DECEMBER, 2015
Offices closed due to family issues. Reopening 2016.


NOVEMBER 29, 2015
TURKEY IN THE STRAW

These wild turkeys are likely to live through another
Thanksgiving, as they live in Woodacre California.
THE 17TH ANNUAL ISLAND THANKSGIVING POODLESHOOT AND BBQ
As per Tradition, on the day of the 17th Annual Poodleshoot, rosy-fingered
Dawn arose from the horizon's dark bed 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 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 reared back with her rosy fists upraised and brought them down
heavily to smite Padraic 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,
which had cleared from the storm clouds for the day, 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.
A great battle had been fought there between the orkish forces of GSA
and the noble greensleeve battalions of EBRPD and there a tremendous victory
had been won, turning thre Enemy to rout and so this season would be the
occasion of much celebration.
The ceremonies 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.
This was followed by the devilish meisterwerk composed by PDQ Bach entitled,
"Die Sieg der Satanische Landentwickler", an adaptable work
which allows insertion of alta-contemporary chorales at the whim of the
Conductor.
The ensemble group which has made something of a name for itself by inventing
entirely new parts for voice, consisted of Mayor Marie as Conductor and
Izzy as soprano alla triste in the Doloroso segment. Councilperson Oddie
as Loki with his distinctive rubato tenor, and Tony Daysog as mezzo soprano
mournful did a fair version of "A Man of Constant Sorrow", with
Councilperson Frank in his basso triumphale reprising last year's performance
in the esoteric work La Chambre à l'arrière Enfumee Boogie.
Mayor Trish Spencer appeared, together with Jim Oddie en masque, performing
El Mysterioso Surprise, which evoked tonalities of The Phantom of the
Opera. Frank Matarrese thoroughly nailed his role an Black Sabbath's "Land
Pigs.".
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,
and quite a pastiche. 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.
Is theatre truely dead?"
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 Bay Guardian emitted a sort of rattle of breath, trembled in its
bed, and was still for eternity.
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 Smashed Manager Organ were Carol Taylor and Rachel
Linzer of St. Charles.
Brian Kring and Toshie of Park Avenue performed upon the Mendacious Dieben
and Sneaky Pete while Little Nichtnutz executed the Shoplifter with Stolen
Keys.
Lou Cadme did a standup job upon the Howling Organ Stroker, while Carolyn
Masters wowed everyone with the Flammable Pedalpushing Accordion with
broken boards. This complemented Kristin SweetMarie Coomber and Jessica
McGowan-Vanderbeck, both with Incendiary Bustier Spritzers. Nice pair,
those gals.
Jessica was joined this year by her newlywed husband, Sean, who pounded
vigorously upon the Bald Curate's Pate.
Jeannemarie Coulter contributed her skills upon the Wooden Horsie Flailing
Flange with great effect and Shannon Ramsey sounded affectingly sweet
on the Mugwhump Twinkie-Smasher with Airhose.
Jade Myst of San Franciso performed upon the Inflateable Cross with Koan-Zinger
and the Crawford Makeup Mirror Shriller.
Antimacassars and doilies were supplied, as usual, by James Hargis, who
also performed the Effexor Waltz.
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!" before 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, upon 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 John Kerry and
Dept. of Defence Ashton Carter. Jerry brought his military issue carbine
and a 1911-style sidearm, stating "I am a gun owner, I have always
been a gun owner, and those who claim I want to take their guns are full
of North Korean noodles."
The change in political realities being what they are, and the 'Shoot
being such a popular event, representatives from the Pee Tardy and Republican
parties also sent representatives. A specific request to exclude Sarah
Palin due to past taste and rule violations was received with great relief
and appreciation on all sides.
Also forming a largish contingent were all the candidates for the GOP
nomination to run for President in the upcoming election.
Indeed the Poodleshoot, now into its 17th year had acquired the august
status of Tradition in America. There is much that is thoroughly American
about the entire celebration, which conflates love of firearms, sanguinivorousness,
rebellious behavior, ecstatic jumping up and down, questionable music,
and gleeful destruction. One is hard put to imagine the genteel -- genteel
save for people from Marseilles -- or the logical Germans engaging in
any such activity. Certainly not the pothead Dutch or the sensible Italians
with their meatballs and pizza. Even the dog-loving Thais, along with
the Vietnamese, Chinese and Japanese would not engage in such pursuits,
as extreme as any of those peoples may be from time to time, for they
have been around for thousands of years and so already have their own
traditions.
The Japanese have their Kanamara Matsuri, and the Chinese have their
jook and Gum Lung. The Indians of India have curry and vegetarianism,
which precludes Poodleshoots along with BBQ, and they have their seemingly
interminable conflict with the Pakistanis to provide national venting,
while the Burmese still need to outlive Yul Brenner.
The entire Middle East is bat-wacky insane at the moment, providing plenty
of opportunity for sport killing of each other, which allows a form of
protection for the dogs that live there. No one has seen a poodle in the
vicinity of Dar es Salaam for well over two thousand years.
As for South America, the Uruguayans exuberantly BBQ guinea pigs during
their festivals, dressing them up first in cute, adorable costumes before
quickly gutting them, so there is sensibility here of caring. In Brazil,
no gaucho worth his salt would waste his riata upon something so lowly
as a poodle. Heavens no. And as for the United States of Mexico, dear,
beloved, benighted Mexico with its drug lord problems and Jesus on a tortilla,
well, the Mexicans have enough problems without creating another by means
of a poodleshoot. Besides, most Mexicans possess common sense.
The Poodleshoot has run for 17 consecutive years on the Island and this
year the line of GOP contenders for President moved out in a scattered
line into the field and soon the air was filled with the cheery all-American
sounds of winchester cracks and the crump of grenades, punctuated by the
pleasant swoosh of RPG's. Far across the island, the occasional boom from
the 188 given to Javier for his birthday by the Narcos of Sinaloa boomed
with sonority.
Trouble ensued when around Washington Middle School the GOP contingent
members began shooting at each other instead of at the preferred targets
due to a terrible misunderstanding. Ben Carson blew off Trump's toupee
and the Donald let loose a double shotgun blast that winged Megyn Kelly's
purse. Trump denied he had aimed deliberately at the Fox News commentator.
"Honestly, Megyn, if you don't like it, I'm sorry," Trump told
the anchor. "I've been very nice to you, although I could probably
not be based on the way you have treated me. But I wouldn't do that. If
you just took off your dress it would make me feel better."
One of the more contentious moments came when Kelly bluntly asked Trump:
When did you actually become a Republican?
Trump, perhaps slightly exasperated, told the crowd: I dont
think they like me very much.
Clearly, the questioning got to him.
There ensued a brief exchange between Chris Christie and Mike Huckabee
on entitlement reform. FBN, on the other hand, conducted a meaty melee
during which a tomato or two was occasionally tossed. John Kasich came
itching for a fight, and in fact produced a set of boxing gloves for the
purpose in challenging Der Donald. Donald Trump pitched back with his
usual high-mindedness, tossing a bare-knuckle right and a left with great
zest and responding at one point to Kasich with: Ive built
an unbelievable company worth billions and billions of dollars. I dont
have to hear from this man.
In the bullpen, Carly Fiorina swung a medieval battle-ax with telling
effect, which earned high marks from the independent judges. A melee between
the Island Dog-Walker Association and the hunters took place at Crab Cove
and there was much altercation amid a thrashing of impermeables and umbrellas
and leashes and the Cabela's hardware. All vigorous was the fight as seen
from a distance as a dust cloud arose to partially conceal the dubious
contest as the fur flew and the teeth flashed.
It was then that something happened which completely turned around the
entire jovial tone of the Poodleshoot: The United States was attacked
by the notorious DAESS and they picked the Island to be their main beachhead
foothold Omaha warfighting kind of major boots on the ground kind of mean
thing. They swarmed across the water in light skiffs like beetles to take
the sands of Robert Crown Memorial beach, capturing the importance locus
of the restrooms right away, driving back Eugene Gallipagus who was armed
only with his special .50 cal Remington Poodlegun. DAESS warriors, dressed
in their habitual black scarves and hoodies with black jackets and bloomers
with high heel boots -- rather chic, actually -- stomped along the disputed
bicycle path, kicking over signs and wastebaskets and old ladies right
and left, practicing all their stomping warfighting women hating decapitating
puppy raping kidnapping ancient artifact smashing sorts of mean old nasty
sorts of things and not a single kid was left with a Tickle Me Elmo for
comfort in their path for they smashed up all the kids toys as well.
And they came to the cove where they ran up their flags on the basketball
hoops their and showing no mercy slew a fair number of dogwalkers there
and quite contrary to the rules of the poodleshoot, a few afgan hounds
as well and they advanced upon the holy keg of Padraic bearing the sacred
ichor of Uisce qe Bah, the Water of Life that was the official libation
of the 'Shoot with the intention of destroying and stomping on that as
well with only Padraic armed with his blackthorn stick and Dawn beside
him armed with the weight of her tongue and the DAESS armed with scimitars
that did flash in the grey gloom as if in emulation of the pall cast from
the Dark Tower of Barad Dur during the Wars of the Rings.
Well now friends, this situation was serious and it seemed that all was
lost as the high tide brought ever more of the nefarious DAESS, they that
call themselves betimes ISIL or ISIS, besmirching the name of that holy
Goddess with their foul blasphemy. And Padraic raised up his blackthorn
stick to cry out, for he was fey and full of life and today was a good
day, a good day to die as any other with Dawn standing beside him as the
Enemy approached.
But Lo! A light did appear in the northwest, the land of Marin, from
which did sally forth an noble host of hounds, all born upon the ships
made by the magical woodsmiths of Woodacre. Upon these ships were the
Amazons, Beatrice and Toni and they had with them the bounding anti-terrorists
terrier Toto and the mighty Dakota who bounded upon the Main with a coat
that shone verily of gold like the sun himself. Molly came forth with
her pen, Isdradil, sharper and more bright than any sword, and Paul and
Marybeth were among them bringing a company of feline warriors led by
Rumsey, slaughterer of the great Lizards of Anselmo. Among them also were
the Phipps Family, each armed with laser ablation devices that glittered.
All of these came ashore to do battle upon the sands of Crown Beach and
joining with them were the Dog Walkers who turned to side with their former
enemies and the homeboys were heartened by this glad sight.
Tammy and Chad emerged from the fastness of their Park Avenue Keep and
Chad wrought great destruction upon the DAESS by crushing their toes with
the wheels of his chariot and bonking upon their pates with his oxygen
bottles and Tammy called forth much magic for she is a Wiccan and was
joined by yet another company led by Tony Savage, she of the Island Coven
of Witches and they caused the DAESS to be much confused by manner of
spells so the warriors saw two, ten, twenty opponents before them and
so they hewed at empty air repeatedly in their confusion.
This way and that the battle raged upon the green and the holy Earth,
our mother, was much abused by this treatment as the pitched battled descended
into an atavistic tangle of savage tearing and rending and barking and
noise and mean nasty old warfighting kinds of things down there in Crab
Cove and there was not much the law could do about it because there was
no violation of traffic ordinances during this epic contest save a couple
DAESS did offend the eyes of Officer O'Madauen who promptly arrested them
for jaywalking on a weekday and took them to jail where they were much
contrite sufficient to read their Korans, which none of them had ever
done before.
Still the battle raged on a day and through the night and on to the next
day when a great burbling was heard and the water was rent by a visitation
and the periscopes and antennae of the Iranian spy ship El Chadoor emerged
from the waters offshore and there issued the sailors let by First Mate
Mohammed and they fell upon the DAESS whom they loved not and the First
Mate was heard to exclaim, "You know as much of Islam as I am a banana
sundae you heathen dogs!"
Verily, the Enemy host bent before this onslaught from the sea as leaves
of grass before a great wind and they were scattered and put utterly to
rout and there was great rejoycing as the favor of battle turned and gods
of Hunter Thompson and Chief Blackhawk and the true Isis, the Great Goddess,
looked down with approval and blessing and all the Island Host were touched
by the noodle of the Flying Spaghetti Monster and so all were blessed
and their various hurts charmed back into health.
That night there was a great feast among the former enemies, consisting
of the Iranian sailors, the Dog Walkers, the Island Hunters and even Patti
St. John of the Bicycle Coalition, all reveling in their common victory
and instead of Boshintang, the Marinites brought sprouts and arugula and
sweet pomegranates and Padraic and Dawn brought out the Ahi and threw
it on the Barbie so there was plenty to be had for all.
And so ended the 17th Annual Poodleshoot and BBQ in feasting and rejoycing.
Denby, bearing his lute, came across Beatrice there who sat with Toto
at her feet. He laid his hand upon hers to thank her for her noble office
in defence of the Island, but Toto, ever vigilant did make a most protective
and convincing growl, so he quickly removed his hand and they sat and
talked about a great many things, about warfighting DAESS stomping artifact
smashing kinds of things and of birds and roses as well.
Little David Phipps held his laser-powered Tickle-Me-Elmo toy, rescued
from DAESS, and pushed the button to cause an ablation on a satellite
high above in space so that it arced a modified perihelion and descended
to burn up as another shooting star.
"Again! Again! Do it again!" said Elmo.
The train ululated from far across the water as the locomotive trundled
from beneath the gantries of the Port of Oaktown with their 1000 watt
lamps, letting its cry keen across the waves of the estuary, the riprap
embankments, the grasses of the Buena Vista flats and the open spaces
of the former Beltline, through the cracked brick of the Cannery with
its leaf-scattered loading dock and its weedy railbed and interstices
of its chainlink fence, dropping slowly over the basketball hoops of Littlejohn
Park as the locomotive click-clacked in front of the shuttered doors of
the Jack London Waterfront, trundling out of shadows on the edge of town
past the Ohlone burial mounds to parts unknown.
That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great Holiday.

NOVEMBER 22, 2015
WHEN I DREAM

This image is a prospect looking out toward Mount Tam from the Marin
hills above Fairfax. The song "When I Dream", which was performed
recently by the lovely and talented Heather Masse on the Prairie Home
Companion, was written by Crystal Gayle in 1975. We do hope at Island-Life
that all of you and yours remain safe and warm during the holidays during
this tumultuous time in the year 2015.
THIS ISLAND-LIFE
The next few issues will be truncated as we shut down operations to handle
family issues and consequences of the Angry Elf Gang's thugs. The Annual
Island-Life Poodleshoot will take place as usual, but reportage may be
delayed as we man the battlements here.
I'VE GOT A SECRET
So anyway, the dockwalloper that blew in earlier in the week left behind
a cold front, which is not nearly so cold as other parts of the country,
but because we like to avoid paying any more than we have to pay to Piggie,
our public utility company, we all keep our houses colder than Methusalah's
tomb, causing folks who hail from Nebraska and North Dakota to shiver
in their boots when they come to visit. When the temperature outside is
minus forty, you might as well crank up the thermostat to 75 or more,
because what does a few more piddling degrees make when the difference
is so high.
When the temperature here hovers around 45 or so under the oak trees
most folks pin the temperature at a brisk 62 degrees in the parlor and
tell the relations to just put on another sweater. You want to increase
the central heat? That costs money! Put on another sweater and suck it
up; who do you all think I am, Nelson Rockefeller or something . . . !
This is a time of great anticipation. Anticipation and pumpkin pie and
lamentation among the Native Americans here, who regret not having built
a high enough fence to keep out the emigrants, strengthen border patrols,
establish a universal State language and create stringent legislation
that would have prevented the Pilgrims from giving birth here to dilute
the population.
You can just imagine how different life would be in America had the First
People established a language requirement that everyone must learn Lenapi
so as to earn the right to live here.
That is right. You want to live in America, well then sir, you must take
on the customs and traditions of America. Things like utilizing all parts
of the animal you slay for food. Honor and respect the Earth, our mother.
Speak our native language of Lenapi. Things like that. And put aside those
silly buckle shoes and stovepipe hats.
How different things would have turned out had the early administration
possessed strength of character on the matter of immigration. Learn Lenapi
or else. No multilingual ballots. Speak Lenapi.
Yes, we have our traditions, and the Island is preparing for the august
and much anticipated Poodleshoot and BBQ. The Special Guest invitations
have been sent six months in advance and the secret responses have arrived.
Juleene, from Santa Rosa, has been engaged to prepare the pumpkin pies
for the dignitary table, but more information about that and who will
attend we simply do not have. We do know that Juleene is gathering all
the freshest ingredients and has even gone so far as to have Lemuel haul
a flatbed truck loaded with pumpkins from the farm outside Princeton-on-the-Sea
down the peninsula.
A few curmudgeons might claim that all this fuss is for nothing as the
dignitaries will be far too busy pressing the flesh during an election
year to sit down and properly enjoy a fresh homemade pie, not excluding
the fact that the current contingent of hustings stumpers consists largely
of people who have no idea what an American pie really signifies.
And the truth is the best pumpkin pie you ever had in your life was not
that much better than the worst pumpkin pie you had. There is not much
of any magic art that can transform a mash made of brown sugar, carmel,
and squash puree into something somehow rare and beautiful. Homely is
as homely does.
The present day being what it is, with all the kids now collecting pre-ordered
thanksgiving meals from the Safeway and the Raley's, all tidy in a box
without the day long baking and slicing and stewing filling the house
with heavenly smells, there are fewer and fewer of those among us who
used to handle these traditional rituals. You go into the City and there
are all these joints where you order a crudo that consists of a smear
of pickled tuna about four inches long on a plate, or a snicker snack
with sole and two halved fingerling potatoes and a fine white sauce served
in something like a teaspoon and this is supposed to nourish the soul
and it all costs the good host an arm and a leg and one should appreciate
this fine quality and taste and it really is fine but somehow lacking
in the soul department in a city that produced Jack London and Ferlingetti
and Howl and Brautigan trout fishing in america and the 1916 streetcar
strike and Diego Riviera's paintings in Coit Tower and where are the aunts
who used to spend hours in the kitchens backing those savory pumpkin pies
that were never better than the worst pumpkin pies all gone to dust layering
the tincan landscape that produced the tattered sunflower that is no locomotive
but a sunflower that never forgot that is you and all celebrations everywhere
are about the people sitting there beside you, your family and friends
who traveled far across the tincan shattered landscapes in many directions
to meet there and nevermind the crudo because that is what makes a really
fine wine; not the name on the bottle or the buzz or the price, but the
people with whom you share the glass. Beautiful sunflower.
As it approaches midnight, Eugene packs the last of his black powder
ammo for the Poodleshoot, lining up the cartridges, and Marlene sets the
pies on the sill of the newly silvered winter to cool.
The moon, waxing in majesty, sailed among the throng of stars above the
nighttime Island and deep shadows swelled in the doorways.The saxophone
threnody of the Harlem Nocturne wafted from an open window somewhere.
Denby, sitting in the Old Same Place snug, finished up his set and stepped
outside for a smoke when a figure appeared on the edge of the shadows.
A figure he recognized. The figure, tall, lanky, remained aloof.
He felt compelled to approach this figure, whom he recognized.
"Long time no see," he said.
"Yeah sure." She said.
He asked how she had been.
"I'm doing okay. Got everything in line. Got my dog to keep me company.
Don't need nothing. Just a few small problems, but I got a handle on it."
"Yeah sure," he said.
"So how ya been," she said.
"Up and down," he said. "Some rough times, but okay now.
Got a handle on it."
"Yeah sure," she said, and expelled a long, languorous jet
of cigarette smoke.
"So you here by yourself," he asked.
"Don't need nobody," she said. "Got my dog. I am doing
all right. And you?"
"I am doing all right. Got time to take a walk?" he asked.
"There is no more time," she said. "Not any more, not
for me. But I can take a walk. What do you have in mind?"
"No plans," he said. "Plans are just a tiny prayer to
Father Time."
"Yeah sure," she said. "It is what it is. Like it always
was."
"It is what we make it," he said. "Otherwise it will always
be nothing."
"So you say. I am doing all right," she said.
"Yeah, sure. Heard you were sick," he said.
"That is true," she said. "It sucks."
"I am sure," he said. "That does not change anything."
"Yeah sure," she said and took his hand. "Why walk when
you can dance."
"Yeah sure," he said. "After all, there is no time."
And the two of them walked hand in hand under the arch into the warm
shadows of the Island night.
The train ululated from far across the water as the locomotive trundled
from beneath the gantries of the Port of Oaktown with their 1000 watt
lamps, letting its cry keen across the waves of the estuary, the riprap
embankments, the grasses of the Buena Vista flats and the open spaces
of the former Beltline, through the cracked brick of the Cannery with
its leaf-scattered loading dock and its weedy railbed and interstices
of its chainlink fence, dropping slowly over the basketball hoops of Littlejohn
Park as the locomotive click-clacked in front of the shuttered doors of
the Jack London Waterfront, trundling out of shadows on the edge of town
past the Ohlone burial mounds to parts unknown.
That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great Holiday.

NOVEMBER 15, 2015
LET IT RAIN, LET IT POUR

Got a real dockwalloper this week with lots of much needed
rain which hopefully will turn into lots and lots of snow in the Sierra.
ALLONS ENFANTS
From our Euro desk, here comes a note from those affected in Paris. The
English has been edited.
Original Post from Etats Unis:
"Weve been hearing the news here. This is terrible. I know
youre not near the places that were attacked, but please stay safe.
This seems like a very dark time."
Sent: Saturday, November 14, 2015 2:43 PM
To: xxxxxxxxxxxx
Subject: Re: Paris Attacks
Dear Pxxx
Thank you so much for your attention, I feel very touched. Nobody close
to me has been [directly affected] fortunately! Nevertheless in the [street
where I live] a restaurant has been the theater of the attack, where eighteen
persons died! I could have been one of them, it was not my time [but who
knows the day or the hour]? Friendship, solidarity and love, all of us
we demonstrate, are so much more stronger [to con]front this awful strategy
of death. I am not scared, even if I am very sad, I prefer to continue
and increase friendship its my strategy.
Love.
PatriciaXX 14 nov. 2015 à 01:40, Pxxxxxx <redacted.netcom.com>
a écrit :
We are seeing some curious reactions to the barbaric murders in Paris
a day ago on the blogosphere. Seems a lot of "all lives matter"
comments are cropping up with irritation that "nobody" is crying
out about events in Beirut/Lebanon/Gaza/fill in the blank.
Well, the West is the West, it is not the Middle East, and our ideas
and culture do stem from France, with whom we share much in common. The
French, for all their faults, do not behead innocent people and then make
a movie proudly about it. Nor do they subjugate women, rape children,
and hid behind the skirts of innocents to use them as human shields.
Cultural relativism has its limits. At some point one needs to stand
up and hold not only to one's own cultural values, traditions, language
and mores as well as announce one's kinship with those with whom the bonds
have been deep and long lasting.
This not to say one puts aside empathy for people unlike yourself, nor
does it allow behaving atrociously to someone else with different values.
Our base connection is that of species and we must never stop trying to
find the mirror in the face of the Other. Yes, we abhor the cruelties
visited regularly upon those with different value-sets, different religions,
different languages, especially when some of our own people have been
the primary agents of this violence.
Nevertheless, it is well to keep in mind that ISIS/DAESS has no fondness
or desire for Palestinian rights nor any of the suffering people in Gaza.
They would gladly slaughter all the inhabitants of Beirut and Syria. They
are nihilistic and care for nothing and any relation to their barbarism
and any other suffering anywhere in the world is specious and nonsensical.
We can empathize with the suffering of others, but do not forget our
friends and our own families, which must of necessity take precedence,
while also keeping in mind that a war has been declared on our own people
and this war has nothing to do with promoting or destroying Islam. The
barbarians who murdered people in Paris insult, defame, denigrate and
foul the name of the Prophet and the name of millions of good Moslem people
around the world. It should be quite obvious that ISIS/DAESS are not Islamic;
they are fanatical assholes, and there is no limit to culture or religion
for that category.
Oversimplifying things by lumping the demon into a category with a name
will never result in victory over this version of Satan. Nor will diluting
the main issue that we and our friends share a common enemy who is most
definitely not anything like us.
THIS ISLAND-LIFE
Sorry this issue is late. We've got irons in the fire and some big changes
coming up. Some in part a reaction to a resurgence of evil concocted by
the Angry Elf gang. Some in response to loved ones qui habitent en
Europa. Issues might be delayed while we man the battlements and make
a few adjustments here and there. Have no fear -- we will never do anything
like the disastrous Floating Radio debacle again.
Everyone is well -- or at least as well as such demented people as us
and our staff. All limbs still attached, the ship of Island-Life still
floats, and Chad and Tammy have the sails all hoisted with scarcely a
luff wrinkle.
OF DREAMS WE ARE MADE
Toddled over to the Oakland Museum to see Cal Shakes put on a bare set
production of Shakespeare's Tempest. This production is part of the traveling
edition of Cal Shakes and features bare-stage with minimal props, no special
effects, and zero lighting, a production which highlights the language
of Shakespeare.
The Tempest is one of Shakespeare's last plays, written between 1610
and 1611 when we have the first record of a performance before the court
of King James I (IV). We know that reports from the New World colony in
Jamestown came in around 1610, and that survivors from the flagship Sea
Adventure arrived unexpectedly in Jamestown after the ship disappeared
during a violent storm, creating the dismal assumption that all hands
had been lost, including the expedition's Admiral Sir George Sommers and
the future governor of the Virginia colony, Sir Thomas Gates. In actually,
the survivors arrived on the beach of Bermuda, long avoided by mariners
as a reputed home for sorcerers and evil magic. Bermuda proved to be a
surprisingly fertile island rife with food supplies and trees, which the
sailors utilized to make pinnaces and so continue their voyage.
There was one more incident which is not usually mentioned by critics,
but which almost certainly provided some background flavor to Shakespeare.
Towit, this event was the infamous Gunpowder Plot of 1605, a failed assassination
attempt against King James I of England and VI of Scotland by a group
of provincial English Catholics led by Robert Catesby.
The plan was to blow up the House of Lords during the State Opening of
England's Parliament on 5 November 1605, as the prelude to a popular revolt
in the Midlands during which James's nine-year-old daughter, Princess
Elizabeth, was to be installed as the Catholic head of state.
His fellow plotters were John Wright, Thomas Wintour, Thomas Percy,
Guy Fawkes, Robert Keyes, Thomas Bates, Robert Wintour, Christopher Wright,
John Grant, Ambrose Rookwood, Sir Everard Digby and Francis Tresham. Fawkes,
who had 10 years of military experience fighting in the Spanish Netherlands
in suppression of the Dutch Revolt, was given charge of the explosives.
The most famous of this figures, as we have from popular culture, was
Guy Fawkes, whose image has been employed rather famously in the form
of a mask that is the avatar for the Internet blackhat figures who call
themselves Anonymous. A movie that riffs on this figure, who appears in
the film as an antihero wearing the iconic mask image, was produced under
the title, "V for Vendetta".
The plot, which featured sufficient explosives to turn the entire House
of Parliament building from cellar to roof into matchsticks, was foiled
and most of the conspirators captured, tortured and executed. A couple
figures escaped to France, whereas Fawkes leapt from the gallows with
the noose about his neck, effectively killing himself instantly, but saving
himself from suffering a more brutal drawing and quartering.
Other than pursuit and capture of the directly involved conspirators,
James wisely decided to withhold his hand and forgo a Catholic witchhunt
and a culling of the House of Lords. Some might say this was regal magnanimity
and beneficence, and it might have been some of that, however it also
was a politically shrew strategy. In fact the foiling of the plot led
to a long and amicable relationship between the throne and Parliament
Had this assassination attempt succeeded, a Catholic monarch would have
been temporarily installed on the throne, but all of England would once
again have descending into another bloody civil war like that of the Wars
of the Roses, which lasted nearly half a century (officially 14551487,
although Yorkist challenges to Lancaster continued to 1525).
So these events should be included in any discussion of a play that features
shipwreck, unexpected and miraculous survival, magic, sorcerers, spirits,
and colonization of a "brave new world", along with heavy discussion
in what form shall the newly created state take. This late play is true
theatre at Shakespeare's best, containing some of the bard's most concise
poetic language, along with more music than any of the other romances.
The story concerns an enchanted island inhabited by the magician Prospero,
his/her daughter Miranda and two prior residents in the form of a nature
spirit named Ariel and a deformed "monster" named Caliban. Ariel's
fate has been to suffer confinement within a split oak by a witch named
Sycatrix, who has since died, only to be released from that prison by
Prospero to become a slave to the wizard Prospero. Caliban, who is the
offspring of a union between the witch and the devil, must also suffer
the indignity of slavery.
One day a ship passing near the island is enchanted by Prospero, who
causes a storm and subsequent apparent shipwreck. All passengers and crew
on the ship are somehow rendered safe from harm and so arrive on the island
in separate groups, each group believing that all the others have died,
save for the King of Naples, Alonso, who searches for evidence that his
son, Ferdinand, has somehow survived.
This production by Cal Shakes is unusual in casting a woman, the very
capable Catherine Castellanos, as Prospero, as well as a female holding
the part of wise counselor Gonzalo. Another interesting departure was
the casting of the very earthy Amy Lizardo as Ariel. The troupe travels
to locations far from the homebase in the woods above Orinda, and so must
of necessity do without the extensive props, stage machinery, special
effects and lighting traditionally employed by mainstage productions.
The end result is an intense focus upon the verse of Shakespeare and actor's
body language.
Castellanos had a little trouble at first warming up, but once she found
her groove, she very effectively projected the imperious quality required
by Prospero, who rules the magical island with an iron fist, while moving
easily to tender and loving demeanor when speaking to and about her daughter,
Miranda. During the scene that features the destruction of both her book
of spells and her staff of power, she projected such a powerful deep sadness
and regret that the entire audience was hooked into the moment.
As for Amy Lizardo, she brought a unique earthiness to her Ariel -- this
was a spirit that spent much time imprisoned within an oak tree after
all. And once set free from that enchantment, remains powerful enough
to cause winds to howl, ships to founder, and men to lose all power of
movement and thought. This is no airy fairy, but a spirit of power. Who
nevertheless possesses a bit of whimsy.
In casting three principals as women, the director and actors were able
to exalt certain scenes with unaffected joy and, dare we say, love, in
a way that the standard casting simply does not do.
"Do you love me, master? No?" says Ariel near the end to Prospero.
After a long pause and a long look, "Dearly my delicate Ariel,"
answers the wizard.
The Tempest is classified as one of the Bard's romances, but it easily
could have been rendered as a tragedy or some other form. We do have a
couple of clowns who provide some rollicking comic relief, but the substance
of the play concerns serious matters mulled and presented by a genius
who, at the end of his own life, examines what makes up a good State,
what is the nature of power and what is the best usage of it, what is
the nature and power of art, and ultimately -- given the inexcapable fact
of our mortality -- what is truly real and what is illusion.
"Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Ye all which it inherit, shall dissolve
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep."
Act IV, Scene 1
Shakespeare lived on after this play was produced for another few years,
and did co-write a few more items for the stage, but this play appears
to be his last fully original composition, with no apparent derivative
works and no co-author. It stands up as one of the Bard's finest works
in being the most concise, the most poetic and the most purely theatrical
packed with extraordinary verse and poetic moments. Given that the usual
stage special effects and lighting are absent and the 500 year old language
concerns itself heavily with themes that most occupy a man with some years
of experience approaching the end of life, we tend to think it is not
exactly the best production for most kids under 10 years of age, despite
the presence of wizards, spirits, lively music and magic. It certainly
will tug at the inner kid in some of the silver hairs out there, though.
It is another Cal Shakes production. It lasts for a couple more weekends
at the Oakland Museum. And your ticket is recyclable for half off admission
to the museum on any other day. Go see it. You cannot go wrong.
Cast
Ariel |
AMY LIZARDO |
Boatswain |
RAFAEL JORDAN |
Master |
JOHN R. LEWIS |
Antonio |
LIAM VINCENT |
Sebastian |
PATRICK KELLY JONES |
Gonzalo |
CARLA PANTOJA |
Miranda |
TRISTAN CUNNINGHAM |
Prospero |
CATHERINE CASTELLANOS |
Caliban |
JOHN R. LEWIS |
Ferdinand |
RAFAEL JORDAN |
Alonso |
JOHN R. LEWIS |
Trinculo |
TRISTAN CUNNINGHAM |
Stephano |
PATRICK KELLY JONES |
CREATIVE TEAM
Director |
REBECCA NOVICK |
|
Costumes |
NAOMI ARNST |
Set Design |
NINA BALL |
Sets/Props |
SARAH SPERO |
Assistant Director |
JAMILA COBHAM |
Stage Manager |
TONI OSTINI |
Dramaturg |
PHILIPPA KELLY |
Production Assistant |
CELESTE JACOBSON-ING RAM |
Movement Coach |
KRISTA DENIO |
Costume Assistant |
NATALIE BARSTOW |
Tour Producers |
LISA EVANS, TIERRA ALLEN |
Tour Support |
JACOB HSEI |
Composer/Music Director |
OLIVE MITRA
|
THIS ISLAND LIFE
By now all of you know what happened at City Hall last Wednesday night.
Lauren Do has some excellent commentary on the events that resulting in
two arrests, broken bones, and blood on the stairs as enraged renters attempted
to storm the Council Meeting private testimony which had been stacked with
landlord representatives (https://laurendo.wordpress.com/ , November 6,
2015, "The Mess You Made").
The Council did pass the temporary moratoriums on no-fault evictions
and rent hikes. And true to form, some landlords promptly demonstrated
bad faith and violated the law with 33% rent hikes. Of course bad applies
like these are sure to ensure that rent control becomes an inevitability,
which is sad, as the result will almost certainly be less well considered
than if these people would just chill.
We have a Tibetan Monastery on the island; can we not just get people
to sit in vipassana for a bit and just relax?
SOME ENCHANTED EVENING
So anyway that special season has come upon us when the air turns brisk
and thoughts turn to traditions and season rituals. Dick and Jane go gaily
scampering through the fallen leaves with ruddy cheeks and panting breath
hand in hand, each dreaming of popping a few rounds into a Fifi, blasting
the stuffing out of a silver-haired poo with their brand new polished
thirty ought six.
Yep, that much anticipated Island event is nigh upon us once again, the
Annual Island-Life Poodleshoot and BBQ.
We will be posting the official rules presently in the sidebar. For now,
last year's rules are up there to give you an idea of what this dreadful
celebration is all about.
Meanwhile, Denby sits up these nights with a candle he has lit for somebody
each night ever since the last Noche de los Muertos. He sits on the edge
of his bed with a glass of wine in the room he lets underneath the stairwell
to the East End Lunatic Asylum and strums an outlaw love song. Eventually
he lays the guitar aside, gets into bed and turns out the light before
suddenly remembering something important.
Damn, forgot to take off the shoes again!
After he takes care of that problem, he goes back to bed and falls asleep.
He will be all right in a little while.
In the Old Same Place Bar, there is a chatter and a clatter from within.
Every time Padraic passes the snug where he put the new lease with its
rent increase, he snarls, then sighs.
At the Marlene and Andre's household, the place has been packed, all
the wanderers and lost having come home to roost as the night air turned
sharp with biting wind off of the Bay. As the night eases along with a
smooth stride, horns moan through the fog across the wide expanse of water
and the snores of sleepers drift up from cots and sleeping bags and sofa
and closet, every nook and cranny occupied. The rustling in the big ginormous
habitot run goes quiet as Festus and his pals tuck in.
In the back, Marlene lies curled up against Andre, head on his shoulder,
her black hair splashed out on the pillow, asleep and at peace.
Somewhere beneath the house, the old central heating unit that Mr. Howitzer
paid for cheap to purchase, and cheaper still to install by the drunken
Depuglia brothers emits a small flame and a shower of sparks from the
failing igniter unit. There is a faint hiss from leaky gas lines dating
back to 1904 and the opossum underneath takes up her babies and departs
from that bad cellar, never to return.
Then, the train ululated from far across the water as the
locomotive trundled from beneath the gantries of the Port of Oaktown with
their 1000 watt lamps, letting its cry keen across the waves of the estuary,
the riprap embankments, the grasses of the Buena Vista flats and the open
spaces of the former Beltline, through the cracked brick of the Cannery
with its leaf-scattered loading dock and its weedy railbed and interstices
of its chainlink fence, dropping slowly over the basketball hoops of Littlejohn
Park as the locomotive click-clacked in front of the shuttered doors of
the Jack London Waterfront, trundling out of shadows on the edge of town
past the Ohlone burial mounds to parts unknown.
That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.

