JUNE 26, 2011
DEEP BLUE SEA
This week's headline comes from the mellifluously appelled Lisa Bullwinkel,
who runs an East Bay based event coordination service and is of the winner
in last week's rescheduled Chocolate and Chalk Festival up in Berzerkeley.
Ryan Sommer drew this to take first place and $250 in the Chalk Art Contest
at the Chocolate & Chalk Art Festival in the Gourmet Ghetto on North
Shattuck Avenue last week.
Despite moving the festival forward one week due to a very rainy early
June, the crowds came out in droves. They ate tons of delicious chocolate
specialties that were available in the restaurants just for that day and
drew more than 200 pieces of chalk art on the sidewalks.
Sponsored by the North Shattuck Association and produced by Another Bullwinkel
Show, the event is now in its 15th year. Photos of all of the winners
may be viewed at www.AnotherBullwinkelShow.com.
The event is always an early summer success that puts a spin on the usual
wine/art festival format.
TELLING STORIES
HE'S ONLY A DOG . . .
Locals here managed to postpone the closure of the Island's beloved animal
shelter, which had been slated for closure for the usual budgetary reasons.
The Human Society managed to convince the City to sign an informal agreement
to fund the shelter by means of donations for the time being. The shelter
will remain open while folks scramble to create an alternative non-profit
agency to run the facility now managed by the Island Police.
BADGE ...
We welcome Officer Noonan as the newest city appointment to the long vacant
Police Chief position. Noonan takes on the job during an unenviable time
which sees the department facing a 5% budget cut, which translates to
the loss of 9 officer positions. Besides the cuts and the prospective
closure of the animal shelter, the force is facing serious national heat
due to the flap over the botched response to the Zack suicide at Crown
Beach. Noonan remains opptimistic about facing the upcoming challenges,
indicating that due to prospective retirements and existing vacancies,
existing officers may be allowed to keep their jobs by freezing replacement
hiring.
CHICKEN SCRATCHIN'
A 9 and a 12 year old were arrested for slaughtering 11 chickens that
had been housed in a community garden coop here. The boys apparently carried
a beef against one particular Islander associated with the coop, and so
broke into the area to bludgeon the birds with a shovel in the early hours
of July 13. These kids are not all right . . .
WE CAN BE HEROS / JUST FOR ONE DAY
Perhaps unsurprisingly the local weeklies have featured headline stories
about the courage and effectiveness demonstrated by a couple service agencies
here -- towit, the Coast Guard and the Fire Department. The somewhat snarky
headline announcing a story about the rescue of a father with 2 children
from a boat that sank in the Bay read "RESCUE DONE RIGHT". The
rescue took place about 500 yards off from Ballena Bay and was aided by
volunteer kayakers.
Citizen voluneers also aided in preventing the spread of a serious house
fire on Briggs Avenue. No injuries were reported in the fire which spread
to surrounding trees before neighbors used water hoses to douse the flames
outside the house.
And perhaps realizing now is not the time to press their luck on labor
contracts here, the firefighter's union made substantial concessions in
negociations with the City, collaborating with Mayor Marie to help reduce
the mulimillion dollar projected deficit in City finances. A line item
in the contract features acquisition of a "small dingy" to be
used for land-sea rescues.
O BABYLON
A couple notable events took place across the water in the town of high
rents, high aspirations, and serious under-employment. The International
Air Guitar Championships took place, but because of the nature of the
beast, nobody heard anything about it.
Also happening this weekend was the annual colorful pean to . . . well,
the increasing list of folks adding their Label cap to what is now the
LGBTQIA minority, and then some, weekend and colorful parade that draws
minority members along with everyone else come to gawk at what often are
vastly entertaining hijinks and costumes, not to mention make-up-tips
to die for. It may be contrarian, but we learned that our gay friends
here on the Island stayed home to skip the traffic gridlock for the parade
which often swells the streets by another quarter million each year.
IT TAKES A LOT TO LAUGH, IT TAKES A TRAIN TO CRY
Its been sunny, but cooler than normal here on the Island set here on
the edge of the San Francisco Bay. All the schools are done with graduations,
the kibosh has been put on the rains for a while, and this week Old Gaia,
sitting on her bright-light porch of the world, turned her face finally
to allow the full strength of her Sun to caress the deep crevices of her
cheeks, the furrows of her brow of mountains and the limpid lakes that
are her eyes. The Solstice had revolved to the time that is now.
Everyone celebrated the absolutely gorgeous weather in their own way.
Tommy and Toby took their boat, The Lavendar Surprise over to the City
Marina for the Pride Parade. Javier located the jammed, burned pistol
with which Valerie had shot him on his birthday and buried it in the backyard.
Denby went to visit Jose in Highland's ICU.
. . . people got shot with appalling frequency
Jose had gotten severely burned when Javier's birthday cannon had exploded
during the melee. Things never seemed to go well during Javier's birthday
parties; houses burned down and people got shot with appalling frequency.
It was well that his birthday came only once a year. Occasional Quentin
had secreted himself into hiding, sleeping out on the "Dumb Friends"
bench at Franklin Park.
Denby asked Jose how he was feeling and Jose groaned a long groan of
misery.
You should avoid Virgos, Denby advised him.
"No, Javier should avoid Virgos and I should avoid that pinche
Javier." He groaned again.
So when do they finish with the skin grafts? Denby asked, to change the
subject.
The latest burn therapy involved layering blankets of pigskin on the
victim until the underlying layers healed. Jose was essentially wrapped
in fatback.
"I am going to avoid all birthdays," Jose said.
"I am going to avoid all birthdays," Jose said.
Come to think of it, when's yours? Denby asked well meaningly.
Denby fled from that place in a hail of metal pans, plastic trays, and
partially eaten jello cups flung at his head.
He hitched a ride on the back of Pahrump's scooter over to Marin to help
a friend celebrate a birthday, albeit in more sedate fashion than practiced
on the Island where even the calmest party featured little girls beating
papermache donkeys hanging from trees with a stick until the victim's
insides rupture all over the place. Something about America just encourages
violence in the best of us.
They put him and Pahrump to work shucking about 148 bar-b-que oysters,
grilling salmon and a large bird that looked suspiciously like an oversized
pigeon. One entire wall of the house featured a ceiling-high wall-to-wall
birdcage just chock full of fluttering, twittering canaries. Denby did
not want to think about from where the bird had come, but he had to ask
what it was since it was his job to cook it.
The guy, a music industry mogul, told him it was a Brazilian Paraclete
Squab.
"A parakeet?" Pahrump said, incredulous.
No, a Paraclete. It aint extinct or anything like that, so don't worry.
"O!" Pahrump said, as if this explained everything.
Since it was a potluck, each guest had brought something special to contribute.
In most normal potlucks, people bring lumpy jello, fried chicken, potato
salad, homemade chili and hot dish, but this was a Marin Potluck. The
grill featured all kinds of animals and fish of which Denby had only heard
about in National Geographic Specials, including the infamous red-eyed
garam which had been masala-ed overnight in special pans until the antenna
had nearly fallen off. Even the deviled eggs had strange orange flowers
stuck in them.
A famous author with a Southern accent strolled around, dripping bon
bots and being Famous.
The Country was named Jennifer and the Province was way, way down south.
. .
A lovely girl came up to Denby and offered him a bit of puffer fish from
a bowl. The white bowl of pale fish glowed in front of her black dress
which clung to her torso so tightly that the imagination began to conduct
a sort of National Geographic expedition of its own around the hills and
valleys of that landscape. The country was named Jennifer and the Province
was way, way down south. It had been a long time since Denby had stood
this close to a hot grill and he felt the hot sun of the pristine sky
make him sweat like he was on a safari.
What's this fish?
"It's puffer. It contains one of the most virulent toxins known
to science. The Amazonian aborigines tip their poison arrows with it.
You nibble a little piece and it makes your lips go numb."
No thanks. I'm allergic to . . . fish. All fish. The Expedition began
to withdraw.
She put down the bowl and took up one of the molluscs to schluck it down.
"These remind me of prairie oysters," she said.
The Safari had now scattered leaving their tents behind and the Expedition
had piled into jeeps racing back to Civilization.
"I'm from Sault St. Marie," Jennifer said. "You live in
Marin?"
Where shrieks split through the shattered windows . . .
"We live across the water," Pahrump said. "Where shrieks
split through the shattered windows and broken slats of houses so askew
you don't want to investigate and gunshots hopscotch between the police
sirens and chain link fences."
Jennifer backed away with her fingers crossed in front of her. "East
Bay! East Bay!" Abruptly she turned and ran away.
The splendid summer's day glided over the stones and trees of Marin into
the shadows of evening. Denby brought out the guitar and Pahrump his bongos
and the two of them performed for the invited guests.
While Pahrump sat there resting during a break a guy with a craggy face
that looked like it had been through a thousand fistfights came up to
him. "Name's Doyle. You guys know much about the prostate?"
Us guys?
"You do have a prostate don't ya?" Doyle asked.
"You do have a prostate don't ya?" Doyle asked. "I thought
everybody had one. I mean all the different peoples."
So Doyle wanted to know all about Native American remedies for prostate
troubles and the two of them connected on the matter of having something
in common and they had a fine discussion sitting there on the couch talking
all about the prostate, how wonderful it was to have one, the fun stuff
you could do with it, what it was there for and all kinds of really groovy
prostate-related things, as well as its unruly nature, while the Famous
Author sat across from them discussing Proust with Jennifer.
"I'll bet she doesn't have a prostate," said Pahrump.
"I sincerely doubt it," Doyle said. "But I'll bet she
has put her hands on one or two in her time. Don't you just hate it when
the doc puts on that latex glove and looks at you?"
He's a nice guy, Pahrump thought to himself. However, this is the last
time I do a gig for Seniors.
The birthday girl was a lean and lanky woman with iron-gray hair named
Marybeth who looked to be about 36.
When Pahrump found out her age, he rudely blurted out, "Girl, you
do a lot of botox or something?"
Marybeth laughed. "No, just yoga."
She had merry, dancing eyes, but her husband had framed replicas of antique
guns hanging on the walls, and Pahrump suspected that a few contemporary
pieces lay about someplace so he paid attention to the music.
"I'd still schtupp her in a minute," somebody said.
Music. Focus on the music! Pahrump went back to the bongos.
They did some Townes Van Zandt and some Chris Smither and some Shindell.
Denby finished up with a Mike Doughty song called "27 Jennifers."
Pahrump rolled his eyes. Oh well.
As they motored across the Richmond bridge the amber lights of the bridge
flashed by like comets or memories. The squat tanks of the Chevron refinery
and the Two Brothers Lighthouse greeted them before they slung past the
immense north-western quadrant of the Port with its tall spot-lit gantries
and the massive ocean freighters resting at the ends of the long mule-piers.
"Home! Home!" Pahrump and Denby shouted.
And they fired down the long defile into Albany, bordered by the salt
marshes on the right and the wierd apartments on the left until they slingshotted
into the Maze on the little scooter striving mightily to carry two men,
a big guitar case and a set of bongos through this exquisite summer night
for which they had both been paid the princely sum of fifty bucks each.
Then they were up and over the elevated freeway and then down past the
construction of the retrofit just before the tube made famous in the Matrix
movies. Then home, really home, at last.
What? Back so soon and you didn't get laid?" Tipitina said when
they stomped into the cottage.
"No money, no Honey. And nevermind the prostate neither."
"Old Indian saying," Pahrump said. "No money, no Honey.
And nevermind the prostate neither."
"Nevermind the what . . . ?!"
Meanwhile, down in a glade at Crab Cove, the Wiccans were holding their
Solstice Ceremony. The actual Solstice had passed midweek and a bunch
of Lutherans had come down with lawn chairs and picnic baskets to see
if anyone would cavort on that evening. As most Wiccans hold day jobs,
the weekend seemed far more logical to hold a ceremony and so Tony drove
over from KPFA where she worked as a technician and helped set up a little
place there.
Most church goers would not enjoy having a group of tourists wearing
dirndls and lederhosen coming into their place with cameras and concession
stands and Wiccans are pretty much no different, really from other folks
in their concerns about the Sacred and the Profane.
