WINTER DRAWS THE CURTAIN, BUT SPRING TAKES THE BOW
MAY 3, 2012
So anyway, spring weather finally hit here after a long hiatus. Folks was all out on the Strand. With the savage Great Recession on, few folks stepped out on the town; the beach is there, the ocean asks for no fees and for now, sunshine has no surtax.
The Island downtown, all four blocks of it, has been thronged on the weekends by folks staying home for the Paradise Theatre, the ice cream shop, Ole's Waffles, and Juanita's taqueria.
Reports are coming in that Babylon has been ghostly on the weekends before the tourist season starts hauling them in for double-decker bus Haight tours (Look ma, there's a hippie!), Union Square shopping among the pigeons, sourdough bowls of canned chowder and frights along Fisherman's Wharf provided by The Bushman (AIIIIIIEEEEEAAAHRRRG! Oh my God, Harold! That man just jumped out of nowhere!)
With this sudden nice weather the roads to work have suddenly cleared up and Mitch McConnell of KQED has been saying things like, "Looks like the 580 overpass is not horrible today . . .". Indeed we have come now to the month of May, the onset of BBQ aromas and the onslaught of The Most Dangerous Season. If you are a long time reader of Island-Life, you know what we mean.
Even the fog has been holding off so as to leave a breezy door open for that gauzy-dressed gal May to come flouncing in with her bouquets of lilies and armloads of jasmine perfume.
Yes, Spring is the most dangerous season. Maybe it is different in other places, but here, wise men remain indoors and order pizza for dinner, hunker down by the TV to watch endless reruns of Monster Truck Destruction and Terminator I, II, III and IV. Its safer cuddled there in the dark lit only by the blackout curtain blocked TV set glow.
Bees dive-bombing the clover, hummingbirds bayoneting the jasmine that keeps throwing out punches this way and that while sending wafts of chemical weapons of mass disruption. Army ants on the march and squirrels conducting reconnaissance forays add to the mayhem, while raccoons begin nightly raids. The daisy bush bursts with yellow ack-ack blooms while the poppies erupt with tiny explosions across the fields. Squadrons of swallows, duck sorties, and Canadian geese streak overhead and then, worst of all, there are the girls in their summer dresses.
Meanwhile, somewhere overhead, flying in stealth mode -- that naked, blindfolded, fat boy keeps firing off at random his erring arrows of wanton mishap, those IEDs (Improvised Erotic Designs), wreaking chaos in a wide swath more terrifying that Sherman's March to the Sea. Squadrons of women and girls bursting into majorityhood stroll on patrol, wearing their uniforms: thin summer dresses, haltertops, daisy-dukes, and god knows what else underneath that armor. If anything. Its all agitprop left to the imagination.
Observe Johnnie, happy and carefree as a lark, striding with ruddy cheeks and full confidence. But after him comes Jane, armed with those sharpshooter eyes, that flippy short skirt, and strappy high heels.
Now Johnnie is down! His face wan and his appetite poor, his breath coming out in ragged gasps as Jane cradles his head among the wildly blooming, victorious daisies. Right in the heart, poor lad. A goner for sure.
Yes, Spring is the most dangerous Season.
When the fog rolls back and feminine panzer divisions cruise the Uptown district in search of some likely target holding his pinsel in his hand at the galleries, when the leggy Joanne strides forth into the night on six-inch stilleto heels and Danielle puts on that short black dress and a European accent spoken with a sultry je ne sais quoi wafting pheromones among the randy artisans, that is when Don Giovanni and Lola Lola stalk the Salons for luscious prey.
That is when The Editor stocks up on Redbox flicks (Netflix now passe), and a fridge filled with Mrs. Callender frozen dinners. For the artsbeat he sends his representative, the hapless Jose who safely has no more a clue about eros than Art.
"Don't you find Klimt so ... suggestive," a sensuous thing with flaming red hair." says to him.
"You mean Werner Klemperer in Hogan's Heroes?"
While the Editor pulls the shades to the office, hiding in there with the lights turned off for most of Spring, Denby sticks to familiar channels, scuttling along through life like one of those UCSF lab mice in a maze, always turning left at the same corner with a careful sniff.
These men will never know the tangy flavors of passion, or perhaps the flavor soured a bit too harsh long time ago, as suggested by Denby who ends the setlist at the Old Same Place Bar with the same song each night: Thats the Way Love Turned Out For Me.
Where some ride love's Merry Go Round in a film by Almodovar or Segal, others find themselves on a ride in a Hitchcock movie.