NOVEMBER 8, 2015
NEUN UND NEUNZIG LUFTBALLONS
You children may not remember that antiwar protest song
from Nena, but since this week culminates a rather sober three-week series
of meditations on death we though we would provide something a bit lighthearted
to start you off.

While at a June 1982 concert by the Rolling Stones in West Berlin, Nena's
guitarist Carlo Karges noticed that balloons were being released. As he
watched them move toward the horizon, he noticed them shifting and changing
shapes, where they looked like strange spacecraft (referred to in the
German lyrics as a "UFO"). He thought about what might happen
if they floated over the Berlin Wall to the Soviet sector.
CORRECTION
Thanks to reader Chris Headley, who alerted us to a broken link to copyright
rules. That problem has been rectified and the responsible staff have
been consigned to the Island-Life Oubliette. The link is on the
About Island-Life page.
WE'RE ALL WAITING ON A TRAIN
The Island-Life staff encountered a sobering reminder of what Los
Dias De Los Muertos is all about as we walked along the Fruitvale
towards Fruitvale Station. Dust thou art and to dust thou shalt return.

The succeeding days will reveal what happened here. Some kind of story
came to an abrupt end between the tracks. Was the man crossing during
a critical passage with his hoodie up and unable to see the engine bearing
down? Did this man lay his head down on the tracks to let the 12:15 end
his trouble in mind? Was he a victim of murder? Is there a mother somewhere
in Oaktown grieving now for the loss of her son? Did he have a lover who
sat with the clock ticking, waiting for the arrival that will never now
be consummated? We only know that he was found like this around One PM,
leaving the story of his life punctuated by a violent end.
***
The annual Fruitvale Celebration of Los Dias de Los Muertos is one of
the largest gatherings outside of Mexico in the world. At one time the
festival extended all along International Boulevard from Downtown to the
Fourties. Nowadays it is confined to Fruitvale Village around the BART
station.
Here are some images from this year's Festival.
Here are Calaveras Azucar. An explanation is provided
a little below.

An ofrenda by the local police departments from
the Five Counties.

Everyone is remembered, regardless of position.

The Mothers of the Disappeared also remember.

You can Google the life and death of poet Victor Jara,
who was murdered by a SOA sponsored junta.

Monarch butterflies feature large in this family ofrenda


Family portraits interspersed with calaveras, papiel,
and marigolds.

Los Aztecas getting ready for the culminating ritual at
sundown.





The family ofrendas often have a theme. This one features
the spirit of the jaguar.


Figures like this are set up to remind us that beneath
our fleshly covering resides our mortality. And this is perfectly all
right and natural.


The ofrendas feature papiel, marigolds, and foods the
person enjoyed while in life. It is thought that during Los Dias de los
Muertos the veil between the worlds becomes thin, allowing the dead to
pass from the other side to this one for a time.

Every year a family puts this large gold-painted skull
out for strangers to write the names of their departed loved ones in memoriam.
A big part of this festival is the communal sharing of grief.

Our contribution from Island-Life . . .


A bruxa, or curandera, purifies someone
with sage incense.

The Aztecas gather. The rituals take many hours and last
all day.



An elaborate sand painting on which the artist has worked
all night to create. The work will be destroyed after sundown. Life is
ephemeral. Nothing lasts forever.


The common ofrenda for all Fruitvale.


This one features a poem written in Spanish and English
translation.

"Recuerden me" means "Remember me"


These five details are from the Family Samos. We talked
with the mujer keeping vigil here and learned that although her
daughter has come out as a lesbian, the mother still loves her and her
wife very much. The panel features friends and family who all passed away
in 2015. All of these people were murdered.
The Fruitvale Festival is a public display of communal
grief, a mixture of sadness and laughter making fun of death's solemnities.
The personal in-home rituals can be very emotional as people express themselves
to intimate family members.
The Mexican version of Charon.
On one side, we see the beauty of Life...
The other side reveals memento mori . . .
Painting the mask.
We are not afraid of death. Death is part of growing up.
The generations remembered.
The Dias de Los Muertos are a mixture of Christianity
and things far older.
What could be a greater affirmation of Life but music?
Bubbles can be serious business . . .
More and more Aztecas gather...
This lovely couple have the spirit. We wish them many
years of happiness together.
The sound of thundering drums rolls from the plaza and
echoes down the streets with compelling power. The Ritual has begun .
. .
Anklets made of nut shells give emphasis as the dancers
stamp their feet in unison.
The drumming becomes insistent. The dancers twirl and
dip like birds.
These dances are many thousands of years old.
After the drumming and dancing has brought the people
to sundown the Aztec shamans turn to the four directions, bearing smoking
sage to invoke the ancestral powers residing in each place, concluding
each invocation with the phrase tahui.
The little ones will remember these ancient customs and
they will carry it forward. Recuerden me . . .

NOTA BENE
This issue has elements we wanted to get out ASAP, so we
are pushing this out incomplete, omitting the monologue, finalization
of which was delayed do to pressing family matters. The entire edition
will be complete by end of Monday evening.
IF A BODY MEET A BODY COMING THOUGH THE RYE
So anyway, Denby stumbled from the Offices after that dreadful crossing
to the Other Side described last week and found his way through the aching
dawn with sandpaper eyes to his room below the lunatic asylum and fell
into his cot in his rented room upstairs from the lunatic asylum and there
fell into a merciful dark slumber through which children ran across dark
sands in bare feet.
At Marlene and Andre's household, all the residents had filtered back
from wherever they had been biding there time during the warm weather
as the NorCal rains set in with the first real cold of the season and
the place filled up with the heat of bodes seeking refuge. The sparking
light in the hallway finally flared and went out for good and the toilet
crapped out, so to speak, needing Martini to get in there with his wrenches
and sealing wax, because Mr. Howitzer could not be bothered to fix things.
Little Adam, who was small enough, had to scamper through the understory
to run wire guided by Martini so as to resupply electricity to the left
side of the house and replace the burned out step-up transformer that
had been bolted to the old redwood four by eight supporting the main flooring.
Andre went out to the mailbox and found a letter from Mr. Howitzer's
firm -- it was another rent increase. "Dear Tenant, due to our desire
to obtain maximum market value and due to increased taxes and anticipated
increased operating expenses your rent will increase as of December 31
by $1225.52. Thank you for your . . .". He did not need to read further.
The bad news was written on the wall.
He returned to the house and walked down the hall, his hand on the Habitot
tubing which ran the length of the house above the bunkbeds there to loop
about the livingroom packed with sleeping bags and humanity before returning
back along the hall to make a jog through the single bedroom and so proceed
then to the back and the back laundry room with its dysfunctional washer
and dryer, none of which had worked for years. The tubing thrummed with
the busy activity of Festus and his pals.
Our little refuge from the people and places that hate us.
"We will find a way to pay this," Andre said to himself. "No
one is going to help us. We have only each other."
Rolf and Martini were in the back, seeing if they could fix the washer
somehow as the price per load had gone up again at the Laundromat. Cost
for gas from PiGgiE was due to rise also. Everything was going up; just
not what people pulled in.
Andre told the two about the rent increase and both of them looked serious.
"We have to swallow it." Martini said. "Where else can
we go? It's bad everywhere."
Rolf dropped his wrench as he tugged a too small belt they had
gotten from Encinal Hardware. "Verdammte gummi!" He said
and sat back in frustration. "Ja. Nirgends kein ort."
He looked up at Andre.
"What's that mean?" Andre said.
"For us, there is no place on earth," said the former Oestli,
who had gotten weary long ago of fleeing from one unwelcoming place to
another.
"You got that right, bro," Andre said, thinking about the little
community of lost misfits that were sort of his responsibility. Fifteen
souls inhabiting that single bedroom cottage, because the rents had gotten
obscene.
He stood at the steps to the back under the drooping awning that dripped
now from the long awaited rain and stared at the ironmongery garden through
which climbed the remainders of this past summer's pole beans and morning
glory. He guessed he will have to put in more hours at Sacred Heart Tattoo
and then scarf a few dollars more playing in the BART station and Marlene
will have to get more hours at the CVS. Martini already had a full-time
job as well as Tipitina and Suan, but everyone would have to start working
more hours as none of them sure as hell were getting any kind of cost
of living increase.
Outside the rain pelted the ironmongery, ran along the morning glories
and coursed down to the cleared area beneath to puddle up here and there
where they had planted fava beans that waited now to erupt into the long
season of tall, green anticipation.
Occasional Quentin would just have to get his act together somehow and
even Snuffles would have to go out and beg for more spare change. If everyone
chipped in, they would survive. Somehow they would survive another year.
In the Old Same Place Bar, Padraic was still glowing after the visit
by Michael Higgins, the current Uachtarán for the Republic. The
Uachtarán had come to the States because of the kids who had died
on the balcony in Berkeley. Those killed in the collapse were Olivia Burke,
21; Eoghan Culligan, 21; Niccolai Schuster, 21; Lorcan Miller, 21; and
Eimear Walsh, 21, and Ashley Donohoe, 22.
So much death and so young. Kids just starting out.
Rent for one- and two-bedroom apartments at Library Gardens, 2020 Kittredge
Street, ranges from $2,150 a month to $4,000. It was one of the newer
complexes in Berkeley.
These were highly sought-for units.
Padraic went into the back office to sort through the mail and opened
the envelope from Howitzer and Sons, LLC. "Dear Tenant, because of
your excellent history of prompt payment with us we have decided to renew
your lease, but with modified terms. Due to increased expenses we are
unfortunately compelled to raise your monthly rent as of January 1, 2016
by an additional $3,000 for the main building and $500 for the two car
parking lot. This is so that we can obtain the maximum which the market
can bear. A new contract will be sent to you via certified mail for your
signature agreeing to the new terms for the period of two years instead
of five. We are sorry that taxes and . . .".
Shite! Three thousand dollars more! What was he to do to cover that?
Charge nine dollars per highball? Now there would be no raise for Suzie,
the bartender, this year. The girl would just have to make it up in tips
for the Holidays.
He came out with the letter still in his hand, a deep anger simmering
within him.
Suzie was just finishing serving a tray of pints to a table of Not From
Heres -- dot commers taking selfies with those camera extensions. Young
kids living five to a room because they were young and on an adventure
and in a few years they would be gone from here back to Ohio or Virginia
or from wherever they had come to savor the exotic Bay Area for a short
while, leaving their space for yet other kids willing to pay $4,000 for
a studio in the City, living five to a room again, because no sane soul
could afford rent like that as an individual or a couple even.
"Ah, would ya hike up that skirt, girl," Padraic said. "You'd
get better tips."
"Nevermind the bollocks, Padraic," Suzie said, and the man
stepped back with his jaw open, astonished at this language from the sweet
girl.
"Wut the . . ."!
Dawn came over and grabbed the letter from Mr. Howitzer out of Padraic's
hand.
"O for Pete's sake," Dawn said, reading. "O dear, o dear,
this is not good."
"It's just a song," Suzie said.
"I don't know what kind of music you are listening to," Padraic
said. "A lot of screetchin' and hollarin' is all it is. Listen to
the likes of Finbar Wright now. That is a man who isn't tone deaf."
"Sure enough", Suzie said. She also had gotten a rental increase,
meaning she would have to either move out or get a roommate for her tiny
place. The lovely couple across the hall who had been there twenty years
were moving out to Sacremento where the man had family. Their rent had
been jacked 50 per cent and they just could not afford it.
"When will this madness end?" Dawn said.
"Madness indeed," Padraic said, remembering this past week
and the blood on the steps of City Hall after the mini-riot. A riot on
the Island of all places! Not since he had seen people dropping roofslates
on the heads of the Protestants in Armagh had he seen the likes of that.
He knew the way some people could be. First blood had been spilled and
it did not look like Wednesday night would be the end of it.
The Man from Minot came in to order a double at the rail.
"What'll it be," Suzie asked.
"Power," said the Man from Minot.
"Arthur Power coming right up," Suzie said.
"Ah, would ya have at least daycent Jamesons or Bushmills,"
Padraic said.
"Can't afford it, bro," said the Man from Minot. "Things
are tight."
Padraic looked around the room, seeing the faces of people he had known
for years and years. Old friends they were. His people. All of them feeling
the pinch that began in 2001. He told Suzie to serve the Man from Minot
Jamesons. Same price. Feck all. . . .
Down the boreen, in the offices of Island Life the Editor sat
over his desk illuminated by the single lamp, while all the other desks
sat silent and dark as the clock ticked over into the new day. He had
just finished a long talk with his sister over the phone and there was
now a backlog after a long talk which had lasted for hours. Well, he loved
his sister; how could he not? She was a dear and had suffered a great
deal. A bright star shining in this misery of a life. The one thing in
his life that reminded him after coming back that we are not all just
meat.
Before him sat the letter from Howitzer and Sons, LLC. "Dear Tenant.
We are sorry to inform you that due to increased taxes and maintenance
expenses . . .".
Crolls Restaurant, Pagano's Hardware, Boudin's Bakery, Vines, Browns
Barbershop, Brown's Shoes, and so many others, all folded up and left.
Old families here for generations selling their property and leaving because
of the craziness that was wrecking the old neighborhoods. The Island pulsed
hot with an hot infection, a fever that raged unchecked. When and where
will it end? And now blood on the tiles right there before the entrance
to the Council Chambers.
He thought about his hapless staff. What would happen to them if he packed
it all up and moved to some place of sanity like Woodacre? What would
happen to that idiot Denby, a fool who surely could never survive Reality
on his own? And Festus. And Jose, that loveable, bumbling numbskull. And
Rachel, the secretary, possessed of more grace than sense. He put his
head in his liver-spotted hands. He had survived 'Nam for this? A vain
catcher in the rye, just like at Ap Ba, trying to save everybody. He looked
up and stared into the pitch black beyond.
And so the man sat with his remaining white hair flying thinly about
his head in an aureole while all around him the darkness hung thick as
sable drapes. Somewhere out there a like mind, somehere out there in that
dark world, while he sat in the editor's chair with the desklamp pooling
light in front of him, doing all for Company.
Then, the train ululated from far across the water as the
locomotive trundled from beneath the gantries of the Port of Oaktown with
their 1000 watt lamps, letting its cry keen across the waves of the estuary,
the riprap embankments, the grasses of the Buena Vista flats and the open
spaces of the former Beltline, through the cracked brick of the Cannery
with its leaf-scattered loading dock and its weedy railbed and interstices
of its chainlink fence, dropping slowly over the basketball hoops of Littlejohn
Park as the locomotive click-clacked in front of the shuttered doors of
the Jack London Waterfront, trundling out of shadows on the edge of town
past the Ohlone burial mounds to parts unknown.
That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.

NOVEMBER 5, 2015
THERE'S BLOOD IN THE WATER

Blood on the second floor of Alameda City Hall outside the
Council Chambers, November 4th, 2015.
CORRECTED 11/9/15
CITY HALL SPECIAL MEETING ON ALAMEDA RENTAL CRISIS
Last night the City Council held a special meeting in response to pressure
from several island-based renter advocacy groups on the subject of the
current rental crisis.
Agenda items featured presentation of summaries of findings compiled
into a report called The Alameda Rent Study, as well as formal observations
from the Housing Authority representative. This was to have been followed
by citizen testamony.
As some of you may know, the meeting grew emotionally heated and was
interrupted after one hour of citizen speeches by a disruptive protest
which lead to bloody injuries to at least one protester on the second
floor of City Hall.
The Mayor announced recess due to the disruption at 7:05 PM, and subsequently
first the audio, then the video stream from the chambers to the internet
and four viewing locations cut out.
After the end of the recess, live streaming was restored with a change
in procedures. This special meeting of the City Council lasted a total
of 7 hours, 35 minutes.
This is what happened in Alameda City Hall the night of November 4, 2015.
Janet Smith-Heimer, of the private consultancy firm Bay Area Economics
(BAE) began her discussion of the various studies on the city's housing
and demographics, starting with a study completed in 2013. Her visual
presentation never got off the ground due to technical difficulties.
She was interrupted by the Mayor who felt that, since the presentation
slides referenced were not coming up and too much time was being spent
on outdated data before arriving at the current report findings.
"There are a lot of people here to today, not only in this Chamber,
but watching from four other locations, who we want to hear. You will
have a chance to present your findings later and hopefully by then the
technical difficulties [will be resolved]."
Citizens who wished to speak to the Council were limited to 60 seconds
with a promised re-evaluation after "about three hours" of testimony.
Citizens completed a form submitted to the City Clerk to indicate desire
to speak and so speakers were called by name in order of reciept of the
form. A person could cede his or her time to any desired alternative speaker.
Of the first 24 speakers, only two presented the renter point of view.
All the others claimed to be "small" mom and pop landholders
who were struggling to make ends meet and who had not performed no-fault
evictions and who had not extorted 30 and 50% rent increases.
Among these included Marie Kane (#10), owner of Kane Reality -- one of
the largest property management firms on the Island. Also Ms. Schumacher
(Speaker #19), who obtained 10 cedes to get 10 minutes of talk time, and
who represents a reality group that handles 3,000 units, claimed to be
small property owners.
In walking over to City Hall from the Library presentation room, we began
to sense a great deal of outrage building among the renters at the obvious
stacking of the speaker time on behalf of realties and landowners, all
of whom stated during their presentations the same party line that the
Council should let the provisions of Ordinance 3131 (which calls for mediation
by the Rental Review Advisory Committee, or RRAC) continue to resolve
problems.
At 7:04, the live stream featured a large commotion coming from the outside
corridor, the door to the Chambers was held open and the Mayor subsequently
announced Recess.
Our man in the Rotunda below witnessed a number of people going up the
stairs, bearing blue flyers (see photos). Once they achieved the landing,
they began a deafening chanting and, apparently, a few of the protesters
attempted to enter the Chambers.
An audio of the chanting can be found on Youtube here.
We did not see the actual take down of Mr. Bob Davis whom we did see
standing in the middle of the crowd and nowhere near the chambers entrance.
We did see the officer holding him down by pressing on Mr. Davis' neck
as Mr. Davis issued muffled screams. He did not appear to struggle or
resist arrest in any manner whatsoever and freely allowed his arms to
be cuffed behind him while on the floor.
The entire arrest until removal was filmed by Jason Buckley who has posted
the video here
on Youtube. This is the video you see displayed on ABC and KTVU as well
as other media outlets. The regular Channel 22 cameraman remained inside
the Chambers the entire time.
There were numerous other individuals who used iPhones to capture video
on the second floor.
A second man with a gray beard, identified as John Klein, was also arrested
and removed to the City Jail. Hearing for both men is Friday, at 9 am
in dept 107 at he Oakland Courthouse. If you go, be prepared for long
lines for other court business at the security checkpoint. Our experience
with these things is wear a jacket with zippable pockets in which to stash
all metal objects like coins and keys. Belts must be removed and scanned
on the conveyor belt.
The hallway quieted down in about 10 minutes and our normally quiet citizens
made way for fire department EMT's while two police remained on the landing
and at the door. The Mayor resumed the sessions with an outage lasting
less than thirty minutes and with a change in procedure allowing for a
more equitable 50-50 distribution of renters and property owners. Many
property owners left upon this decision, including Karen Bley (speaker
#22), who had the novel idea of assigning funding for relocation assistance.
There were a total of approximately 90 speakers. It is not known how
many left due to the disruption.
In the end, the council adopted an urgency ordinance that would bar rent
increases of 8 percent or more for the next 65 days. Landlords will also
be prohibited from evicting tenants without cause during that time.
In the meantime, the council will consider changes to Alamedas
mild tenant protections. Under the current system, tenants can appeal
rent increases to the citys Rent Review Advisory Committee. The
panel can mediate between the parties and issue a recommendation after
hearing from both sides, but landlords are not required to comply.
This issue of rent control and the rental crisis is certainly far from
being finished, no matter what the Council decides. If the Council does
not act decisively, the City will almost certainly see new propositions
appear on the ballot come the next election.
Scene in the library at 6:00PM.

Another viewing area in the Rotunda of City Hall. c.6:50
PM
Members of the Rental Coalition, including children, begin
ascending the stairs, c.6:55 PM

More ascend the stairs, packing the hallway. Chambers
are to the right.

The chanting begins and the ARC begin waving signs.

The arrest of Bob Davis

Bob Davis appeared to be in his sixties . . . .

About 15 minutes after last arrest, citizens keeping clear
for EMT's to enter the chambers. By report, the Interim City Manager,
Mr. Haun, was injured with a broken hip caused by a fall. As of 11/8/15
people disagree as to what caused him to fall.

Police making sure no surprises come back up the stairs.
No enforcement officers were injured.

What the blue signs said.

Blood left outside the City Council Chambers. This is
probably not the end of it if people like Marie Kane dig in their heels.
Kane is known for high rents, hiring questionable tradesmen to do work
on rental units, and for retaining the security deposits of good tenants
after move-out.
NOVEMBER 1, 2015
AS GOBLINS FLEW ACROSS THE ROOM

Hopefully your Halloween was much more enjoyable than the one Richard
Shindell sings about in "Are You Happy Now." The backstory to
the song is actually quite funny, so if Richard ever comes up here from
where he lives in Buenos Aires, be such to ask him about it.
SCARY MONSTERS, SUPER CREEPS
Here's a few more images from around the Island to round out the Halloween
Season. The really popular one seems to have been the Alien Spaceport
shown last week. Angela Hill and Matt Hunnicut were the artists on Santa
Clara who did that one.
A disarming skeleton . . .


"Keep out"?! What danger lurks for trick 'r treaters?

The devil is in the details. He is also in the shrubbery
. . . .

So that is how they climb up there . . .

I thought "Flowers of Evil" was a book by Baudelaire . . .
.

O now really, Harry! Don't be so lifeless at the party . . . !

Honey! I think there is some thing at the door . . .

O dear! Just look at what the groundskeeper has done to these ferns .
. . !

A little detail hiding in a tree on San Antonio.

Darn it, the garden is infested with spooks again . . .
.

Did not know Astair went that way. We thought Ginger Rogers
killed him when he made a faux pas . . . .

Boo to you too!