There is a place for making jokes about roasted Paraclete and Papal Poop
and the Lutheran Pastor getting into bed with a dying man and then there
is the real matter of brass tacks, of facing something pretty Big, of
facing mortality and that even scarier concept, possible immortality.
You just might not be immortal after all. It might all depend . . .
Nothing is a given, Tony reminds herself. You just might not be immortal
after all. It might all depend on what you do in this life. Even though
some people act like it does not matter. All you can do is live your life
as you should and hope for the best, really.
So Tony helped set up the circle there with low seats and one special
one for Pat, who had problems with her limbs and after evening had fallen
and all of them were gathered there, they sang the old songs with the
strands of luminescent jewels draped on the hills across the water and
Hunters Point looking beautiful for the only time of day or night that
wracked place ever does.
As they sang the old songs, older far than any of those employed by the
relatively modern Christian liturgies a wonder happened unto them. A massive
hairy creature wandered into the center of the circle as they chanted.
Naturally, they all stopped.
It was Eunice, Wootie Kanootie's female moose. She had escaped the herd
from where they had been corraled at the base of the Park Street Bridge
because she had wearied of the constant amorous attentions of all the
male elk there. So she had broken free to earn herself a little holiday.
The herd had been awaiting the arrival of two cowboys named Dusty and
Lefty who were supposed to herd them back up to Winnipeg, but the boys
had been busy on other gigs in the Midwest and had taken their own sweet
time getting there.
Nevertheless, such a magnificent creature seemed a blessing to them there
and so they fed her apples and things from the cornicopia they had there
as a symbol of Mother Earth's generosity and they draped the neck of the
moose with orchids and so that is how Wootie found his lost moose who
was not lost at all but found.
For she who was lost is now found.
Which is pretty much the story of all liturgy really. For she who was
lost is now found. Eunice didn't mind. She was tuckered out so she just
went to sleep there, surrounded by luminaria and witches.
Right then from far across the Port of Oaktown, the long howl of the
throughpassing train ululated across the sacred waves of the estuary and
the summer wildflowers blooming over 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.
JUNE 19, 2011
I WAS BORN TO LOSE, DESTINED TO FAIL
This week's headline photos come from The Point and from Texas and feature
two epic fails. The first is of a roadside modification of our own Howard
Camping's billboard campaign as it was realized in Texas. It kinda speaks
for itself.
The second image is of the failed attempt to remount the fighter jet
on its pedestal after the object had been repaired subsequent to being
knocked down by a big storm here. The crane assigned to do the job proved
to be lighter than the cargo, resulting in a minor mishap when the crane
toppled over onto the jet. Oops!
DON'T YOU KNOW YOU ARE A SHOOTING START FOLLOWUP
The little town of Pittsburg, CA is one of several communities that grew
from delta outposts into towns during World War II. As the war effort
kicked into high gear hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of men travelled
here from the Deep South with their families to find work in the massive
shipyards and airplane factories that extended all along the delta region
for miles.
One of the workers there in Port Richmond was a Rosie the Riveter (there
were about seven Rosies used by the OMB for the war propaganda posters).
One of those shipyard facilities was Port Chicago, which no longer exists
because it was entirely destroyed by a major catastrophe caused, it is
thought, by careless management of arms loading.
Because the housing projects built along the delta were created to house
non-com family members and a substantially Black population, those communities
of Hercules, Martinez, Richmond, and Pittsburg remain substantially less
wealthy than the wildly developed towns further south along the 680 corridor
where folks used to pot deer for supper out the backdoor and raise chickens
in the backyard.
Pittsburg remains a community of low-slung single level ranch-style houses
fronting sandy yards and unimproved streets mostly lacking sidewalks and
curbs but shaded with big trees which do not appear to have been pruned
in half a century. This is the Other California, the California that doesn't
know movie stars or high finance or Dot Com. Most of the streets sport
those mobile basketball hoops. The cars parked in the dirt driveways are
modest American or Japanese models. Other than the local high school,
not much has changed here physically since the 1950's.
It was there in the 1940's that a family arrived from Waterproof, LA,
bringing with them a young boy named John Henry, already big for his age.
His former classmates remember greeting their new colleague in grade school
by looking up at him -- already a strapping six footer before getting
into junior high.
In high school the young man excelled in virtually every sport. He broke
county records in the discus toss by ten and twenty yards at a time. He
batted over .300 in baseball. He scored 29 points per game in basketball
in a time when entire winning games featured no more than 36 points. But
in football, the young furious man found his niche.
Make no mistake: this young man was definitely furious and angry and
inclined to a meaness that was fully intended to hurt you. For he grew
up in a time before hard shell helmets, before chin-bars, and before civil
rights enforced a little respect as well as civility. In his world you
got somewhere by fighting tougher than the opponent and by using your
forearm to crush somebody's face. Bad enough for needing reconstructive
surgery.
When we got to know him, even well into his eighties he would speak with
glee about really "smacking that sucker coming down the yardline"
and "getting in an elbow just right". Although he had broken
a thousand color barriers by means of his career efforts a prickly remainder
of bad times and bad experiences remained inside of him. There were some
things the man could not forget or forgive.
Island-Life was privileged to attend a memorial service on Saturday for
John Henry Johnson, Hall of Fame member and former 49'er as well as one
of the last survivors of the famous "Million Dollar Backfield".
The service was held in the gymnasium of the Pittsburg High school where
he began his athletic career before he went on to Arizona State and then
to the draft for pro football.
The room was crowded with ghosts and history and luminaries. Members
of the Steelers were there as well as 49'ers, members of the State legislature,
local civic leaders, and the lead sports columnist for the Herald, who
announced that John Henry was elected in an informal poll within the staff
among the top 100 athletes of all time, and ultimately, the best American
Athlete of all time.
John played professionally from 1954 to 1965 for a variety of teams.
He was initially drafted in 1953, but spent his nrst year playing professional
football in Canada for the Calgary Stampeders.
In 1954 he was acquired by the San Francisco 49ers and became a member
of what has know
become known as the"Million Dollar Backfield.ln 1957 he was
traded to the Detroit Lions where he lead their championship team in rushing
yards. In 1960 he became a memberof thePittsburgh Steelers. He rushed
for over 1,000 yards in 1962 and became known at the leagues hardest
running rusher. Then in 1964 he became the first running back to run for
over 1,000 yards (1,048) who was over the age of 35. He completed his
career playing for the Houston Oilers. At the conclusion of his 12-year
career, he rushed for a total of 6,803 yards, making him 4th leading rusher
of all time at his retirement.
The best comment was made by Bob Sinclair (ex-49'ers) who said, "How
many of us here will enjoy such a memorial as this? Will you be known
for anything other than just having lived?" Turning to the young
representatives of the high school football team, he said, "Live
your life to the fullest. Be everything you can be. Make a difference
with your life."
Barbara Davis and Terri Blinks provided beautiful uplifting music for
the occasion. Dr. M.R. Thompson, Pastor Emeritus provided Eulogy and Benediction.
His first wife Barbara Flood-Johnson, his son Michael Henry Johnson,
grandson Melvin Brown Jr. and his second wife Leona Johnson preceded John
Henry in death. He leaves to cherish his memory his children Kathy Moppin,
her husband Roger Moppin Sr., Camlyn Johnson, twins Terri Johnson and
Toni Johnson and John Henry Johnson Jr.; grandchildren Denise, Barbara,
Rogerlr., Marcel, Allen, Cicely, Buford, James, Tonisha, Michael, Edward,
Patrick, James; nephew John L. Brown and wife Barbara, their son Bryan,
his wife Cheryl, and daughter Janelle; niece Patricia Bagsby and a host
of their greatnieces, greatnephews, and greatgrandchildren.
ln addition to family, his close friend Wiley McClain of Denver, Co; Thurston
"Ducky" Lane, and Donna Shelton of Pittsburgh, Pa.
MY DREAMS ARE NOW FILLED WITH GILEAD TREES
Howard Camping, the Islander whose wacky doomsday prophecies propelled
this place into international limelight has had a stroke. Close folks
say that he will never again have the gift of gab he used to have, which
is for the world around here a pleasant boon. Most of the local talk has
been to the point that the big Armageddon is in fact his own for the octogenarian
brimstone preacher who said the world would end on May 21. The new date
is sometime in October. Whatever.
LIKE THE WEATHER
Good news for folks East of here and for locals as well. Weatherman has
cloud-free skies forcast for the duration with steadily increasing temps
into the 80's for next week and for weeks beyond. No more snow and no
more rain for the midwest.
On the flip side we got a trip report over the wire relating snow and
extensive snow conditions at 11,000 feet in the Sierra. The hiker reported
skiing through the Evolution basin and over Echo and Lamarck Cols, taking
shelter in an ice cave during a blizzard. So if some of you are thinking
to backpack over the cols this year, we have some advice for you. Don't.
Unless you are packing snowshoes and full crampons.
YES I AM A PIRATE / BORN 200 YEARS TOO LATE
Ambled on out for the second day of the Annual Northern California Pirate
Festival in Vallejo. The festival is the largest assembly of pirates in
the world, as stated by the Guiness Book of World Records. When organizers
first planned the event they allowed for some 5,000 attendees. Some 30,000
folks showed up instead with more coming every year thereafter. The Fest
remains free for the time being, which makes it well worth strolling around
for a while just to look at the fantastic apparel of attendees.
Then there are activities such as swordfighting classes (epee and foil),
pirate vittles and beer, kids games (kids can be pirates too!), the occasional
cannon battle between shore batteries and pirate sloops, cutlass fights,
pirate music and lots of merry debauchery.
Sunday proved to be more family friendly than Saturday and as the temps
streadily climbed into the high eighties, the general rowdiness settled
into a wilted series of Arrrrrgs! A little more tent shade would have
been nice.
A saucy wench . . .
She looks worried. Look behind her to see what just happened to another
kid . . .
Pirate in training . . . .
The fearsome William Teach walks again, and here is a pack
of Salty Sea dogs . . .
Pirates old and young(er) . . .
More saucy wenches . . .
A pirate confab of old friends . . .
Now how do I tune this 12-string again . . . ?
Ready the shore batteries, me mateys . . . !
More saucy wenches comparing fashion tips. O they are
most saucy, those wenches . . . !
Preparing the 2-pounder for a fight . . .
Damn that was loud! Arrrrrrrg . . . !
Another saucy wench. You cannot tell from here, but the
feathers of her hat extend a full two feet behind her. . .
A Scots pirate from Mingulay. This man's weaponry is genuine
full tang made by master swordsmiths.
A pirate on shoreleave needs a big tankard . . .
Ahoy, I spy . . . more saucy wenches . . . !
Put on a getup in 80 degree heat and you will want to
kill somebody too . . .
Hint: if you intend to fight a deadly duel, do not wear
flip-flop sandals . . .
The period accurate single-shot pistol has a blade for
use should your ball miss . . .
This fellow may be wanting some nourishment to put some
meat on his bones . . .
This saucy wench carries a real "morningstar"
flail. Saucy and dangerous . . .
A fine pirate from the notorious ship Goldman-Sachs .
. .
No pirate gathering complete without a fiddle from Hell
. . .
Once a pirate always a pirate, even after Death . . .
Saucy wench and pirate boytoy . . .
Five pound says the ugly one kills the other . . . .
O, but they both are hideous . . . !
And we big adieu past the Watch . . .
THIS ISLAND LIFE
Letters to the Editor now have a section devoted entirely to the botched
rescue attempts at Crown Beach. More letters supporting the First Responders
now appearing. What you get when you cut government back to nothing .
. .
2 kids got arrested for killing about 12 chickens living in a community
garden coop with a shovel. Seems the kids had a beef with somebody here
and thought to take it out by slaughtering a number of hens. These kids
today. . .
SO TAKE THIS LOVE AND TAKE IT DOWN
The weekend dawned cloud-free with infinite promise of perfection and
the scent of BBq wafted across the Island under skies painted an intense
bright blue.
Besides Father's Day, the weekend also featured Juneteenth celebrations
in a lot of places. Juneteenth commemorates the days when news of the
Emancipation Proclaimation finally reached the furthest corners of America,
then undergoing the national agony known as the Civil War.
