proud parents to announce their
valedictorian is headed for East Coast Ivy come the Fall.
As people settle into the Summer thing, with its round of block parties
and bbq, several of our favorite Island characters are easing out of the
woodwork to ease their wounds. Javier is recovering from his birthday
party that ended with him in the Seventh Street jailhouse by chasing a
flirty thing in a short skirt named Samosa. Jose eventually made it back
to the Island the following morning from the Bushville encampment at the
entrance to the Tube, limping along through the fumes on the high walkway
through the tunnel. Along the way he passed Snuffles who was heading out
to his favorite panhandling post at the freeway offramp.
At the Household of Marlene and Andre, space has cleared out now that
the weather has improved to allow for sleeping on the beach and so the
place does not smell nearly as bad as it does when all fifteen people
are crammed in there together during the winter.
When he got back to the House, he flopped down into his closet sleeping
bag and Marlene poked her head in to tell him there was leftover garlic
noodles.
"Nnnhffff." Jose said.
"You have fun with Javier at his birthday?"
"Nnnnnuuuuuuuhhhhh."
"You stop that," Marlene said. "You know I do not understand
you when you speak Spanish."
"Grrrgggh!"
"Sounds like it was pretty bad."
"Aaaiiiiieeeeahhh!"
"Ok. Noodles on the stove. Sleep well."
Old Schmidt finally showed up at the Old Same Place Bar and slid into
his usual stool for the usual bump and a beer. Although he had been last
seen leaving in the company of a fabulous dame in a red dress and entirely
disabled by a paroxysm of emotion, he refused to answer any questions
or refer to what had happened.
"So what happened with that woman, d'ya mind?" Dawn finally
asked.
Old Schmidt merely lifted one bushy, shock-white eyebrow.
"I am meanin' ta say that Lili Marlene you went off with the other
night," Dawn insisted. "It appears to me there is a love story
of some kind goin' on here."
"Aboot zeese luff sings, I know nossingk, nossingk, nossingk!"
Old Schmidt replied. And that is all he would say about it.
Summer has come around at last. The papa racoon, big as a washingmachine,
has been trundling across the backyards in the dead of night, making all
the dogs go crazy. Opossums have been scuttling along the base of the
old fence and the squirrels commit their usual depredations at frantic
speed like Keystone cops chasing bandits.
Those Canadian geese who do in fact return to Canada have done so by
now, leaving the indolent and the hapless among them to gabble and poop
upon the greens of the MIF Albright golf course and so cause the duffers
and greenskeepers much grief as has been their wont for generations.
The Ohlone lived in balanced harmony with the ecosystem for 8,000 years.
Summertime, now that kids are off to get themselves into trouble without
elderly interference or prevention of discovery, is the time when we hearken
back to our origins as an agrarian people. The coastal areas of California
are densely urban. The Ohlone lived in balanced harmony with the ecosystem
for 8,000 years. The early Hispanic Californios raised cattle, horses,
farmed the land and were content with that, however what followed involved
a wrenching and tearing up of the landscape where everything done was
a part of conquering and seizing precious but lifeless metals. Yet among
those were men who returned to the earth for the nurturing it provides.
All over the island tiny plots exfoliate with extraordinary blooms. Backyards
host a bounty of tomatoes, cucumbers, squash, beans, and even corn. Given
only a few square yards of earth not paved over or converted to useless
European grasses, our natural bent is to plant, to tend. Then, of course,
there are the datura, the bougainvillea, and the exemplary roses behaving
with remarkably disciplined exhuberance.
July, of course, is the time of annual mayhem, destruction and self injury
that people committ out of a sense of patriotism and childish delight
in blowing things up and setting things on fire. These things include
tin cans, bottles, trashcans, letterboxes, small animals, bushes, trees,
children.
Mr. Cribbage secured several boxes of municipal grade fireworks through
a friend at work and held a little backyard affair not far from Mr. Howitzer's
Mansion. He was not so foolish as to launch these things there but transported
the party to the Cove near where the disputed Pointe that would have been
an extension of the Park seemly likely destined for several ritzy townhouses
due to a curious rezoning of the land in some backroom deal.
the low altitude of the explosions created a great sense of excitement
For now it consisted of weed-tufted parkinglots and decrepit sheds abandoned
by the Federal government behind tattered chainlink fences. The party
made its way easily through a tear in the fence to a lot where Mr. Cribbage
eagerly setup the combo boxes as the light faded. He used a BBQ torch
to set off the first one which shot up several rockets, followed by a
scattering of poppers and then brilliant pinwheels and glowing embers
fell all around them, still sending up fizzlers and screamers as he set
off box after box until the display had attracted quite a crowd beyond
the fence along the Strand. It was really quite something and the low
altitude of the explosions created a great sense of excitement. Among
those attracted was Mr. Blather with his party and his fireworks.