IN LOVE WITH YOUR GHOST
So anyway, once again Denby lost the annual drawing of straws. The Editor
escorted him out the door of the Island-Life Offices, cigar clenched as
usual between his teeth. "Don't forget to find out who is going to
become the next President of the United States," the Editor said.
"If not that, at least who wins the GOP nomination."
Denby sighed.
"C'mon man! Buck up and show some leatherneck spirit! Hoo ya!"
"Boss, I am not and have been a Marine."
The Editor swished his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other.
"In that case, pity for you." The man clapped Denby on the back.
"Get along now, boy! And best of luck to you."
as the iron bells tolled and the last vestige of summer
fled yammering into the cold dark out of which a darker cold breeze blew,
Denby put on 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.
From the offices he walked down to the bayside and came
to the path that borders the Strand. He follow this for a ways as a moist
wind caused leaves to skitter across the pavement. The street extended
in both directions from the shadow of trees that hid Crab Cove to the
distance hidden by a grey mist. No one else walked this path and the beach
below extended silent and deserted on this night. Eventually he 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 many, many years, with scraggly
weeds crowding up against lichened stones.
"Lasciate ogni speranza voi ch'entrate!"
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.
For pete's sake. As per Tradition. Dammit.
A large owl, about two feet tall, perched on a piling and
scolded him with large owl eyes.
"Hoo! Hoooooo!"
Okay, okay. Poor choice of words.
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. A dense, lightless fog hung a few yards
offshore, making it appear that the water extended out beyond to Infinity.
All up and down the strand he could now see that countless
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 towards him 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.
"Hello Penny." Denby said.
"Looks like you are still a bit solid," Penny said. "Going to stay long?"
"I am kinda hoping not," Denby said.
"I know; I could feel it in my bones," Penny said, and 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 he came here, 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 and barefoot as the
others, ran up, paused and stared at the two of them. She was tall and
had a lanky build and possessed blue-green eyes that shone under thick
eyebrows frames by black hair and straight cut bangs.
O now really!" Penny said. "Found someone new?"
The girl ran between them laughing. She too, disappeared into the darkness.
"Absolutely not!"
"O yeah? I can see stuff, y'know. I think there is someone . . .".
"She's just a friend!" Denby said emphatically. "It's
been decided." He folded his arms.
"Have it your way!" Penny said, laughing.
"O for pete's sake . . .".
They came upon two men walking along the strand, deep in conversation
with one another.
"O hello, Oliver!" Penny said. "I've brought you a musician!"
The bearded man named Oliver peered at Denby with his spectacles.
"Actually, I've been told recently I am a little tone deaf,"
Denby said.
"I don't think I know you," Oliver said with an English accent.
"We never met," Denby said.
"It really is a very odd business that all of us, to varying degrees,
have music in our heads," Oliver said. "Music can lift us out
of depression or move us to tears - it is a remedy, a tonic, orange juice
for the ear. But for many [people], music is even more - it can provide
access, even when no medication can, to movement, to speech, to life.
For them, music is not a luxury, but a necessity."
A look of surprise came over his face and he reached into his mouth and
pulled out a small gold coin.
"The obolu!" Penny said.
"I say! I was rather the bad boy in my youth," Oliver said.
"But I guess now all is forgiven!"
"You get to go to the landing," Penny said wistfully. "Feeling
afraid?"
my predominant feeling is one of gratitude.
"I cannot pretend I am without fear. But my predominant feeling
is one of gratitude. I have loved and been loved; I have been given much
and I have given something in return; I have read and traveled and thought
and written. I have had an intercourse with the world, the special intercourse
of writers and readers.
Above all, I have been a sentient being, a thinking animal, on this beautiful
planet, and that in itself has been an enormous privilege and adventure."
And with that Oliver headed down the beach with energy to a dock where
a single lantern shed light on a crowd of people waiting there.
"Not your time yet, Mario," Penny said to the other man.
The man shrugged and then said in a thick New York accent, "I was
a politician", before ambling on down the beach to a campfire where
he sat heavily.
A young man wearing a tattered Army uniform came jogging along the beach.
Beside him on his left loped a woman with close-cropped blonde hair. A
short Asian man wearing a tattered NVA uniform jogged on his right and
his wrist was bound to the White man by a slender filligreed chain and
cuffs.
"Hey Denby!" said the guy.
"Johnny. Julie," Denby said. "Where you guys running off
to?"
"Going to find Raymond," Johnny said. "He is down there
somewhere. Remember Raymond?"
"I sure do," Denby said. "That funeral was something.
Man!"
"What happened?" Julie asked. "That was not part of my
history."
"After the honor guard left the casket at the house, his mother
broke it open," Denby said.
"Muther f----!" Johnny said. "How the hell she do that?"
An angry rumble rolled from out of the fog across the water.
"Best watch your language down here," Penny said. "You
don't want to stay any longer than you have to."
"Those things are made of brass inside and sealed tight!" Johnny
said. "You come back from 'Nam in a box through the tropic heat and
your body don't look so good."
"She used her dead husband's power tools," Denby said, remembering
the following day now and what happened. The woman lost her husband due
to complications from getting fragged in Korea, then one son died at the
racecourse. Then Raymond was next, providing point. A tripwire got him.
They did not call them IED's back then. Boobytrap. And then there she
was, all alone in that big empty house, staring at the framed pictures
of the long line of military men, starting with her great grandfather,
killed during the Indian wars. All of them getting married, siring children,
then going off to die on the battlefield.
"She broke it open and when she saw it, she used rollers to wrangle
the casket into the stationwagon. Drove it to the church on Sunday and
drove over the curb right up to the doors. I guess the casket was too
heavy so when she slid it off the tailgate, it fell and everything spilled
out."
"Yeesh!" Johnny said.
"Some wars you fight because you have to," said the NVA guy.
"All wars bad."
"Looks like you got a little bracelet there," Denby commented.
"He kill my brother," the NVA soldier said. "I shoot him.
Now we spend long time together. Until the Crossing maybe. Or maybe longer."
He stared intently into the fog offshore.
"Let's go guys," Johnny said. And the three of them jogged
off down the beach.
"Miss you!" Denby called out to Julie's back.
"Too late!" She called back over her shoulder. "I called
for help too late."
Denby closed his eyes and pressed one hand to his face.
"Ah, Denby." Penny said.
A bevy of little girls, all no more than six or seven, came running through
the reeds up high, all playing tag with one another. One dark complexioned
girl ran up to Denby with big brown saucer eyes and her brown hair tied
in dreads with pink ribbons. "Geechee!" she said and
ran off.
A deep chuckle came from off to the side. "Bin lang tyme sin
ah spik dat Gullah!"
"How ya doin'," Denby said.
"Me, I am just waiting here like everybody else. Sure is nice you
remember the islands. Writers are the memory for the people." He
was dark complected and spoke with a deep voice and he stood in the shadows.
"Someone has to. I hear all the children are leaving the Gullah
islands," Denby said.
The Daughters of the Dust....
"Yeah, they be selling out. Going to the Carolina mainland and leaving
the one place in America where no man and no woman was a slave. The Daughters
of the Dust."
"It's too bad," Denby said.
A couple girls ran barefoot between them from outside the firelight and
then off into the darkness. Another one, dressed in gingham, came tearing
in from the other side, but Penny reached out to snag her squealing and
swing her around in a hug.
"I am glad to see its not all doom and gloom around here,"
Denby said
The dark man laughed. "O hardly! You have your own Daughters of
the Dust; your girls have provided endless amusements."
"All mine?" Denby said, one eyebrow rising.
"Well, would have, could have more like it. All the ones who are
not and never were and most likely never will be. I don't see why you
never married."
"Well, you know," Denby said, looking over at Penny playing
with the gingham girl, "Things didn't work out the way I planned.
The right girl just didn't hang around."
From across the water a glimmering approached.
"Denby," Penny said. "Each time you come here it is closer
to the time of the Ferry. What can this mean?"
A jovial man carrying an electric guitar and playing it as he walked
passed them, headed to the landing where the souls waiting to cross over
moved anxiously to the edge. A tall, slender, handsome man strode along
the sands with him.
"C'mon brother Julian! We gonna cross over the river Jordan for
sure this time!"
"Good things don't come to those who wait. They come to those who
agitate!" Julian said.
The two of them reached the landing even as the eyes of the Ferryman
became clearer, burning in the mist out of which he poled his skiff.
You only live but once, and when you're dead you're done, so let
the good times roll, said the man with the guitar before bursting
into a robust song.
"I've got the key to the highway. Feel I just got to go. Gonna leave
here running. Walking is most too slow . . ."!
As Denby watched knots of people began moving toward the landing as well,
and a strange compulsion to follow them took hold of the man with a powerful
longing. But Penny held him back. By some strange power she was able to
hold him back.
A tall man with close-cropped hair passed closely by them and he paused
to raise up his arm in a familiar guesture, palm outward, thumb, forefinger
and index pressed together, making a V between them and the two smaller
fingers, ring and pinky.
"Live long and prosper," said the man before turning to head
down to the landing as the skiff drew nearer.
"You cannot abide the sight of his eyes, which are wheels of fire,"
she said. "Now is not your time. And don't think I do not feel such
a longing to run down there right now as of this minute myself!"
Penny said.
"Papi?" she said.
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 some
kind of loss. "Papi?" she said. A faint odor of cinnamon and
cloves wafted over him. Her eyes were large and deep as deep Caribbean
pools. And then she turned and ran off into the darkness.
An iron bell began to clang.
"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..
"I have been told I am tone-deaf with the voice . . ." Denby
started, but she was already gone, and she had not been talking about
music anyway. She was 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.
As the street and house lights draped over the distant hills began to
reappear, 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.
Perhaps because of the old angina, or something, he felt a pain in his
chest. Perhaps because of the mist or something, his face was wet.
He made his way back to the island offices which now remained dark and
empty, save for the Editor in his glass-enclosed cubicle.
"Any news about the Elections," asked the Editor. "Any
tips on who comes out on top?"
"Somehow it never came up," Denby said.
"How bad was it this time," asked the Editor.
"Well," said Denby. "There were moments of discovery.
Um could I have that drink now?"
"I haven't offered you any, but I can tell by the look on your face
you really could use one. Or two."
And the two men sat there with their glasses filled with scotch and melting
ice, the war veteran Marine and the musician, each remembering many things
on the last night of Los Dias de los Muertos.
Time passed and then the train ululated from far across the water as
the locomotive trundled from beneath the spectral gantries of the Port
of Oaktown with their 1000 watt lamps, letting its cry keen across the
waves of the estuary, the riprap embankments, the haunted grasses of the
Buena Vista flats and the open spaces of the former Beltline, through
the cracked brick of the former Cannery with its leaf-scattered loading
dock and its weedy railbed and interstices of its chainlink fence, dropping
slowly over the basketball hoops of Littlejohn Park as the locomotive
click-clacked in front of the shuttered doors of the Jack London Waterfront,
trundling out of ghostly shadows on the edge of town past the Ohlone shellmounds
to parts unknown.
That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.

OCTOBER 25, 2015
SUNDOWN
This weeks headline photo comes from Island-Lifer Tammy and is titled
"Beach Fennel Sunset. This was taken down at Crown Memorial Beach,
which we sometimes call "The Strand".

WIR GEHEN HEUTE WANDERN, WANDERN
Hopefully none of you recalls singing that song in school back in the
DDR. If so, welcome to the West.
This is just to say that the 2015 Mountain Sabbatical trip notes are
up along with trip report. We noticed that nobody ever followed through
on 2014's experience with high altitude thunderstorms, so that will be
following soon.
WHAT'S GOING ON
What is going on is that we are getting older. Your children too. The
announcement of the lineup for the Bill Graham Civic for NYE does not
include any members of the Grateful Dead for the first time (well maybe
not exactly the 1st time) in 25-30 years. No Dead, no Ratdog, not even
Dave Grisman. Phil Lesh, as you 'Heads may know, is battling cancer with,
we hope, good chances of beating the thing due to early intervention.
Instead of the Dead or some version of Gov't Mule the Flaming Lips will
roll into town -- more than likely inside a big plastic bubble.
As for Halloween shindigs, the Exotic Erotic Ball got moved to a Pavilion
in Richmond and a date in May, so you missed it. The Fencesitters Costume
Ball appears to have vaporized -- can't find any promo on this event that
catered to those of us who want all the options open for dates. No word
on what happened to the Hookers Ball.
For the reely beeg shews San Francisco still dominates the skyline, however
here on the Warmer Side of the Bay, we do have our own fait do do.
In fact The Rock Wall Wine Company on the Island is getting to be known
as the place to be seen and the hotspot to hook-up. That one is located
at 2301 Monarch Street which is out on the Point. If you enter the old
base via Willie Stargell keep going when the name changes to W. Midway.
That will terminate at Monarch Street. Turn left and go a couple long
blocks.
If weirdly glowing cocktail beverages float your boat, The Forbidden
Island Tiki Lounge on Lincoln is always a fun place to go with a friend
or two. The clientele tends to be lively and engaging so who knows with
what werewolf you go home. And after midnight when the moon is just right,
some people change change, you know . . .
The Churchward Pub is holding a costume contest at its location on Park
Street just down the block from La Penca Azul.
In Oakland the Fat Lady on the edge of Jack London Square always has
something on Halloween. It has a restaurant and a bar. If you go, try
the fried zucchini; its to die for. And if you don't find the barmaids
cute, that means you have had too much to drink.
Just about all the bars and clubs are doing something.
The Uptown District is holding an event with an interesting title. At
Liminal on 3037 38th Avenue the Sadie Hawkins Halloween Ball & Poetry
Brothel will take place. According to the PR the rules appear to be a
bit flexible on the good side. "A dance party where the ladies invite
the gentlemen! Ladies . . . you will have to keep to one each. If you
do not conform to the male/female binary, make up your rules . . .!"
Doors open at 8pm for that one with an open admission fee. Pay what you
can.
The Scottish Rite Temple at 1547 Lakeside Drive in Oakland will host
a costume party -- indeed costumes are mandatory. This is an over 21 party
titled Saints and Sinners. No weapons of any kind as part of your costume
allowed.
The Fox is hosting a regular bluegrass show in the form of Greensky Bluegrass,
but you never know what they might pick for a setlist. The band is known
to be "grittier" than your usual BG band, and does employ effects
pedals as well as a punk sensibility, according to report. They are part
of the "newgrass" movement. Tickets are $27.
Berkeley, of course, will be hosting parties as well, including the Albatross
Bar, a watering hole that features in-house crafted beers.
If shrieking guitars, guys howling at the mike, and guitars sporting
carefully untrimmed guitar strings that wave over the black, beer-sodden
floor get you hot, then the punkish Stork Club dive bar is just for you.
Still at 2330 Telegraph Ave between 23rd St & 24th last we heard.
For a more **cough** family friendly experience the Hornet Museum out
at the Point here on the Island will even provide a room for you and your
main squeeze overnight. If you dare. The former operational aircraft carrier
served in WWII and as the main retriever for the Apollo capsules prior
to the use of the reusable space shuttles. And serving docents have all
claimed encounters with ghosts aboard ship. On October 31, the party begins
at 7:30 and runs to 1:30am. There will be a no host bar and live music.
Regular tickets are $30 in advance, $35 at the door and double that for
VIP tickets. Go to USS
Hornet for more info.
So although some places may be holding big raves over there in Babylon,
with the Castro historically putting on a flash mob kind of show consisting
mainly of ordinary folks wearing finery of feathers and leather, there
is no special reason to cross the Bay as we have plenty going on around
here.
In the news, the High Street Bridge will close to all traffic, above
and below it, M-F 9:30-6:30 through November 25th. Maybe this will get
you all adjusted to how life will be like once the new developments are
completed.
The Alameda Renters Coalition has sent out a press release regarding
the special meeting of the City Council on the current rental crisis.
It goes in part:
"Wednesday, Nov. 4, at 7:00 PM, the Alameda City Council is holding
a special meeting, a public hearing, on the rent and eviction crisis in
Alameda. This is a BIG DEAL and represents a win for everyone who has
helped and supported ARC, and everyone who has signed the petition. This
meeting is only happening because everyone is speaking up and making a
difference.
The council meeting is your chance to tell the mayor and the council
what is happening to our city, and how rising rents and no-fault evictions
are tearing the community apart. We are losing part of what makes Alameda
special and dear to us all."
It might be good to go and just listen to what people have to say.
We close this section with a bit of good news from ACT here on the Island.
"Park District to Purchase GSA Property to Expand Popular Alameda
Park"
"Oct. 22, 2015 - The East Bay Regional Park District today announced
it will become the owner of an important 3-acre parcel on McKay Ave in
Alameda which will lead to the expansion of Crown Memorial State Beach.
The Park Districts purchase resolves an eminent domain action by
the United States government against the State of California and the Park
District to seize control over portions of McKay Avenue, the main access
road to Crab Cove.
The Park District agreed to a purchase price of $2,182,500 for the property
which formerly housed the U.S. Department of Agriculture. The Board of
Directors is expected to formally approve the purchase at its Nov. 3 meeting.
In addition, the parties have agreed that that ownership of McKay Avenue
will return to the State.
This is good news, if you are tuning in late because that parcel had
been informally promised to the EBRPD, but was abruptly put up for auction,
which was won by Tim Lewis Communities, a private developer who already
had ties to some projects here.
Then ensued a firefight between the GSA and the EBRPD with the City caught
in the middle during a strange backroom rezoning of the parcel from commercial
to residential. Problem for a residential parcel is that the parcel had
no sewer, no electrical, no gas suitable for residences as envisioned
by TLC, which wisely backed off from the auction deal as neighbors to
something they had imagined would become park howled at the prospect of
having yet more neighbors filing down that narrow unimproved road in great
numbers.
The GSA having a hissy fit over a EBRPD lawsuit on the issue, threatened
to seize the entire street by Eminent Domain -- until they probably realized
THEY would have to pay for infrastructure improvements if they did that,
not the State nor the City. In any case they pursued the Eminent Domain
lawsuit so as to complete this sale to TLC, which began wishing it had
not won an auction. According to the ACT notice:
"The United States sued the State of California and the Park District
in an eminent domain action in 2014 to acquire McKay Avenue in an attempt
to complete its sale of Neptune Point to a private developer. The State
Attorney Generals office, working with EBRPD attorneys and the California
State Parks, fought back and argued that such action should be reserved
for public benefit, not the private benefit of a residential developer.
In the alternative, the State and the Park District claimed that if the
United States was allowed to take McKay Avenue, the United States would
need to pay $1.4 million in compensation."
In the final agreement the GSA gets some money for the parcel and avoids
substantial costs that would have canceled any money it would have gotten
from TLC, and the GSA saves face -- which seems to have been its primary
motivation all along -- by asserting its right to dispose of its property
as it sees fit, be it surplus tanks or real estate.
And the EBRPD gets to expand the shoreline facilities as it was mandated
to do by a previously voter approved Proposition to do just that.
Everybody happy now?
IN YOUR HASTE ON HALLOWEEN, YOU LEFT YOUR CAMERA ON THE BED
Here are some images from front yards around the Island.


Are the ducks meant to be terrifying or our protectors?

Boo indeed.

Doorway detail.


Bad landing apparently ....

Lovely couple ...

This yard on Santa Clara always does Halloween well. This year the theme
is Alien Truckstop. Or Spaceport, if you will.

Vending machine. It says in yellow, "Insert one pound flesh."

Capsule being refueled and repaired.


The detail is amazing and everything is handmade from found household
objects.

Individuals waiting for the transport.

Human spacecraft appears to have had some trouble, but cleanup is underway...

Ever notice how strange people are always wandering around the airport...?


Down the way in front of a real orthodontist office. Honesty is best,
we guess ....

Ghosts and gouls
And witches that drool
Vampires and bats
And howling black cats
O terrifying skulls with flapping black wings!
These are a few of my favorite things!

Okay enough is enough for now. More next week.
MONSTER MASH REDEUX
So anyway, leaves skittered across the street from where they had fallen
from dutifully molting oaks on Santa Clara Avenue and clouds scudding
across the waning moon caused shadows to flap and dance in the corners.
While the Almeida family combined their efforts to construct costumes
and turn their designated "safe house for Halloween" into something
frightful (but not too frightful) the Native Sons held their annual Monsters
Ball at the parlor location hard by the marina. The Almeidas turned the
chicken coop into a witch's haunt, using stiff cardboard painted black
with a stovepipe chimney that puffed real smoke -- from a mini fog machine
located inside the stack.
Mrs. Almeida would be handing out candy next Saturday dressed as a mackerel
and Mr. Almeida planned to dress as a fishing rod with a little gummy
worm attached to the hook. He had a little problem with entering and exiting
the doorway, trying to find a way to telescope the long 7 foot rod attached
to his back until Mrs. Almeida told him to just go as a stubby rod and
reel and let imagination do the fill-in.
"It's not the length, dear, it is the imagination you use with it
that matters," Mrs. Almeida reminded him.
Robots are the big thing this year, due largely to movies.
Gilberto, who was born long after Judy Garland had passed on, was hammering
together pieces of conduit for a Tin Man costume. Filiberto was soldering
-- with supervision -- a Wall-E suit. Alicia was going as a Minion, and
would be watching over little Santiago, dressed as a mini-Minion. Ana
was going as the fembot from Ex Machina while Ana wanted to be R2D2 but
only because the costume was easier to make than that other thing with
the English accent. Jorge couldn't decide between Chappie or Iron Man
from the Avengers, but both of those required too much work and help from
his older brothers. He eventually decided on a cobbled Transformer.
The shindig at the Native Sons of the Golden West started off quite serene.
Lionel, dressed as a distinguished vampire, escorted Jacqueline who came
as Morticia from the Addams Family sitcom.
The way these things go, when people actually act out their fantasies,
they wind up frustrated until they can assemble a new fantasy that can
never be realized, because if your fantasy becomes Reality, then that
is no good, in turn because Reality is always fraught with disappointment.
That's just reality, dude.
Mr. Spline came as his hero Col. Armstrong Custer, while Mr. Terse entered
the door as his hero, Dwight D. Eisenhower. People thought they were a
couple, but the truth is, they were both straight and pretty narrow and
neither could find dates.
Besides the usual feral female cats, a schooner's worth of pirates and
assorted space aliens, the hall overflowed with families from an entire
block on San Antonio, each dressed as a GOP candidate for President, the
Sanchez family dressed as a bag of marshmallows, the Island-life Editor
as Ben Bradlee, several members of Congress dripping with blood and looking
a bit vampirish, four President Assads, a baker's dozen of hastily done
DAESH fighter-thugs carrying scimitars, a plethora of medical workers
in hazmat suits, which made for drinking the punch through the respirator
masks a dicey proposition, and at least one premature, but hopeful, Xmas
present.
Lynette and Susan came as an Harley Davidson engine and as a biker chick,
respectively.
Pimenta Strife strode across the threshold in 6 inch stiletto heels and
a set of angel wings with a diaphanous tunic that left little to the imagination
and it was pretty obvious she had a Brazilian wax job. Instead of a date
she draped the end of her barbed tail over her arm; she knew she wouldn't
go home alone.
Given the eclectic mix it was inevitable that an argument would ensue,
and ensue it did close to midnight, after all the guests were well lubricated.
The Harley engine got into it with Eisenhower over women's rights to
choose what they want to do with their own bodies and DDE would have none
of it. Donald Trump got into it, siding with Eisenhower while a woman
in a Hazmat suit tried to remove her facemask to help the Harley. Bernie
Sanders stood to the side and offered the comment that the problem was
that corporations had a stranglehold on the throat of America.
Several of the GOP candidates began bickering among themselves about
the best way to make everything and everybody Conservative and a Gerrymandered
District lay down on the floor to explain how it was done and a couple
marshmallows tripped over his legs and fell down too. The hazmat woman
finally ripped her mask loose, saying, "Now if you don't have a uterus
. . .", but she never finished as her elbow accidentally wacked a
livid Ron Paul who threw a wild roundhouse punch that, true to the Tea
Party Movement, missed its target by a mile, striking instead a hapless
Congressman vampire, sending his false teeth flying.
Things quickly descended into a savage, atavistic brawl with costume
tearing, wookie hair pulling, robotic parts sent skittering, and facemask
pulling that would have any NFL referee in shock and awe. Col. Armstrong
Custer stepped into the melee which grew to involve some twenty-five people.
There he stood and removed his colt pistols and then discharged them at
the same time while pointing to the ceiling. A little plaster fell down
from above where everyone could see two neat, brand new bullet holes.
"You brought live ammo to a party! You've taken this military industrial
complex thing too far!" said Dwight D. Eisenhower. "Are you
crazy?!"
The door opened and a girl, about seven or eight walked in. She was barefoot
and wearing what looked like an old-fashioned nightgown with a Peter Pan
collar and her dark eyes were very large. The time had just passed midnight.
The girl walked through the crowd and the heaped up bodies up to Morticia,
who had stayed clear of the fray along with Lionel, and stood in front
of the woman. This is what she said.
"Please tell them to stop. I can't rest. Please. It hurts."
That made them all feel pretty sheepish. Well, of course. Late hour.
Neighbors and all. It was a wonder no one had called the cops. Poor child,
trying to sleep.
The little girl looked somehow familiar, with her dark hair tumbling
down in sleepy curls, as if she evoked something seen on a poster or the
side of milk carton. She stood there, holding the most serious expression
on her face, then turned and walked out of the door, down the steps and
over the breakwater down to the wharves with the full moon lighting everything
up quite clearly.
"Good god! She's going in!" Someone shouted.
Several people erupted from the hall, led by Susan B. Anthony followed
closely by Colonel Custer and Dwight D. Eisenhower. They all stopped short
when they all saw what happened next.
There, the little girl stepped off the edge of the wharf and, walking
on the quiet water with only minor ripples spreading outward from her
small feet, kept on going out across the cove then over the top of the
gentle swells, and glimmering faintly as if lit within by a candle, continued
to walk on the surface of the water out into the middle of the Bay and
there vanished as all of them stood there, watching.
"Effing A!" said Eugene, who was dressed as a caddis fly nymph.
Everyone else was as quiet as the grave. "Didn't something like this
happen last year?" Everyone else remained as quiet as the grave.
That was when the train ululated from far across the water as the locomotive
trundled from beneath the spectral gantries of the Port of Oaktown with
their 1000 watt lamps, letting its cry keen across the waves of the estuary,
the riprap embankments, the haunted grasses of the Buena Vista flats and
the open spaces of the former Beltline, through the cracked brick of the
former Cannery with its leaf-scattered loading dock and its weedy railbed
and interstices of its chainlink fence, dropping slowly over the motionless
basketball hoops of Littlejohn Park as the locomotive click-clacked in
front of the shuttered doors of the Jack London Waterfront, trundling
out of ghostly shadows on the edge of town past the Ohlone shellmounds
to parts unknown.
That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.