It was a delightful weekend to be out and about, especially for the recent
high school graduates, however both Javier and Jose remained together
in hospital recovering from their wounds sustained during Javier's birthday
celebration.
The two were out at the Strand, getting thoroughly drunk on box wine
with Quentin and Pahrump when Javier got in mind to haul out his replica
blackpowder cannon from the online store Bud-K. They were down on the
flat packed sand part of the beach with the tide gone out, far enough
from the house so that there would be no mishap as had happened a couple
years ago when the house had nearly burned down on Javier's fiftieth.
They packed the thing up with black powder and Quentin tossed in a few
rocks for good measure so that when the cannon went off with the help
of Pahrump's bic lighter igniting an lighterfluid-filled tiki torch they
kept stuck in the sand a jet of flame shot out a good three feet from
the muzzle and several seagulls dropped out of the sky as Bonkers and
Wickiwup scampered like hell back to the house in terror.
"Arrrrg," said Quentin.
"Are you trying to be a pirate?" Jose said as he stoked the
cannon for another jolly volley.
"No," Quentin responded. "Here comes Valerie. And she
looks pissed."
In truth Javier's goth girlfriend came storming down the beach howling
imprecations at Javier. Nothing is more fearsome than an angry raven-haired
woman sporting nasty tattoos and enough metal hardware pierced in her
face to rebuild the Terminator.
When she got there, howling imprecations which could cause an old sailor
to turn pale, she began punching Javier who tried to fend her off while
the guys stood around and Jose tried to protect the precious cannon. After
kicking the man a few times Valerie pulled out a small pistol and began
firing at Javier. This made most of the men start running for their lives.
The first few shots popped the lighterfluid can which sent a spray all
over the cowering Jose by the cannon. Javier got winged in the meat of
his left calf, the one leg which had not until this point been broken
or pierced by an angry amore.
The thing jammed but Valerie kept squeezing the trigger while Javier
lay there groaning on the ground until the jammed bullet did what those
things do in such cases -- it exploded in her hand, sending sparks and
tiny shrapnel everywhere. The sparks ignited Jose who in turn ignited
the bag of black powder beside the cannon and witnesses report they saw
a small fireball erupt on the beach, followed by a loud "KABOOM!"
Valerie angrily threw down the now useless pistol and stalked off as
the column of fire became a small mushroom cloud that shaded the sands
below for a while before dissipating in the shorebreeze..
Later, in the Highland Trauma Unit, Jose asked Javier what had made this
one so angry this time.
"She didn't like the way I cooked her eggs this morning," Javier
said. "Which led to un poco conflicto. Una pequeña
pelea de amantes."
"O! A little lovers' quarrel. Afortunadamente no serio."
Then he added as an afterthought, "Feliz cumpleanos. Please
do not invite me next time."
Sunday is Father's Day, and as per tradition the girls in the Marlene-Andre
Household all hooked up with their various dads. Because of the Great
Recession there was no joint breakfast at Mama's Royal Cafe this year,
so each found her own way to honor dear old Da and in the Old Same Place
Bar Padraic cleaned and polished the glass over the photograph of Firmanaugh
O'Reilly, The old Fir, as Padraic called him.
The Old Fir had saved all his Punts in a sack under the bed working as
an odd jobs man in County Wicklow, driving his battered bicycle up and
down the hills from one painting job to landscaping job to wall-repair
to tending horses for the gentry all the way from Dun Laoghair to Baile
ath Cliath and Belfield. Finally enough had been saved up to send Padraic
to America, to far off San Francisco. Then, in the third year of Padraic's
leaving, the Old Fir had died when there had not been enough money for
peat to stoke the stove in the cottage there where he had lived since
his ma had passed on earlier, his only legacy being in the form of a tick
at the Golden Ball on the road to Eniskerry.
Padraic paid off the tick from America and so had never returned, as
there was no need to do so now, joining the vast diaspora of some 30 million
Irish wandering the globe. So they all had a toast to the Old Fir, for
he had been a mighty man in his day and the world shall not see his like
again.
"D'ya miss him?" Suzie asked.
"His manner of waking me up after the alarm was to toss a kettle
of cold water on me head. He never learned to cook worth beans, not even
stirabout, for he either burned or undercooked it every time whatever
it was." Padraic said. "His cooking was as bad as the English
for all of that. Let's have a toast to the Old Fir."
And so with misty eyes they all had a glass in memory of the Old Man
himself, for he was as gnarly as a blackthorn stick, as crusty as shepard's
pie, as tough as a wall of stones, hard as a roofslate, mossy as a foggy
glen, mean as a fox, shrewd as vole and blessed with an heart of gold
withal for he paid for his boy to escape that horrid place and come to
America.
Right then from far across the Port of Oaktown, the long howl of the
throughpassing train ululated across the reminiscing waves of the estuary
and the paternal wildflowers blooming over 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.
JUNE 12, 2011
WATERSONG
This weeks photo comes from Kenn (sic) Cooperman who is allowed to spell
his first name with two "N"s because he is a genius. This unusual
shot was taken in Yosemite -- a few months ago in the dead of winter on
a nice crisp day in the teens. It is of the Yosemite falls from the door
of the Yosemite Lodge, which operates yearlong and was shot with the now
unobtainable IR feature on his digital camera.
Kenn used a red filter, then converted the shot to B/W. Yosemite in winter
has been a long guarded secret among nature lovers who revile the crowds
of summertime. The trees in front are dogwoods. The rock is Sierra rock.
Rock is good; you can quote us on that.
THAT TROUBLE COMING EVERY DAY
Monday is the release date for Johannes Mehserle, the BART cop who was
convicted last July of involuntary manslaughter for shooting and killing
Grant on the Fruitvale BART station platform New Years Day 2009.
The Superior Court released a document that explained the release. It
said when Mehserle was sentenced on November 5, 2010 he had already served
146 days. Since that date, he has served 219 additional days. The court
said with conduct credits of 366, Mehserle will have served the total
time of his imposed sentence.
Grant's uncle Cepheus Johnson said it will be a sad day for his family.
Mehserle was arrested only after a great deal of protest in Oakland.
He was placed on trial in June of last year, where several discrepancies
took place in his favor, calling into question the legitimacy of trial.
Further, this was the first time that Mehserle showed any remorse of the
murder; he had never so much as contacted Grants family to apologize.
The shooting was captured on several cellphone cameras, and even as of
last week new footage has come to light showing Mehserle standing up,
clearly pulling his gun and shooting Grant in the back after a count of
two, nearly kneecapping his colleague who had his knee pressed on Grant's
neck at the time.
Grant was face down and totally immobilized when the bullet passed through
his body and ricocheted off of the concrete platform to reenter his body.
Most of the protests upon his conviction were fortunately light as cooler
heads prepared in advance to deal with community outrage. Then councilwoman
Jean Quan stood between protesters and police to defuse the situation.
Quan was later elected as Oakland's first Asian woman mayor.
Protests Sunday were watched carefully by OPD.
DEATH HAS NO MERCY IN THIS LAND
The furor over the botched first responder response last Memorial Day
continues to flicker in media across the country and among the locals
here. A recent City Council meeting was packed with shouting citizens
furious with outrage.
Mayor Marie called this week for an independent investigation.
While the Letters to the Editor sections of the Sun and the Journal have
been chock full of rants accusing the OPD and IFD of cowardice as well
as ineptitude, somewhat balanced by letters that defend the same agencies.
The new wrinkles here concern the release of the radio calls between
dispatchers and the 1st responder units, summarized in reference as "the
911 calls" and a memo that disproves the claim that there was no
money in the budget for sea-land rescue. The transcripts are downloadable
and even listenable at Dave Statter's excellent site, www.statter911.com
which reports on EMS news around the nation.
Some people have commented that the transcripts indicate that the PD
failed to note the urgency of the situation. In defense of the police
here, we have to say that abstracting radio calls over a single event
will never provide an accurate tone of how responders feel at the time.
We have listened to many hours of different calls and it is clear that
all professional staff are trained to employ radio signals with the minimum
of emotion as the range of response may vary widely across quite a broad
continuum of necessity from rescuing a tree-bound cat to assisting a fallen
fellow officer.
To give you an idea of just how cool dispatchers need to be, in Part
2 of the Island Life Walkabout you can clearly hear a real West Covina
police dispatcher's voice catch as she requests units to respond to something
that may be important near the end of the episode (http://youtu.be/fEYc3JCfU94),
but the unit responds instead to an observed moving violation.
What the recordings do reveal is a thirty minute period in which everybody
seems to have expected someone else to do something in a classic case
of "diffused responsibility," and the moment of paralysis appears
to occur the moment the USCG commander arrives to take charge of the unofficial
CP on the beach.
The other new bit of information is that a memo has surfaced which indicates
that the money for the land-sea rescue effort was there all along, untouched,
according to the Contra Costa Times. The article goes on to say:
"Interim Alameda Fire Chief Mike D'Orazi said after the May suicide
that budget cuts forced the department to abandon water rescue training.
He said that led to a 2009 policy forbidding firefighters from engaging
in water rescues.
A March 19, 2009, memo obtained by the Contra Costa Times shows that
the funds were approved for the department. It was written by the fire
division's chief, Dale Vogelsang."
The memo goes on to say ""We have been approved funding to
recertify instructors and train new swimmers," Division Chief Dale
Vogelsang wrote in memo. "However, until this training is completed,
per OSHA requirements, no members may be used as rescue swimmers...We
anticipate training to commence within the next 30 to 45 days,"
That training never took place. Funnily enough the Kansas City Times
has the scoop.
Finally, locals incensed at the inaction and bureaucratic snuffling about
in response took to the water this morning to prove a point.
About a dozen people reenacted the drowning of Raymond Zack at the same
spot where he died. Organizers of the event say the Alameda fire and police
departments could have done more to save the 53-year-old.
Alameda firefighters did not attempt to save Zack because they are not
certified for such rescues. The woman who called 9-1-1 watched Sunday's
event form the shore and said she felt guilty for not doing more.
"I think, 'Why didn't I do something, because obviously it would
not have been that difficult," Sharon Burnetti told ABC7. Ms. Burnetti
was the citizen flagged down by Zack's mother to make the initial call
at 11:30am to 911. Another woman pulled Zack's lifeless body from the
water an hour later.
The swimmers say the condition were so mild a rescue would have been
easy.
The swimmers chose Sunday morning because of similar tide conditions.
Afterwards, they held a moment of silence for Zack.
HARD TIMES
If that yahoo Greenspan or Ben "Boodle" Bernanke say the Great
Recession is over, they better not come around here and certainly better
not get caught in any dark alleys. Two East Bay companies are laying off
a combined 108 employees due to hard times. In Fremont, printing company
R.R. Donnelly will chop 56 jobs when it closes its distribution and manufacturing
center there. On the Island, Total Immersion, a maker of virtual reality
software simulations, will eliminate 52 jobs when it shuts its digital
studio here.
The contrasts in what the two companies produce are a reminder that the
economic slump continues to threaten a wide array of industries in the
East Bay, where the job market appears to be much weaker than the Bay
Area overall.
Over the 12 months that ended in April, the East Bay lost 6,400 payroll
jobs, the state's Employment Development Department reported. The Bay
Area gained 4,900 jobs over the same one-year period.
The two companies had differing reasons for closing their local operations.
R.R. Donnelly appears to have suffered from slumping sales for its Fremont
operation, according to information the company provided to the Alameda
County Workforce Development Board.
The jobs that Donnelly will jettison at its Fremont operation include
forklift operators, shipping and receiving clerks, hoist operators, buyers,
inventory control clerks and quality control employees, according to state
government documents.
Total Immersion Software, in contrast to Donnelly & Sons, has been
growing and sales are rising. The company decided to transfer its work
from Alameda to Texas primarily to operate more efficiently, said Pete
Bonanni, chief executive officer with Total Immersion. A major factor
is that the lease for the Island office came to an end, and many property
managers are preferring to allow space to remain vacant rather than negotiate
more reasonable terms with tenants. The hope is that preserving high asking
prices for leases will float the existing tenanted properties higher as
paying tenants fund the empties until the economy recovers.
PEOPLE HAVE THE POWER
Okay you all voted for this. Now it becomes real. And the reality is
that already a lot of people don't like it.