"Where shall I put these," Mr. Blather said. 'I cannot see
a thing in here."
"Over there," Mr. Cribbage waved with irritation, realizing
he might be upstaged.
So over in the darkness on the edge of the lot Mr. Blather set up his
boxes on a pile of debris near some shrubbery and set off the first one
before deploying the rest.
Sure enough, after several whizbangs and fizzlers, one of the boxes tipped
over on the uncertain ground and started firing several sparkle trails
sideways down the way. One rocket smacked into the side of a shed and
exploded into flames. A semi-circle of flames munched its way steadily
through the dry grass.
Mr. Blather and party tried stamping out the brushfire with their shoes
but none of them had thought to bring along a fire extinguisher. Simone
tossed a gin martini on the fire. This was followed by Tom Collins, gin
ricky's, Manhattans, and Stoli neat, all with no effect. Naturally the
bushes burst into flames and everyone scampered away from the debris pile
with the rest of the fireworks as the sirens began to wail.
Mr. Blather looked back as he crept through the fence, thinking maybe
about recovering at least one of the boxes at the risk of detention and
fines.
"What a waste of good olives," Simone commented, hitching up
her gown as she ran.
FWOOOMP!
Mr. Blather departed in some haste as the helicopter arrived.
At the end of another long day, ending the heat wave with welcome breezes
and a delightful sunset arranged painterly in washes of golds and vermilions
rising up through azure to deep navy blue well above the palm trees, the
Editor stepped out to observe the glow of a fire happening off towards
Crab Cove. All through the night the crump of explosives, the hissing
of rockets and horizon flashbangs had terrified the neighborhood dogs
and reminded him of his days and nights spent in that distant place of
swamps and jungle which had struggled through nightmare years to become
free in its own way from foreign tyrannies.
Earlier that day he had spoken with Nevermore, the Vietnamese man who
lived next door about gardening. Some neighborhood kid had set off an
M80 across the street and as the Editor straightened up from his instinctive
crouch he noticed the balding head of his neighbor also coming up at the
same time and the two of them had looked at each other and each knew.
"I see you were not an officer either," the Editor said.
His neighbor had laughed. "I? No. Not officer. Officer no duck.
Hah. Garden now. Peace now. We make peace seperate."
"You ever read Hemingway?"
"Heming? No. Who he?"
"A Seperate Peace. He was a writer. Long ago. Another time."
Each night after the chaotic Fourth, fewer explosions. Now, late Sunday
all quiet kissed the tender shadows of a voluptuous night, rich with sensuous
smells of sea along the water and lemon verbena inland. In the shadows
the warm boughs of madrones writhed like lovers together for this brief
moment of summer. A seperate peace, yes.
The long howl of the throughpassing train ululated from far across the
water, across the rebellious waves of the estuary, the riprap embankments,
the independent grasses of the Buena Vista flats and the open spaces of
the former Beltline, as the locomotive glided past the dark and shuttered
doors of the Jack London Waterfront, headed off to parts unknown.
That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.


JUNE 30, 2013
SOMEONE LEFT THE CAKE OUT IN THE RAIN

Our roving photographer took this evocative image of Jackson Park near
the bandstand.
THIS ISLAND LIFE
This past week saw a number of continuing stories hit new milestones
and take plot turns that probably could have been forseen months previously.
But before we get to Island news, lets have a look at what may impact
some 2.5 million people, come Monday.
As of yesterday, all indicators pointed toward a paralyzing BART strike
of employees, which essentially would shut down Bay Area commerce
for the duration.
There are Caltrans workarounds, but lets be frank -- no workaround will
last several days of strike conditions.
This info is from SFgate:
"A Monday morning BART strike began to look a lot more likely Saturday
when negotiations between BART and its two largest labor unions stalled
and union leaders warned that a strike is all but inevitable.
"I think it's extremely likely," said Josie Mooney, chief negotiator
for Service Employees International Union Local 1021, which represents
more than 1,433 BART workers, including mechanics, maintenance workers
and professional staff.