OCTOBER 18, 2015
LET THE DAYS GO BY/ LET THE WATER HOLD ME DOWN

This week we have a shot of Marin's Lake Lagunitas. Normally all the
verdant green here is covered with water from the far right to the far
left and to the camera's foreground.
The drought persists.
THIS ISLAND LIFE
Looks like folks are gearing up for fights over development here. Change.org
sent us a PR about the recent proposal for a rent increase moratorium
on the island. Here it is: "Wednesday, Nov. 4, at 7:00 PM, the Alameda
City Council is holding a special meeting, a public hearing, on the rent
and eviction crisis in Alameda. This is a BIG DEAL and represents a win
for everyone who has helped and supported ARC, and everyone who has signed
the petition. This meeting is only happening because everyone is speaking
up and making a difference.
The council meeting is your chance to tell the mayor and the council
what is happening to our city, and how rising rents and no-fault evictions
are tearing the community apart. We are losing part of what makes Alameda
special and dear to us all."
ACT is holding a meeting 10/21 on a specific development project. Here
is the info: "Alameda Citizens Task Force October 21, 7:00, Alameda
Hospital, 2nd Floor Conference Room, ACT will have its next quarterly
meeting with a discussion led by Dorothy Freeman on: Northern Waterfront
Community Shapes a Development. 2000 units are planned from Grand St to
Park St.
Come and learn how the residents of 2100 Clement Street worked to improve
the developer's plan."
The recent issue of the Island Sun ran a report on rent hikes as they
happen statewide as compared to the rest of the nation, and it does appear
that we are on the cutting edge of greed in a country that appears to
have dropped off the moral map when it comes to rental prices. Info was
drawn from Apartment List, which trends to the high end for rentals. Nevertheless,
even a tad above real average is way out of line when SF 2 bedroom apartments
average $4950. Clearly normal people can no way afford that, not even
the much maligned Dot-commers, so what is happening is that four to eight
people are letting and subletting the places, resulting in a massive population
flux in some areas not equipped to handle the increased sewage, traffic,
and parking demands. The article stated figures only for the larger cities
and for the state as a whole, so what is happening on the Island is a
matter of projection.
What is certain here is that with the Webster Barbershop closing, the
closing of Vines coffeeshop and the attendant nursery, the removal of
Paganos further to the West, the closure of the Park Street Bakery, the
closure of Crolls, the shuttering of the Central Avenue Cinema, the closing
of Brown's shoe store on Lincoln, the burn-out of Aphrodite's closet,
the closure of the Silversmith curio shop on Park, the closure of Vignettes
on Park, the shameful machinations of HBAI over the athletic club, plus
a number of other lease-enforced closures and the rental increase crisis
are all resulting in wholesale destruction of the neighborhoods here on
the Island and the current administration has done nothing to address
this. Our Island is being put up for sale by people who do not care for
it and we need to do something about it.
Our homes are being razed about our ears all over the Bay Area, not just
this Island, and the Outrage is building day by day.
This sounds so much like the conditions that informed John of Gaunt's
final speech in Shakespeare we die pronouncing it. "This island is
leased out!" Replace the name of England with Alameda, and you have
it all.
"Light vanity, insatiate cormorant,
Consuming means, soon preys upon itself.
This royal throne of kings, this scepter'd isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demi-paradise,
This fortress built by Nature for herself
Against infection and the hand of war,
This happy breed of men, this little world,
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall,
Or as a moat defensive to a house,
Against the envy of less happier lands,
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this Island,
This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings,
Fear'd by their breed and famous by their birth,
Renowned for their deeds as far from home,
This land of such dear souls, this dear dear land,
Dear for her reputation through the world,
Is now leased out, I die pronouncing it,
Like to a tenement or pelting farm:
Island, bound in with the triumphant sea
Whose rocky shore beats back the envious siege
Of watery Neptune, is now bound in with shame,
With inky blots and rotten parchment bonds:
That Island, that was wont to conquer others,
Hath made a shameful conquest of itself."
The Life and Death of Richard the Second
| Richard II | Act 2, Scene 1
On the upnote, Neal Young's annual Bridge School Benefit shall continue,
this time without Pegi Young in forefront, but with the Dixie Chicks and
Ben Harper sure to put in stellar performances. The Dixie Chicks upset
trad Nashville radio when a member of the band dissed George Bush a while
back, so we look forward to seeing these talented and uncowed women once
again take center stage where they belong.
As they say, the Bushes are not really from Texas; they just bought property
there.
SLEEP WITH ONE EYE OPEN
So anyway, the wind kicked up and a proper dockwasher slushed through
for a brief time, chasing all the seagulls in from the sea over the parkinglots.
Saturday morning was greeted by jeweled bedewed leaves and spangled car
windows. The wind continued to knock crabapples from the gnarled limbs
of the twisted tree out back and web-beetle contraptions beaded up with
moisture.
Beneath the Estuary surface the El Chadoor paused in its persistent quest
for information as an Iranian Spy sub keeping tabs upon the Port of Oaktown.
Silent and deep all was asleep and at peace.
It is the mysterious time of changlings and changes. The Ban-Sé
wail about the chimney at the Old Same Place and the veil between the
worlds stretches thinner and thinner, allowing passage between this world
and the next. Now is the time when tiny monsters breed in the doorways
and the windowsills of the Island. Now is the time when the errant breeze
tosses leaves skittering across the pathways and revenants walk the land,
spectral and translucent. Now is the time when the Old Ones return to
greet us. Soon come Los Dias de Los Muertos -- The Days of the
Dead.
Now is also the time when the Editor hosts the annual Drawing of Straws
that will determine who among the Island-Lifers will be chosen to descend
to that land from which no man is known to return. Save for the occasional
Medieval Poet from Italy and wayward ancient Greek looking for Eurydice.
Somebody always has to be different.
As per custom, all staffers were called into the offices to sit around
nervously as Rachel, the AA, moved with a dancer's poise between the aisles
with the cup of straws held high and each drew from the fated cup in the
form of a battered derby. As each drew in turn, they nervously palmed
their straw before comparing it to that of their neighbor and then sighing
with relief.
Rachel came to the Messenger Desk where Festus stood next to the computer
keyboard anxiously wiping his face with his paws.
"Draw," commanded the Editor.
"But boss, I am an hamster! Nobody is going to talk to me?"
"Finally a proper use of 'an'!" the Editor said.
"Excuse me?" Anne Riffleton, the Dispatcher, said.
"I mean the article," said the Editor. "Draw, Festus."
"O for pete's sake!" Festus said before diving into the hat
and emerging with a straw, clearly not the short one. "There! Thank
my nuts I am free and clear!"
Someone began mumbling about possible cheating.
"Never mind your privates; we have mixed company here. Next!"
said the Editor.
Rachel finally came to Denby who hung down his head.
"You know how this goes," Rachel said. "C'mon and get
it over with."
"Wait!" Denby said. "Sharon, the Social Events Coordinator,
is not here! She's in the hospital!"
"Someone will draw as proxy," said the Editor.
"She is already pretty close to Death's door," Denby said.
"It would be logical for her . . . ".
"Denby, you are a fine writer and a mediocre musician, but as a
gentleman, you suck donkey doo." The Editor said.
"O for pete's sake . . . ".
"Draw!" Commanded the Editor.
Denby shrugged his shoulders in despair and reached up to draw from the
hat Rachel held high. He palmed his straw and Rachel sashayed away.
The others drew from the hat and Denby opened his palm. Once again, per
tradition, he had drawn the short straw for the 15th time in a row.
"Again? Again?"
The staff all gathered around him and patted him on the back with congratulations
as Denby began silently weeping. "Way to go old pal," they said
before walking away to mutter each to him and herself under the breath,
"Gosh darn, sure glad it aint me! Poor sod. . .".
What a team was the newsroom staff.
"You got two weeks to get ready this time," the Editor said.
"Leave your Last Wishes and papers with Anne."
Denby just looked at him.
"In case you don't come back," the Editor said. "You are
not getting any younger my boy."
As Denby sat with his head in his hands, Festus tried to console him.
"Don't take it so hard, buddy. It's just one night in the year.
You go down there, schmooze a bit with the devils -- maybe meet the Big
Guy, Old Nick himself -- and come right back. Just like that Eye-talian
poet with his Beatrice."
"Beatrice? My friend Beatrice?" Denby said, thinking of the
lanky, dark-haired woman he knew. "She's too dotty to be a guiding
muse. And I do not think she wants to be put on no damn pedestal either.
Besides, I think that was Virgil." He looked at the Editor who shifted
his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other.
"I aint no damn Virgil." The Editor said. "You go by yourself,
as usual. We need the scoop on who wins the Presidential election."
"I went with him the time he was in the wheelchair," Jose said.
"O really," Anne said. "What was it like?" She was
hoping for lurid tales of devils with pitchforks and flames and Helen
of Troy with Faustus.
"It really really sucked," Jose said simply. And then he was
silent.
"O well," Festus said. "So long SOHO and give my regards
to Broadway. I am taking off for the night."
After all the drama, each of the staffers returned to their desks to
shut down their computers and check the tasks for the next day before
leaving. Denby stared into space for a while before he, too, departed
for his room he rented underneath the Walnut Street Psychiatric Facility
for Pathological Narcissism. As he came in the door Ms. Whale was coming
out and she spoke to him. "By the way could you do something for
me? Please don't look so sad; it brings me down."
Underneath the estuary waters, the First Mate and Captain observed all
of these things with wonder. "What is this thing Halloween?"
Asked the First Mate.
"It is like Boujloud in Morocco," said the Captain.
"What happens to the Traveler on that night? Have we ever followed
him?"
The Captain shook his head. "He disappears at the seawall. The water
is too shallow for us to come close on the Bay side, so we cannot follow
him."
The First Mate paused, thinking about these things.
"When he comes back he looks . . . affected by whatever he sees
there," The Captain said.
"I think it is good we do not follow him," the First Mate said.
"I agree," Said the Captain. "Dive!"
And with that the El Chadoor passed from the estuary out into the Bay
and across the expanse under the Golden Gate to the sea-monster populated
ocean beyond, running silent, running deep.
Back in the offices the Editor sat at his desk, which was lit only by
the pool of light spilled from the solitary desklamp, while Irene came
along with her broom to gather up the littered straws and dust. Eventually,
the Editor also turned out this light, leaving the aisles in the keeping
of the one who was sweeping up the ghosts of Sunday night.
The ululation of the train whispered from far across the water as the
locomotive trundled from beneath the gantries of the Port of Oaktown with
their 1000 watt lamps, letting its cry keen across the waves of the estuary,
the riprap embankments, the grasses of the Buena Vista flats and the open
spaces of the former Beltline, through the cracked brick of the former
Cannery with its leaf-scattered loading dock and its weedy railbed and
interstices of its chainlink fence, dropping slowly over the motionless
basketball hoops of Littlejohn Park until the locomotive click-clacked
in front of the shuttered doors of the Jack London Waterfront, trundling
out of shadows on the edge of town past the Ohlone shellmounds to parts
unknown.
That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.

OCTOBER 11, 2015
CALL ME ANYTIME
This photo was submitted by Carol of St. Charles Street as a massive
cell-tower installation was being added to the existing largest G3-G4
installation in the East Bay. Said install was negotiated, prepped and
installed without renter tenant notification of any kind. One day workers
showed up and heavy construction began. Above people's heads.

We interviewed the Western US Division Inspector for T-Mobile and with
AT&T representatives who declined to be named. They each stated they
were paying the landlord about $32,000 per month for the install. On inspection,
a separate electrical subpanel had been installed along with three T1
concentrators to handle the traffic. Basically, with the cell-phone G4
install, the landlord can dispense with the tenants or have everyone live
entirely for free in the building.
Is not Greed an amazing thing?
THIS ISLAND LIFE
This weekend saw events firing off all over the Bay Area. We had our
own fancy car show thing on Park Street and numerous other municipalities
had stuff showcasing their hometowns and special booths eager to capture
the wandering dollars of errant travelers.
We elected to drop in on humble Lagunitas to pitch in to their annual
school district fundraiser. Hey, the big boys don't need our dollars and
when districts in places as affluent as Lagunitas need to hold raffles
and music events you gotta know something is seriously wrong with the
funding priorities in this here United States.
Don't just wave your yellow Support the Troops meaningless ribbons and
your Number One foam fingers. Put your dollars where it counts and support
our kids.
We just returned from the Annual Mountain Sabbatical so we are gradually
looping back into what has been going on. Fortunately, this time no American
Major Cities have been destroyed by natural disasters combined with Official
negligence and foolishness ("Heck of a job, Brownie!") this
time. Instead the House Speaker resigned over his disgust with negligence
and foolishness within his own Party, and Bernie started looking better
even as goofballs admitted the entire Bengazi commission was all about
attacking a member of the Opposition Party.
Well, not much changed in two weeks.
Front page of the Sun carried a couple stories about the rent extortion
that is destroying the communities here. Latest to fall, not on this page
of the Sun, but important nonetheless, is Croll's eatery, which is being
forced to move after over 100 years in its present location. Which adds
to the Boudin bakery, the Pagano's hardware store, the mini-theatre on
Central, the Brown Brothers shoe store, four corners of businesses at
Park at Santa Clara, the Webster street Barber shop, and several dozen
other businesses, each of whom had occupied space for well over half a
century, as fatalities in this defacto landlord war on tenants that is
wrecking our quality of life here and changing the way we live by force
of dollars.
We do not care about market rents in Pleasanton or Marin or Frisco that
sold its soul a long time ago. We do not live there. We live here on an
Island and we care about rents rising here and here is what matters to
us. Stop it now. We do not care how our town "fits in " with
other California towns feeling the rental squeeze. We do not live there;
we live here. We want this thing to come to a halt here and for ever after.
If it begins with telling HBAI to take a flying hike then let it start
here now. So be it.
Maybe if it starts here it will grow to other towns and this whole insanity
will come to a grinding halt and even Marin, once a blue-collar backwater,
will start to come to its senses and return to its proper Californio roots.
Lagunitas, too.
MY OWN PRISON
So anyway, the days have been hot with sunshine after heavy, leaden fogs
have burnt away. Saturday, the Island was socked in until late with dripping
weather, which yielded to bright sunny skies. Not many other parts of
the country experience this. In Marlene and Andre's Household, a household
of some fifteen or more folks packed into a one bedroom cottage letted
by Mr. Howitzer, all packed in because the obscene and usurious rents
charged in the Bay Area are so extreme it has driven people to this kind
of arrangement, Marlene comes out to sit for a rest on the battered steps
to the porch under which Snuffles the bum has been living for some years
since Javier's disastrous 50'th birthday burned a hole in the floorboards
and nearly killed everyone residing inside the building.
"I do not know why I do it, this day to day, caring for 15 crazy
people in this cottage," Marlene said, wiping a black whisp of dishwater
strand from her forehead. "All of them helpless and foolish."
Little Adam, tossed from a car and abandoned by his former somewhat guardians,
mused for a moment. "At least we love one another," said the
waif.
Marlene mooned in silence a moment more, head in arms. She then regained
her sense of responsibility to school the boy proper. "Yes, me lad.
That is for sure. That is what makes us different. From those with the
big cars."
In the Offices of the Island-life organization the Editor made ready
for the annual ritual of the Drawing of Straws. This was a terrible and
awesome tradition that could not be denied, for the loser of this drawing
must needs pass unto that bourne from which no traveler may return. Save
each year one selected Island-Lifer. Only one is allowed to go to the
Other Side and report on what has transpired there and bring back news
and fortune of things to come and things and people which have passed.
The unlucky one who draws the shortest straw must pass to the regions
of the Dead and suffer the agony of loss all over and once again.
All of the staffers from all around the world, wherever they may be,
need to appear for this night of the Drawing of Straws. At the end, they
all go back to their offices, each to each, to await the final days of
Los Dias de los Muertos.
The Editor walked down the silent aisles of the newsroom, all the desks
with their lamps and their monitors silent and dark. He, alone, had never
drawn from the cup passed by Rachel, the statuesque AA. He already had
seen death in his various forms as a soldier in distant Vietnam long ago.
This annual visit was always given to someone else. During the witching
hours.
Lately, a ghost had been visiting him at night, in this time when the
veil between the worlds grows thin. A tall black man who bent to his ear
to say, "Da islands be danger and lost. Bin long tyme sin ah spik
dat Gullah."...
And the Editor would start awake with wild eyes. Memories packing in
with a rush. The Carolina Islands far to the east, settled by Gullah freemen
and women escaped from the Black Ships to dwell where where no man and
no woman had been a slave. And there also inhabited the Daughters of the
Dust. The Islands were being sold out by the children who did not want
to live the old ways, keep the old customs. More money was to be had on
the mainland. But those Islands remained with their old history. To them
must the annual visitor go and visit and return, bearing witness.
On the desks the cups with their straws stood silent and glowing by faint
LEDs, those constant and ephemeral symbols of our time.
The world waits the witching hour as the veil between the two worlds
becomes thinner and thinner, allowing phantasms, dreams, revenants to
pass easily back and forth. Then come the Days of the Dead.
The ululation of the train from far across the water as it trundled from
beneath the gantries of the Port of Oaktown with their 1000 watt lamps,
letting its cry keen across the waves of the estuary, the riprap embankments,
the grasses of the Buena Vista flats and the open spaces of the former
Beltline, through the cracked brick of the former Cannery with its leaf-scattered
loading dock and its weedy railbed and interstices of its chainlink fence,
dropping slowly over the motionless basketball hoops of Littlejohn Park
until the locomotive click-clacked in front of the shuttered doors of
the Jack London Waterfront, trundling out of shadows on the edge of town
past the Ohlone shellmounds to parts unknown.
That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.

OCTOBER 04, 2015
ALL THE LEAVES WERE FALLING
This week we have a shot of the one lane road that comes down from North
Lake with the Aspens all putting on their Fall raiment. This is the road
that leads to the Lamarck/Piute trailheads and it is definitely not for
the faint of heart as the edge drops a good 500 feet. Makes it exciting.

THIS ISLAND-LIFE
Everyone is back from the Annual Island Mountain Sabbatical. And nobody
died or lost a leg! Pictures from this year's trip to Saddlebag Lake will
up in a week or so along with the trip report.
In addition, we have uploaded the Monologues for 2015 from January to
June, so if you missed the Wee Man, the annual Valentine's Day Massacree,
or Javier's birthday, those revised stories are now available from the
Stories section. Enjoy.
WHAT'S GOING ON
The 3rd Oakland Music Festival took place September 26th with its usual
emphasis upon local talent. By all accounts it was a peaceful and joyous
gathering in the Uptown district. Over in Babylon the 15th HSBF took place
in Hellman Meadows on a gusty weekend. Highlights were Michael Franti
kicking things off on Friday evening. Saturday featured Steve Earle as
a favorite returnee while Justin Townes Earle held the Banjo Stage crowd
in thrall. About half a million people packed the Golden Gate Park for
up-and-coming bands as well as some old favorites on the 6-stage venue.
Per developing tradition, the ageless Emmylou Harris appeared near the
end, but this time was followed by the eclectic DeVotchKa and Dustbowl
Revival.
The Oakland Art Murmur continues with several more events through this
October.
Vessel Gallery will hold an artist talk October 10th, followed by Reception
for its new installations. SLATE will host the 4th Annual Party Auction
fundraiser for the Art Murmur on the same day at Classic Cars West, 411
26th Avenue. Here is the PR : "Oakland Art Murmur Annual Benefit
Fundraiser and Art Auction features a silent art auction, delicious local
food + drink, live music + DJ, and the thriving visual arts community
of Oakland. This highly anticipated event provides direct and critical
support for Oakland Art Murmurs programs, projects and operations.
Purchase a VIP level ticket to attend the special OAM Reception and arrive
before the crowds to get a sneak peek at Oaklands finest artwork
in an intimate environment."
On the Island Encinal Hardware in the East End will celebrate 50 years
of doing business October 10th with a shindig. Drop on by to say hello
to brothers Michael and Philip Jaber.
Wednesday the Council will hear arguments about the Harbor Bay Club plan
in the Council Chambers at 7pm. Should be a contentious meeting.
If you would rather skip all these fine events, you can still go to the
CERT emergency preparedness class October 10th at 431 Stardust Place out
at the Point. For information go to ww.walamedacert.org to get ready for
the Hayward Fault Big One, due any day now.
SCARY MONSTERS, SUPER CREEPS
So anyway now begins the month long orgiastic party known in the Bay
Area as the Halloween Season. All the closet furries will be out of the
closet and the bus is sure to be packed with more than the usual number
of scandalous costumed fantasies. As the shadows get longer the walls
and windows of houses become infested with gargantuan spiders and ghouls
and the dark pits of doorways start breeding tiny monsters.
It is such an outlandishly fun time that even the kids get to enjoy the
atmosphere as well.
Everyone is thinking about what to wear on the night of All Hallow's
Eve when the Native Sons of the Golden West host their annual charity
costume ball. Eugene is putting together a monkey suit while Anatoly Enigma
will complement his usual daily getup of black cap, top hat and cummerbund
with a set of fangs.
Kid Viper is going dressed as the Hulk so as to show off his well-developed
deltoids. Pimenta Strife has not decided whether to do as a sexy nurse
in a mini-shirt, a sexy cop in a mini-skirt, or a sexy Daisy Mae in daisy-dukes
with some fabric removed. Or maybe she will just skip the pretense and
put on a sheer negligee with six-inch stiletto heels and get right to
the point.
Denby will be there, dressed as Phil Ochs, because he will be on stage
for part of the event.
The best thing about fantasies, says Dr. Smoot, PsyDoc, PhD, is that
they can never be realized. If they were, they would not be fantasies
any more, but would turn into dull, quotidian Reality. Who want's that
to happen to their dream of flying naked over the fields with two teddy
bears on the back of an equally naked gymnast hanging from a parasail?
You certainly would be disappointed. Not even the whipped cream would
be much solace.
Dr. Smoot is going dressed entirely in white with a sort of teardrop
cowl and a long, whipping tail. His companion, the fetching and extremely
intelligent Dr. Felching is going as a large round ovum.
We all had an other Supermoon in a year that was packed with moons above
and beyond the average. This time there was a lunar eclipse which results
in a rare Blood Moon effect, an effect that raises the air and curdles
the milk and results in unearthly shrieks in the night. Father Danyluk
was roused to investigate one of those screams in the convent only to
find it was only Sister Incontinence who found a cricket in her cowl after
putting it on her head.
"Bless me, Father!" said the nun. "I've got a bug in my
bonnet!"
The good father took hold of the insect between thumb and forefinger
as Sister Profundity turned the corner.
"What's going on!" said Sister Profundity.
The good father held forth the cricket, which waggled its antennae.
"Ugh!"
"Bless you," said Father Danyluk. "And bless this bait
which is good for fishing."
The priest returned to the rectory and put the cricket in a jar.
Out on the edge of the Community College green Don Senor Luis Guadalupe
de Erizo gazed up at the heavens.
Dame Herrisson poked her head out of the burrow.
"Les étoiles sont cachés par les nuages", She
said. (The stars are hidden by clouds.)
Si
"La lune est en déclin." (The moon is waning.)
Si.
"Il n'y a rien à voir dans les cieux". (Nothing is up
there.)
No.
Pause
"Qu'est ce que tu regardes?" (What are you looking at?)
"Todo." (Everything)
Pause.
"Tu es fou," said Dame Herrisson. Pause. "Mais je t'aime
quand même."
Pause.
"Si."
"Ahhhhh! Les hommes sont fous!" Dame Herrisson said, and went
back inside.
Pause.
"Si." And the Don smiled. He went to the shrubbery and picked
one of the last roses of summer to bring into the burrow.
As has been mentioned, all the little creatures of the earth understand
every language perfectly well; normally, they choose not to speak to people
for fear of being misunderstood due to the human lack of education. And
of course, it is clear that human men and women quite often wind up speaking
entirely different languages which adds to the confusion of miscommunication.
At such times, it has been found that the language of flowers can provide,
on the occasion, a sort of rough translation.
The ululation of the train from far across the water as it trundled from
beneath the gantries of the Port of Oaktown with their 1000 watt lamps,
letting its cry keen across the waves of the estuary, the riprap embankments,
the grasses of the Buena Vista flats and the open spaces of the former
Beltline, through the cracked brick of the former Cannery with its leaf-scattered
loading dock and its weedy railbed and interstices of its chainlink fence,
dropping slowly over the motionless basketball hoops of Littlejohn Park
until the locomotive click-clacked in front of the shuttered doors of
the Jack London Waterfront, trundling out of shadows on the edge of town
past the Ohlone shellmounds to parts unknown.
That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.

SEPTEMBER 20, 2015
EXCELLENT BIRDS
Here is a shot of a last burst of summer from a bird-of-paradise palm,
just glowing with exhuberance and the swelling joy of Life.

THIS ISLAND LIFE
There will be no Island-LIfe issue next week and as you see, this one
is truncated. The Staff are going up late for the annual Island-Life Mountain
Sabbatical, and, should sufficient survivors return, we will resume operations
in October.
The ululation of the train from far across the water as it trundled from
beneath the gantries of the Port of Oaktown with their 1000 watt lamps,
letting its cry keen across the waves of the estuary, the riprap embankments,
the grasses of the Buena Vista flats and the open spaces of the former
Beltline, through the cracked brick of the former Cannery with its leaf-scattered
loading dock and its weedy railbed and interstices of its chainlink fence,
dropping slowly over the motionless basketball hoops of Littlejohn Park
until the locomotive click-clacked in front of the shuttered doors of
the Jack London Waterfront, trundling out of shadows on the edge of town
past the Ohlone shellmounds to parts unknown.
That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great couple
of weeks.

SEPTEMBER 13, 2015
LEAVES WERE FALLING, JUST LIKE EMBERS
Here is a shot of Santa Clara Avenue near Church Row. The temperature
may be mild, but the trees know what to do.

The song reference is to Rolly Salley's "Killing the Blues."
Leaves were falling, just like embers
in colors, red and gold, to set us on fire,
Just like moonbeams in our eyes.
Chris Smither's version is still the best.
THIS ISLAND LIFE
Thursday the City will allow residents to input on the plans to revise
Central Avenue to include a bicycle lane and make intersections at Main,
Pacific and Main, and Sherman at Encinal safer. The changes will involve
a reduction of lanes from four to three on Central. This is the third
community workshop and it will be held Sept 17 at 6:00pm at Encinal High
School.
The spat between Harbor Bay Neighbors and Harbor Bay Isle Associates
(sometimes referred to by the name of its founder, Ron Cowan) continues
with no love lost between the two groups. HBIA wants to remove an existing
athletic club and replace it with between 80 and 160 homes or a large
hotel conference center. HBIA wants to place a new, larger club at North
Loop Road, which is located under the flight path for Oakland International
Airport.
The crux of the matter is that HBIA wants to build on every square inch
they can find so as to make more money beyond rentals, property management,
and the usual realtor activity. Having only seeming undesirable land good
enough for a club but not for houses means HBIA feels compelled to tear
something down so as to build up something bigger and more expensive.
Make no mistake: HBIA is not out to provide services in some philanthropic
mood. HBIA is a business and businesses exist to make money -- that is
their entire purpose. If a company chooses to make money doing good for
the community or divert some or all of its profits to doing good, so much
the better.
Cutting through the fog mirror effects, at the end of the day if HBIA
gets what they want, we get a new pricey athletic club (anyone talk about
dues costs yet? And why Mariner Square cannot keep 'em coming back?) and
we get 80 homes (at the low end) worth of more people, more cars, more
infrastructure stress. Other than the new Club, where we sure we all would
enjoy a $20/month membership, 80 new homes benefits nobody but HBIA and
there resides the largest issue in advance of all the quibbles from HBN
about how HBIA purchased influence in the time-honored fashion of Ron
Cowan -- who is not remembered with any fondness for his previous projects
by many old timers here.
Finally, we reiterate a serious query about Ron Cowan's outfit. Just
why does he feel compelled to wreck the place in which he grew up instead
of doing this to some other community some other place?
So what is upcoming on the Calendar? Counting Crows returning to the
Shoreline. Lenny Kravitz strutted his stuff already at the Fox. You can
still catch Jackie Greene, the Sacto boy, November 27. Can't wait that
long? Brandi Carllile will sing about that darned horse stuck in a tree
Friday, September 18.
Over in Babylon John Hiatt performed with the Taj Mahal Trio day after
9/11 at the Regency. But Gogol Bordello will perform their cosmo, multilingual
"gypsy punk" November 25 at the venerable Warfield. If you go,
you must start wearing purple, wearing purple. And all your sanity and
wits will start to vanish.
September 26th Oakland hosts the Oakland Music Festival. We have never
heard of this thing going into its third year, nor have we heard of most
of the acts. Both very good reasons to go there. Here is part of the Blurb.
"Launched in 2013 as a celebration of all things Oakland, OMF is
an independent showcase featuring local and international musical talent
as well as local eateries, breweries and small craft distillers. Founded
by a group of friends and Oakland locals, the Festival aims to foster
and support both the local music, art community and the diverse food &
spirit craftsmen that collectively give Oakland its distinct flavor."
Now entering its third year, the Festival will welcome an even broader
range of artists and performers, including some nationally recognized
acts, while still maintaining its original mission of promoting the local
community. OMF looks to help channel the many efforts of the community
into a unified movement, and collectively raise the Citys profile
to an international stage. It truly is time Oakland got its much overdue
shine."
Main entrance will be Franklin and Broadway. Way down there in the small
print we recognize the band Don B and Whiskerman, whom we consider to
be fabulous faves in the realm of bad dream, worse whiskey, busted barroom,
desert town dust, and life gone awry sort of way.
Testify for Oaktown on the warmer side of the Bay and attend.
Rhythmix, whom we thought would be short-timer here, continues with vigor
and excellent programs. They just finished up a popular Wine Women and
Song, three very great things, and are in the middle of assisting the
Library with a mini-jazz festival. This not deedle-bop dinner jazz but
high-flight talent coming to the Island for these concerts. Miss Faye
Carol will perform September 26th, followed by Ed Reed in October. Concluding
the series will be none other than Maria Muldaur on November 21. Shows
will be held both at Rhythmix and at the Library so check your tickets
for locations carefully.
The High Holy Days are upon us. Next month ushers in the Jewish New Year
of 5777, which might be a significant number once the numeral tzadiks
get to work on it. Meanwhile we start the Days with Rosh Hashanah today
on Sunday after sundown. You work on your traditions for about 2,500 years
and your New Year takes a couple of weeks. Is no wild party in the night,
but a quiet celebration with apples and honey and twist-bread and standing
beside the seashore.
This year Yom Kippur is September 23rd. Sukkot is the Feast of Huts which
ends the month and is sort of a mini-thanksgiving thing. It is the only
festival which has one specific commandment: "thou shalt rejoice."
Well okay we worded that a bit different but still.
CHIMES OF FREEDOM
So anyway, the Fighting Otters suffered a crushing defeat against the
West End Marmots in overtime during the season opener. Coach Ronaldo Ruiz
gave a speech in the locker room to the Edison kids during half time.
"Kids, we may always seem to lose in life, but remember this, the
race goes not to the swift or the strong but to the . . . o heck, I forget.
Nevermind. The race goes to those who have heart. So go out there and
remember its not about winning goals, it is about strategy. Keep this
in mind: no matter what happens on the field today, you already have won
in the Boardroom years from now. The battle does not matter -- you have
won the war."
This rivalry has continued between the schools for many years. The Edison
Otters come from families who trend to the more income-secure members
of society. They are in high tech and finance and primary care health.
Their cars tend to be European imports and they own two of them. The West
End kids come traditionally from families across the economic divider
of Grand Street. Both mother and father work jobs full time and they own
Toyotas, Hondas, and Fords. The East Enders celebrate birthdays with cake
and pool parties. The West Enders celebrate with piñatas hung from
the oak tree still growing out front amid a sea of asphalt.
The West End Marmots do not usually win, but this time they trounced
the Otters at 72-3. As it turned out, Little Tubby Tucker -- not so little
anymore -- had celebrated his birthday with friends and the cake had been
a baba la rhum cake made by Marjean Espinoza who had just returned from
a visit to Puerto Rico with several cases of dark rum and wonderful recipes
and six pounds of potent hashish. Some of which seemed to wind up in the
cake.
You are not supposed to do that on the day of the game.
Only Simon Tashkent, the Morrocan refugee kid, had not gone to the party;
people thought or imagined his parents were secret terrorists or something,
so he had not been invited. So he manfully placed every kick well inside
the further goal line and scored the only points with field goals.
The Otters had wandered out onto the field to barely form a ragged, staggering
defense line and had offered less a defense than a series of running hurdles
as they fell down in front of the quarterback, who finally resorted to
actually throwing the ball when his legs got tired from running all those
yards. Which did not matter, as the Otter team flailed their hands in
the air and failed to intercept a single throw while giving up nine interceptions
of their own. Towards the end of the game the drugs and the liquor began
to wear off and they stopped a final offensive within five yards of their
goal line when they all lay down and burbled until the clock ran out.
Otherwise it would have been even worse.
The traditions and rites of Fall involve people across the generations,
across the social strata.
Pumpkins have appeared on stoops and decorations have shifted to the
Next Thing in the year. You may have noticed Facebook friends appearing
in bat costumes.
Pedro, piloting out toward the fishing lanes observes the change in the
wind currents, the denser aqua of the chop. Salmon catch closed on the
5th. Abalone is not his concern, so that leaves some bass coming up and
the seasonal migrations of halibut and mackerel. The background crackled
with ship-to-shore traffic over the radio. In another week he would be
able to haul in his favorite Lutheran televangelist broadcasting from
the Great White North. For a couple months he had been making do with
reruns. Soon, he would enjoy the real deal.
In the Old Same Place Bar the talk revolves around politics and gossip.
Which must be unusual in other places given how agitated the talk goes
around here.
Latreena Brown was arguing strenuously with Malice Green about the 16
Republican candidates for President.
"Kit Carson is the only one who makes sense half the time,"
Latreena said.
"What about Santorum?" Malice asked.
"Ugh! Too frothy!"
"Richard Perrier is the most handsome," said Malice.
"Ninny! The man just stepped out of it! Jindal is the man with looks."
Retorted Latreena.
"The man looks like an angry frog! Are you blind?!" Malice
said.
"I think Dan Danny has the best idea for the immigrants. Tag 'em
with locating devices like they do the parolees."
"You are soft on immigration," Latreena said. "We should
round 'em up and put them in camps. I hear Manzanar is still available.
And there is Alcatraz."
"Idiot!" Exclaimed Malice. "Who would do the washing and
pick the fruit? What a dumb idea!"
"You're yoni stinks! American college students of course!"
Malice called Latreena a word that rhymes with "bunt" and is
used to refer to a portion of the female anatomy. More words were exchange
with increasing heat.
"How can any stupid b--ch trust that Ronald Bump, a man who wears
a tribble on his head!"
Eventually their discussion descended, as it was wont to do over the
years, to violent fisticuffs, eye-gouging, kicking and hair pulling, degenerating
into an atavistic table-clearing brawl until Dawn put an end to it by
tossing a bucket of ice water on both of them and throwing the two out
into the street.
Eventually things calmed down and the patrons began to talk about less
incendiary topics.
"I hear the Angelo boy came home the other day," said Grant.
"Did he now?" Padraic said. "What did he do that for?"
"Can't find a job and the rent is too high everywhere," Said
Grant.
"Aint it the truth," Padraic said. "Nobody can afford
to live around here unless you are a Techie Dot Commer."
"Even they can't afford it," Grant said. "I heard from
Doyle in the City they are renting one bedrooms and putting in four or
five young guys just to make it."
"Four or five to a room; they can do that because they are young
and it's an adventure. After a few years they all go back to Ohio or Virginia
where they came from," Padraic said.
"That boy still going with that wildcat named Trixie?" Grant
asked.
"I don't know about that. She always was a handful. I remember her
folks being real genteel out of Florida. Other kids turned out fine, but
she was a real hellion during the '60s." Padraic said.
"She was a hot potato," Grant said.
"Still as cute as a red heifer in a rose garden," Padraic said.
"And as wild as a hawk flyin' over the Wicklow Hills. Padraic was
inclined to colorful language.
"Here now!" Dawn said. Dawn was Padraic's wife. "Mind
your pants and the Lord!"
"Well now fellas, well now gentlemen," said the Man from Minot.
"There is a lot to be said that is unsaid."
"What do you know about it," Grant said. "You are not
from around here; you are from Minot."
"I have always been from somewhere else wherever I have gone,"
said the Man from Minot. "Even though I have always been from Minot."
"Indeed," said Padraic. "We are all los migras. Like them
folks fleein' the ISIS troubles in Syria."
"I call 'em DAESH," said Grant. "They aint no caliphate
or whatever. They just stomping all over the place. They just a bunch
of thugs and aint no legit."
"Sure enough," mused the Man from Minot. "Nevertheless,
I sure wish I had known Trixie when she was younger. . .".
"O for Pete's sake!" Dawn said. "You men would hump an
oak tree if it wore a red dress."
Meanwhile Suzie took a break and cracked open her Anthropology textbook
to a different chapter located near the end of the book. "The concept
of the Internal Exile did not exist in Western Culture until modern times
when the rising disparities between the classes and increased automation
in the workplace as well as large-scale migrations that destroyed traditional
family-ties led to the phenomenon of heightened urban anomie . . .".
The section went on for some fifteen pages like that.
After reading that section, Suzie turned back to the chapter on the Bonobo
with some relief.
"The Bonobo will often gather together and hold long, animated disputations
among themselves about any number of subjects that in other groups would
lead to displays of aggressive breast-beating as well as possible violence.
But because of the Bonobo's great love for one another this never happens.
Instead one tribal member will tenderly share a portion of jackfruit or
mango with another and they wind up in deepest contemplation, chewing
the fat, so to speak. . .".
Then came the ululation of the train from far across the water as it
trundled from beneath the gantries of the Port of Oaktown with their 1000
watt lamps, letting its cry keen across the waves of the estuary, the
riprap embankments, the grasses of the Buena Vista flats and the open
spaces of the former Beltline, through the cracked brick of the former
Cannery with its leaf-scattered loading dock and its weedy railbed and
interstices of its chainlink fence, dropping slowly over the motionless
basketball hoops of Littlejohn Park until the locomotive click-clacked
in front of the shuttered doors of the Jack London Waterfront, trundling
out of shadows on the edge of town past the Ohlone shellmounds to parts
unknown.
That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.