Fremont citizens nearly took up torches and pitchforks to Sacto on news
that the first redistricting plan will split the city of Fremont in half.
While the California Citizens Redistricting Commission is scheduled to
release its official draft district maps Friday, preliminary drawings
released late last week showed Fremont as the only city in Alameda County
split into two congressional districts.
The northern half of the city, along with Newark, Union City, Hayward
and San Leandro, would remain in the district currently represented by
Pete Stark, D-Fremont. The reconfigured district would stretch across
eastern Alameda County, including the Tri-Valley area, all the way to
Interstate 205.
The southern half of Fremont would be grouped with Milpitas and much
of eastern San Jose in a predominantly Santa Clara County district, currently
represented by Zoe Lofgren, D-San Jose.
Fremont is the largest city in the district represented by Stark, who
also represents the Island. The entire area is heavily Democratic with
some 90% registered.
The concern is that Fremont clout in Sacto will be diffused by the division.
The redistricting commission was created by recent ballot measures to
take away from politicians the power of drawing Assembly, Senate, Board
of Equalization and Congress districts.
The commission is scheduled to release a second set of draft district
maps on July 1.
It must certify the new districts by Aug. 15.
LIKE THE WEATHER
Seems we got our usual sunny summer weather back with only gradually
warming trends forecast for the duration. This ought to be good news for
folks East of here. Already we are hearing reports that some of the Mississippi
diversion gates are being closed north of New Orleans and the town of
Joplin will get a chance to at least dry out a bit.
Further east, the news reminded all of us that we are glad we don't live
on the East coast where a vicious heat wave has been making the normally
dour Easterners even more cantankerous with triple digit temps.
ANOTHER TURNING POINT ANOTHER FORK IN THE ROAD
Gradually the roiling clouds plodded stolidly to the eastern horizon,
leaving angelic sweepers behind to clean up after the trumpeting elephants
in the sky had marched over the mountains. The weekend bloomed like a
golden poppy and everybody took to their gardens to see what could happen
with the rest of the season. Lisa Bulwinkel has rescheduled her Chocolate
and Chalk festival up in Berzerkeley (see Calendar) and it looks like
all the big music festivals from the High Sierra romp in Strawberry to
the Kate Wolf, BFD and Treasure Island will happen without dread of wet.
Over in the Island Offices things got stormy when Denby revealed that
he had finally learned how to play "Walking Blues" properly.
The Editor was incensed.
"Why the HELL did you not do that for the Walkabout episodes instead
of that horrible noise!" The Editor then began furiously eating galley
sheets from the AP newswire -- always a bad sign in an newsroom -- and
Denby scampered out of there for the Editor was wroth.
Denby had been under the impression things were getting better. Paul
had gotten a loop machine for the Monkey Spankers -- he always had possessed
more cash flow due to his job in the City as a Derivatives Explainer for
Mclaffing, Pivot, and Scammem. His job had been to write up long epistles
describing esoteric financial instruments as if they were perfectly simple
things guaranteed to make money by magic so as to help persuade people
with money to hand pots of it into the care of men and women with all
the emotional maturity of teenagers. Capitalism at its purest form. With
this loop machine they no longer needed to hire a drummer, who generally
fell asleep in the cheese dip at each gig anyway.
Everything was going to be so much better now they had this machine and
Denby was going like mad on the Gibson along with the track, or so he
thought, until Paul commented, "Denby, that is not a parrot-head
calypso but a 12 bar blues. Stop that now."
All over California the post-graduation parties flung themselves into
motion. Almost all of the public schools had done with their ceremonies
here in May, with a few stragglers, along with the private parochial schools
ensuring misery for the students into June. The so-called "good schools"
like to draw out this entirely unnecessary agony of high school for a
few more hours out of some kind of sadistic impulse or medieval urge,
perhaps. No body knows why exactly, unless it relates to some bureaucratic
arrangement of numbers regarding hours per school year. Nobody is fooled.
It really is all about trying to impress the suffering kids with the idea
they are "different" and "special" and "gifted."
Idiots.
Everybody knows teens loath those terms worse than Nathaniel Hawthorne's
scarlet letter. Being special is a curse. Special is Vinnie who drools
all during class and has to be taken by hand to go to the bathroom. Nobody
wants to be like that. Which just goes to show you, the people who organize
things are fools and the people who have to carry out this organization
are bound to regretful servitude.
This is what the kids to look forward to have as models. No wonder so
many wind up the way they do -- horror of horrors! -- just like their
parents.
The East End kids have parties organized by their parents, which feature
Uncle Bob flying in from New York, dropping in actually as part of a business
trip to SF, and really boring adults talking about themselves -- who had
died, who was dying, gall bladders, ankle supports and so on. The recent
grad is simply an addon provided as an excuse to kvetch over ambrosia
and coffee. He was always an addon throughout his entire career. He was
born because that was the right thing to do at the time. At family gatherings
he was lost among the category of "The Children." At weddings
and funerals he filled the pew as Obligatory Urchin; that side of the
family. Music is supplied via party tapes, and in the more adventurous
households, a karaoke machine.
At the first opportunity the grad escapes to the garage to sniff glue
with Maryjane and friends, which may explain why we have the society of
stockbrokers that we have now, for to that routinized pattern the boy
is destined.
In the West End, the kids arrange their own parties with kegs and live
music performed by friends on makeshift stages made of loading pallets.
Sometimes the parents are invited, but most often not, for parents are
realized at that point to be largely extraneous. These kids worked their
way through the tedium of high school by putting in hours at the poodle
salon, the animal shelter, the pizza parlor, the coffeehouse, and the
drugstore, so they have the means to make it happen.
Instead of glue, Maryellen snorts coke with Brad on the picnic table.
We do have our traditions on the Island. And no amount of gentrification
will change that. You can sell all your fine houses for all kinds of ridiculous
sums, and most certainly you will find a few fools foolish enough to buy
them enough to lose their shirts in the end, but nothing will change our
traditions.
At Encinal, as the newly freed grads milled about and leapt into one
another's arms with glee at the imagined prospective freedom Mrs. Sanchez
(nee Ms. Morales) came across Karen, who still had one more year to go.
She had shown up to say sad farewell to graduating Arne. Arne already
had a job lined up at Norman Racing Motors up in Berkeley. Soon, the relentless
round of hours and days would claim his time.
Ms. Morales knew Karen and that her time had been especially harsh with
the implosion of her family and her struggles in the past few years. If
Woody Allen had divided the world into the the Horrible and the Miserable,
with most of us living among the miserable, Karen's life definitely had
been thrown into the cauldron of the other. Reflexively, Ms. Morales looked
for new scars on the girl's arms.
"Only one more year for you and then you are out," Ms. Morales
said. Karen still thought of her as Ms. Morales, her gradeschool teacher,
instead of her new name.
Karen remembered her old schoolteacher as one who had been kind to her.
"I can't wait to get out of here. When I get out of here I am going
away and never ever coming back to this awful little town." She said.
"Well," said Ms. Morales. "I guess I can understand that.
Where do you plan to go?"
"Long Beach." Said the girl. "Down to LA where nobody
knows me."
"LA. That is a very big place." Ms. Morales said.
"Yes. I want out of here. Away from all this . . . this small town
smallness . . . this wretched limitation of everything and . . . and all
the stupid concerns about the Point and the Base and you can't even hold
a rave out there because they are afraid of things getting out of hand.
All the . . . the monkeys running wild! Ha ha ha! They are so afraid and
its so stupid. I hate it here and I will never come back!"
"Welll, I do think it is important for young people to see the world.
Go out and see it for what it is and put their hands on it. So I wish
you well, Karen," said Ms. Morales.
"I just want to be allowed to be myself," Karen said unhappily.
"I need to get away forever."
That is when Ms. Morales stepped up on tippy toes and kissed Karen on
the forehead. "You know I come from Mindanao in the Philippines.
At my age I thought life was all over and I would never have any lover
or husband and I had become resigned to my fate to die as an old maid.
But then came Mr. Sanchez and he saved me from myself and a long lonely
life. Sometimes things happen that are good. Wherever you go, even if
you never return, please remember that there are those here who love you
still."
That night in the Old Same Place Bar the Editor sat down heavily in his
seat. Padraic came over. "Well look at the devil himself, cute as
something dragged in by the cat. What'll ya have tonight?"
"An Old Fashioned, of course," snapped the Editor before returning
the cigar to his mouth.
"Right-o! Right-o! Give the man an Old Fashioned," Padraic
said to Suzie.
""Muddled, if you please," said the Editor.
Old Schmidt was there waving around his stein and buying drinks. He bought
a drink even for the Editor.
"Wussup?" asked the Editor.
"Hannover ist Viertel im Europaeische Pokal!" said Old
Schmidt, as if that explained everything.
"I have not a god damned idea what you just said," the Editor
commented.
"Hannover is deep in Euro Cup with football," explained Old
Schmidt
Hanover is in German soccer pretty much what the Chicago Cubs is in relation
to the World Series except the Cubs have always had more chances and better
talent. Rooting for Hanover has traditionally been akin to cheering for
the Edison Otters against Notre Dame. Noble but rather foolish.
This year, due largely to purges of criminal elements from world soccer,
Hanover had inexplicably battled its way to the top of the fiercest bundesliga
competitions in Europe where they do take soccer very very seriously.
Hanover had been so bad for so long they had crept up entirely without
warning.
"Where's your main main Jose?" Suzie said, just making conversation.
"He's had a birthday," the Editor said. "Things always
go ill during those things."
"O really," Suzie said.
"Yes. This time he exploded."
"O!"
Right then there was no more time to explain for, from far across the
way, the long howl of the throughpassing train ululated across the celebratory
waves of the estuary and the Spring wildflowers blooming over 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.
JUNE 5, 2011
WE'VE GOT TO GET OURSELVES BACK TO THE GARDEN
There just are not enough pop or folk songs that feature flowers. Hey,
Luka Bloom, are you listening? He would be the one to do it. Him and the
Indigo Girls. Man, that would be quite a collaboration, come to think
about it.
This week's headline photo comes all the way from that Other Island,
Hawaii, where local boy Dave Elias has been hanging out, making music
and being the barefoot, carefree sort of musician lad that he is. Dave
Elias was known to perform down San Gregorio way for a while, and sometimes
he still pops in now and then. This one is of a pond lotus which he sent
along with notice you can download songs and CDs via CDbaby or his website
at http://www.davidelias.com/.
He's won a bunch of awards and shit, but we won't bore you with that.
Take a listen and judge for yourself.
And always support live music, for live music stimulates the brain, cheers
up a rainy day, enlivens the mood, brightens the outlook, cures all manner
of diseases -- including but not exclusive to, chilblains, heartburn,
dandruff, dysentery, clap, hangnails, anomie, social diseases, antisocial
diseases, most forms of neurosis, reactionary tendencies, rampant uptightness,
stick in the ass, mugwhumpery, ebola, walking pneumonia, and PeterTucker
arthritis -- as well as resolves economic dysfunction, improves the constitution,
firms the blood, rightens the moral turpitude, abolishes quackery, gives
you those abs of iron and buns of steel you always wanted, and eases nervous
jumping up and down to the delight of the great majority, bringing smiles
all around.
And let us remind you, in addition, the modern day composer refuses to
die.
LIKE THE WEATHER
First, that thing which is most important to all of us -- the weather.
Rainfall records fell recently, not unlike the orcs of Sauron before
the mighty sword of Aragorn. . . Um, well, records got broken going way
back, eradicating those set in the early nineties after the Reagan Drought.
Some records, such as that for San Francisco which saw 1.07 inches of
precipitation from midnight to 6 p.m. That more than doubled the old June
4 record set in 1939, when FDR was president.
Oakland had nearly 15 times its record June 4 rainfall on Saturday: 1.45
inches.
Island-Lifer Mike reports that his rain guage shows 25.2 inches for the
season and 1.1 inches this month. That is easily double what we usually
get for the entire year.