Bargaining teams for SEIU and Amalgamated Transit Union Local 1555, which
represents 944 train operators and station agents, made the announcement
at 4:15 p.m. Saturday after walking out of the Kaiser Center in Oakland,
where negotiations are being held. Some of the negotiators were pulling
suitcases and said they had been prepared to bargain late into the night.
But after waiting since Friday for a proposal from BART, they said they
were frustrated and tired of waiting for what they had expected would
be a meaningful offer from the system's leaders. Union negotiators said
it seemed that BART officials were trying to string them along until hours
before the 11:59 p.m. Sunday deadline when the existing contract expires.
"We have waited patiently," said Antonette Bryant, ATU Local
1555 president. "We are ready to negotiate, we are willing to negotiate."
As of this point we have gotten no notice Sunday night from BART regarding
avoidance of the strike. As of 9pm Saturday, all we have from the BART
office is a denial of a 50% injury rate, which leads us to conclude that
negotiations have mired in trivia and a strike on Monday is inevitable.
So for Monday we would encourage all East Bay folks to consider any and
all alternatives to getting into the City for work, including capture
of PTO hours.
Now that the hoi polloi have noticed the plethora of develoment projects
and the clear consequences of each singly and in toto, hands are being
raised.
Front and center is the official handover of the Point to the City
in a series of ceremonies and discrete seperate actions. It has been
16 years of sometimes acrimonious dispute, but official "conveyance
of the 1400 acres of former Navy base is now underway. Fittingly, it rained
on the first major event this past week, however some were quick to point
out that rain in sometimes arid California is always an auspicious sign.
Originally the Navy had asked for $110 million dollars for land essentially
given it out of patriotism by the City way back when. Eventually, the
Navy decided we were collectively and Democratically pains in the rear
and decided to cede over the land without price tag.
This collection of parcels should provide homes for 1,400 -- at a minimum
-- and an expected 9,000 jobs, which should provide a much needed boost
to the region's economy.
Some people are taking a closer look at that Crab Cove development
that nearly flew under the radar when the land was suddenly and inexplicably
rezoned so as to sell it to developers. Turns out the East Bay Park Service
had been promised that land for expansion of adjacent Crown Beach, so
when the bids went out the Park Service was totally unprepared to bid
on the project. Naturally, limited by government guidelines, they underbid
and the prize on McKay Avenue was awarded to yet another Texan outfit
who had no idea of the politics into which they were stepping.
Well, the EBRPD looks to an outside like sourgrapes with their protests
about how things went down, but we remember well how they were promised
that land, which for the longest time has consisted of sheds and parking
lots owned by the Feds. As the land was zoned for park use, there was
little reason to prepare for any other eventuality. It also seems out
of line to park homes on that spit with limited access. Suddenly the land
got rezoned and quickly thereafter followed a bidding process, which makes
us wonder just who was in on this from the beginning.
Neighbors, eyeing the narrow housefronts and lack of parking in the new
plans are up in arms about this change of plans, and understandably so.
All this new traffic will now clog McKay Avenue, an "avenue"
in name only, and in reality not far above a dirt bicycle path in width
without sidewalks.
One would think In-N-Out Burger is hardly material for controversy,
but this is the Island and here, we will scrap for any peace of mind we
feel we deserve. At a recent Planning Board meeting residents told the
City they liked not much of the new plans near Bayport for the fast food
joint along with the 24 hour Safeway, both of which are meant to hug the
Target store already under construction. This one concerns the 77 acres
at Alameda Landing where 275 condos and a 23 unit apartment building will
join the housing planned for the Point and the 200 or so units planned
for Boatworks, plus the several hundred some other units planned in other
developments. Residents at Bayport dislike the idea of In_N-Out's gaudy
neon signs blazing away in their eyes, the additional traffic that will
ensue from its drive-in lanes plus the Safeway's gas pumps added to the
Target and they want to have a say in the design plans.
Ah Democracy!
Perhaps due to our own cantankerous version of Democracy and the People's
voice the Unified School district is looking at renovating the Historic
High School, now surrounded by a weird wire and wood fence. The new
plans feature the administration moving back into the old structure from
the new leased digs at Mariner Square Village. Given that there will be
costs no matter what the AUSD does with regard to its administrative home,
and the need to renovate the swimming pools as well as other physical
plant needs, the District needs to take a hard look at from where the
funds will derive to do what needs to be done. This means new parcel taxes
and/or bond measures on the next ballot. If Piedmont is any indicator,
it looks very likely that bond measures have the best chance of success
here.