SEPTEMBER 6, 2015
IT'S THE WORKING, THE WORKING, JUST THE WORKING LIFE

This week's image for Labor Day is in honor of the working men and women
who built America and is of the Kaiser processing plant just across the
Estuary. It is ironically appropriate that the genteel patrons look through
the windows of now gentrified restaurants and shops to see this sturdy
factory symbol of the blue collar workingman occupying the entire view
as they dine on their delicate tapas. The referenced song is an early
one from Bruce Springsteen, a fellow who often still remembers through
music his own humble origins as the son of a factory worker.
The island may be "developing" upscale, but a lot of sheetmetal
workers and blacksmiths and machinists still live here.
Early in the morning factory whistle blows,
Man rises from bed and puts on his clothes,
Man takes his lunch, walks out in the morning light,
It's the working, the working, just the working life.
Through the mansions of fear, through the mansions of
pain,
I see my daddy walking through them factory gates in the rain,
Factory takes his hearing, factory gives him life,
The working, the working, just the working life.
End of the day, factory whistle cries,
Men walk through these gates with death in their eyes.
And you just better believe, boy,
somebody's gonna get hurt tonight,
It's the working, the working, just the working life.
THIS ISLAND LIFE
Most of you know that the carcass of a whale was found floating in the
estuary at the base of the Mariner Square Drystack and Marina company
dock. It was noticed by employees last Thursday, but the Coast Guard notified
the National Marine Fisheries Service the carcass was there in the early
hours of Wednesday, August 26th. That whale was towed by a joint collaboration
between NOAA, the USCG and the US Army Corps of Engineers to Angel Island
where a team of scientists performed a necropsy and determined the 32
foot Fin Whale was killed by blunt force, likely a ship entering the Port
of Oaktown. More than likely the body was dragged into the estuary where
it sank until decomposition caused it to rise and get stuck at the base
of the dock.
It seems the Angry Elf gang is once again operating close to home --
probably because the guy has not held a job for half a year and needs
income. AFD responded to a fire on the West End in the 1800 block of Ferry
Point in the early hours of the morning. The fire, started in a cage of
cardboard recycling material, spread into the adjoining structure and
an adjacent building which houses Alameda Point studios, a space that
is rented out to several different industrial arts companies. Tenants
include woodworkers, sculptors, designers, a print shop and a number of
other sole proprietors.
During the firefight, calls came in about three other different fires
at Third Street and Second Street as well as the 1500 block of Encinal.
Authorities are ruling the fires to be "suspicious" and possible
arson.
Yeah, well, the guy lives in the West End and has a pull toward industrial
arts. Go figure who failed to make payments or offer up a special "favor."
This controversy between bicyclists and pedestrians and automobiles continues
in both of the weekly papers, with some attention this week devoted to
pedestrians getting their heads out of their . . . well, electronics,
let us say politely, and looking sharp to protect themselves.
Looking into the California Vehicle Code -- we happen to own one of the
last green-cover printed copies made before all went electronic -- we
see that most of the ordinances include at least one paragraph stating,
(b) This section does not relieve a pedestrian from the duty of using
due care for his or her safety. No pedestrian may suddenly leave a curb
or other place of safety and walk or run into the path of a vehicle that
is so close as to constitute an immediate hazard. No pedestrian may unnecessarily
stop or delay traffic while in a marked or unmarked crosswalk.
CVC, SECTION 21950(b)
or more broadly,
21954. (a) Every pedestrian upon a roadway at any point other than
within a marked crosswalk or within an unmarked crosswalk at an
intersection shall yield the right-of-way to all vehicles upon the
roadway so near as to constitute an immediate hazard.
(b) The provisions of this section shall not relieve the driver of
a vehicle from the duty to exercise due care for the safety of any
pedestrian upon a roadway.
21955. Between adjacent intersections controlled by traffic control
signal devices or by police officers, pedestrians shall not cross
the roadway at any place except in a crosswalk.
In other words, people should not walk like idiot drones and drivers
should not drive like droning idiots. Strange to say, this is a rare case
when common sense has been codified. As far as the Law is concerned, for
all parties concerned, DON'T DO STUPID SHIT!
Almost certainly, someone will take issue.
The Harbor Bay Athletic Club saga continues with shills and official
rebuttals from the HBIA people countering the organized resistance in
the form of Harbor Bay Neighbors along with the occasional innocent person
with an honest opinion wandering into the crossfire. By now it has become
Business Interests against Organized Resistance, which is too bad for
us ordinary folks, as truth tends to fall by the wayside.
Here are some facts. The club serves a wide sector of the populace, but
is primarily serving the residents of Harbor Bay. The claim that equipment
and pool are outmoded is probably true. The claim that they cannot be
upgraded in place is debatable as 24 Hour Fitness and other franchised
clubs seem to have no problem doing exactly that while adding desired
programs. The one in Oakland just did that and seems well on the way of
upgrading its offerings just over the Fruitvale Bridge. We know because
we went and we asked and we went back and we verified the changes. They
also did upgrade their pool facilities. Nevertheless, a pool upgrade is
a major land issue, depending on what you want to realistically do.
We observe that the development trend of adding more occupants to limited
land areas leads to higher population density and greater strain on public
facilities, including sewer, electrical, potable water, parking, and street
traffic. There is also a noticeable increase in crime.
Which provides a segue to last week's PSA, which apparently has not been
entered into any of the police blotters in any of the local newspapers.
A man came up behind a woman of 81 years young and struck her behind the
head, knocking her to the ground with sufficient force to cause injury.
The thug robbed the woman of her purse with all credit cards, cash and
house keys. Our man on the scene called 911 and waited until First Responders
arrived, so we made sure the woman is okay. Gott sei dank!
This occurred in broad daylight, in the middle of the day, during the
workweek, and at Southshore Mall.
And this sort of thing seems to be happening more frequently lately here.
Gunpoint robberies at the bustop. Pistol-whipping on Park Street. Gun
murders in the park. While the Realtors and developers continued to tout
the Island, which had never before been considered a desirable place to
live, an "oasis", a haven with close access to the destroyed
City of San Francisco and Silly Cone Valley. We are convinced that this
sort of thing is being caused by rental pressures leading to higher population
density in advance of the increased density due to development. No idiot
can afford to pony up $2,000 per month for a one bedroom, not even the
slavey Dot-Commers, save for a Corporation. So real people do what is
natural in response -- they double and triple up so as to amass the resources
to live.
The obscene rental situation is destroying the SF Bay Area quality of
life. In SF it was destroyed years ago when the artists all left due to
rampant greed.
SO HARD TO GET WARM NOW / SO EASY TO GET BURNED
So anyway, the Canadian geese have started flocking on the high school
athletic field and the broad yellow flanks of school buses maneuver the
turns on these narrow streets laid out in the 1850's. Uneasy winds start
blowing in the morning and at sundown, bringing the high fogs to chill
the air. People are taking down the window fans and closing up at night.
Towards the West End, Bosco the pig, safe now from controlling neighbors,
sniffed the air and snortled in his yard. Neighbors with control issues
wanted to banish Bosco, a miniature porker weighing less than 12 pounds,
claiming a city ordinance forbade the enclosure of livestock within so
many feet of a dwelling. Sensible neighbors -- this is a category sometimes
found in communities sometimes sensible -- raised up a petition and so
rescued Bosco from the meat market. And so the controllers were left to
stomp about in jackboots in their basements.
In any case, Bosco knows, by a sort of porcine wisdom, that a great change
is coming.
As the day faded from skeined-over skies to nightfall and the waning
moon and stars hidden by high fogs people stood in their yards looking
upward, wondering about the rain, the missing rain, the longed for rain
that would extinguish the wildfires and bring the boys home, the rain
that would ease this long drought.
During the day, the homes stood quietly, the little ones at school, and
for a brief moment of peace, all was silent and still and peaceful in
the house. Little Monica rode the school bus. Little Adam pedaled home
on his bike. For a brief while the Household stood shadowed and empty
save for Marlene and Andre who met after the long day in the corridor
and clasped each other and kissed, a couple still in love after all these
years and the kids soon to come home. . . .
"How was your day," Marlene said.
"Eff all," Andre said. "How was yours?"
"Eff all," Marlene said.
"Snarffenn dee bubble de boo," Snuffles said coming through
the door.
The couple remained there in a deep embrace, unembarrassed.
"Ooooooooo!" said Snuffles, who retreated to his hole in the
porch that had been made during Javier's near disastrous 50th birthday
celebration.
They remained a couple in love, in early September, as the leaves began
to turn, all around them, everything aging, including themselves. Everything
fated to change. And the kids were coming home . . .
Out on the fishing lanes Pedro eagerly tunes in the radio to get his
favorite Lutheran televangelist program, which once again has returned
live after what seemed like a long vacation: Pastor Rotschue's Variety
Hour. While this might seem heretical, the Lutherans always had the better
music than the Baptists or the wan Catholics, so Pedro had become addicted
to listening to his favorite program.
As the Tishomingo Blues tune wafted through the salt air, Ferryboat perked
up and issued an approving "Woof!" He could feel the change
in the air and the shift in the currents. Already oysters were appearing
on ice in the groceries. Soon, time for crab and cold water fish. Not
yet, but soon.
In the Old Same Place Bar Suzie served the customers, the summer tourist
crowd having evaporated to leave the regulars: Eugene at the rail, the
Man from Minot with his beer, Denby up in the snug with his guitar, and
the others scattered around the tables with their familiar candles and
their familiar drinks before them. Pimenta Strife was trying to hit up
on a truck driver from Bear Lake Minnesota as the Man from Minot looked
on wryly, knowing how this would end up.
Suzie retreated then behind the bar to take up one of her college text
books. This time, she picked up her drama textbook by Stanley Grutowski,
"Towards a Bad Theatre". The chapter began, "It is better
to end, contrary to belief with comedy instead of tragedy, although the
reverse progression is far, far easier to do, for it is true beyond a
reasonable doubt that it is the last thing that the audience will remember
best. Theatre provides a catharsis, a sort of relief and false hope amid
misery. In other words, although life is hideous and tragic in nature,
it is better to leave the audience laughing . . .".
Suzie put this book aside to read with some relief herself about the
joyful Bonobo in the jungles.
Then came the ululation of the train from far across the water as it
trundled from beneath the gantries of the Port of Oaktown with their 1000
watt lamps, letting its cry keen across the waves of the estuary, the
riprap embankments, the grasses of the Buena Vista flats and the open
spaces of the former Beltline, through the cracked brick of the former
Cannery with its leaf-scattered loading dock and its weedy railbed and
interstices of its chainlink fence, dropping slowly over the motionless
basketball hoops of Littlejohn Park until the locomotive click-clacked
in front of the shuttered doors of the Jack London Waterfront, trundling
out of shadows on the edge of town past the Ohlone shellmounds to parts
unknown.
That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.

AUGUST 30, 2015
WHEN THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER PRICKS MY FINGER
Summer has come and passed and back to school sales are the commercial
rage. The shadows are grown longer and school buses have begun their rounds
in the morning. Yet still here and there the brave colors of summer erupt
even now, saying, "Hey! I am not done yet with this glory!"

This week's image is of a miraculous "volunteer" flower that
sprang up at our sister's place in Woodacre. These heliotrope continue
to flourish all over the East Bay right now -- there is a spectacular
forest of them at Yolanda Landing off Sir Francis Drake Boulevard in San
Anselmo. It is like Summer is saying, "I will continue to exfoliate
Joy with quiet exhuberance, even in the face of the approaching Fall .
. .".
The song by Robert Hunter alludes to a poem by Thomas Moore (1779-1852),
who, in 1805, wrote The Last Rose of Summer, which goes like
this:
'Tis the last rose of summer,
Left blooming all alone,
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone.
No flower of her kindred,
No rose bud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
Or give sigh for sigh.
I'll not leave thee, thou lone one,
To pine on the stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping,
Go sleep thou with them;
'Thus kindly I scatter
Thy leaves o'er the bed
Where thy mates of the garden
Lie scentless and dead.
So soon may I follow
When friendships decay,
And from love's shining circle
The gems drop away!
When true hearts lie withered
And fond ones are flown
Oh! who would inhabit
This bleak world alone?
In a 1987 Rolling Stone interview, Robert Hunter had this
to say, Black Muddy River is about the perspective of age and making
a decision about the necessity of living in spite of a rough time, and
the ravages of anything else that's going to come at you. When I wrote
it, I was writing about how I felt about being 45 years old and what I've
been through. . .".
While roses are prickly ephemeral things, sunflowers are robust symbols
of victory. Witness Ginsberg's Sunflower Sutra.
Sunflower Sutra
I walked on the banks of the tincan banana dock and sat down
under the huge shade of a Southern Pacific locomotive to look at the sunset
over the box house hills and cry.
Jack Kerouac sat beside me on a busted rusty iron pole, companion,
we thought the same thoughts of the soul, bleak and blue and sad-eyed,
surrounded by the gnarled steel roots of trees of machinery.
The oily water on the river mirrored the red sky, sun sank on top of final
Frisco peaks,
no fish in that stream, no hermit in those mounts,
just ourselves rheumy-eyed and hung-over like old bums on the riverbank,
tired and wily.
Look at the Sunflower, he said, there was a dead gray shadow against the
sky,
big as a man, sitting dry on top of a pile of ancient sawdust
I rushed up enchantedit was my first sunflower, memories
of Blakemy visionsHarlem
and Hells of the Eastern rivers, bridges clanking Joes Greasy Sandwiches,
dead baby carriages, black treadless tires forgotten and unretreaded,
the poem of the riverbank, condoms & pots, steel knives, nothing stainless,
only the dank muck and the razor-sharp artifacts passing into the past
and the gray Sunflower poised against the sunset,
crackly bleak and dusty with the smut and smog and smoke of olden locomotives
in its eye
corolla of bleary spikes pushed down and broken like a battered crown,
seeds fallen out of its face, soon-to-be-toothless mouth of sunny air,
sunrays obliterated on its hairy head like a dried wire spiderweb,
leaves stuck out like arms out of the stem, gestures from the sawdust
root,
broke pieces of plaster fallen out of the black twigs, a dead fly in its
ear,
Unholy battered old thing you were, my sunflower O my soul, I loved you
then!
The grime was no mans grime but death and human locomotives,
all that dress of dust, that veil of darkened railroad skin, that smog
of cheek,
that eyelid of black misry, that sooty hand or phallus or protuberance
of
artificial worse-than-dirtindustrialmodern
all that civilization spotting your crazy golden crown
and those blear thoughts of death and dusty loveless eyes and ends and
withered roots below,
in the home-pile of sand and sawdust, rubber dollar bills, skin of machinery,
the guts and innards of the weeping coughing car,
the empty lonely tincans with their rusty tongues alack,
what more could I name, the smoked ashes of some cock cigar,
the cunts of wheelbarrows and the milky breasts of cars,
wornout asses out of chairs & sphincters of dynamosall these
entangled in your mummied roots
and you there standing before me in the sunset, all your glory in your
form!
A perfect beauty of a sunflower! a perfect excellent lovely sunflower
existence!
a sweet natural eye to the new hip moon,
woke up alive and excited grasping in the sunset shadow sunrise golden
monthly breeze!
How many flies buzzed round you innocent of your grime,
while you cursed the heavens of the railroad and your flower soul?
Poor dead flower? when did you forget you were a flower?
when did you look at your skin and decide you were an impotent dirty old
locomotive?
the ghost of a locomotive? the specter and shade of a once powerful mad
American locomotive?
You were never no locomotive, Sunflower, you were a sunflower!
And you Locomotive, you are a locomotive, forget me not!
So I grabbed up the skeleton thick sunflower and stuck it at my side like
a scepter,
and deliver my sermon to my soul, and Jacks soul too, and anyone
wholl listen,
Were not our skin of grime, were not dread bleak dusty
imageless locomotives,
were golden sunflowers inside,
blessed by our own seed & hairy naked accomplishment-bodies
growing into mad black formal sunflowers in the sunset,
spied on by our own eyes under the shadow of the mad locomotive riverbank
sunset Frisco
hilly tincan evening sitdown vision.
Berkeley, 1955
THIS ISLAND LIFE
Okay as for stage and stuff, Foo Fighters are returning to Europe with
Dave performing in his chair, so it will be a while before he returns
to parts local. Most venues are aiming at October for the "reely
big shews". We see a show called "Dead and Company" taking
over the Bill Graham Civic in late December -- you had to know those greybeards
would not have made the latest "final concerts" be really final.
Mickey Hart, Bill Kreutzmann and Bobby Weir will be joined by John Mayer
for the two days after Curstmass. The Ohio Players will play Yoshi's Sept
9-10 as a blast from the past.
Got the 39th Russian River Jazz Festival September 12th and 13th, once
again at Johnson Beach in Guernville. This one will be decidedly heavy
on the Blues with Buddy Guy, Taj Mahal and Jackie Greene swelling a lineup
already sparkling with Star power.
Around here, the Angry Elf gang appears to have been busy with matches
and lighter fluid as a number of fires have erupted in domiciles all over
the Island. Probably due to a certain resistance to cough up the "insurance".
A fire engulfed a building in the West End on Central on Friday, then
another on Saturday, then another on Sunday.
Silly Hall did not engage in any sort of foolishness last week -- that
is real news.
You may have noticed that major road work is happening all along 880,
580 and 101 above the San Rafael bridge. Some 8 or 9 projects are choking
traffic starting from 9 pm to roughly 5 am. Several other minor projects
are blocking minor roads in several districts. This includes our own Park
Street bridge which is being closed from night to dawn every weekday.
Then there is the next transbay block scheduled for three days in September,
with neither BART nor bridge being available.
Some folks speculate that the rash of construction has to do with preparing
for the upcoming El Nino consequences and fast-tracking already existing
projects because of the expected Rain-ageddon. Other cynical folks say
that if Trump gets elected -- in the same manner as Bush II was "elected"
-- the economy will collapse and the Chinese will invade on the opportunity.
We do not think the Chinese will invade as they have bigger problems and
they already have enough loud-mouth assholes in their own country.
In any case, much of this construction stuff is slated to end around
October.
STOP THE PRESSES - PSA
Everyone be on the lookout for a white male described as "thin"
and below average in height. This man has mugged senior citizens on the
west side of Southshore Mall on the connector road between the Mall and
Office Max. He is definitely violent; do not interact with him but call
911 if you see him committing any more crimes.
BLUES STAY AWAY FROM ME
So anyway, we enjoyed a brief wharf wetter overnight this past week and
everyone awoke to the sight of damp ground and water beads on the broadleaf
palms. Then followed a day or two of heavy skies but no more rain while
the 16,000 or so fires continued throughout California.
Wilmer Titrake, AMD, strolled down Park Street from his new medical offices.
Wilmer is a self-professed Air Surgeon and has just set up shop on the
tony downtown business district controlled by Mr. Ratto, who dearly loves
the idea of a medical office raising the valuation along that three block
by one block area.
Regulate your air, harmonize your air, exterminate your barking spiders,
Wilmer is your man.
Silly Hall does not want nasty old practical businesses that fix motorcycles
or cars anywhere near downtown. As for artists they are only useful to
the extent they bring in wealthy dowagers and trust-fund babies. The doyens
of Park Street prefer aroma therapy salons and air surgery clinics, which
make the place seem far more wholesome to people eager to pay high rent
per foot.
A wayward whale wandered into the estuary and managed to be clobbered
by a big ship, and so died there within sight and scent of Jack London
Square. Scientists rushed down there to examine the leviathan and have
pronounced their findings. This whale sure is dead. Dead as a doornail.
Well stuff happens. Even to whales who sing a gracious tune.
Out on the baseball green of East End High the Canadian geese had gathered
according to their annua custom, quite without announcement. This flock
meant that the annual migration had begun and the Great North American
Flyway was now thronging with avian souls travelling south in advance
of the certain El Nino consequences.
As night fell and the full moon waned into gibbous, the Editor sat in
front of his monitors and followed the stories of the murders in far off
Roanoke, where a madman had killed a couple newsroom people doing their
jobs.
The Editor unpacked his heavy Mossberg riot gun with its 12 shell capacity
and laid it on his lap.
No g-d d----d fool is going to mess with my people, no way and no how,
thought the Editor. Someone comes through the door and they are going
to get a piece of Marine wisdom.
The barrel looked to be filled with lint -- it had not been fired for
some fifteen years -- and so the Editor took out a wooden swab and leaning
the weapon upright between his knees, began cleaning the device, looking
down the barrel now and then to check his progress.
That was when Jose came in to see the Editor staring down into the open
muzzle of a shotgun.
"Jesu Cristo!" shouted Jose. "For the sake of god, do
not commit self-murder!" And with that the courageous Jose lept across
the small space of the cube and crashed against the Editor, who jumped
up and punched Jose in the jaw.
Jose fell back and landed on his ass unable to speak.
"La a la la aaah la ah!" said Jose.
Pahrump and Denby rushed in next after this commotion and found the Editor
standing over a bleeding Jose and a shotgun upon the floor.
"Why did you kill our colleague and friend," Denby asked.
"I did not kill him," said the Editor. "He attacked me
and he is foolish."
Pahrump stared down at Jose. "What the hell do you think you are
DOING attacking a US Marine, you IDIOT! A US Marine and armed with a shotgun!"
"La a la la aaah la ah!" said Jose. His jaw was broken and
he could not speak.
They all wound up taking Jose to the hospital and there was much confab
during the entire process. Just not much intelligible from Jose.
In the hospital Jose was visited by Javier who brought along two of his
cuchi-cuchi girls, who giggled and played with the O2 apparatus and other
tuberous things. They were named Samba and Salsa.
"Jose why do you assault US Marines instead of adopting your true
nature as a Latin Lover so as to pursue p---? Like with Samba here and
Salsa."
Both girls giggled and Jose muttered "Aah a la la aaah la ah...".
He fell back exhausted into his bed.
Much later on the Editor confided in Jose on his return. "I understand
you were trying to save my life, worthless though it is, even though you
are an incompetant boob. Therefore all is forgiven. Get back to work."
Meanwhile the moon rose with full strength during this time and Senor
Don Guadalupe Erizo sat outside his burrow beneath the hedges on the border
of the college green to observe the lunar changes and the atmosphere.
A great change was coming and he felt sure of it.
Dame Herisson poked her head out and said, "Les crêpes
sont prêtes!"
"Ah! Bueno!" He said and hurried inside. Proving once
again that men and women of all species speak entirely different languages,
but nevertheless manage to communicate crosswise in many instances. Not
always but sometimes.
Then came the ululation of the train from far across the water as it
trundled from beneath the gantries of the Port of Oaktown with their burning
lamps, letting its cry keen across the waves of the estuary, the riprap
embankments, the grasses of the Buena Vista flats and the open spaces
of the former Beltline, through the cracked brick of the former Cannery
with its leaf-scattered loading dock and its weedy railbed and interstices
of its chainlink fence, dying slowly away until the locomotive click-clacked
in front of the shuttered doors of the Jack London Waterfront, trundling
out of shadows on the edge of town past the Ohlone shellmounds to parts
unknown.
That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.