This late storm, characteristic of a regular 20-year cycle, put the kibosh
on a large number of events that were scheduled to open the Summer Season
here. From Friday's Temescal Art Hop to the Pleasanton Scottish Games,
to Berkeley's Chocolate and Chalk Festival, and even the Island's own
Sandcastle Competition, big events drew under tents or called off all
festivities entirely. Two inches of snow fell in the Sierra middle-highlands,
which means it will be a while before the minor passes open this year.
On the upside, the week looks like we are moving into a gradually clearing
trend with some of the temps rising slowly to the high seventies, which
ought to cheer those folks from SoCal. Locals are saying that we should
experience the usual dry weather from here on out, but we would caution
people wandering into the High Sierra to expect snow and violent streams
in places which have not seen such in well over two decades. Don't count
on hopping from rock to rock over that stream where you did that last
year. The water WILL be cold and it WILL be fast. Fishing is likely to
be iffy in those murky, sediment-stirred streams, but the bugs will be
plenty enough to fatten the trout practically to October. Wear netting
and DEET.
Those headed for Echo Col will need instep crampons and ice ax again,
while we are hearing that Lamarck Col has its sandy valley filled with
snow fields again, so crampons will help with that long slog there.
In a couple weeks we will check back with the DWEEB report and the Sierra
Avalanche Group, which is likely to have an earful for all of us.
DEATH DON'T HAVE NO MERCY IN THIS LAND
Might as well get around to the more unpleasant news right away. It was
supposed to be a slow news week for an Island City that prides itself
on not much happening, but it sure did not happen that way as we got catapulted
-- once again -- into the national limelight when Raymond Zack walked
out onto the shallow underwater sandbar offshore and stood up to his neck
in fifty-degree water while nearly one hundred people collected on shore
at Crown Memorial Beach (usually called "The Strand" here) and
the Coast Guard boat stood off a little ways after trying to send a small
boat that failed to make the shallow draft of the bar.
For over an hour police and fire department members watched through binoculars
as the man slowly succumbed to hypothermia. Finally, two women prepared
to go get the man when it was clear there would be no official response.
When one woman finally dove in to retrieve the man, who now floated upside
down in the Bay, the other walked away in disgust at the official inaction.
A helicopter was sent, apparently either too late or without proper procedures
to do anything, as the helicopter added nothing other than noise to the
efforts.
On shore, among the spectators, was Zack's 83 year-old mother, watching
as her son died.
Now, quite a lot of ferment and heated words have boiled up over this,
where any number of additional outrages have come to light as a result
of everyone asking the same question: "Why did not anyone do anything
about this?".
The official response has been as follows, summarized: This was an attempted
suicide. Suicide attempts are not standard rescues. We do not have trained
personnel and policies in place to handle suicide attempt water rescues.
Therefore, all personnel did the right thing.
Here are the following wrinkles in the official response from the PD
and FD and the Coast Guard, which apparently did not possess a watercraft
-- such as a rowboat -- of draft small enough to approach the victim.
Apparently the City also does not possess a rowboat, an astounding absence
for a City that is defined by aquatic boundaries.
The Fire Department claimed that they did possess staff and programs
designed to handle water rescues, but this program was cut in 2009, and
in the intervening two years seems to have lost the expertise in all of
the available staff for such a rescue. So at present, our FD does not
have the ability to rescue people, suicide or otherwise, from the water.
As a result of budget cutbacks, the program to rescue lives was cut, and
as a consequence of that, the policy to refuse rescue was instituted.
Gotta love that passive case in government documents.
The Police Department never has had a program and -- to be honest --
it would be asking a lot for personnel to trash all of the equipment they
must wear as well as risk their lives doing something for which they are
not trained. Especially when Fire Department members, who are trained
paramedics, are present. Its not like service revolvers and ammunition
are cheap affairs or things you can hand to a bystander with the comment,
"Here, hang onto this for a bit", while the officer goes swimming.
And finishing out the shift would be problematic as well. "Uh, Sarge,
I gotta change my shoes now; they're full of wet sand."
As it so happens, purely by coincidence, the latest budget recommendation
has six positions being cut from the Police and the Fire Departments.
Could just be a coincidence, of course.
At the end of the day, there is one additional wrinkle. No one can fault
the civilians from holding back so long -- after all, the official response
had indeed shown up. What is interesting is that nobody from any of the
Big Three First Responders did anything WHEN NORMALLY THEY DID SO. We
have an example in our building of a Coast Guard man who jumped fully
clothed into San Francisco Bay to rescue several idiots who decided to
take kayaks out in eight-foot swells.
There is another story here that is not being told about how and why
this man died. It was reported that he had been depressed for a while.
Sure, a lot of us have been depressed. Some of us have been hospitalized
and some of us have had therapy and some of us have tried some measures
to end things. But this guy walked out 100 yards into frigid water and
stood there for an hour in front of one hundred people! There is a measure
of determination there that is not usually present in first attempt suicides
as well as a peculiar awareness that water of that temperature would cause
death by hypothermia; death by degrees in other words. He definitely knew
what he was doing, and that takes a certain intelligence, self-awareness,
as well as determination. Stand there long enough and the water saps the
heat out of your body and you die; end of story.
So now the Nation knows that here in California exists a city surrounded
by water which has no resources to rescue drowning people. Period. The
latest flurry of infomails had the City contacting the Cities of Oakland
and Berkeley to render aid from their trained, staffed, and equipped agencies,
but that this request was rescinded only four minutes later.
What? Well, the request was issued after the man had already died.
The blogs and the local papers have been deluged with local outrage about
this event and how everything was mishandled from beginning to end.
As a side note, the man who created the original water rescue service,
named as Vanderheiden, was fired under questionable circumstances after
a dispute with the local union boss. Vanderheiden in fact successfully
sued the City for wrongful termination.
We think there is a story here. We expect it will see daylight in some
form eventually. Every day, the bucket goes to the well.
HARD TIMES, HARD TIMES
The recent economic reports brought in a Schadenfreude of detail. To
this point, 45 banks have been closed this year by the FDIC. The Federal
Deposit Insurance Corp. seized Atlantic Bank and Trust, based in Charleston,
S.C., with $208.2 million in assets and $191.6 million in deposits. First
Citizens Bank and Trust Co., based in Columbia, S.C., agreed to assume
the assets and deposits of the failed bank.The pace of closures has slowed,
however, and some banks have worked their way through the bad debt. By
this time last year, regulators had closed 81 banks.
In 2010 regulators seized 157 banks, the most in a year since the savings-and-loan
crisis two decades ago.
The FDIC has said that 2010 likely would mark the peak for bank failures.
There were 140 bank failures in 2009, costing the insurance fund about
$36 billion. The failures last year cost around $21 billion, a lower price
tag because the banks that failed in 2010 were smaller on average. Twenty-five
banks failed in 2008, the year the financial crisis struck with force;
only three were closed in 2007.
The number of banks on the FDIC's confidential "problem" list
edged up to 888 in the January-March quarter from 884 as of Dec. 31. The
888 troubled banks is the highest number since 1993, during the savings-and-loan
crisis.
In related news, concerning housing and housing prices as well as foreclosures,
the news is not so good. According to the most recent Spring reports,
usually the most optimistic regarding housing sales, the word is that
those areas which had escaped the housing downturn are now experiencing
a reflexive contraction in sales and in prices.
Severe price declines have spread to Dallas, Denver, Minneapolis and
Cleveland, which had mostly withstood the bust in housing since 2006.
The damage has now gone well beyond cities hit hardest by unemployment
and foreclosures, such as Phoenix and Las Vegas.
Home prices in big metro areas have sunk to their lowest since 2002,
the Standard & Poor's/Case-Shiller 20-city monthly index showed Tuesday.
Since the bubble burst in 2006, prices have fallen more than they did
during the Great Depression.
The index, which covers metro areas that include about 70 percent of
U.S. households, is updated every quarter and provides a three-month average.
The March data is the latest available.
Foreclosures have forced prices down so much that some middle-class neighborhoods
have turned into lower-income areas within months.
Prices are expected to keep falling until the glut of foreclosures for
sale is reduced, companies start hiring in greater force, banks ease lending
rules and more people think it makes sense again to buy a house. In some
markets, that could take years.
The latest report points to a "double dip in home prices across
much of the nation," said David Blitzer, chairman of the Index Committee
at Standard & Poor's.
Prices fell from February to March in 18 of the metro areas tracked by
the Standard & Poor's/Case-Shiller index. And prices in a dozen markets
have reached their lowest points since the housing bubble burst in late
2006.
The overall index fell for the eighth straight month and has dropped
3.6 percent in the past year. Prices had risen last summer, fueled by
a temporary federal homebuying tax credit. But they've tumbled 7 percent
since then. After adjusting for inflation, the home-price index has sunk
to the level of 1999.
We could go on about some of the dismal numbers, but why bother. The
end result is that things are worser, not better, and that paying any
sort of money as anticipated upon a boom turning the corner is foolish
right about now. The industry wonks are talking about a "triple dip"
instead of a "double dip" in terms of pricing.
"Folks are having so much difficulty in getting financing for a
home," said Mark Vitner, senior economist at Wells Fargo. "And
foreclosures will likely bring about a third dip. It may be early next
year before prices hit bottom."
That won't change soon. Roughly 92 percent of homeowners say it's a bad
time to sell their home, according to the latest Thomson Reuters/University
of Michigan index of consumer sentiment.
In the seven years before its peak in July 2006, the home-price index
surged 155 percent. Since then, it's fallen 33 percent.
During the Great Depression, prices fell 31 percent. It took 19 years
for the housing market to regain its losses after the Depression ended.
Recent offerings of over $800,000 per lot appear to be overly optimistic
at best, and wildly foolish for buyers who never in their lifetimes will
realize profit on sales at that level given the economic realities.
ROCK STARS GO BOOM
Sometimes ladies driving pickup trucks go boom as well. We got into the
news again when a lady drove her truck into McGee's bar just across from
the Park Street bridge. McGee's bar! Is nothing sacred any more?
Police said the 63 year old female Island resident lost
control of her vehicle on Park Street, apparently after briefly losing
consciousness due to medication. Accident remains under investigation.
DON'T YOU KNOW YOU ARE A SHOOTING STAR
We remember him as a big hulking man, big as a pro NFL running back,
which as it turned out, he was. He was John Henry Johnson, Hall of Famer
and member of the San Francisco 49ers' "Million Dollar Backfield."
He died Friday in Tracy, California after a long illness.
Johnson, 6 feet 2 and 210 pounds, played for the 49ers from 1954 to '56
and teamed with fellow Hall of Fame members fullback Joe Perry, halfback
Hugh McElhenny and quarterback Y.A. Tittle. Perry died in April.
Johnson was inducted into the Hall of Fame in 1987.
"As a member of the 'Million Dollar Backfield,' he holds a cherished
place in both 49ers and NFL history," 49ers owner John York said
in a statement. "His contributions to the game of football will be
forever celebrated."
Drafted in the second round by the Pittsburgh Steelers in 1953, Johnson
played one season in the Canadian Football League before joining San Francisco.
Johnson also played for the Detroit Lions from 1957-59, the Steelers
from 1960-65 and American Football League's Houston Oilers in 1966. He
rushed for more than 1,000 yards in two of his seasons with Pittsburgh
(1962 and '64) and was selected to the Pro Bowl four times.
Johnson was born Nov. 24, 1929, in Waterproof, La. He was a high school
star in football, basketball and track in Pittsburg and played at St.
Mary's College in Moraga, and at Arizona State.
His athletic contributions were certainly prodigious, but we recognize
him for his significant family accomplishments and wish his survivors
all the best in this difficult time. One of our staff was instrumental
in assisting with medical care to prolong the man's life after a misdiagnosis
at Kaiser.
Funeral services will be held June 18th.
WHAT'S GOING ON
Danielle Fox lets us know that those of you wanting a little clue --
in fact, detailed explanations -- as to what the devil contemporary artists
have in mind when they daub paint on canvas, hang up torn parachute fabric,
ride bicycles around in circles, encase nasty rubbish in lucite boxes,
and reference Beuys as well as deconstruction will get all of that and
more June 11 at the next Oakland Art Murmur.
Here's the deal:
Danielle Fox of SLATE Contemporary will be guiding a group of visitors
on a private tour of Oakland Art Murmur Galleries in the uptown district
on the afternoon of Saturday June 11, 1-4:30pm. Six curators will meet
us to present introductions to their galleries, programs, and current
exhibitions.