This past Sunday, Jose stood outside the Household place to see Javier get picked up by his new girlfriend, Victoria Sky. A deafening thunder announced the arrival of her and her escort, a bevy of fellows wearing German WWII helmets, maltese crosses and fur vests, arms hung high on ape-hanger bars rising from coughing, pounding, snarling motorcycles. Victoria wore a thin leather vest stretched tight over an impressive torso, a chain about her neck and a maze of tattoos over her arms and shoulders. Her chaps straddled a beige-colored bike with bulbous hairy saddlebags which joined to a veiny tubular frame that rose up to a flared fuel tank which depicted something the display of which typically gets men arrested with conditions never ever to approach within 400 yards of a school or playground.
Jose's mouth dropped open as Victoria leapt off this thing to embrace Javier - she wore only a tiny g-string under her chaps. And it was obvious.
"Whahooo! Let's roll!" Victoria shouted.
As they roared off, Pahrump came out and asked, "What was that?"
"Javier's new girlfriend."
"O I do not think this will end well. We gotta go over and get the Hall ready for the Fling."
Pahrump, Jose, Xavier, Martini, and Tipitina all trooped on over to the hall for the Native Son's of the Golden West Parlor 33 1/2. They had just aired out the place after the drenching rains. Along the way they met up with the Man from Caldwell. The Man from Caldwell had become good friends with the Man from Minot a couple years ago when it came out that the Man from Minot came from a place to which no one ever returns, and the Man from Caldwell came from a place to which no one ever could return.
This is California: everyone here, save for Pahrump, was from somewhere else.
Minot sits in the savagely harsh environment of North Dakota a few miles from the Canadian border and possesses the dubious distinction of being the coldest place in North America. When it is not busy bunkering down in temperatures that approach that of the dark side of the moon, it is wailing under a treeless lashing sun whipping the bejeezus out of featureless landscape that causes cattle to die of boredom. Originally settled as a landrush milestone in the 1800's, the town now exists largely to provide a waystation for people fleeing Winnipeg, which at least has trees and a river to liven things up.
The town does have a casino. Once the casino had a floorshow with strippers, but the last stripper, named Gypsy Azalea Lee, wearied of the tedium and so departed early one morning on a bus bound for Minneapolis.
Once a moose wandered by accident across the border into Minot at night.
By day, the poor beast felt so lost and bereft with no guidepost to home that he just stood there with sad pleading eyes until the RCMP sent a car to fetch him back home. When Canada, of all places, becomes more interesting than your hometown, you know you just got to get out.
Caldwell, by contrast, once was a bucolic midwest town with solid employment via a nearby mine, pleasant suburban homes, low crime-rate, lots of trees, and typical midwestern friendliness.
The nearby mine, however, began causing the buildings of the town to collapse into sinkholes. One day the bank just went - ploomp! - just like that. Then houses. Cars. Chicken coops. Gardens. Dogs. Children.
The federal government kicked everyone out. The entire town was evacuated and a fence put around it. For the people of Caldwell, there would be no going home forever.
The Man from Caldwell joined the setup crew. They were all preparing for the Annual Spring Fling at the Hall.
Tipitina asked Martini if he was planning on going to the benefit.
Martini shrugged a no. This sawboy got no date.
"Old Indian saying," Pahrump said. "No money no Honey."
The Angry Elf gang has taken a back powder after taking temporary control of the St. Charles Asylum. There it has been all celebratory partying and obscene roistering amid the Nazi takeover of the Reichstag. They have yet to turn their intentions to the little community on Walnut again.
As some have commented the deer are out and about, roaming in search of comfortable gardens upon which to graze later. Not much is growing now, but those deer seem to be looking about for domains to conquer later.
In Marin they know the well-protected deer as rats with antlers. People erect tall fences so as to keep them out, but there is little to defend against such ravenous beasts. Little Toby Tucker says, largely influenced by demented Disney movies, "Don't hurt Bambi!"
The more cynical among you will say, "You too, young fellow, will learn to appreciate osso buco."
Sharon from the somewhat somnolent Social Events Desk noted a baby Opossum scampering along the fence at the new offices. She thought with alarm that the creature was a rat, but no, it was a Spring 'Possum. Sharon, city born and bred, of course would expect a rat. Nevertheless, with the neighbors' nervous terrier going off like mad at the drop of a hat, no rodent would have peace of mind in the place. The baby opossum scampered away to wherever its business had a mind and found there safety. The neighborhood tomcat came looking for it, but went away unsatisfied.
Spring, a time of tooth and nail, Lex Talionis, of savage rendering and naked opossums at risk. Nevertheless, there remain the ducks of spring. Innocence abides. You don't have to grab that parking space, you don't have to keep your edge by devouring the competition, you don't have to always be grasping and grabbing; what do you really have to lose in the end? Your soul? Your family? Your house? Your car? Nonsense. Spring abides.