AUGUST 23, 2015
I SEE YOUR TRUE COLORS

This week's image comes from Island-Lifer Tammy. And the song is for
a lady who seems a little down lately.
You might not remember a sort of tattered waif of a girl who sprung upon
the music scene wearing a ragged ensemble of found rags bought at the
thrift store that became a fashion statement, but Cindi Lauper's "True
Colors" seemed to capture the Zeitgeist of nervous anxiety and despair
that pervaded the Reagan Era of Conservative triumphalism, as well as
a sense of empathy for people that seemed lacking in the "Me Generation".
The world at the time seemed crazy and disappointing and full of lost
chances fraught with the savage insult of Horatio Alger promises that
never amounted to anything other than exploitation.
You with the sad eyes
Don't be discouraged
Oh I realize
It's hard to take courage
In a world full of people
You can lose sight of it all
And the darkness inside you
Can make you feel so small
But I see your true colors
Shining through
I see your true colors
And that's why I love you
So don't be afraid to let them show
Your true colors
True colors are beautiful,
Like a rainbow
Show me a smile then,
Don't be unhappy, can't remember
When I last saw you laughing
If this world makes you crazy
And you've taken all you can bear
You call me up
Because you know I'll be there
And I'll see your true colors
Shining through
I see your true colors
And that's why I love you
So don't be afraid to let them show
Your true colors
True colors are beautiful,
Like a rainbow
THIS ISLAND-LIFE
If you were on the road to word at 7:49am last Tuesday, you did not feel
a thing. Plenty of swing shift folks and others did experience the rough
rocker that shook the East Bay with a 4.0 temblor, the effects of which
continue to ripple, media-wise, long after. Nobody died and nothing big
collapsed, but the discussion is all about the Hayward fault which regularly
every 140 years kicks up the jams hard enough to severely break stuff.
The last time the Hayward fault acted up was October 21, 1868, which was
so bad at Richter Scale 6.8 that it was ruled the Most Severe California
Earthquake Ever. Until 1906.
Of course if you are an Islander, you best know that in event of a severe
quake, all connection bridges and tunnels will be automatically closed
by CalTrans by policy, whether or not they have actually been physically
damaged, until teams of engineers can declare safe passage. And if there
has been widespread damage elsewhere, that determination may take a while.
You decided to live on an island; that is the reality, folks.
Pilgrim Soul Forge, captained primarily by Grant Marcoux, held its annual
Artisan Fair at the Point this Saturday. Local artisans displayed their
efforts and music was supplied by the Doggone Blues Band. We think Grant's
homegrown artist support efforts are great and we encourage everyone to
drop in and support industrial arts on the Island.
The Angry Elf gang has not been idle with its arson projects here. A
notable victim was Angela's restaurant on Park. After a suspicious fire
gutted the place September 28th, when over 8 homes and business were set
aflame. Saboor Zafari is not someone who takes a hit without coming back
in force and so the new Angela's will open at 1640 Park by the end of
this week. Best of luck Mr. Zafari, a businessman dedicated to making
things work here on the island no matter what.
The Letters to the Editor, always an entertaining page, included quite
a number of letters that had nothing to do with the Island, but the greater
Bay Area Metropolitan area, including Altamont and the East Bay Hills.
Well, everyone has their crochets. The dispute over Ron Cowan's removal
of the Harbor Bay Athletic club to a spot under the international airport's
flyways in favor of his persistent quest to overpopulate the Isle there
continues. As for overdevelopment on a place with limited access and limited
space like an Island, the semi-humorous discussion of a pneumatic tube
to transport people on and off the Island continues. The project is called
"the Suckway" and would feature a tube that would abruptly shunt
people in pods similar to inter-floor document chutes back in the day.
Such a system would be naturally more cost effective than building another
stupid bridge or another tunnel. You can just imagine the look on grandma's
face when the thing propels the dear soul at Mach I through the tube to
Jack London Square.
There are many innovative ideas that deal with the growing overpopulation
here and the need to get off and get on an islanded place. The Suckway
is just another idea that is as intelligent as any of the development
schemes in progress.
ALTHEA
So anyway the high fogs are signaling a change upcoming in the seasons.
August is barely struggling along to a hot end while the mornings are
packed with overcast skies due to high fog that yields to the Indian summer
time we all know. Ducks and doves have started forming chevrons that circle
about the old box elder and the potato plants that thrived so well under
the hot sun have started to yellow. A high wind kicks up around sunset
and the light and shadows among the trees look different than they did
a month before. Ants have invaded the house and all of Nature knows that
a great change is coming.
Fall is when changes come around. Such has always been the case for Denby.
He had a conversation with a woman he had desired for over 30 years -
it was one of those things in which the two people by circumstance drifted
close and then, by chance drifted apart again because of circumstance.
Distance played apart - they had always lived in two cities remote from
one another -- entanglements played a part (they had always had troublesome
connections), and reticence had played a part -- both of them become through
experience too shy to be bold enough to seize the day.
One time he had kissed her and she had looked at him and said in surprise,
"What the heck are you DOING?"
Maybe she had regretted saying that immediately afterward, but it sorta
killed the mood for the moment.
And then again, she had been raised in an aristocratic East Coast family
where everyone had been compelled to speak French at the dinner table,
while he had been raised up in a family with no money and had to work
through school in pizza parlors and animal shelters scooping shit off
of the walls of kennels. And so there was this sense of never feeling
up to her level all the time. He was a poor boy and she had diamonds on
the soles of her shoes.
This is a common story.
In their last conversation after a wedding among friends she had said
things that called forth memories of his own entanglements and of people
who had died. Neither of them were getting any younger and the past was
heavy with the freight of loss.
His own past included Julie, her slim form clad in runner's togs, eyes
bright with sunshine and sky before her suicide. And Penny, her hair glowing
yellow in the field with llamas up in Marin where he had experienced so
many changes. Friends found her sitting upright in bed with a cup of coffee,
dead of a heartattack. He took a long walk along the Strand, remembering
these things, even while she took a long walk up north along her own beach
with her dog, remembering her own past disconnected from his.
At one time his life had streaked along like a crazy bullet train, until
odds and enemies had thrown enough chocks under the wheels to cause a
number of catastrophic derailments and he had turned overly cautious in
all things. After motorcycle wrecks and miscarriages and abortions and
playing loose with a Brooklyn drug dealer, he finally bumped to a near
stop to look around. In retrospect, it was a wonder he had survived all
that.
And then you find yourself after thirty or forty years standing amid
the smoking wreckage of a career or a marriage or a life and wonder what
ever happened to Althea during this time. When it turns out she had suffered
her own sequence of disasters, just like everybody else on the planet.
Live long enough and everybody winds up in the same pine box.
While between them friends, associates, lovers, formed a galaxy above,
binding everyone around this axis, a milky way of Desire, these Lights
of Earth, and the two of them continued to orbit around the axis, two
planets approaching nearer at times, then drifting apart.
That last meeting had gone perfunctory and without any great resolve
and now he saw the future. Him wearing a greatcoat and a fedora, sitting
on a park bench in Union Square with a paper bag of bread crumbs and the
pigeons all around. Around his feet the scattered brown leaves of autumn
rustling over the round toes of his brown shoes. Thinking about the One
that Got Away.
I told Althea
I'm a roving son -
that I was born to be a bachelor -
Althea told me: OK that's fine -
So now I'm out trying to catch her
He had been incredibly stupid that time with her, remembering the conversation.
And with that he found himself once again in the familiar, dark oubliette,
trying to pull out to the sunlight above with the chanting echoing in
his dreams, "Deshi deshi basara basara", only to fall down into
that pit time and time again.
Years ago he started falling into that deep hole where figures moved
around in a circle through the gloomy half-light, mumbling to themselves
and dragging heavy tails through garbage. None of them looked up; what
was the point of looking up? Sometimes he stayed there for days.
He roused himself and picked up the Tacoma and, lovingly, caressed her
smooth, brown neck. He kissed the headstock. Everyone makes mistakes and
he had made more than a few while riding the crazy train. Best not to
dwell and get stupid maudlin. Time enough to act old later. The way up
was through the work.
The chords rang out. He was in open D, so he sang after the harmonics
and rundown,
All my life I've been a traveling man
Said, all my life I've been a traveling man
Staying alone and doing the best I can
And after a while he was up and out of the oubliette, this time without
drinking or drugs, and so he could toss down a rope for the others remaining
below and then walk towards the lighted city under the stars where his
friends lived, good people and true, the Lights of Earth.
Then came the ululation of the train from far across the water as it
trundled from beneath the gantries of the Port of Oaktown with their burning
lamps, letting its cry keen across the waves of the estuary, the riprap
embankments, the grasses of the Buena Vista flats and the open spaces
of the former Beltline, through the cracked brick of the former Cannery
with its leaf-scattered loading dock and its weedy railbed and interstices
of its chainlink fence, dying slowly away until the locomotive click-clacked
in front of the shuttered doors of the Jack London Waterfront, trundling
out of shadows on the edge of town past the Ohlone shellmounds to parts
unknown.
That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.

AUGUST 16, 2015
MY SWEET LITTLE CHICKADEE

There are no lack of songs referencing the chickadee songbird, but one
of the most famous was written by Cindy Walker, a prolific American songwriter,
as well as a country music singer and dancer who died in March of 2006.
In a short time after her demise this talented artist is all but forgotten
save for deep aficionados of CW music while songs like "Cherokee
Maiden" have been made famous by the likes of Merle Haggard and Willie
Nelson.
In 1952 Hank Snow had a hit with her "The Gold Rush is Over"
and in 1955 Webb Pierce had success with "I Don't Care".
Another Walker song was "Blue Canadian Rockies" recorded by
Gene Autry (which featured in Autrys 1952 movie of the same name).
The song was revived in 1968 by The Byrds on their influential country-rock
album Sweetheart of the Rodeo. In 1955 Eddy Arnold pitched Walker the
theme and the song-title for "You Don't Know Me" when they met
during a WSM deejay convention in Nashville. Walker then wrote the song
based on Arnold's idea. It has been described as a beautifully symmetrical
and poignant portrait of a love not to be.
"You Don't Know Me" has been recorded by numerous artists over
the years, most successfully by Jerry Vale (1956); Lenny Welch (1960);
Ray Charles (1962); and Elvis Presley (1967). "Anna Marie",
was a hit for Jim Reeves in 1957 and the beginning of another productive
artist-writer association which culminated in "This is It" (1965)
and "Distant Drums" (a posthumous hit for Reeves). "Distant
Drums" remained at No.1 on the British charts for five weeks in 1966.
Reeves recorded many of Walker's compositions, she often wrote specifically
for him and offered him the right of first refusal of her tracks. "Distant
Drums" was originally recorded by Reeves as a demo, simply because
he loved the song.
In 1961 Eddy Arnold had a minor hit with Walkers "Jim, I Wore
a Tie Today", a moving song about the death of a cowboy. Cindy Walker
wrote the song "Dream Baby (How Long Must I Dream)", which was
recorded by Roy Orbison (who also recorded a version of "Distant
Drums").
Walker's song "In The Misty Moonlight" was a hit for both Jerry
Wallace (1964) and Dean Martin (1967) as well as being recorded by Jim
Reeves. "Heaven Says Hello" (recorded by Sonny James) and "You
Are My Treasure" (Jack Greene) were hits in 1968, both written by
Walker.
In 1970 Walker became a charter member of the Nashville Songwriters Hall
of Fame. In 1981 Mickey Gilley's version of "You Don't Know Me"
was a hit in the country charts. A year later Walker had her last major
hit with Ricky Skaggs reworking of "I Don't Care"
It has been estimated that more than 500 of Walkers songs have
been recorded and that her songs made the top-forty charts (country or
pop) more than 400 times. All of her songs were composed upon a pink-trimmed
manual typewriter, with many composed while living with her mother, Oree
Walker, who helped set up the melodies to the lyrics.
In September 1997 Walker was inducted into the Country Music Hall of
Fame (together with Harlan Howard, another songwriter). Harlan Howard
described Walker as "the greatest living songwriter of country music".
Her acceptance speech, done entirely in rhyme, was followed by a standing
ovation and Walker left the stage in tears after softly blowing a kiss.
If it were not for the women, gentlemen, if it were not for the women
. . . .
THIS ISLAND-LIFE
The West End got a bit unsettled by a rash of hot prowl burglaries that
featured a sexual assault upon a minor. Surveillance video helped nab
the perp, who is also a teenager under the age of 18. After police posted
the videos, the teen realized that he would be recognized and so turned
himself in Tuesday night.
The IPD is seeking to connect the man, now held at Juvie, to seven or
more burglaries that occurred during the day as well as the sexual assault.
Since the victim and the perpetrator are underage juveniles, names have
not been released to the public.
Rhythmix, which keeps on cranking strong after a strong start, will be
hosting a celebration of Wine, Women and Song, all of which are really
great things. This time around for the repeat performance takes place
August 22. People who want to encourage the arts on the Island in any
serious way are urged to go and support Rhythmix in all they do, as well
as the Popups/Autobody gallery on Park, which just held an opening on
Friday which we were unfortunately unable to attend.
The Summer Season is winding up far too quickly as time dashed on with
the speed of Hermes and his winged sandals. Leon Russell will be dropping
in to Yoshi's from August 17-18 with rumors that this tour may be the
last. Just don't talk about him when he is gone.
The Regency is losing luster with a lackluster lineup that does not light
up until September, while the Warfield does not feature anything until
Rancid blasts from the past on the first day of the new year. Erykah Badu
does occupy August 29th for a show that should be well worth your time,
and Ben Folds takes over 9/16, so wuzup with the TV props, guys? We think
we can live without American Idol on August 23. TV is sooooo 20th Century,
if you know what I mean . . . .
Could be that the City that Used to Know How is letting the brain drain
due to usurious rents destroy the once vibrant artistic community. Nowadays,
it seems everyone who plays there actually lives somewhere else.
On the warmer side of the Bay, Franz Ferdinand, whom we caught at a NSSN
show a couple of years back, will do the Fox in October on the 15th, while
Grace Potter blew the roof off this past Saturday. Keep checking the schedule,
guys, as the booking agent for this venue has all the top acts on tap.
LIKE THE WEATHER
It may seem hot right now. In fact, it really IS hot right now. All signs
that point to confirming the Dweeb report on the upcoming Rainageddon
heading this way from coast to coast. Now we hear reports that the venerable
Farmer's Almanac has weighed in with its own prognostications. Sounds
like a cold and blustery winter is in store for every place that sometimes
gets snow. This time, snow is a certain factor and there will be lots
of it.
In California, all those areas burning out of control are going to experience
landslides aplenty when the rains hit, so best secure your sump pumps
and sandbags and whatever you got now, for by December it is very likely
that the El Nino conditions well underway now will produce quite a lot
of wet stuff.
Unfortunately, the drought has been so extended, so severe, that no matter
how much snow pounds the high Sierra, we are unlikely to climb out of
the bad conditions we suffer right now.
ITS TOO HOT TO SLEEP NOW. TIME IS SLIPPIN' AWAY
So anyway, the Bay Area got body slammed by a heat wave that shut down
just about everything taking place out of doors as temps rocketed into
triple digits in the Valley and into the 90's along the coast. Marin phoned
in with cancellations saying, "No way dude! Here it is pure misery!"
As Mssr. Soleil drove his flaming chariot higher in the sky, the Island
broiled in shimmering waves, a flat griddle surrounded by a hot sea that
offered no relief. To the north, the smoky reek from the Lake and Trinity
County fires failed to block the sun, turned everything under that pall
into a simmering hothouse. Somewhere up there the flicker of burning sought
out more things to destroy like a fiery Eye searching from an evil tower.
About as innocent of evil as can be, Bonkers and Wickiwup lay plotzed
on the porch, panting, while Johnny Cash ran down to the beach to jump
into the tepid water there and shake himself in the manner of the shaggy
dog he was. Everyone in the Household save Marlene and Andre had gone
in search of shade and whatever breeze there might be at the Cove.
People are saying in the Old Same Place Bar that the El Nino is going
to bring on a ferocious tempest of rain and all hell breaking loose. Padraic
has opened all the doors and windows and had fans pushing the heavy air
around. They all took turns going to the back to fetch things from the
walk-in cooler. The AC had died and so between rushes, Suzie put a plastic
bag with ice on her head while Angus McMayhem flirted with her. Angus
flirted hopefully with everybody that could wear a skirt. Suzie just happened
to be in front of him at the time.
"Let's go out back and I'll show you what's in my sporran,"
Angus said. Some Scotsmen are genteel and subtle. Angus was not one of
them.
"Are you crazy? It's too feckin hot to kanoodle!" Suzie said.
Dawn guffawed. "Angus, go stand in the cooler a while."
"I'll go if Suzie goes," Angus said.
"Sure, be right along after I serve this gentleman his Guinness,"
Suzie said coyly.
Angus followed Dawn to the back and after he entered the walk-in refrigerator
Dawn closed and locked the door from the outside.
"Hey!" Angus said. "It's dark in here!"
"There's a lightswitch. Find it and look at your brethren."
Angus found the lightswitch and turned to face the wall where rashers,
trotters, and pork ribs hung from hooks. "Dawn, when are ye gonna
let me out of here?"
"When you learn yourself to be a gentleman," Dawn said, and
turned to go back to the bar where everyone was laughing until the tears
ran down.
"O for Pete's sake!" Angus said and sat heavily on an upturned
plastic bucket.
"We are needing to get in here to fetch the soda cylinders,"
Padraic said.
"That's when we let him out," Dawn said.
At the air conditioned parlor for the Native Sons of the Golden West
the political debate among the Conservative Party candidates for President
of the Rotarian Club was in full swing. The parlor was packed, as every
standing member had come to attend, not that they were so concerned about
politics, but this hall was one of the few air conditioned rooms on the
Island. Also, for some reason, all the members of the Club were contending
for just two open positions: President and Eagles Liaison.
Perhaps because of the extensive line-up civility had departed the spirited
exchanges.
"I AM THE MOST SUCCESSFUL BUSINESSMAN HERE! I AM THE ONLY ONE WHO
KNOWS HOW TO STRAIGHTEN OUT THE FINANCES, KICK OUT THE UNDESIRABLES AND
MAKE THIS CLUB GREAT AGAIN!" Shouted Ronald Bump.
"You are overly loud and you don't know noodles!" Said Jack
Shrubb. "Furthermore your hair is a danger to the public!"
"LOSER!" Bump shouted. "I AM LEADING IN ALL THE POLLS
AND I OWN MY OWN HELICOPTER!"
"I would like to call attention to the misogynist comments made
by some of the candidates . . .". Karin Durina began.
"ARE YOU BLEEDING!" Shouted Mr. Bump. " WE CAN'T HAVE
A PRESIDENT THAT GOES ALL OTR ON US EVERY MONTH!"
"I would like to say something reasonable," Kit Carson began.
"Ninny!" said Tim "Red" Cross.
"What we need is some Jersey toughness around here," started
Dan Danny. "The present Administration clearly does not care about
losing the illegals in the Club."
"Ah lose some weight," snarled Mike Wallabee.
"None of y'all gave a rat's ass concern about mah home neighborhood
durin' the big flooding a few years back," said Robert Janedoll.
"As a community organization we need to see to the Community's welfare."
"Socialist! Socialist!" exclaimed Rand Pete.
"On that subject," said Rick Frothystuf, "I believe that
abortion should only be performed in the extreme case of liberal welfare
mothers. And the Club should not have to pay for it ever."
Scott Trotter next weighed in with his comments. "Disband all unions.
They are bad for the Island."
"The present Administration clearly does not care about Cuba,"
Marco Polo said. "I believe our official beverage should become the
Cuba Libre."
"Fool! You are as bad as Mr. Bump!" Scott Trotter said.
"I AM GIVING OUT ALL YOUR TELEPHONE NUMBERS TO THE HOOKERS ON SAN
PABLO!" Mr. Bump shouted.
"Whom you know quite well," Ms. Durina said.
"FAT COW!" Shouted Mr. Bump.
"Oooooo . . . . You imperfect ass!" Ms. Durina stamped her
foot so hard her heel broke.
"Jackass!" Lindy Cracker said to Mr. Bump.
The disputation went on well into the night until it descended into a
free-for-all brawl that descended even further into savage, atavistic
melee which had to be broken up by David Phipps and his father wielding
one million volt taser batons.
At the end of the day it was up to Jose and Pahrump to sweep up the shattered
glass, toss out the broken chairs and mop the blood off of the floors.
George Souvlaki had broken Nick Perrier's nose when the latter had claimed
Souvlaki possessed Democrat tendencies and harbored a secret love for
poodles. Running out of verbal insults for the first time in his life,
Mr. Bump had responded to Randy Peter calling him a sissy by biting the
man on the neck hard enough to tear the skin and burst a vein.
This was just the first of three more debates and the Quasi Liberal Party
was showing no signs of better behavior for its own series amid the on-going
infighting between Bernie Beans, Joe Bidet and Helen Bent.
After the mess had finally been cleaned up the guys leaned on their mops
and brooms just like Homer described the warriors leaning on their spears
during the siege of Troy. Above the scene of battle the peaceful stars
glittered in broad array above the quietly clinking boatmasts in the marina.
"The light of those stars takes so long to reach eyes on the earth
that many of those suns had already winked out forever, shrinking into
themselves to become either cold stones or the void of black holes",
Pahrump said. "By the time the light of our own sun passes the steadily
outgoing Voyager to arrive some place where slimy creatures scan the skies,
this election, all the ballots, these candidates, and perhaps this Country
will have ceased to matter any more than bee pee on cigarette paper".
"You got some perspective, amigo", Jose said. "I think
it comes from growin' up on the Piute Rez."
"Piute just means 'not Ute.' Nothing I can do about that,"
Pahrump said. "Someday you gotta show me that desueno you
inherited."
"Why's that?"
"Might be worth something. Says you are supposed to own a whole
lotta land up here from your great great grandfather."
"It aint worth a single god damned dime," Jose said. "It's
worth about as much as a BIA treaty."
Pahrump tilted his head back and laughed up to the stars who also laughed
in their twinkling.
Then came the ululation of the train from far across the water as it
trundled from beneath the gantries of the Port of Oaktown with their burning
lamps, letting its cry keen across the waves of the estuary, the riprap
embankments, the grasses of the Buena Vista flats and the open spaces
of the former Beltline, through the cracked brick of the former Cannery
with its leaf-scattered loading dock and its weedy railbed and interstices
of its chainlink fence, dying slowly away until the locomotive click-clacked
in front of the shuttered doors of the Jack London Waterfront, trundling
out of shadows on the edge of town past the Ohlone shellmounds to parts
unknown.
That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.

AUGUST 9, 2015
NOTHING BUT FLOWERS
One advantage to naturally sandy soil -- potatoes grow well here on the
Island. Gardeners can keep the ground moist during the drought with cover-ups
like cardboard or plastic trash bags and using kitchen "grey water."

Yukon gold potato plants yield a white flower while the reds display
something like these.
THIS ISLAND LIFE
It may be summer but life continues here on the Island. The latest old
business to put up a Closed sign forever is the 80 year old Brown Brothers
shoe store on Lincoln. The store began life in Oakland but has been at
the Lincoln location since 1981. The 4th generation owner, Jim Brown,
has turned 74 and has decided to sling a golf club bag over his should
and head off to retirement.
AFD is sending a crew from Bay Farm Station # 4 to help with the firefight
at the Mad River Complex fire in Trinity County. As of August 6th, the
MRC featured seven fires involving 13,557 acres and was just 8% contained.
Recent complaints about the pedestrian hazards at the new Shoreline bikeway
prompted the Sun to post a Rules of the Road clarification. There have
been a number of near misses as pedestrians exit cars and cross the road
and the bikeway without noticing bikers blazing along the path with no
stop signs at high speed.
Our local Coast Guard got into national news by way of the cutter Stratton,
based at Coast Guard Island, captured a semi-sub loaded with 16,000 pounds
of cocaine worth $181 million dollars in the largest seizure ever recorded
in CG history. The interdiction occurred about 200 miles south of Mexico
in the Pacific. Not bad work, fellas!
The Letters to the Editor continue to supply debate on both sides of
the Harbor Bay athletic club move, with someone indicating that the proposed
site of the replacement club sits right under the the Oakland airport
runway 28L main flight path for take-offs and landings. This area is classified
as a "Zone 3 safety area" and the State Airport Land Use Planning
Handbook specifically prohibits group sport activity in such a zone because
of the danger.
On the other hand, the superintendent of Crosspoint High School really
likes the idea of the neighborhood getting a new club.
You would know that we would host at least one contrarian, and the Letters
section features one person warning of the risk of recently vaccinated
kids due to "viral shedding", which apparently means that a
newly vaccinated kid will be supposedly distributing live viruses until,
we dunno, the vaccine does what it is supposed to do. Still, we wonder
if the weakened virus in vaccines that do employ a live virus will be
a serious threat in such diluted form. And few vaccines employ a "live
virus" anyway. In a slant note, you may not know that things like
steripens, which are used to sanitize drinking water, do not actually
kill the cryptospordia and giardia cysts -- they render the critters unable
to reproduce, which has the same effect. So you swallow some bugs, but
they can't hurt you.
So of course we went to the CDC and found information going back to 2008
on this anti-vaxxer misinformation schtick. To quote: "Vaccine shedding
is a double barreled myth in that transmission is assumed to occur ipso
facto. Shedding is not transmission. Period. Yet denial of vaccine efficacy
requires internalization of some whacky stuff. Including the erroneous
belief that viral shedding follows MMR vaccination. Yet worse is the myth
that inactivated vaccines pose the risk of infection due to vaccine
shedding. Pertussis often brings out the malicious side of anti-vaxxers.
DTaP is inactivated. Indeed the pertussis component is acellular. . .
In conclusion its clear that vaccine shedding is a nonsense
phrase. The lack of accounts of children transmitting viruses to younger
siblings and friends after vaccination is a dead giveaway." Article
citation.
This article is one of the more readable texts. There are a plethora
of pseudo-scientific things out there claiming "studies have found"
dangerous viral shedding -- the only problem is that these "studies"
are never cited. You go to reputable organs like the CDC, WHO, JAMA, Lancet,
the Oxford Journals Journal of Infectious Diseases, and other bona fide
agencies where studies are seriously vetted before publication and you
will always find the view held that vaccination provides vastly larger
benefits than risks. To repeat and to quote, " Since the risk of
vaccine transmission and subsequent vaccine-derived disease with the current
vaccines is much less than the risk of wildtype [rotavirus] disease in
immunocompromised contacts, vaccination should be encouraged." Citation
NIH.
In other words, do not drink the cool aid produced by messianic partisans.
IT'S SHARKEY'S NIGHT TONIGHT
So anyway, the fellow said, "Language is a virus from outer space."
Burroughs really was slapping at Chomsky's Psycho-Linguistics, but most
people believe the fellow was just being oblique about personal visions
while high on hallucinogens. Maybe he was as well. You can never entirely
trust thost guys who kill their wives by accident and Burroughs knew this
tragic fact better than anyone else. Who can say for sure what it all
means? Words are sneaky and devious and language just might be a virus
that will send all the anti-vaxxers scampering to their medieval oasis
where no one speaks and they use leeches to cure stuff.
At Longfellow, Ms. Morales ( who has kept her maiden name at work after
marrying Mr. Sanchez so as to avoid confusing the kids) struggles daily
to impart the nuances and felicities of Emily Dickenson and Shakespeare
to the upper Middle School classes who reel under the wildly sanitized
State history with Algebra to boot.
What is language after all, but just another object for trade.
"To be or not to be. Who would be quiet and face the proud man in
costume who dissed him wifout taking up his arms, his Glock 9 piece with
some homeboys in da hood behind him and putting an end to these troubles?
Not me man! Yeah, to die. That sorta thing rubs me the wrong way, dude.
To sleep and dream and whats dreams gonna do for you, man? You gonna hafta
wake up someday . . .", Raymondo recites in class. He is rewriting
Shakespeare for the 'Hood, and Ms. Morales encourages him, for at least
this one is actually reading the text instead of running to Cliff Notes
to pass the test.
What is language after all, but just another object for trade.
Every morning Mr. Cribbage gets up and after his breakfast of champions,
featuring a muffin and coffee, he boards the O Express that will take
him to Babylon across the Bay and to the offices of Ness, Haman, Gadol,
and Pritikin, a marketing firm which has stood at the corner of Kearney
and Market ever since 1952, when Arnold Ness first setup shop with an
handful of graphic designers and created the campaign for Mrs. Wright's
Automats that took the West Coast by storm. "Don't Be Wrong tonight!
Be Wright at Wright's Automat!"
We want to capture the Millennial market now.
Now they had a new client in the form of Marvin of Marvin's Merkins on
the Island and the meeting had not gone well. "What is the meaning
of "Put a merkin in your firkin? Firkins are old style. It is obvious
how you need our services. We want to capture the Millennial market now.
How about 'Be seen twerkin' in your merkin! You'll be smirkin' all the
way . . .".
Marvin didn't like it. He was insistent on catering to his old client
base, many who now were octogenarian Conservatives.
"Are we talking granny porn here?" Mr. Dudgeon said...
"Are we talking granny porn here?" Mr. Dudgeon said, putting
his fists on the table as he stood. "If so, we might have an LA angle
that might provide some tie-ins . . .".
"Can we maybe use a Trump endorsement at this stage," Ms. Blight
said at the end of the table.
"O god, the visuals . . . ", said Dudgeon. "Twenty-five
years in marketing and this is the first idea that has caused my gorge
to rise. . . ".
"I was thinking more along the lines of some language," Blight
said. "You know. Trump-language. Really loud and brassy and self-important."
A few floors down, the meeting between the Konica reps and the Blathers
takes place in Conference Room B. The Konica rep starts off by saying,"
How are you?"
"I'm good! How are you!" Mr. Blather says enthusiastically.
"I'm fantastic! I am superlative and extraordinary!" says the
Konica rep. "Now as for these upgrades we have in mind . . . ".
"Why did you do this thing?" Eugene said aloud...
Down the street at 101 California, Eugene sat in front of three computer
screens, working on code for a program to handle electronic health records.
He was having troubles with the user-friendly interface which steadfastly
refused to be friendly. He was arguing now with the original developer
who had long since left the scene after abandoning this project to the
world and the company which sold the software package. "Why did you
do this thing?" Eugene said aloud. "Why did you do this module
this way?" And in answer the code leapt up on the screen in windows
with its own kind of response, speaking a language that was totally digital.
At 16th, the result was cacophany...
Later, Marvin exited the building and walked down towards the Mission
to cleanse his ears. He took the subterranean Muni to 16th and came out
amid a welter of drums and about 34 Spanish dialects chattering all at
once while the buskers played violins, guitars, pie-pahs and just about
anything that under ideal circumstances would produce something similar
to music, which some understand as the universal language. At 16th, the
result was cacophany, delightful, but individually incomprehensible while
adding up to something that could only be summarized as 16th and Mission
on a typical day. Thoth used to play there on the plaza, but standing
half naked, wearing a loincloth and furred boots while performing flawless
Brahms just failed communicate or to attract enough attention to himself,
so he moved to New York City.
On that flight a couple of teenagers sitting next to one another flipped
up the blocking armrest and threw a blanket over themselves to pass the
six hours from SF to NYC kanoodling. Thoth saw them and gave a thumbs
up, speaking a language that was totally digital. As were they.
Meanwhile, the Cribbages were having a fight in their house. "The
problem with you is that you just don't listen!"
"Well I told you that mother was coming for the weekend!"
"Weekend! And it turns into weeks!"
"Well how can someone expect only two days for such a long trip
from Hyannis Port? You should have understood what it means for a woman
of her age to travel!"
Over at Marlene and Andre's the couple moves about the small cottage
while the others are out in the good weather, picking up fallen shoes,
vacuuming, making the bed, doing the dishes that never end, fixing the
broken things, all soundlessly, without comment. At one point they meet
in the room with the coffeetable under which Quentin will sleep when the
weather turns bad again and their fingertips touch in a mock Vulcan salute
to the craziness of this life. They look into each other's eyes, speaking
a language totally digital.
Out beyond the Golden Gate the whales are migrating...
From where does language come? From what place originates COBOL, FORTRAN
or C++? Down at Seaworld a technician named Samantha puts a microphone
into the water and begins to "talk" to dolphins, who although
they may have no special concerns about quarks, mesons, supernova and
other things outside of their sensory apparatus, nevertheless have much
to say about the relationships between beings and things. And some kind
of Spirit that is akin to what we know as god. Out beyond the Golden Gate
the whales are migrating and singing age-old songs, or simply chanting
the repetitious harmonies that make up the universe with a higher mathematics
that transcends functions and religion, a kind of recursion that is far
too complex for humans to directly apprehend, which we are still trying
to understand.
In the Old Same Place as night falls, the chatter turns to politics and
sports, the male bonding via the understood and the commonly accepted
values which say simply, "I am okay and you are okay and we agree
not to kill each other. Let's have a beer."
In the Island-life offices, the Editor moves down the aisles, shutting
down computers that stream in the news from all over the world in a dense
chatter of information. When we were children, as yet without tongues
to speak, was not the world far simpler and what drove into us this need
to chatter at one another and yet still miss the mark so badly so often?
I need wawa. I need poopoo. I need ma-ma. I need . . . . Is not the language
imperative more a measure of need than design?
"Words! Words! Words! All they is, is words!"
At a poetry reading in the City a man with a tall staff had marched in,
wearing rags and an attitude and he had shouted, "Words! Words! Words!
All they is, is words!" The poet at the mike had handled it fairly
well. "This is an open mike, but you have to put your name on the
list if you want to say something." It is true. If you want to say
something and also be attended to, you have to first put your name on
a list.
The Editor was an editor, simply a vehicle for processing the throughput
generated by others. Not unlike the Prophet who was commanded to "recite",
processing the intense streams of information coming from some Other Place.
He was nothing in the None, Gimel, Hay, Shin.
a child's toy consisting of two balls swinging around a common axis
He went out upon the deck and observed the stars, stars he had observed
with his sister a few days ago while taking a trip up north to attend
someone's wedding. Orion waltzed in his usual way with his belt and his
scabbard over the pines. The dragon pursued Andromeda and the Scorpion
held his stinger aloft. After the reception and all the ceremony, his
sister had stood there on that deck, slim and elegant and beautiful and
he had indicated with his finger the Milky Way above the pine trees and
she had seen. And they, brother and sister, stood there with some momentary
connection after so many years of drifting apart and then back together
and apart again and back together like a child's toy consisting of two
balls swinging around a common axis yet never kissing together, in a way
that was for the moment totally digital. For a brief moment he held her
and all the past flowed beneath them as if they were star travellers on
a journey, and she said, "We have only the Now."
For just that moment of Now they bonded, no longer two spheres orbiting
at a distance, all the family stuff held underfoot as foundations, all
the recriminations and insults and disappointments placed into the past.
Just brother and sister speaking the unspoken language of the heart.
Having returned to the Island, which is -- according to scientific reports
destined to start sinking soon -- the Editor stood on the deck of the
Offices and observed the same constellation of Orion tumbling over the
Veteran's Memorial Hall he had observed with his sister, whom he had come
with difficulty over the course of time, and she certainly was difficult,
to love.
He stood on that deck beneath the box elder and the bird of paradise
palm and realized that it does not matter from what place language originates.
What matters is from where the coal of Love ignites. And that it does
succeed. Sometimes.
Then came the ululation of the train from far across the water as it
trundled from beneath the gantries of the Port of Oaktown with their burning
lights, letting its cry keen across the waves of the estuary, the riprap
embankments, the grasses of the Buena Vista flats and the open spaces
of the former Beltline, through the cracked brick of the former Cannery
with its leaf-scattered loading dock and its weedy railbed and interstices
of its chainlink fence until the locomotive click-clacked in front of
the shuttered doors of the Jack London Waterfront, trundling out of shadows
on the edge of town past the Ohlone shellmounds to parts unknown.
That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.