This is a prime opportunity to experience Oakland's gallery scene without
the First Friday crowds.
Group meets at SLATE at 4770 Telegraph Ave @48th at 1PM for sandwiches
and an introduction to the gallery scene, and reconvenes (via your own
car transportation) on 25th St in the Uptown district at 1:45. From that
point the tour will be all on foot, and refreshments will be served along
the way.
$25 tax deductable donation to Oakland Art Murmur required to participate.
Bring a check or donate online at the artmurmur site linked to the image
below. Also see the Island-Life Calendar in the sidebar.
Space is limited. To reserve a spot, email danielle@slatecontemporary.com.
LOST IN SWEET MEMORIES
A dockwalloper set in here Friday, chasing all the seagulls over the
grocery parkinglot in advance of the big storm which pounded the evening
on Friday and sizzled all the docks with savage machine-gun spatters.
East Bay Open Studios continued bravely through the downpours and intermittent
sun, for artists are humble people used to adversity of all kinds. So
it rains. We have suffered much worse. Come see these wondrous dolls inside
the safe and warm Goose Cottage!
Joe Bonanno has been wringing his hands at the weather and the dreadful
failure of his summer hot peppers. Usually Joe manages to yank peppers
ranked on the Scoville ranking somewhere high and left of habanero, but
this year it looks like a total wash.
Generally its quite dry around this time, except for this thing that
happens every twenty years or so. Naturally the young folk are all pent
up and irritated by the perceived interruption. This past two weeks the
graduations released their neophytes into the world inside cooped-up gymnasiums
and auditoriums with all the distanced removal of PA and speakers, so
for many it was a bureaucratic maneuver removed from the ceremonial release
that they felt was due as rain splattered the old baseball diamond and
the bleachers.
People get to expect an immediate continuity of patterns in weather,
and tend to forget that these things have a big wheel of repetition in
the grand scheme, and that what seems usual for now is really a momentary
sequence embedded in something larger that will shift eventually to something
else before coming back again. Well, its really saying that if the corn
don't grow this year, for whatever reason, next year it will grow taller.
That's all that is about.
In the Market Spot Abram swept the wood floor of the store out front,
peering out at the cloud-wracked sky through the permanent discount signs.
He looked out the window at the soggy trees and the wet street. When
will this Pineapple Express ever end?
When it rained like this, people hardly came into the store, preferring
to hop in their cars and scurry into the mall.
The strange boy who lived down the street came to the door. "Hey,
what kind of hat is that?"
Abram
looked at him. Oh no.
Abram looked at him. Oh no.
"What kinda hat is that?"
It's a baseball cap.
"It's not a Stetson. I got a real Stetson. Cost me three hundred
dollars. I'm a cowboy."
Sure thing. O heck, the guy came in. Hope no customers drop by.
I'm
a cowboy.
"I'm a cowboy. I got three ranches. Got one in Arizona and one in
. . . uh . . . one in Modesto. I got three ranches 'cause I am a cowboy.
I got cowboy boots and spurs and chaps and everything. I am a cowboy."
"You got cowboy boots?"
No.
"You got a Stetson?
No.
"What kinda hat is that on the wall over there?"
That's a woman's sunhat from Vietnam. Abram moved out the door to the
awning and the kid followed him. His Stetson was bound up securely with
rubberbands.
"I guess that's a good hat for the rain. I got a Stetson."
He took it off and looked at it. "It's got felt. It'll keep the rain
off I guess." He put the hat back on.
I'd keep it from getting wet if I were you.
"I'm a cowboy. I live down the street. But I own houses in . . .
twenty states. I got a house in Illinois. And another house in the Philippines.
I am Filipino, cause my father is Filipino. I am going to buy a house
in every state. My uncle wants to sell the ranch in Arizona, but I told
him no, he can't do that. I am a cowboy." He paused to take a breath.
You must work for the government, Abram said, unable to help himself.
"No, why do you say that? I am Filipino cause my father is Filipino.
I been to the Philippines."
You speak Tagalog?
"Sure I do. I speak fluent Tagalog. And Spanish. Some Spanish. A
little Spanish. Cause that's where we came from. Spain." The boy
then began to relate the history of the Philippines. from the Spanish
settlements to the wars of independence, except it was a little unclear
who he meant by "we" and "them" and who was fighting
who. Which, Abram thought, is just as well as most wars are kind of like
that. We and Them is largely momentary point of view.
There
never was a good war.
Abram looked at the orange hat that glowed in the back of the shop. There
never was a good war. Some wars need to be fought -- not nearly most of
them -- but there never was a good war.
"Magsaysay was a good man," the boy was saying. "But they
killed him even though everybody loved him. You know any Filipinos?"
Yes, Abram said, thinking of Fey and the guy who ran the market down
the way. They are good people.
"Okay I gotta go. See some friends. They live this way. Good-bye
now."
Bye bye.
"Okay I am going. You want to be my friend?"
Abram thought about it and the consequences. Sure. Better than being
enemies, he said. That was true enough.
The rain had stopped and the boy went off down the street, first in the
wrong direction, then back. "My friends live down this way!"
Abram looked at the sky. If it were not so overcast, the stars would
be bright tonight. In Arizona, they have real cowboys and the stars burn
across the heavens like the scarf of a liturgical dancer embedded with
diamonds flung high in an arc of joy above the mountains. Abram went back
into the store.
Liturgical
dance? What on earth?!
Liturgical dance? What on earth?! What strangeness comes to the idle
mind on a slow, rainy Sunday! Abram turned on the radio to listen to NPR.
In the Old Same Place Bar, Gaelic coffees, hot toddies and shots of Cupacabra
Devil tequila were the orders of the evening as all the Islanders tried
to fend off the weather by kindling little fires inside themselves. Suzie
wore a red faux turtleneck and sported a slash of incarnadine dye in her
hair, as red had become lately the "it thing" for bartenders
trying to add color to the pallid atmosphere.
Denby was in there nursing a Fat Tire. Lately the lunatic asylum of St.
Charles had started to get on his nerves with all the hebephrenics going
off together like they were practicing for a choral concert. If the weather
had been any better he would have been in his right mind, but he also
had been thinking regretfully of his bachelor status. As romantic as it
might seem, renting a single room in a mental institution was turning
out to be rather tedious.
A woman came in with a big black labrador on a leash. Everyone leaned
away as the dog shook the rainwater loose from its coat. The bar was packed
at the rail, so she bent down and asked the Man from Minot if she could
sit at the table there. The Man from Minot pulled back to give her and
the dog some space and she sat down. She had merry blue eyes and platinum-blonde
hair under a plastic raincap.
As Suzie took her order, Denby brought out the Tacoma. Time to go to
work. He felt around first, trying to remember everything.
"What's that chord," Eugene asked.
This is a sort of E7. Sort of . And this is a sort of E6+7. Subdominant,
I think.
"Say what?"
Its notes.
"O!"
"I
really like crazy people," she said.
The woman and the Man from Minot were now deep in conversation. "I
work as a crisis nurse at Sausal Creek," said the woman. "People
don't understand mental illness, but I really like crazy people."
Let it rain, let it pour
Let it rain just a whole lot more
Cause I got them deep river bluuuuuues!
"What's your dog's name?"
"Iggy."
"As in Iggy Pop?"
"Yes," she said and smiled. "He's got a lust for life."
From far across the way, the long howl of the throughpassing train ululated
across the chuckling waves of the estuary and the Spring wildflowers blooming
like madness across 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.
MAY 29, 2011
IN THE GREEN FUSE DRIVES THE FLOWER
This week's photo comes courtesy of Paul in San Anselmo, where he and
his wife have turned a steep hillside into a wonderful garden by means
of hard work and several hundred pounds of horse manure. It's a sweetpea
bloom.
Spring definitely has sprung around here, despite the glowering skies.
PSA - DMV CHANGES
Most of you have relied on the annual mailed prompt to renew your vehicle
registration, however we discovered by accident that recent changes have
put the kibosh on all of that. Starting July 1, Vehicle registration notices
will be issued on the day of expiration.
Whoops! Say that again?!
Yep, the DMV will mail out notices on the day of expiration, meaning
that if you do not act proactively, you will be certainly cited when your
tags expire. Here is the official wording from the CAL DMV website.
Changes to Registration Renewals Due July 1, 2011 and Later
For vehicle registration renewal fees due July 1, 2011 and later:
* State law requires DMV to implement changes in the billing and renewal
process for registration fees due on or after July 1, 2011.
* Registration renewal notices will be mailed out close to or on the expiration
date. (Previously notices were mailed 60-days ahead of the expiration
date).
* NOTE: Fees are still due for registration notices due prior to July
1, 2011.
* No money will be collected until renewal notices are issued. (Previously
renewal fees could be collected up to 75 days ahead of the expiration
date and were required to be collected within 30 days of expiration when
part of another transaction such as a transfer of vehicle ownership)
* All customers will be given a 30-day grace period after they receive
their registration notice. Penalties for delinquent payment will not be
imposed until 30 days after the registration expiration date. (Previously
penalties were due the day after the registration expiration date)
What this means is that the DMV really wants folks to handle all affairs
via the Internet with a credit card with regard to registrations. Itself
a kind of annual tax that has no real purpose other than revenue enhancement.
THIS ISLAND LIFE
In what looks like an initial sign of positive cooperation between Silly
Hall and the newly appointed City Manager, Michael D'Orazi was appointed
interim fire chief for the Island. The previous chief left his position
under a cloud of accusations after he was photographed using City gas
pumps to fuel his private vehicles. The fire department has pursued a
stormy relationship with the City vis a vis union issues, and the incoming
chief has a reputation of working well with all sides in disputes. Hope
for the best . . .
The Island won a victory recently in its list of major lawsuits when
a Federal judge ruled that a claims made by two investors in the Island's
former telecommunications system were without merit. The Island, which
owns its own power utility, briefly dabbled in providing cable service
to customers in an enterprise that failed badly. No one ever analyzed
the profitability of such an undertaking and the entire effort went south
when it was discovered the business had no chance of ever making money.
In the end, all of it was sold to Comcast for about 17 million dollars
at a loss.
Island resident, Howard Camping, emerged from hiding to explain the failure
of his Rapture on a "miscalculation" and that the new date for
Armageddon will be October 21. What was not explained was just why anyone
who is already damned should give a fig for this factoid and how this
should affect folks who do not and have never read his version of the
Bible, namely Hindus, Buddhists, Jews, Moslems, those born in the Republic
of Tonga, and most of the rest of the world.
In recent reports we learned that a robber, dubbed "The Grandma
Bandit", died Friday in a shoot-out in Atlanta. The big news was
that the suspect turned out to be a man.
The "Grandma Bandit" gained notoriety because of her age and
signature robbing style -- approaching cashiers at Atlanta-area CVS and
Rite-Aid pharmacies and demanding cash after producing a revolver from
her purse.
She was a distinctive-looking woman with swollen cheeks who wore oversize,
dark sunglasses and a baseball cap, according to surveillance video and
witness accounts.
The most interesting factoid about all of this brough-haha has nothing
to do with gender confusion but comes out in the final AP line which runs,
"The arrest warrant for Taylor said she had netted about $400 from
the three holdups."
The suspect was sighted in a Wendys fast food restaurant, after which
local police gave chase, ending in shots fired.
Um, somebody stop me here, but this person, man or woman or whatever,
died because of taking an average of $120 per crime? Something is seriously
f---d up here, man. And the real story is there.
LIKE THE WEATHER
We had thought this section would have been put to bed until October
at least. Not so. We have the Pineapple Express continuing its cyclical
changes with yet another carload of precip headed for the embattled Mississippi.
Got a dockwalloper plus a wharf-sizzler just this morning on the heels
of another a day ago. Seems Mother Nature is a bit pissed right now, maybe
about all the threats of drilling needlessly in the Arctic. In the Golden
State we have reports of swollen rivers and high snowpack and all sorts
of good news for those who dislike drought.
THEN CAME THE LAST DAYS OF MAY
The days have opened at dawn with unruly clouds packed with portent.