There is a fellow on the Island who has ripped out all of his front yard, once the envy of his neighbors, and bricked it all over with a little artificial fountain. In back he has cemented the ground and laid drains for the inevitable, which never seem to work well, leaving stagnant ponds for days after rains. Naturally, weeds spring up between the bricks in front, and vegetation starts cracking the cement where the water stands. At night you can hear the bullfrogs sing.
You can try to put down Spring with a pitchfork, but it always comes roaring back.
The Editor and Jose have started their Spring preparations. The Editor collects all those Weight Watcher instant dinners that cost 88 cents and stuffs his fridge full along with six-packs of Fat Tire ale. Bottles of Arthur Power go snug on the shelves along with a store of Redbox videos. He, like Jose and Denby, bunkers down during the more critical periods of Spring, that Most Dangerous Season.
Latterly, as the monsoon season here begins to leave with soggy regrets, the Editor has taken to walks up on the hill where the Jack Sparrow Orphanage perches beneath the well-matriculated oaks of Berkeley. The hills, being affluent, belong to Berkeley. The Orphanage, belonging to the indigent, belongs to Oaktown. Twas ever thus, still, its quite a view.
The Parole Officers came by today on their rounds and the wiry 14 year olds shifted their feet under the inquisition.
Do any of us have a right to happiness and after long seeking and much suffering have any of us earned something so dubious as an entitlement?
"Entitlements". Such a curious word. Like military death benefits and medical care for Congress adherents. Health care for injured police and firemen. Things like that are called "entitlements".
Wrong use? O, sorry about that. It is such an odd word, and words are inclined to go any place on their own like wayward rabbits.
The Editor looks out from the oval there to survey the East Bay spread out below, with the towers of distant Babylon looming above a grey fog across the water. Down below the kid who was subject to interrogation tosses a football with fellow injured children in the yard. Is there really a right to happiness or pursuit thereof? Or is the Grand Experiment all gone to seed as the Radical Right claims. There is no Democracy, they say. Because it is just a sordid Republic. Thats all the country amounts to: a sordid Republic.
In the Old Same Place Bar there is a clatter and a chatter therein, with frosty mugs of Fat Tire ale and Suzie brushing her hair back from her steamy face as the shift wears on. For Suzie, serving the gabbling yuppies in their mating rituals happiness remains at some remove like a painting of an idyllic landscape with meadows and ponds, waterfalls and mountains. Nice to look at, but impossible to be there right now.
Last call comes around and all the company there, Suzie and Dawn and Padraic plotz in their chairs. Feels like heaven sitting down. If you do not know that song, well, you just do not know and never will.
Padraic pours some water out of a pitcher for Dawn, who croons "O Lord I wish I was in heaven, sittin' down."
Some desires for happiness make little demands.
Denby set up to play the last song of the evening after Last Call and those fortunate few who had found some kind of companion solace for a while had all left the place long ago. It was that time of night when the tables all were pooled up and sticky with spilled beer and the low light that was made everything feel sad and alone. Each glass waiting to be collected stood there half empty with broken promises of half-hearted happiness that never stood on firm ground in the first place. Each candle stood alone. The neon sign for Dos XX buzzed all alone in the window with one of the letters burned out in the sign; the Most Interesting Man in the World never comes in to places like this. Suzie sat by herself, alone, reading her anthro book.
"The Bonobo have developed such a highly-developed society that no individual ever is left bereft of companionship. Among the Bonobo, ostracism does not exist, for that would be death to a Bonobo as well as a denial of everything for which the community stands . . . ".
Suzie closed her book and meditated upon this for a while while Denby played his guitar.
Far out at sea, Pedro motored out to the fishing lanes with only his faithful lab, Tugboat at his side. He did not feel lonely out their surrounded by miles of ocean. He had a dog. And he had a job. If you feel lonely, get a dog. Go for walks together. Smell the roses. Get over it; things could be worse. They probably will, in fact, for all of us die eventually, and usually it is not pleasant at all. Get a dog. Get over it.
The preacher he liked had a poet on the radio show and the poet was telling a story about two buddhist monks walking along a road. They came to a deep stream and a woman standing there wondering how she could cross this fast-moving deep stream.
The older monk picked up the woman and carried her across the stream, followed by the younger monk.
The monks left the woman there and continued on their way. After a number of hours, the younger monk burst out emotionally with protestations about carrying the woman across the stream.
How on earth could he, a monk devoted to aesceticism and denial, have picked up this woman? How could he do such a thing when he was to provide an example? He just could not understand it at all.
The older monk said, "I set that woman down many miles ago. Why are you still carrying her?"
Get a dog. Get over it. Things could be worse.
From far across the water, the long howl of the the throughpassing train ululated across the longing waves of the estuary and the Spring grasses of the Buena Vista flats as the locomotive wended its way past the dark and shuttered doors of the Jack London Waterfront, headed off on its journey to parts unknown.
That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.