AUGUST 2, 2015
WHOA POSSUM, POSSUM / YOUR END IS THE ROAD

Hopefully not for this little guy left straggling behind his brothers
and sisters. Denby was taking a walk to the garage when someone hissed
at him in the dark from behind the ivy-clad fence. Being hissed at is
nothing unusual for Denby so he responded as he usually does by tossing
a casual "Eff you" towards the fence as he opened the door.
Which action turned on the motion sensor light inside. To reveal this
guy who had some hissing of his own to do. Playing dead in opossums is
an involuntary autonomic response to perceived threat and nobody has ever
perceived Denby as a serious threat ever. So said opossum remained alert
and only moderately concerned, waiting for Denby to clear out of the way
so that mom could come and get him.
THIS ISLAND LIFE
Hope everyone enjoyed the BART transbay closures this weekend. Which
should prep everybody for the longer closure expected September 5-7.
Tix on sale Monday for live@the library concert series, featuring top
notch jazz artists playing on site and at Rhythmix. Series includes the
Fay Carole Quintet September 26th and Maria Muldaur November 21st. Tickets
are available at Books Inc. on Park Street, Deweys Friends Cafe in the
Library and online at Brownpapertickets.com.
The Sun publishers will speak at the California Historical Society on
Thursday at 6PM on the connections between the famous Pan Pacific Exhibition
of 1915 and the historic Neptune Beach. The CHS headquarters is located
at 678 Misssion Street in San Francisco. To learn more, visit www.californiahistorical
society.com.
In an interesting turn of events, the City Council began looking at two
new Rent Ordinances that seek to give some power to the presently toothless
Rent Review Advisory Committee and to give some structure regarding rent
review. It is no secret that rental "market rates" have gone
through the roof with some absentee landlords jacking rents 50 to 80%,
forcing move-outs while the general level of rent demand has become exorbitant
and well beyond the means of most normally employed people.
This situation is happening all over the Bay Area, which has led the
City of Richmond to pass an ordinance tying rent increases to the rise
of the Consumer Price Index, which last rose about 2.3%.
After so much hand-wringing and finagling to get the VA to place a clinic
and columbium out at the Point, the project appears headed for federal
holdup as the budget proposal that includes VA apportions originated in
the Obamba Administration, and the bill is headed for the extremely divided
Senate after the bill's budget was slashed in half by an highly antagonistic
and partisan House.
At issue is the response to the $1 billion dollar cost overrun to build
a facility in Aurora, CO. Future projects exceeding $220 million will
automatically go now to the Army Corps of Engineers for oversight. Our
Island project is under that amount, but the budget slashed by the House
means the Secretary who controls the VA will have to evaluate whether
to continue with some projects at all.
There was an interesting exchange of letters to the Editor in the Sun,
in which the first letter writer proposed construction of a new bridge
to carry the increase in traffic that new development certainly will engender.
This week the letter writer proposed that instead of another bridge, something
of questionable value to the folks who currently live on the far side
where this thing would terminate at some cost, we build a new Ferry Terminal
on the Oakland side and set up a new commuter ferry service.
What is interesting about both letters is the acknowledgment that currently
the traffic is lousy and with increased development, the traffic will
become far, far worse. Certainly not anything like a fanciful "one
car total" increase over ten years. And the curious reasoning in
City planners -- who admittedly are no longer in office -- that first
we build up and shovel people in, THEN we plan on how to move them about.
Apparently by means of population control of which only Aldous Huxley
could have created.
How to make sure everyone who manages to live on the island also works
here and seldom leaves? Give them Soma. That'll work.
LIKE THE WEATHER
Last Dweeb report was dated Thursday 07/30/15 at 5:02PM by Howard. All
those moody skies we saw here translated into some hefty thunderstorms
in the Sierra, with more coming on. Now if this sort of thing continues
into the cold season, we should see some snow accumulation to slow the
progress of the drought. Bear in mind that we would need two solid years
of Snowmageddon for the Sierra to rebuild the snowpack it had before the
drought. So drought is the New Reality for the duration.
Gov. Jerry Brown declared a state of emergency across the state due to
the wildfires burning across the state, according to the governors
office.
The drought and extreme weather have been heavy contributors to the wildfires
and declaring a state of emergency allows additional firefighting resources
to be devoted to the Golden State. Which lately is looking a little charred,
rather than golden.
California's largest wildfire is spreading quickly, consuming 54,000
acres in three counties and staying active throughout the night -- a time
when firefighters typically make progress, a state fire official said
Sunday.
The Rocky Fire was only 5% contained Sunday and was feeding on the state's
drought to grow actively, said Daniel Berlant, a spokesman for the California
Department of Forestry and Fire Protection, or Cal Fire.
The wildfire was burning in Lake, Yolo and Colusa counties northwest
of Sacramento. More than 12,100 people in more than 5,100 structures were
under some type of evacuation order or advisory as of Sunday afternoon.
The Rocky Fire was one of two dozen wildfires burning in California on
Sunday. More than 8,000 firefighters were involved statewide,
The fires vary in size. The White Fire in Santa Barbara County is about
50 acres, and the deadly Frog Fire, which killed Firefighter David Ruhl,
has consumed at least 3,900 acres since it was spotted Thursday and is
just 4% contained. The recently snuffed-out Lake Fire in San Bernardino
County burned more than 31,000 acres before it was contained.
Cal Fire says most of the fires are more than 60% contained. However,
the land damage has been substantial in some cases. Fires in Southern
California's San Bernardino County and Northern California's Alpine County
have incinerated nearly 50,000 acres.
You may have heard the South El Monte area is under a boil water advisory
due to detection of E. Coli during normal testing procedures a single
hydrant in the area. That advisory has since been lifted. More information
may be obtained online at www.calwater.com.
If you are wondering about the taste of EBMUD products here, you are
not alone and you are not imagining things. EBMUD reported that due to
lowering of reservoir levels, again something due to drought conditions,
they have been forced to employ different outflow points. EBMUD insists
the water is still safe to drink.
People may want to invest in a faucet aquafilter for drinking water,
such as the ones made by Pur.
The First Friday artparty in Oaktown has become famous, internationally
so, and to the detriment of the artists and the galleries that initiated
the program. In response people who are more concerned with aesthetics
and thought and form than boom box shouting and twerking to the latest
pop craze have set up a few events designed to be more subdued, if not
less exciting. We now have the 2nd Friday Estuary Artwalk which includes
venues like our own Popups, which will be hosting a shindig with music
as part of that event. K Gallery in Rhythmix will also be taking part.
The original designers of the First Fridays events now hold a Third Thursday,
which uses the 24 Gallery Building on 24th as the epicenter for a variety
of fun and interesting art shenanigans. Given the anticipated wet weather
coming in a couple months, we suggest not putting off a visit if you want
to talk with intelligent, interesting people and see provocative creations.
SUMMERTIME BLUES
So anyway, the days begin with a leaden high fog along the coast, but
with a certain warmth to the air, promising great things for later on.
The squirrels do their usual mad antics, running along the Old Fence and
leaping from the avocado tree to the box elder and from there to the crab
apple tree hung with wind chimes so as to make the thing somehow useful.
Once the squirrels have destroyed something in a furiously haphazard fashion:
a planter box, a nicely sown bit of garden, a bird's nest, they rest for
a while with some satisfaction. Then the overhead cover strips apart and
the air heats up and Summer emerges once again in all her shining glory
on a clamshell, tossed by waves of emotion amid the bloody foam.
the new millennium's version of avian human mutation
At the bend of shore where the Strand cuts in to the Cove there is a
jut of land where the sailboarder house sits. Offshore the newly hatched
sailboarders carefully guide their craft back and forth behind the billow
of sail while the more courageous and expert pilot their thin boards over
this calm part of the Bay, pulled by kites of bright colors, while above
them the parasailers go gliding on updrafts, the new millennium's version
of avian human mutation, products of decades of GMO and marketing crossbreeds
involving Wheaties and Powerbars and genetically altered wheat.
The chattering temporary cubicles in offices all across the land, cubicles
designed by a man who intended the office cubicle to be only a momentary
blip in the life of the office, now sit dark and silent as the millennials
refuse to go to work. Why should I go to work? Work should come to me.
After all, I am the one that is important. I make the business go and
I can make it go anywhere and from anywhere, be it a coffeehouse or a
friend's sofa or a boardroom or my my own kitchen table. There is no more
Office! I AM the office and I take my always-connected devices with me
wherever I go. The savage capitalists want me to be on call 24x7? Okay
I can do that and put the rest of the time in on my iPad from my toilet
to show what I think of them and still get the job done. Excuse me while
I do a selfie from my throne.
The millennials are here and changing life all around them. Perhaps there
is hope for us after all.
the parable about the man from Samhara
The subject of the sermon this Sunday at the Allgood Unitarian Ministry
was the parable about the man from Samhara who paused to help someone
on the road. Unfortunately the air conditioner cut out and the heat became
oppressive in the Chapel. Reverend Freethought had to strip down to a
tank top and shorts with her Unitarian surplice, which definitely focussed
the attention of some of the men, but probably not in a way any of the
sacred texts had intended. Seeing that she might be about to lose some
of her flock, the Reverend took the congregation outside, saying that
we must spread the Word. There was not much space out front on Santa Clara
-- the Unitarians did not have a parking lot, so the Reverend kept on
leading with about fifteen to twenty Unitarians following along behind
as she continued to preach. They turned the corner on Park and passing
the newspaper kiosks with their loud headlines about fracking with clean
water in drought-ridden California went in to the cool white space of
Tuckers where everyone got an ice cream cone or a ice cream bar.
Little Tubby Tinker let drop a wrapper from his bar and was admonished
by the Reverend. And man was given Dominion over the Earth; so it is given
also that he take care of it as well.
She leaned over and slowly licked the man's biceps...
Kid Viper cruised by in his open convertible, a pristine 1968 Corvette,
his arm around Pimenta Strife and his radio playing an old ZZ Top cassette
tape. There were not many people on the Island who still owned a stash
of tape cassettes. Fewer still who would, knowing Pimenta, pick her up
and take her for a ride. She leaned over and slowly licked the man's biceps
with her hand on his thigh. Pimenta was the sort of gal who could not
sit still for even a minute. Not her style. She had a tattoo that went
"Lust 2.0" on a place only privileged persons and gynecologists
were allowed to see.
Some people just don't appreciate what the Creator has made...
Passing this couple, heading north, Percy Worthington-Boughsplatt piloted
his immaculate, two-toned, beige and white,1939 Mandeville-Brot Coupe,
complete with running boards and natural leather upholstery. In the passenger
seat sat the lovely Madeline, wearing her fetching pillbox hat, feather
boa and high heels. From the windows of Tuckers, little Tubby stared with
an open mouth until his mother clapped her hands over his eyes. Some people
just don't appreciate what the Creator has made, but the Berkeley Explicit
Players mean to change all that.
The same line snaked from Ole's Breakfast Cafe that had been there for
half a century. No one had aged although they all had been standing there
for years, waiting for a seat. Some thought they were actors hired to
stand there every Sunday and the menu item of chicken and waffles was
a myth.
Down Santa Clara, back toward the Allgood Ministry, skaters did their
usual dances on the railings and steps of the closed City Department of
Recreation while waiting for the bus to take them out to the concrete
"comal" griddle of the official skatepark. millennials
practicing gyrations and spins that will, in other form, become necessary
later in dealing with the corporate world. The bus arrived and they got
on and they all passed Our Lady of Incessant Complaint as the services
ended there and Father Danyluk put aside his colorful vestments to pick
up a fishing pole and so head to the Cove to see what he could catch.
At Marlene and Andre's, good weather has sent all the residents out to
the Strand or other locations to seek work. Jose and Javier have gone
over to the designated Dayworker place in Fruitvale with Pahrump, who
managed to get all three over without serious incident on his 150 cc scooter.
The thing labored a bit, but they got there okay. A truck driven by Dodd
for Mr. Howitzer picked them up.
"I say, any of you chaps speak English? Mon Espanole esta a bit,
uh, mauvaise sondage et affreuse and perhaps somewhat malo loco."
"No problemo, pops," Javier said. "We three be good."
"Capital! Hop right in."
And off they went to stack and place chimney stone for the day at one
of Mr. Howitzer's buildings.
And so a typical summer weekend day passed on the Island from overcast
skies to bright sunshine and then, by degrees slipping the way Time tends
to do each day, to a dimming of the light. Fog glided over the far hills
of Babylon and somehow magically appeared on the top of Grizzly Peak Boulevard
above Oaktown. A gentle breeze shook the crabapple tree and the box elder,
sending spinners and lumpy fruit to earth in occasional hail. Lights flicked
on at the Old Same Place Bar where folks went from the Q Cafe to continue
their gossip and talk about politics and the wretched decisions and indecisions
made by Silly Hall. Inside, a chatter and a clatter from within while
outside the cars shushed by quietly.
"Les crêpes sont prêtes."
The moon, which had been Blue the previous night behind a nimbus of high
fog, waned gibbous. Out by the Community College Senor Don Guadeloupe
Erizo gazed up and pondered the mysteries of the Universe beside the hedge
where he kept home with Dame Herrison, who poked her head out of the burrow
to say, "Les crêpes sont prêtes". The Don,
who like all small animals understands every natural language, nodded.
The Don also refrained from speaking to humans, for fear of misunderstanding,
as humans could be extremely dense sometimes. Just look at what happened
to Mr. Ed. And of course, natively speaking Spanish, he spoke a language
like all males that was entirely different from that chosen by the female.
The two genders communicate typically like travelers in a foreign country,
speaking with hand and foot as some would say.
Down by Grand and Buena Vista Officer O'Madhauen parks his Crown Vic
and turns off the lights to wait for speeders, red light runners, people
returning in a wavering manner from the bars of Babylon.
By the garage, a little opossum pauses, hisses good night, then scrambles
under the woodpile, engaged in his own journey as all the world revolves
and everyone continues to travel, each by their own means, with some passing
across the border to the land of Dreams.
Then came the ululation of the throughpassing train from far across the
water as it trundled from the gantries of the Port of Oaktown with their
moonlit towers, letting its cry keen across the waves of the estuary,
the riprap embankments, the grasses of the Buena Vista flats and the open
spaces of the former Beltline, through the cracked brick of the former
Cannery with its leaf-scattered loading dock and its weedy railbed and
the interstices of its chainlink fence until the locomotive click-clacked
in front of the shuttered doors of the Jack London Waterfront, trundling
out of shadows on the edge of town past the Ohlone shellmounds to parts
unknown.
That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.

JULY 26, 2015
SUMMERTIME
A blooming peony inside the Bungalow Court, captured by Tammy. Says as
there is as much to say about summertime.

WALKIN WITH MY BABY DOWN BY THE SAN FRANCISCO BAY
This weekend was jam-packed with events all over the place. Jack London
Square hosted its popular Pedalfest, a two day bicycle extravaganza where
the Pennyfarthing holds forth once again among the trick bikes and the
modern "safety bicycle", so called because of the innovation
of equal-sized, pneumatic tires along with brakes.
Berkeley held its annual Kite Festival over at the Marina, while San
Rafael held and actual circus near downtown. The Island put on its annual
Art and Wine festival, now somewhere in its 35th year.
With gorgeous skies bluer than a Dutchman's pants and all these events,
no excuse not to get outside.
We skipped all that and headed up through heavy traffic to Marin for
a birthday get-together among old friends.
Closer to home we note a rise in home burglaries, perhaps due to more
open windows as the weather gets warmer, however the majority of the crimes
appear to occur between the hours of 7PM and midnight according to the
APD. Call 510-337-8340 NOT 911 if you see suspicious people. Call 911
only if you witness an actual crime.
The rate of 5150's on the island remains unabated at well over 14 people
per week being sent on three-day hold to the Pavilion. It's crazy, sure
it is.
Certainly in response to several high-profile cases that have hit national
news, the Department is proactively discussing body cameras for its officers.
The cameras can have benefits for the public as well as for crimefighters
in that video can help provide positive evidence of criminal activity
as well as positive ID. Not sure it would have helped the Officer who
was murdered during a routine traffic stop recently in San Leandro, but
it certainly would have shown automobile, plates and possibly the shooter's
face for subsequent prosecution.
As for the Letters to the Editor, we see the page dominated by the Harbor
Bay athletic club controversy, where Ron Cowan's realtor group wants to
tear down the existing popular club in favor of new pricey homes, while
placing the club replacement somewhere else. Presumably that elsewhere
is less inviting for residential real estate development.
Actually, what is needed out there -- according to office workers there
-- is a sprinkling of lunchtime eateries. At the moment, it is all brownbag
or phone it in for delivery. Which makes us wonder what the intended new
homeowners/residents are going to do for local services and if this demand
will not cause yet more development. Worth thinking about.
Willie Nelson was here at the Greek with Alison Kraus on the 23rd. Jackson
Browne does the Loadout on the 15th of August, followed by Block Party
on 9/11. Lenny Kravitz will strut his stuff on the 13th but you will have
to wait for that little miss dynamo Florence with her Machine on October
21st and 22nd. That gal proves size does not matter when it comes to power.
Sara Watkins will haul her family to the Watkins Family Hour for two
nights at the Freight in Berkeley October 14-15th. Fiona Apple and Tom
Brosseau will be joining in for two evenings of what is likely to be very
good music.
As for the brand new Fox, the can't miss booking agent must still be
there. Jason Isbell takes over August 11 with his extraordinarily fine
lyrics, which are probably better than anyone else out there right now.
The former Drive By Trucker left that southern rock band to clean himself
up and present sparklingly intelligent songs that can alternatively rock
like hell or wail from the same hot place. Don't know if he is planning
an acoustic or an electric show or a combo of both.
Speaking of hot, Grace Potter just might blow out the speakers on Saturday,
August 15th. Dianna Krall brings on the jazz the night after. Jill Scott
needs two nights to satisfy her fans August 21 and 22.
You will have to wait until September 9th for Mike Ness to powerhouse
his Social Distortion from SoCal. Miss that and you still have Brandi
Carlile the following week on the 18th. Better yet, see and hear them
all if you can.
Adam is bringing the Counting Crows to the Concord Pavilion September
20th.
Joe Bonemassa will light up his incendiary take on the Blues at the Shoreline
in Mountain View August 20th. Dave Matthews will bring his entire band
to the same place on 9/11, while the Foo Fighters will take the 16th.
Hope Dave is off pain meds and out of a cast by then. Having been there
ourselves, we do know what Level 10 pain is all about. You may know that
Dave Grohl fell and seriously broke a leg bone during the European tour.
Trouper that he is, he returned to the stage to finish the show from a
chair, which had to hurt, and has done subsequent shows in a sort of "throne"
he built for himself. That tibia was not just fractured, looking at the
x-rays, but was clean broken through.
Heck, we couldn't even walk for a month, and here is this guy out in
front of thousands of people performing in a chair barely a couple weeks
after the incident. Go out and lend the man some support.
That's it and if you don't like the music, go out and make some of your
own.
LIKE THE WEATHER
That recent spate of indecisive weather here was due to the remnants
of hurricane Dolores, which did dump a bit of rain on parched SoCal up
as high as San Luis Obispo. The Dweeber, Howard, said a drying trend is
coming through with weather turning hot. We have seen forecasts of up
to 105 for Oakland coming midweek, but believe the moderate 80-85 is more
realistic. Still could go into the triples in the Valley on the other
side of Altamont Pass, though. Anyone planning on visiting the Eastern
Sierra better plan on 105 degrees in Bishop.
STACK O' LEE
So anyway, the major election is yet more than a year away, but already
the political fighting and mud slinging has begun with a ferocity not
seen since Senator Preston Brooks beat Senator Charles Sumner with a cane.
Or the infamous floor brawl started by Pennsylvania Republican Galusha
Grow and South Carolina Democrat Laurence Keitt in 1858, which wound up
involving 30 Senators in a melee of punching and wig tearing.
Here on the Island we have our local race between Babar (Conservative
Party), Papoon (Not Insane Party, the reorganized Somewhat Liberal If
It Don't Offend Party), and Joe Bob Bingle (Pee Tardy) and the newly added
Grumpy Party spearheaded by I. Rascible Jones.
Things have livened up in recent months as the conventional two party
system now has four and in the two major parties that have traditionally
battled with one another for total thought control we have upstart contenders.
Within the Conservative Party a well-heeled magnate in the imported women's
lingerie industry named Donald Bump has tossed his hat in the ring, quite
loudly as it seems, with a great number of incendiary remarks, and to
add to that mix, we have Beanie Sandman popping out of the woodwork to
challenge Papoon from the far Left, which everyone had demonized in a
Guy Falks sort of way, but no one very seriously considered an actual,
living, breathing sort of entity.
The upcoming debates should be lively, especially as no candidate's camp
can seem to agree with any other camp on a date, a place or a time agreeable
to all.
Politics can be dull, drab and largely the province of some people getting
people to do things they otherwise would not do, and stopping other people
from doing stuff they would prefer to continue. People who get elected
have brickbats and offal thrown at them and are supposed to smile and
enjoy that while preserving the knowledge they could splat the brickbat
and offal throwers like a bug against a windshield immediately had they
a mind, but they'll settle for ruining their lives at a distance and that
is supposed to be satisfaction enough.
In any case the next few months are likely to provide a great deal of
entertainment, even as they fail to resolve the major issues of the world.
The weather has been gorgeous the past few days after a spate of overcast
skies and threatening thunderstorms that ultimately held off.
The dragon-boat rowers have been practicing in the estuary, along with
the racing crews and the solitary paddleboard folks who set out on bare
feet and a surfboard and oars to explore the reaches of the shoreline,
standing upright on their narrow planks. While standing at the Fruitvale
bridge one can watch them come out from the marina area and pass under
towards the Port gangways and cranes and the far flat extensions of the
former Base airfield that kiss the broadening of the Bay itself.
As night descended through a miasma of heat and incoming fog, sweepers
passed down Park Street to clean up the weekend party mess and a guy in
black pants and black jacket and stained white shirt came out from Los
Cubaneros to clean up his portion of the sidewalk. At the 51A busstop
right in front of the newspaper kiosk that somebody built way back before
WWII to pass on the news, a man wearing a peacoat asks strangers for a
welcome 25 cents for busfare or coffee or a package of Kents.
Officer O'Madhauen cruises down looking for speeders, redlight runners,
lane dodgers -- the usual riffraff -- and turns down Central to locate
his usual spot by the old Cannery, there to wait behind the stoplight
no one considers with a styrofoam cup of coffee and his radar atuned.
Out on Snoffish Road the teenagers from Encinal are racing the teens
from posh East End High in their magnificent hopped up lowriders, but
nobody in authority pays attention this hot summer night and nobody flames
out and so they all go get ice cream at Dreyers on Park or hamburgers
from that all night joint in Oaktown where Grand and Lakeshore meet.
The night creeps softly on soft paws to circle around the Island-Life
offices, arching its back and purring quietly before laying its heavy
dark head upon its paws and falling asleep. This night there are no sirens
rending the air above the town and no screams of pain. It was a quiet
night on the island and nobody go shot and nobody got stabbed. The Editor
quietly closed the doors upon the burgeoning moon that swelled above the
Veteran's Hall.
Then came the ululation of the throughpassing train from far across the
water as it trundled from the gantries of the Port of Oaktown with their
moonlit towers, letting its cry keen across the waves of the estuary, the
riprap embankments, the grasses of the Buena Vista flats and the open spaces
of the former Beltline, through the cracked brick of the former Cannery
with its leaf-scattered loading dock, its weedy railbed, and its chainlink
fence interstices until the locomotive click-clacked in front of the shuttered
doors of the Jack London Waterfront, trundling out of shadows on the edge
of town past the Ohlone shellmounds to parts unknown.
That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.