Some of the days whipped by, propelled by insouciant winds. Others lashed
the rooftops with punishing rains. This sort of weather comes around every
twenty years, but its been an unsettled Spring, that's for sure.
Bernard Glibb of the NSA came around to deliver a talk in the hall of
the Native Sons of the Golden West. He wore a gray suit with a red tie
and he was immaculate and his teeth were perfect. He dropped in from a
black, soundless helicopter with a road show that included two beautiful
women wearing ultra-short miniskirts, who strode back and forth on stiletto
heels, putting up recruitment posters that said "Join the Intelligence
Community! Meet the Pope! See and Control the World!"
They got up there and sang a do-wop number while Glibb operated a karaoke
machine while videos of the Blue Angels doing amazing stuff with airplanes
rolled across the big screen in back.
"HEY
HEY WE'RE THE NSA
YOU GOTTA DO WHATEVER WE SAY"
When they finished that number, Glibb delivered his speech while Occasional
Quentin sat up in front with his right forefinger resting contentedly
inside his left nostril up to the second joint, patiently waiting until
he could get at the free buffet of chicken wings.
Glibb was full of all sorts of defending the Motherland, duty, sacrefice,
and the importance of Intelligence to a military sadly lacking in that
capacity, in an effort to enlist idiots to come to Washington DC, but
the guys all knew what it was all about and they, as per tradition, dosed
the man with the traditional LSD/datura cocktail until the fellow ran
screaming from that hall, chased by vivid, iridescent hummingbirds who
tickled his ears.
After that, things were quiet for a spell as folks tended to their gardens,
struggling in the sandy soil but persisting under the pressure of Spring.
Spring does not care about Love or any craptalk like that. Spring cares
about itself and the pressure of procreation, Desire, and Nature. Spring
is honest like that. The Goddess does not equivocate or lie.
California is fortunate in that we have more than a few goddesses hanging
around. Just go out and ask a Goddess what's up. More than likely the
Goddess would say, "If it were up to me all those Fallen would be
dancing around the Maypole, naked with ribbons in their hair. I do not
give a fig for all your martial warlike stuff!"
It's
best not to mess with a Goddess.
Well, the Goddess can be particular. It's best not to mess with a Goddess.
Sunday bloomed with cloudless skies and this new persistent, unearthly
and strange wind that seems to have moved into the neighborhood for a
long spell. Offshore from the Strand, hundreds of parasails scudded back
and forth in a colorful palette while rose bushes exploded everywhere
in every yard.
Memorial Day is to some an important day, but for most Americans, its
a day with annoying surprises that involve bank closures and lack of postal
service. Those who take the day off, usually BBQ, if the day is fair where
they live, and watch the Game if the day is not.
Some years ago, Johnny P. and his platoon came under fire near the place
known as Ap Ba. During the firefight, for whatever reason -- imaginary
bravery, irritation, fake heroism, or sheer stupidity, Johnny stood up
and was nearly instantaneously cut in half by AK-47 rounds. By "cut
in half" we mean literally that one half of his body went one way
and the lower half of torso and legs went the other.
No one ever learned why he had stood up during the firefight, but in
the end his pieces were collected and shipped back home. His brother had
been arrested for armed robbery, so he remained safe from the draft for
the time being, however his father stood dry-eyed there as they lowered
the sealed casket into the ground. Cares of the family man.
Unfortunately, Johnny's name never went onto the famous Black Wall. The
Army learned that he had lied about his age during enlistment. His father,
who had been a Colonel, had fudged the documents and sweet-talked the
enlistment officer. Johnny was underage by one year.
None
of this was of the slightest consolation
to his poor mother.
All of the Armed Services take this sort of thing pretty seriously, as
the value of a serviceman performing on behalf of his country cannot be
suffered in any way to be diminished. As a result, even though his wounds
were "to the front", Johnny was listed officially as "Noncombatant
casualty." None of this was of the slightest consolation to his poor
mother.
Years later Denby inquired around AP BA about this engagement, which
ultimately had no effect one way or the other on the outcome of the entire
war. He talked with a former local NVA commander who said, "We did
not know why the Americans wanted to take AP BA -- it seemed of no strategic
importance whatsoever. Nevertheless, because we noticed troops massing
in the area, the Americans must have thought it important, so we devoted
resources to defend it without knowing exactly why."
...
the extraordinary power of Nature...
In the snug of the Old Same Place Bar, Denby nurses a Fat Tire Ale, remembering
the deep green sedge, the slapping water of the river and motoring out
on a small boat past rusted construction wrack and bamboo junks and sordid
tugs into the windings of an emerald dream where the water fringed with
green scum faded to shades of khaki beneath overhanging branches. Flowers
bloomed with an olive tinge and even the butterflies flicked with green
wings from leaf to shimmering leaf. Spring comes even to the most blasted
landscapes. After years-long agony, the extraordinary power of Nature
filled in the bomb craters and the tunnels. Along the berms that bordered
rice paddies, women walked with bright orange hats, carrying buckets swinging
from poles balanced on their shoulders. In the streets of the Old Town,
hawkers sold lemongrass rolls wrapped in translucent sheets.
Amir came into the bar and sat beside Denby and the two of them watched
the late night news up on the bar telly. Troubles and more troubles back
home. Denby bought Amir a Shirley Temple -- the guy did not drink alcohol
of any kind. But in the Old Same Place Bar there was company, and a television
with the news and he did not want to wake everyone up back at the house.
"All the young men." Amir said, shaking his head. "All
the young men, and the old men with their beards, the the women and all
the suffering. All of it."
One
day my friend,
peace shall come to you and yours.
One day my friend, peace shall come to you and yours. On that day, ivy
will cling to the old monuments and people will no longer think of either
jihad or exporting democracy. All the glittering bayonets will change
into flocks of hummingbirds and grim-visaged war will smooth his wrinkled
front. Instead of mounting barbed steeds to fright the souls of fearful
adversaries, instead of speaking the spoken vomit of corrupted language,
we will dance and make pleasing music on a green hillside as a beautiful
golden haired girl, invoking the Goddess of Love, pours the wine.
From far across the way, the long howl of the throughpassing train ululated
across the greenish waves of the estuary and the hummingbird-visited Spring
wildflowers 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 peaceful week.
MAY 22, 2011
THIS IS THE END, MY FRIEND
So you are sad that all your friends got to go to some cotton-candy heaven
with diaphanous angels waving harps and chubby putee sweeping dust bunnies
from the corners while you, you wretched, soiled bastard, must needs stay
back here in Reality and deal with the sorry Economy the Deficit and Pee
Tardy lunatics. No Rapture for you, guy; somebody's got to pay the bills,
water the plants and feed the cat.
On the upside, you missed a golden opportunity to commit just about every
golden delicious sin in the world on your last go-around. You had at least
73 hours to bathe in debauchery, for if we are all damned anyway, why
not go out and murder that irritating relative, rob a bank, and roger
a nun over a table while you are at it. Heck, since we are all out the
door, no need to even use a condom!
So herewith we supply this week's headline photo of the Flames of Hell
burning in celebration at one of the many Bay Area Rapture Parties.
This was photographed appropriately at the amazingly tasteless and uselessly
kitsch tiki bar called "Forbidden Island", a bar which has no
earthly purpose other than providing a venue for extracting dollars from
those seeking a greased rail towards pleasure and from those who seeking
anesthesia from those who have failed. The drinks are potent, even when
the drinkers are not, so those who remain are sure to numb out. Those
who fail always wind up in the majority, so tiki bars always do well.
As do apocalyptic prophets, who know well there will always be another
apocalypse.
ITS THE END OF THE WORLD -- AND I FEEL FINE
The Island has the distinction of being the home of Harold Camping, the
televangalist (from Colorado) who caused a ruckus with his pronunciamento
of the end of the world on May 21 at six pm. Over eighty million dollars
of donations later, hundreds of billboards and nearly one hundred radio
stations, Mr. Camping remains sight-unseen around here the day after not
much changed. The doors of his offices down on Hegenberger in Oaktown
remained closed as was his house here and related churches.
This is not the first time the 89-year old Camping has issued an End
of the World statement, which caused ruckus all over, the last being in
1994. After that apocalypse fizzled, Camping claimed that it had all been
a math error. Rest assured it will not be the last, for a number of self-appointed
prophets are already at work on the Aztec calendar, claiming that the
stars forecast dire events in 2012. Camping has led a Sunday service for
many years at the Veterans Memorial Building on Central Avenue. This past
Sunday was his last service, according to an employee of the institute
located on Hegenberger.
Perhaps it might be good to live one's life as if each day was the last.
In other news, the former attorney for Oaktown has shifted over the estuary
to take on the City Manager position here, which now the search for a
replacement City Attorney for our own needs continues with the usual rumors
flying about. It would not be a proper small town without rumors, now
would it.
Glommed onto the recently released API LEA report that lists the state
rankings of all the schools throughout the Golden State and crunched the
numbers only to discover that the Island is pretty average compared to
the rest. Yep, we aint superior and we aint worst off. Oaktown managed
to have a wildly skewed pattern of several excellent schools balanced
out by a passel of real losers, but the Island came out fairly in the
flavor of cream cheese all around. Maybe comforting to some, disconcerting
to others. Hey, we read tedious academic statistical reports so you don't
have to.
Now on to housing numbers. Sorry to say April looks down, as does May,
especially in comparison to what many considered an optimistic March.
All figures from the MDA Dataquick report.
In April, a total of 6,789 new and existing single-family houses and
condominiums closed escrow in the nine-county Bay Area, or a 3.7 percent
drop from March and a 3.1 percent decline from a year ago. April's median
sales price of $360,000 was unchanged from March, but down 2.7 percent
from a year ago.
In Alameda County, a total of 1,345 homes changed hands last month, a
2 percent gain from a year ago, while the median sales price of $338,000
was down 3.4 percent. In Contra Costa County, a total of 1,399 homes changed
hands, a 14.4 percent drop from a year ago, while the median sales price
of $258,500 was down 5.3 percent.
Solano County saw a total of 568 homes change hands in April, a 3.9 percent
drop from a year ago, while the median sales price of $185,000 was down
8.4 percent.
In Santa Clara County, a total of 1,645 homes closed escrow, a 0.7 percent
drop from a year ago, while the median price of $470,000 was 3.9 percent
lower.
In San Mateo County, 584 homes closed escrow, a 5 percent gain from a
year ago, while the median sales price of $550,000 was down 5.2 percent.
Unofficially, we note that on the one hand it is yet early in the normally
strong Spring sales season, and on the other that local homeowners are
dropping expectations in value about 100K to a median of 550,000 around
here, with no hope of improvement before 2013. One bedroom rental units
exceeding 1k appear in most cases to be exceeding value and market.
BE FREE YOU FOOL, BE FREE YOU FOOL, SHE SINGS ALL AFTERNOON
Some of you might not appreciate or know that May 22nd marks a significant
50th anniversary in the history of this nation's bloody and painful crawl
towards equality. Beginning May 22 through the 26th, the 50th anniversary
of the Freedom Riders will be celebrated in Mississippi and in other locations.
Look to the Calendar for events taking place in Jackson, Miss. and in
Charlotte, NC.
We also have a note from Caltrans that an original Freedom Rider visited
Richmonds Kennedy High School as part of this 50th anniversary commemoration
of the Freedom Riders, when young civil rights activists rode
buses across the then segregated southern states. They risked their lives
to desegregate restaurants and waiting rooms at bus depots, testing the
validity of Americas civil rights laws. Many of the riders were
imprisoned in violation of federal law, and others were savagely beaten
by mobs. Elizabeth Hirshfeld, a Freedom Rider who also served
as a driver for civil rights pioneer Rosa Parks, spoke about those times
and the use of public buses in the fight for civil rights on Thursday.
UNTIL THE END OF THE WORLD
The weather has been unruly this past week on the Island, our hometown
set here in California on the edge of the San Francisco Bay. The seagulls
flocked inland to lead a dockwalloper to start the week, followed by argumentative
skies and gradually drying winds. Expect this means no wind blows good
news to the embattled banks of the Mississippi as yet another round of
storms dumps a load of rain on their troubles while tornados continue
to tear up the Midwest.
