Island Life: July - Dec., 2018

Vol. 20Weekly News, Reviews, Music and Satire Sunday 2018

Welcome to the second half of year 2018. The year's content is split into two parts to allow easier page loading for slower browsers. Each year tends to approach the equivalent of 380 typewritten pages.

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JULY 16, 2018

THE FIREWORKS ARE HAILING OVER LITTLE EDEN TONIGHT

July 4th happened. Happy Birthday America!. This shot from the parade in Silvan Acres in California.

WELCOME BACK MY FRIENDS TO THE SHOW THAT NEVER ENDS

We are all back from the Annual Island-Life Sabbatical, each intact and alive and without injuries this time. No one tried to kill any one of us and none of us engaged in life-threatening activities.

It was exhausting all the same what with the wretched conditions of flying in America today and the new reality of bad connections with just about every airline.

Many things appear to have happened during our absence, including altercations involving the Trump and Russians and minor spats at Silly Hall on the Island, but we do note that nothing essentially has changed. Fools still run amok in control of things and the general order continues to decay into rebellious inanity.

Lest one think that our Media, as imagined by Rump, has run astray, we did a survey of European media to find that the Europeans are fairly convinced across the board that Rump is a numbskull not representative of our Nation in general. That is two things about which to consider.

Lauren Do has taken to referring this entire Trump fiasco with all its attendant misery as "The National Horror Show" in article after article. We could not have put it any more succinctly.


I NEVER WANTED TO BE GROWN UP

So anyway, a heatwave has settled in after some windy weather and we have triple digits in the Valley and high eighties all along the coast. Up in the Marinlands we have seen ninty plus exacerbating our natural ill humor.

Denby went to a wedding held in the sweltering heat and played the introitus with the violinist named Norm beside the stolid stone walls of a fort until it was over and then went with Norm to get exceedingly drunk as is customary at such affairs. He had some connection with the groom's party, was a close friend of his mother, and nevertheless observed his name misspelled repeatedly on invitations and the reception seating, so he took it all in stride - the main thing was that the bride enjoyed herself and her parents, and so got thoroughly ripped along with a number of others and sat out on the embankment with an ex-marine with whom he traded stories of Saigon back in the day and they all watched the initial July 4th fireworks explode into the air, which did not bother Denby nor the ex-marine as much as it used to, while Norm staggered off to fall into the arms of a fetching bridesmaid who sported blonde and scarlet hair and a flamboyant disposition. The two were lip-locked and rolling in the surf down on the beach long before the night was over.

It was a magical evening of fireworks and rolling in the surf and Denby took his seat among the old men to observe the mating rituals of the young and young at heart.

When he returned to Silvan Acres, he almost took a wrong turn after the flights had been delayed and the trip extended past twelve hours into the morning, and would have found himself among familiar haunts on the Island, but he awoke in time and guided the ancient Toyota past the glaring gantries of the Port to the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge and thence onward to this new abode in the North Counties.

He dropped off the Groom's mother at her house in the hills and descended to the flats where he knocked back a couple shots of vodka before hitting the sack. He vaguely remembered the garter pulling and had something of a memory of a bouquet tossed, but he had never ever been in the game and had never come close to catching any of that. But now there were the pines, and the yipping of wild animals beyond the fence and the waving of exotic blooms.

The moon dropped below the pines and the coyotes began their hunt. Another working day loomed like a monster on the horizon.

The sound of the train horn keened from Oaktown across the estuary and wended its way through the fog-shrouded Northbay's well-matriculated hills and slid over the sleeping bulk of Princess Tamalpais following the old, forgotten railbeds that once led along Sir Francis Drake Boulevard to the coast, as it also traversed the estuary to cross the Island and the old Beltline property that is now a park, and die between the Edwardian house-rows while the living locomotive click-clacked in front of the shadow-shuttered Jack London Waterfront, trundling past the Ohlone burial mounds to an unknown destination.

That's the way it is around the Bay. Have a great week.

.

 

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