SOMEONE LIKE ME
So anyway, all the folks who had survived Javier's 55th birthday filtered
back to the Household, each in their own time. As it turned out the guy
who upchucked in Javier's jail cell gave everybody a lift in his BMW the
following morning when the police let everybody out of the drunk tank
along with the hookers and the other 24 hour riff-raff. The upchucker
was named Ray and he took all his cellmates down to Impound to bail out
his car, which was nice and sporty and did not have a trace of upchuck
upon its fine German leather.
So that is how Javier got home. Jose, of course, got home after the Tube
opened when the guys in orange vests had done scrubbing out all the graffiti
in there well past the dawn hours. After spending the night with Paul
and Marybeth in their Bushville plastic tent under the overpass, he rolled
out and walked the long bend under the estuary past guys pushing grocery
carts from some unknown market to god knows where and eventually got to
the Household, vowing never to celebrate another birthday ever again.
Some guy named Snowden on the lam from the Man overnighted briefly during
this time. The Household, always welcome to subterranean unrecognized
heros and any of the downtrodden took the boy in, fed him a good meal
of bread soup, gave him a cot on which to sleep for the night, and then
sent him on his way to whatever fate Cuba, Russia, Central America or
Tahiti may have in store for him.
There was some discussion on taking in such a notorious fellow, but Marlene,
being the Queen of the Household had the final say and not even Andre
at his peril could gainsay her word.
"This boy has more cojones than any of you and he risked his life
to tell the truth. He should be regarded by this generation as an American
Hero and now he is running for his life from very mean people, a situation
all of us here know quite well, and that is what I have to say about it."
At the Household, things cannot remain somber for long. It is summer
and the heat wave is on and Pahrump got out the frisbee to play tag with
Tipitina and Jesus and all the dogs, Johnny Cash, Bonkers and Wickiwup
and all along the Strand there was much scampering and kite flying and
jumping up and down and all sorts of groovy things for summer had come
to the Bay Area, which tends to employ its fogs and dismal atmosphere
to repel the invader, but for now there was ice cream and our American
Hero, Snowden, remained free and alive for the while.
The Offices of the Island-life press have been quite busy recently with
all sorts of projects, keeping abreast of international news and maintained
the weekly tequila dosage. We have the Island stories section to update
and the page code upkeep, which task has been taken on by the indefatiguable
Chad, and then there are the food and art reviews which have been ignored
for far too long.
The Editor, having seen all the projects and issue problems put to bed
strolled down the aisles of desks with their mindlessly chirping devices
and LEDs, while in the far off corner the tickertape machine burped and
chortled to itself with its tongue of paper vomiting into a cardboard
box. Outside high above the waning Solstice Moon still hung huge above
the overheated rooftops after a day that was just a taste of what global
warming is all about. The usual evening breeze comforted with its thousand-year
patterns through the box elder and the crabapple tree branches. All along
the flagstone path to the garage the solar lights spilled their little
epithets of light into discrete pools where the waterless coi of thought
swam with barely moving fins in the darkness.
This is what life looks like after you have been traumatized into nothingness.
Everything becomes exactly what it looks like directly without feeling.
The Editor returned to his cubicle, a place of islanded pools of light,
while all around the muttering darkness and he bent himself to his work,
while for blocks and blocks all around him Islanders slept and dreamt
and worked and traveled from this place to that, all of his people. In
the heat of the summer's night, the Island roiled with its dreams and
problems while in the far distance a police siren wailed for a while before
all was still again, everything returning to Small Town America, with
all of its faults and charms. Somewhere else, a hero named Snowden slept
upon the cot of permanent exile. He, unlike his pursuers, slept soundly
this night. Somewhere else a Marine languished in his cell, naked and
alone, and no one wondered just what connected the two men in this time.
The long howl of the throughpassing train ululated from far across the
water, across the rebellious waves of the estuary, the defiant riprap
embankments, the independent grasses of the Buena Vista flats and the
open spaces of the former Beltline, and all the scattered Bushvilles underneath
all the overpasses as the locomotive glided past the dark and shuttered
doors of the Jack London Waterfront, headed off to parts unknown.
That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.
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