JULY 19, 2015
IF YOU HAD JUST ONE CHOICE

This week is an old shot done by Island-Lifer Tammy who has been problem-solving
how to set-up a cat-proof feeder within view of her window.
There are a lot of songs out there featuring hummingbirds, from a little-known
gem by Jimmy Page, Seals and Crofts, Jeff Tweedy, and even one by Katy
Perry. Best one we have heard recently is by Tom McRae.
THIS ISLAND-LIFE
Parks and parking were big on the agendas this week. The Jean Sweeney
Open Space preserve, which was to get $2 million from Tim Lewis Communities
just got another $2 million from the California Dept. of Parks and Rec
to help landscape the former Beltline railbed and add a playground, picnic
areas, and trails. The 22 acre park extends from Sherman to Constitution
Way.
The Main Street Ferry Terminal will likely get its auxiliary parking
lot paved and expanded finally once a dog park in the vicinity gets moved.
Funding for moving the dog park is still a pending matter, however. With
all the construction on the Bay Bridge and general increase in driving
hassles, many more people have been opting for the ferry access to the
City as part of the daily commute. WETA has tried to engage AC Transit
to reinstitute the 50 line that served the terminal, but AC Transit claimed
that when the service was in place, nobody used it and in a remarkably
unrelated statement, said WETA does not charge for parking at the terminal.
In 2009, when the 50 line last ran out there, the ferry carried 350 passengers
a day on an hourly schedule. At present, the ferry carries 1,800 passengers
a day on a 30 minute schedule.
Now we see that the EIR's preposterous claims of a net increase of one
car during rush hour by 2035 are based on the assumption that people will
come and go from the Island by boat and canoe.
The Letters to the Editor are packed with notes for and against the removal
of the Harbor Bay Athletic Club. Basically Ron Cowan's group wants to
move the club somewhere else so as to build more pricey homes on the land.
Most people agree the Club could use a few renovations, so the pro-movers
see an opportunity for someone else to pay for upgrades at a new location.
The anti-movers see more development causing more congestion and why not
renovate the existing structures in place. After all, you do not need
a new location to swap out old treadmills for new ones, nor do you need
another location to institute new programs like pilates, yoga, and spin
classes.
Even the Island Gerbil has a couple letters about the Club. Both the
Sun and the Gerbil have a couple rants as well, which always adds an entertainment
quality to the page. One writer complained about "excessive shrieking"
during women's tennis matches. Well, thanks for that; we had not known
it was a problem and we will inform Serena Williams ASAP about the issue,
although we are not sure what this has to do with the Island.
In another letter one writer compares the Island to the Titanic in a
somewhat rubberized metaphor in that the unsafe streets lacking four-way
stop signs and speed bumps at blind intersections are icebergs waiting
to snatch our little home and sink it. Or something. Get those minivans
blocking line of sight off the corners! Paint them red -- the corners,
we mean! Better yet, ban all mini-vans and SUVs everywhere! Well, everyone
has their opinions. Probably addressing specific streets and specific
corners at Silly Hall will gain more traction than a general alarmist
rant. Just sayin' . . .
Willie Stargell was born somewhere else, but went to school here and
there are some who still have fond memories of the Pirates All Star baseball
player. There will be a baseball monument dedication event Saturday, July
25th from 11:00 AM to 1:00 PM at Alameda Landing. See Stargell
for details.
Speaking of baseball, did not the Oakland A's royally spank the Twins
Sunday afternoon? The resulting score of 14-1 looked more like one for
another sport. The slight consolation to Minnesota is that the nine innings
went by faster than a Jesse Chavez fastball. The pitcher for the Twins,
though should have kept his frustration in check; trying to deliberately
bean four A's batters around the 7th Inning is generally considered poor
sportsmanship.
SLEEP'S DARK AND SILENT GATE
So anyway, the Summer heat rolled in to spike the temperatures all over
the place just ahead of the remnants of the Mexican hurricane Dolores,
which clouded up the skies a bit and led to some threats of thunderstorms
around here. The weatherman first said all clear for the weekend, then
revised that to 20% chance of thunder the following day, which worsened
-- or bettered for those longing for rain -- to 30% mid-day while still
everything held off, everything held up there in expectation as if the
Heavens held its breath.
Which made with the heat for quite a lot of bad-tempered people. It really
put a lot of people off, this sense of expectation lasting for so long,
people who have no truck with equivocation of any kind. People used to
getting things done, preferably by other people who can be controlled
efficiently. If you have a like to rain then rain, dammit. Enough of this
nonsense. Say your piece and get out. Crazy weather!
The Depuglias got into a fenderbender on Central Avenue with Mr. Cribbage.
Tom Depuglia had no idea how it happened, but he was in the truck yelling
at his fool brother for something stupid he did -- can't remember what
it was about now -- and then when he turned his head there was this Mercedes
SUV coming out of nowhere in a place it had no right to be and he swung
the wheel one way while the fool in the SUV swung the other and there
was this crunch and a moment of silence. Then the sound of a piece of
something falling off of the SUV to the ground.
Thank god for solid American Ford construction of a truck.
Anyway Tom got out and it was Mr. Cribbage who stated flatly "You
ran into me!"
"I beg to differ, dude!" Tom's brother, Tim, said, balling
up his fists.
"Ignorant brute," said Mr. Cribbage, somewhat unwisely. "We
wealthy gave you your jobs so that you could have the cash to buy things
like your truck."
"We both is sole proprietor partnership," said Tom. We got
no jobs and no bosses."
If the cops had not come around the corner things might have turned out
different and the Depuglias would have sent Mr. Cribbage home with a black
eye or something worse to remember.
The Postman has been making his daily rounds on time, but because of
recent Security issues, some deliveries have been delayed. The Pope has
been making some radical statements lately, and so Father Danyluk has
been pacing about the Inbox for the Rectory, looking for missives from
Rome that present yet another set of posers for his next sermon. The Church
had moved from an Ultraconservative position to a more active, liberal
one on many issues, which made the current times quite exciting and his
debates with his friend and associate, the Lutheran Pastor Nyquist have
been stirring his blood like it had not been stirred in years.
And once again, Drat!, the newsletter from the Holy See was late again.
Out on the high seas, working the fishing lanes, Pedro has the radio
tuned to his favorite program, the Lutheran televangelist Pastor Rotschue
Variety Hour. But the radio season had ended in some mysterious fashion
unknown to Pedro, an humble fisherman, who knew nothing of syndication
rights and seasonal contracts and the business of entertainment that roped
in quite a bit more than most people consider "that's entertainment".
So the frustrated Pedro was left with these canned reruns for the duration
until the magic moment of the New Season began again.
He supposed the good pastor had reasons to take a vacation now and then
after 40 years or so of working the airwaves, so it was in terms of a
vacation that Pedro considered this silence. And there were those adorable
girls, innocent, sweet, with sweet, sweet voices (returned from the can
in rerun) that helped pass the time. One week it was Nellie. This week
it was Sarah. And so the old boat's engines thrummed as Pedro worked the
nets and Ferryboat provided the company with barks and yips as the silver
catch thrashed upon the deck. Deftly Ferryboat caught a small albacore
in his mouth and carried it to the hold to drop it down below. I'm helping!
Beneath the surface of the Estuary, the Iranian spy submarine El Chadoor
drifted with engines stilled, the Captain gazing with equanimity at the
Port with its glaring spotlights and motionless container cranes waiting
for the daylight to awaken from machine dreams. Until the First Mate spoke
to him.
"Captain, any word on just why we were not commanded to join the
Fleet on maneuvers in the Atlantic?"
The Captain paused and thought carefully before answering. All of them
now shared the same worries, the same anxieties that Teheran had forgotten
them. Nearly two decades ago the El Chadoor had been sent to keep tabs
on the activities at one of the largest container ports in the world,
but time had passed. Periodic reports had been dutifully filed. Supplies
continued at the set times and rendezvous locations, but there had been
a singular lack of feedback. Crew rotations began to occur at longer and
longer intervals. The rotation had grown now from six months steadily
over time to two years. There was rumor the rotation would extend to five.
The Captain himself had now been in command of this vessel for 18 years,
with only brief vacations. He feared deep inside that his mission had
fallen through the cracks of administrative bureaucracy and that the original
admirals who had commissioned this project had retired, leaving behind
few notes for their successors and this mission now passed administratively
from inbox to inbox back at Central Command with no one having the slightest
idea how to bring it to a close for the original intent had never been
defined.
It had always been "Keep tabs on the Infidels. Take careful notes
about everything." No one now knew what meant success. No one knew
because of that, what meant failure. And nobody wanted to be left holding
the bag if failure was determined as a result.
The Captain spoke and in doing so, turned the truth a little bit for
he was a wise commander and had led for many years now. "It was said
our mission is so important that we must participate here in these waters
we know so well in support of the Revolutionary Government. I obtain daily
reports in confirmation of this."
This last part was a bit of a fabrication, but they did say to remain
on post and continue the mission. With their aging El Chadoor submarine
running technology now that was well over twenty years old. This last
part no one in Teheran mentioned, but it did concern the Captain a great
deal, for every year, as each year passed, new vessels were built, new
means to detect them invented. New technologies came into play. Could
it be that now the vessel was so old it passed underneath the detection
systems designed to locate far more sophisticated equipment?
"Of course it is true we have hope the recent treaty means peace
shall result and not what seemed to be disastrous war. It remains to wait
for what the American Congress shall do, but even so, there is hope two
natural allies may unite against common enemies above the acrimony of
petty national differences."
Somewhere in a far distant Scottish loch, an animal that was either a
big catfish or an antediluvian relic from some prehistoric time surfaced
and startled yet another photographing tourist before diving down into
the stygian concealment of that ancient place.
The Captain gave the command to dive and the El Chadoor glided out of
the estuary into the Bay and then out through the Golden Gate, running
silent, running deep, hoping Peace would outwit all the national leaders.
In the Island-Life offices the Editor moved from desk to desk turning
out desklamps, computer screens, deskfans, before returning to his glassed
cubicle. Since all the rest of the office had gone dark, the effect was
of being in a small room draped with sable curtains. The past few weeks
the Editor had suffered dreams of being back in Vietnam, sloshing through
rice paddies and swishing through green foliage paths erupting with green
butterflies, feeling this sense of all the time something really bad was
about to happen.
He stepped out onto the deck and looked at the unruly sky and sniffed
the air. Earthquake weather they used to call it. He then stepped back
inside.
At times he longed in vain for sweet sleep to dissolve the casket of
cares and memories and the sense of dread. He wished to be like himself
as he was in some halycon time before he consumed the forbidden fruit
of knowledge. Knowledge that we all really are just meat. He wished he
were like other people. But he was not and so he reached for the bottle
and took a pill and headed for the bare mattress he could call his own.
Running silent, running deep, he passed then under the Golden Gate to
the ocean beyond.
Then came the ululation of the throughpassing train from far across the
water as it trundled from the gantries of the Port of Oaktown with their
moonlit towers, letting its cry keen across the waves of the estuary,
the riprap embankments, the grasses of the Buena Vista flats and the open
spaces of the former Beltline, through the cracked brick of the former
Cannery with its leaf-scattered loading dock, its weedy railbed, and its
chainlink fence interstices until the locomotive click-clacked in front
of the shuttered doors of the Jack London Waterfront, trundling out of
shadows on the edge of town past the Ohlone shellmounds to parts unknown.
That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.

JULY 12, 2015
EXCELLENT BIRDS
This week we present a photo of lush summer burgeoning with dripping
sap and sexiness. This is a Bird-of-paradise palm that suddenly erupted
in someone's backyard after the recent rains.

THIS ISLAND LIFE
We dared post a comment to Lauren Do's blog which featured a critique
of Mayor Trish and a load of OTT comments. Here is our comment:
"Man, did this discussion go seriously Off Topic and off the rails
to Oz! Thought this was about Trish Spencers effectiveness as Mayor
and not about Presidential debates.
Well, we noted a few weeks ago in Island-Life.net that the Mayor had
a problem building consensus, and that this problem would have serious
political fallout for her, and consequently for us who live here. We need
someone to put the brakes on development so that each project can be analyzed
rationally without any more nonsensical reports like the EIR, which John
Knox White tried vaingloriously to defend. We also like JKW, even though
we think he was seriously wrong about the EIR. We do like the Mayor and
we think her Council is an improvement over Gilmore, but better than lousy
destructive and being likable is not enough to earn our vote again.
And people, please stick to the topic without riding your favorite hobbyhorses
and denigrating the other posters with snide comments. Everybody here
has good reasons for their opinions and their feelings."
Here are the first responses to that comment:
No wonder you feel stupid. You talk like a damn fool.
Comment by jack July 11, 2015 @ 6:34 PM
Youre about as wise an old man as a tree stump.
Comment by jack July 11, 2015 @ 7:03 PM
Well, no wonder only idiots get into the comments area for these things.
Rational people are scared off and discouraged by shrill ranting and red-faced
denunciation. We certainly will not venture forth with any sort of reasoned
comment in this forum again and we doubt anyone else of sense and sensibility
will as well. Which leaves the field to galloping assholes.
So anyway, on to news about the Island.
The Council approved the Site A development project, which was part of
the discussion on Lauren Do's blog about Spencer. This project has been
pretty much a done deal since before Mayor Trish took office, given that
the City would have faced massive lawsuits after Gilmore and Company had
approved so much of this. That said, the project at least modified itself
due to public input and the plan calls for $100 million in parks and infrastructure
improvements, plus a bundle of cash towards rehabilitation of an existing
100,000 foot structure for light industrial use as well as $10 million
toward a new ferry terminal. The project calls for 800 apartments, townhouses
and condos as well as 600,000 square feet of commercial space. It is this
commercial space that the EIR had relied upon for its job creation portion
of its traffic analysis.
The seals at the current semi-submerged floating dock at the Point that
is planned for removal due to construction of new WETA ferry maintenance
facilities will be relocated by means of a new haul-out that will be located
closer to Crown Memorial Beach. The old dock definitely will be demolished,
but the big question is whether the notoriously shy harbor seals that
frequent that area and Fisherman's wharf will use the new haul-out. Either
way, progress is progress and the seals must go.
Where they go seems to be largely a function of what is happening generally
with dislocation of habitat on the Island. It seems much of what is happening
is a result of money drive, greed, and a destructive development mentality,
as well as a sentiment that states effectively, "We don't care what
happens to you. Go f--- off."
PLEASE NOTE:
The City will embark upon a big road resurfacing campaign this month
and the project will continue through the summer into September. Looks
like the central Gold Coast will be affected, with Lincoln Street from
Grand to Sherman and all cross streets affected. This means traffic is
going to be gnarly in that area. Signage is supposed to be in place 72
hours in advance of affected streets. Please make a note of it.
The Mayor's July 4th Parade did happen and it did include horses that
were not part of the Sheriff's department in at least one entry. They
were not Percherons, but that is perfectly fine. Okay, enough of that.
Eleven people detained on 5150 this past week, which means it was relatively
quiet, but we had a scad of burglaries and six public intoxication reports.
Suspicious fire, probably due to the Angry Elf gang, and at least one
cat bite report fill out the picture here. Somebody locate that nasty
kitty and get that feline under control ASAP!
TEARS OF HEALING/ AFTER THE RAIN
So anyway. We had a couple days of wharf sizzlers here to help quench
the savage drought that is choking the Golden State. They were enough
to ease the backyard gardens with our withered tomatoes subsisting on
"gray water", but not enough to significantly ease the reservoirs.
With the warmer than normal Bay ocean temps and Howard reporting from
Mammoth on thunderstorms happening in the Sierra, we can say the effects
of El Nino are pronounced enough that we can expect some real dockwallopers
come the Fall.
July 12th is, as everyone should know, Orangemen's Day in the northern
Counties where the Battle of the Boyne is commemorated. Not so much in
the Republic, which has scant love for William of Orange and his Bloody
Mary. In the Old Same Place Bar Padraic and Dawn make studious efforts
to ignore the day, going so far as to forget to have a certain citrus
fruit on hand for the muddled Manhattans.
"We'll use grapes and maraschinos and lemons instead. Nobody needs
all that sugar in them," Padraic says.
This only poses a serious problem should someone want a tequila sunrise
or a mimosa. He always suggests the patron should rather have a mojito
or a julep.
Padraic, for all his Irish Republicanism, remains somewhat liberal on
the matter of That Other Religion, which amazes Suzie, the bartender and
he always speaks cordially and with respect to Pastor Nyquist whenever
he drops in.
"Ah, the Lutherans are a better sort of Protestant, to be sure."
Padraic says. "And with a name like his, he can't have much of the
English in him."
"We are all children of God," Dawn said.
Indeed, words of the wise. Would that more people who practice their
religion kept that fact in mind.
Most people on the Island trend toward the gentler side of tolerance
with the general idea that if somebody was that much of an idiot to hold
a foolish opinion, then the schools had failed and there was nothing to
be done to improve his inbred ignorance. Harry Blitz, our only openly
avowed skinhead fascist tried to hold a meeting of his National Front
group. From where he had collected them, god only knows, for there are
precious few of that sort around here and even our token Minister of Doom
and Hate, Howard Camping, held all his meetings over in Oaktown near the
airport in that area where strange gatherings of all kinds have been known
to happen for years. The old pest finally passed away in 2013 and nobody
misses him.
Maybe Blitz culled the remainders of that man's congregation and that
of Reverend Rectumrod, but in any case the meeting did not go well. When
Festus heard library resources were going to be employed to promote National
Socialism and Lyndon Larouche, he got all his hamster pals together and
they scampered into the Free Library, bearing miniature rainbow flags
and they ran about the feet of the assembled, causing them great dismay
and much grief by way of biting their ankles, those that did not wear
jackboots. They jumped into their jodhpurs and they ran across the buffet
and they ran up the mike to sing "The Internationale" in high
pitched voices and so made of the planned White Power meeting a total
fiasco with people fleeing from the place in a great rout.
Larry Larch was out delivering several service dogs to the Blogging Bayport
headquarters -- where it seems his PPA services have come under high demand
-- when he pulled up astonished to see a gaggle of brownshirts weeping
and screaming as they ran from the Free Library to the sounds of Die Internationale
as sung by a hundred Disney characters named Chip 'n Dale.
"Wach auf Verdammte dieser Errrrrrrrrdah!"
Larry's PPA is Pushy People Anonymous, an outfit that tries to revise
obnoxious behavior by means of group therapy and service dogs trained
to recognize arrogance and pushiness. When the dog senses the client getting
rude, in line or the movie theater or a restaurant or a public forum,
the animal bites them. It all goes by the theory of Aversive Conditioning.
There is a tremendous amount of psychology behind it and it is all about
retraining the neural pathways that produce bad behavior. The first step
towards rehabilitation of a person manifesting bad behavior is acknowledgment
of their problem before putting their fate into the hands of an Higher
Power. The group therapy meetings can be quite emotional.
A large man wearing a plaid shirt stands up in front of everyone in the
room and says, "Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Jack and I have
a confession to make. I . . . am a jerk . . .".
Larry's NorCal chapter of the national PPA is very popular. There is
a chapter in Beverly Hills next to the Betty White Clinic. Some of the
Gabors have been clients, but none of the Kardashians have ever been enrolled.
Yet.
Summer has begun on the Island and the Strand was thronged by sailboarders
all dashing this way and that with their colorful parachutes like so many
exotic birds. They all wear full bodysuits of rubber, not so much for
the cold, but because the shallow mudflats breed a kind of water parasite,
which is our version here of the blackfly that plagues other parts of
the country. The thing burrows into the skin and then dies, for it is
a kind of aqueous chigger that wants to burrow into fish for any kind
of success. This thing is not so bright, for most people are not really
fish, but nevertheless it causes a rage of an itching, stinging rash if
people do not wash themselves well after getting wet with Bay water.
And so the day passed with summer traditions at the beach and the shadows
grew long all along the seawall until the sun pulled down beyond the hills
of distant Babylon in striations of gold, azure and vermilion, sending
most of the beachgoers away to wherever beachgoers go after finishing
up with going to the beach. The lights winked on one by one along the
newly developed streets of San Bruno Mountain.
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
illegal music downloading, wiretapping, drug smuggling, and perverse consort
with poodles. The moon, bella luna, stroked his brown head 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 and the Special
Survival Tool (with hook).
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 or to jail.
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 and no one got stabbed and no one got shot.
Then came the ululation of the throughpassing train from far across
the water as it trundled from the gantries of the Port of Oaktown with
their moonlit towers, letting its cry keen across the waves of the estuary,
the riprap embankments, the grasses of the Buena Vista flats and the open
spaces of the former Beltline, through the cracked brick of the former
Cannery with its leaf-scattered loading dock, its weedy railbed, and its
chainlink fence interstices until the locomotive click-clacked in front
of the shuttered doors of the Jack London Waterfront, trundling out of
shadows on the edge of town past the Ohlone shellmounds to parts unknown.
That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.

JULY 5, 2015
I AM DRIVIN' IN MY CAR. TURN ON THE RADIO
This week we have a photo of an art-car project parked on Park Avenue
behind the main drag. Should give teachers and harassed admin assistants
an idea what to do with all those expended art supplies.

We like that the car model is a Mercedes no less.
Here is a close-up of the hood.

THIS ISLAND LIFE
First item of business here is the Mayor's 39th annual July 4th Parade,
which went off with scarcely a hitch or a ripple it was so well orchestrated
and organized. In fact we were left with a sad sense of nostalgia for
the wilder days of the parade when the quixotic and the unusual were characteristic
of this "biggest small town parade in America." There were no
30 foot long iron dragons spitting fire and no strange Chinese sects with
immense lotus blossoms, and no renegade floats inserting themselves illegally
into the route. It was all quite tame and predictable and somewhat lacking
in energy for all of that.
We have managed by a great deal of effort to turn ourselves into an average
place with no special distinction other than being a small town with a
parade that looks just like everyone else, with the Kiwanis and the Elks
and Sons of Knute parading along with the local insurance company float
and the local realtor float and the local Ministry of this and that following
the usual high school baton twirlers and the Baptists sitting up there
in their dour costumes on a flat-bed truck and the Catholic church sending
a chaste assembly of trumpet players on the same.

This year everyone galloped through at break-neck pace with scarcely
time enough for a photo as the few horses galloped and the entire thing
that used to stretch from nine to four was entirely over and barricades
removed by noon. In fact, checking out the line-up, we found precious
few of the caballeros that used to prance down the street with gorgeous
saddles and well-equipped vaqueros sporting marvelous mustaches. None
of that this time. Instead we found entry after entry of bland businesses
driving sedate sedans and convertibles. Why did this year feature the
NRA, but not the Poet Laureate for the City for the first time in many
years?

The Chinese School and the Lutherans with their high-stepping boot-girls
were conspicuously absent this year, although we did get Trader Joes and
Emo's Automotive Repair and Rico's Tires and Bayside Real Estate. No sign
of the Filipino community. None of the Jewish Chabad. Same for the Islamic
community. So we have to wonder if this parade really reflected in any
seriousness the diverse nature of who we are.

It just seems that if you want to celebrate a rebellion, you may want
to allow a piece of that in your parade. Just saying.
In other news we see with some smugness that a tempest is brewing regarding
the latest "sister city" business with the Philippine town of
Dumagurete. Well-intentioned folks appear to have gotten excited and traveled
here to sign official documents without the official sanction of the Philippine
governments.
You know, we have moved urgently and pleadingly for sister city status
with a certain town in upstate Minnesota without effect. A town that although
small, is nevertheless significant to many, a town that time has forgot,
not unlike our own. A town that -- darn I need a third component to complete
the grammar -- a town that contains colorful characters similar to our
own, a town in which all the women are strong and all the men good looking
and all the children above average. Which ought to sound familiar.
We are not saying anyone is foolish, but just that we offered an option
about a place a tad better than some subtropical island where they fry
up mosquitos big as birds to make fajitas.
Meanwhile a bunch of people who do not live here and do not want to,
also want to put scads of more people on the island, without regard to
traffic or quality of life here. How crazy is that?
AINT NO CURE FOR THE SUMMERTIME BLUES
So anyway, we had a few hot ones that reminded everybody that Summer
has begun. Temps rocketed to triple digits briefly before settling beneath
the high fog to more moderate weather. Other than a smattering of swamp
coolers Island residences are singularly lacking in air conditioning.
Seeking to escape the heat Eugene went down to the Strand where a lot
of other folks had gone. The water there, however, had receded on the
ebb tide leaving acres of steaming sand flats in front of the sizzling
beach. As he walked back along the new disputed bicycle lanes toward the
trees he passed Alvin, a senior at Encinal, wrestling with Marietta, also
a senior at the same high school.
They had been playing soccer with friends on the green above the baseball
diamond, but the heat had terminated that activity, sending most of the
teens off to the park benches under the treebreak there, while a couple
others went into the high stand of bunchgrass which emitted a great deal
of hidden rustling and laughing after that, followed by silence, and possibly
some laying supine on a blanket while staring up into the blue heavens.
Alvin, a letter athlete, wound up pinning Marietta, but only after experiencing
some difficulty. "Loser has to kiss the winner wherever he says,"
said Alvin.
"So where?" Marietta asked.
Alvin whispered something in Marietta's ear and her face flushed and
she hit him and broke free. They glared at one another face to face on
their knees a moment. "Best two out of three!" said the girl.
And then she launched herself at him, knocking the teen backwards.
Across from Washington Park a couple younger kids had put up a lemonade
stand. Fifty cents a cup for freshly squeezed juice and ice. Eugene paid
for his drink and took a swallow and gagged. "How much sugar you
put in this?"
The one kid looked at his female companion and said, "O Betsy! We
forgot the sugar!"
Cruising down 8th Kid Viper, the semipro boxer, piloted his red convertible
to a berth near the hang-glider shed on the edge of the park. He got out
and leaned against his car with mirrored sunglasses and beefy arms folded
across his impressive chest, posing for the girls who looked at him and
whispered to one another and giggled. The Viper smiled beneath his sunglasses.
"That lady's got no clothes on!"
Passing this scene went Percy Worthington Boughsplatt in his two-toned
1929 Mandeville-Brot coupe, spiffy as always in his dustcap and beige
waistcoat with Madeline beside him, wearing as appropriate for the weather
a fetching pillbox hat, a blue neck choker and tango shoes. As a member
of the Berkeley Explicit Players, this completed the entirety of her ensemble
and as Percy drove past them, Mrs. Cribbage clapped her hands over the
eyes of her astonished husband, entirely scandalized, while little Tubby
Tucker stood nearby and pointed with a chubby finger and laughed and laughed.
"That lady's got no clothes on!"
Madeline smiled and waved and they drove on.
Sunday the 39th Annual Mayor's Parade started out across from City Hall
with a wail of sirens and lots of horn tooting. The usual politicians
in open cars was followed by the mounted sheriffs and the Marine color
guard. Waylon's kung fu academy went after that with the kids doing high
kicks and spins while twirling their flashing swords. Borg and Brunhilde
and Betty waved from the flatbed trailer hung with bunting and pinwheels
as the Touch of Wonder Massage Parlor entry.
The various churches all had entries, carefully separated from one another
by squads of horses so as to avoid religious disputation. Father Danyluk
held a fishing rod on the float for Our Lady of Incessant Complaint while
the altarboys dressed as fish circled the float on bicycles.
Pastor Nyquist lead the choir and band on the Emmanual Lutheran entry,
while Pastor Freethought led her band on the Unitarian float dressed as
Elvis. The Unitarians, of course, mostly sang rock and roll and Pete Seeger
songs.
Jason Arrabiata sat on an immense plate of spaghetti that was made of
ductwork and inflated exercise balls painted to look like meatballs.
It was Tom's idea to get a real deer
The Depuglia brothers smeared themselves with dirt and put leaves in
their hair and built the facsimile of a stone-age camp on the back of
their truck. It was Tom's idea to get a real deer and spit the carcass
over a fake fire. It all looked very authentic, save for the cans of beer
they pulled out of the "woodpile", but not many people could
figure what it had to do with the Fourth of July and the deer began to
attract flies after a few hours in the hot sun.
"PPA: Be nice and No Bite!"
Bear rode his 1962 panhead motorcycle with Susan perched on the back
wearing a Viking helmet with horns followed by Larry Larch and his colleague
Ms. Light as part of the Pushy People Anonymous float, which was decorated
to look like a big schnauzer. Several service animals gamboled on the
back of this under the sign which read, "PPA: Be nice and No Bite!"
Larry founded PPA some years ago to resolve the high incidence of rude
and obnoxious behavior in NorCal. The program features group therapy and
a service dog that can sense arrogant selfishness. If the client pushes
out of line, for example, the dog nips the person to enforce good behavior.
the night advanced on quiet cat feet
It was a grand parade and everyone who was anyone on the Island made
at least a short appearance and fog rolled back in as the sun set and
the traditional barrage of small explosives went off all over the Bay
Area. Long about two AM the last firecrackers exploded in a series, followed
by blessed silence and the night advanced on quiet cat feet, crept twice
around the house, curled up and went to sleep and all was peaceful, making
it a quiet night on the Island and nobody got shot and nobody got stabbed.
Then came the ululation of the throughpassing train from far across the
water as it trundled from the gantries of the Port of Oaktown with their
moonlit towers, letting its cry keen across the waves of the estuary,
the riprap embankments, the grasses of the Buena Vista flats and the open
spaces of the former Beltline, through the cracked brick of the former
Cannery with its leaf-scattered loading dock, its weedy railbed, and its
chainlink fence interstices until the locomotive click-clacked in front
of the shuttered doors of the Jack London Waterfront, trundling out of
shadows on the edge of town past the Ohlone shellmounds to parts unknown.
That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.

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