Its all Bush's fault of course.
Down at the Old Same Place Bar Padraic has been in stitches over the
recent visit of QEII to the Old Sod. Not since George V had visited some
100 years ago, had anyone of the Royals stepped foot on Irish soil. In
fact, the Queen was the first to do so on the free soil of the Republic.
"She
said, 'Uachtarán agus a chairde' "
"She said 'comhbhrón domhain'," Padraic sobbed. "She
said, 'Uachtarán agus a chairde' to start. Not one of them has
ever done so!"
Indeed all the world was agog over this historic event. That a British
monarch would visit the Republic and then employ the gaelige was something.
That she would express any sort of sympathy at all was a great beginning
and perhaps an end to hard times.
Sometimes the end of days is a good thing. Sometimes Spring brings great
wonders in its astounding births. The Chinese say every catastrophe brings
renewal, brings opportunity for something better to take its place. Spring
is the time of extraordinary effulgence.
Spring
is the time of extraordinary effulgence.
They had a number of special drinks for sale at the OSPB, most of which
generally involved sterno or carefully lit Demerara 151 proof rum, so
the whole place had these little flames going off like it was the rooms
of Hell or something. Suzie had been got up with plastic horns on her
head and a cute outfit of orange and black with boots. Dawn thought it
all very tacky, but it had been Padraic's idea. Everything orange was
associated with Satan and hell in his mind anyway.
So there it was. The time passed and nobody got raptured, except for
the lucky couples who left together and who probably experienced some
kind of rapture that is more in character of the annual renewal of Spring
than any religious thing. Almost certainly Religion had absolutely nothing
to do with it. Religion tends to get in the way of such things, as it
trends to do in most reasonable activities.
Outside a man wearing a black coat and white shirt stumbled down the
street before laying down on the battered sod of someone's front lawn.
It was Reverend Rectumrod, the Baptist minister of the First Baptist Storefront
Hellfire Church and good friend of Mr. Camping, the man who had promulgated
this whole End of Days thing.
it
was incontrovertible that he, Reverend Rectumrod, had NOT been raptured
The Reverend had gotten himself drunk off of whiskey from BevMo in Oaktown.
He had sincerely believed in the End of Days, and was not entirely convinced
it was all baloney still. But it was incontrovertible that he, Reverend
Rectumrod had NOT been raptured to heaven as had been his due.
Since he had not been Raptured, and Rapture had come and gone, that meant
he was damned, damned, damned. So he went and got himself damned drunk.
Lord save and bless BevMo, for they succor the lost and the lonely, an
holy charge, when the Word falls somewhat short of goal.
It did not help that Camping was nowhere to be found, which had to mean
that his friend had been raptured and he, Rectumrod, had not.
The preacher looked up at the eternal, laughing stars and cried out,
"My god my god, why hast thou forsaken me!"
Someone somewhere shouted, "Shut up and be quiet! We are trying
to sleep here!"
The preacher was left bereft and forlorn as the pogonip crept
in and his eyes closed.
A
little kindness couldn't hurt.
Reverend Nyquist happened to be driving by and noticing the man there
stepped out of his car, took him in and brought him back to the parsonage,
for this is the sort of things Christians are supposed to do. The Reverend
was put to sleep in the chair beside the fireplace and there he slept
the sleep of babes the whole night through while Nyquist worked on a sermon
that referenced the "good Samaritan". Seemed that it was about
time for something like that, he thought. A little kindness couldn't hurt.
Might bring about some good, in fact. Goodness is really what it was all
about.
The night settled in with a comfortable wheeze of wind and the shadows
flickered across the distressed wood lining the snug of the Old Same Place
Bar while Suzie bent her pretty horned head towards her anthropology textbook
to read about the extraordinary Bonobo and their jungle rites. Mating
rituals, spirit quests, and the idea that deep in the night sorcery was
burrowing from thousands of senders to thousands of unsuspecting recipients
circled around her.
From far across the way, the long howl of the throughpassing train ululated
across the magical waves of the estuary and the mysterious Spring wildflowers
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.
MAY 15, 2011
WINTER IS THE CURTAIN BUT SPRING TAKES THE BOW
This week we had a sudden flurry of hummingbirds to chose from. There
is something rare and ephemeral and beautiful about the creatures that
can captivate the heart of even an old, cynical soldier.
This one comes courtesy of Chad's window on the world. We have a special
place here at Island-Life for hummingbirds (Julu, in Ohlone) and anything
alate thing that is gentle and free and worthy simply in being beautiful.
Nothing says Spring has arrived quite like the reappearance of Julu from
distant Rio de Janeiro, or so it is said. Where better a place to pass
the cold, dead time of snow?
YOU MUST REMEMBER THIS / A KISS IS JUST A KISS
The Bay Area is remarkable for the breadth and depth of talent that resides
here, and the Island is no exception for hosting its own coterie of musical
genius. We've got Frederika Von Stade and we've got Bobby Sharp and we've
got Jim Franz (newly inducted Music Hall of Fame) and we've got Mark Peters.
Say what? Well, if you have not heard of Mark Peters before, you soon
will, as the Seattle native recently made his debut at the Beanery here
on Friday evening, performing old vocal standards from the Rat Pack era.
Mr. Peters possesses a well-trained, smooth baritone well-suited to the
material, which includes 1950's showtunes and pop-forties stuff that feels
well in keeping with the flavor of our Island where neon signs and art
deco tiles still adorn our brief downtown. After all, not two blocks from
the Island-Life Offices there resides in all seriousness a Tiki-bar decorated
with vinyl records and pictures of Elvis Presley strumming a ukulele,
so a bit of class is rather welcome.
Mr. Peters has another year or so to go on his stint with
the Coast Guard, but we are hoping that the weather and a certain Island-girl
manages to keep him around for a longer spell.
I'M FREE TO RUN
The annual beer and costume street party known as Bay to Breakers took
place this weekend over in Babylon under glowering skies and chilly, windy
conditions. It was the 100th running of the Bay to Breakers, which starts
downtown at Howard and Beale streets and ends on the Great Highway at
Ocean Beach. A field of 55,000 registered runners and walkers competed
on a cold and windy morning, some running barefoot, some running entirely
naked save for shoes, some wearing ape costumes and more than a few dressed
as Elvis Presley.
For the record, Ridouane Harroufi ran the 7.46-mile race, from the citys
Embarcadero to the sea, in 34 minutes 26 seconds. Mr. Harroufi also owns
the distinction of having run the Breakers race some three times previously.
Direba Merga, of Ethiopia and last year's winner, came in 3 seconds behind.
Kenyan runner Lineth Chepkurui, 23, won the womens race for the
third year in a row.
The elite runners ran under dry skies. Until the end, the wind hit the
runners backs, Harroufi said. The Moroccan said his strategy on
the notoriously difficult Hayes Street Hill, a steep slope at the about
the 2.5-mile marker, helped propel him to victory this year.
He said he drafted behind two Ethiopian runners up most of the hill,
then blew past them in the final 30 meters. By being the first to crest
Hayes Street Hill, he netted a $5,000 prize in addition to the $32,000
he earned for crossing the finish line first.
Few news reports listed winner times, save for the long since discredited
SF Examiner Newspaper, which actually did the best job of summarizing
results. Typically, the second-seed "runners" arrive at the
ocean one to two hours after the winners have long since gone home.
Far more attention was paid to the fact that this year a no alcohol rule
would be strictly enforced by both organizers and local police. In the
past, floats had been allowed to "run" in parade format; the
floats had typically dispensed beer and hard liquor during the "race".
As a result of the new zero tolerance rules, only 25 arrests were made,
although many commented this year the race felt more mild than in years
past.
WHAT'S GOING ON
Got a lot of bits and pieces this week, most of which are due to the
increasingly tight situation occurring everywhere due to the worsening
economy.
From the Alma Mater, we hear that the venerable SFSU is now "restructuring"
its academic programs in the City. According to the Press Release, "President
Corrigan and Provost Sue Rosser have announced that the University will
move forward with a plan to reorganize its academic colleges, reducing
the number from eight to six. Effective July 1, 2011, the reorganization
is one of several cost-cutting efforts intended to bring the 2011-12 campus
budget into balance as SF State braces for significantly deeper reductions
in state funding."
From our financial analyst we got some disturbing news about the robust
Apple corporation. It was reported recently, "Apple's P/E Ratio Falls
to Lowest Level Since Financial Crisis Despite 92% Earnings Growth".
We will not bore you folks with tedious details, but need only reparse
a few summary statements from the article, which noted that Wall Street
is still not paying serious attention to things that companies actually
DO when it comes to valuation. So Apple now outsells Microsoft, looks
to have 82 billion dollars in banked income this year and has demonstrated
net growth of 302%, due largely to its more highly valued competitors
repeatedly shooting themselves in the tootsies, but hey. Its just Apple,
right? Can't be worth the investment. So we smarties in Wall Street will
just agree to downgrade its profile. Just because it suits our needs.
Christ, that guy Michael Moore is starting to look like a financial wizard.
Especially compared to guys who cannot for the life of them provide a
simple definition for a "derivative".
And some idiots want to hand over the Nation's retirement system to these
yokels. Gimmee a break!
Island-Life -- we read tedious financial reports so you don't have to.
THERE IS NO OTHER LIFE
From dear Terrence at the Berkeley Rep we got the scoop on the new Season,
which looks to be more of a nod to Old and Established Money this time
around, but still with a lot of the refreshing zing that has propelled
the Rep to truly world class theatre in recent years.
The 2011-12 Main Season features three world premieres, a classic Molière
comedy, a repeat of the popular Rita Moreno, and the Tony Award-winning
"Red".
In September, the five-play Main Season begins with a stunning series
of world premieres. First its Rita Moreno: Life Without Makeup,
a captivating show created specifically for this outstanding actress;
next Kent Nicholson directs How to Write a New Book for the Bible, Bill
Cains poignant new play about caregiving, followed by Ghost Light,
a haunting fable about San Francisco written by Artistic Director Tony
Taccone and staged by Jonathan Moscone. Then Steven Epp returns to unleash
another Molière masterpiece with A Doctor in Spite of Himself,
and Associate Artistic Director Les Waters tackles John Logans Tony
Award-winning Red. Two additional shows that complement this compelling
collection of work will be announced later for Berkeley Reps Limited
Season.
Ongoing, we note a new collaboration between the excitingly talented
Sarah Ruhl and director Les Waters after their triumphant Eurydice and
the Vibrator Play enthused audiences here. Now this talented team turns
its attention to a fresh translation of a masterpiece: Anton Chekhovs
Three Sisters. Ruhl enlivens this classic with the same elegant understanding
of intimacy that infused those earlier collaborations, while Waters and
a cast of 14 deliver another sumptuous production. This West Coast premiere
runs through May 22. Three Sisters is a co-production between Berkeley
Rep, where Waters serves as associate artistic director, and Yale Repertory
Theatre.
Local music faves Houston Jones continue on a roll. Latest press release
had Henry Salvia dishing about their new CD and an East Coast tour. They
did Rancho Nicasio this Sunday and will do Devil Mountain Coffeehouse
in Walnut Creek next Friday before heading out to the Industrial Northeast.
The lads will return to San Gregorio June 18th to be followed by stints
at the Marin Art Festival in San Rafael and not one but two days at the
prestigious Kate Wolf Festival in Laytonville here.
The Kate Wolf Memorial festival is notable around here for silver-haired
tie-dyes who still keep the faith while managing to earn some money and
typically features some top-notch performers. This year the festival will
host Taj Mahal, Ruthie Foster, David Bromberg, Angel Band, Poor Man's
Whiskey, Hot Buttered Rum and a few others. Tix for shows and campsite
run about $170 for the three days. Folks say that the camp deal is well
worth it if you got the cash, as performances continue around campfires
well past sundown. Event Information: 707-829-7067
His Purpleness, Prince, has announced three additional shows here in
our NorCal, which must bow to acknowledge the significance of such attention.
Prince will perform at the HP Pavilion in San Jose Thursday, May 19 &
Sat, May 21. Tix are on sale now; get them while you are Hot.
The wonderfully appelled Lisa Bullwinkl has announced dates for upcoming
events in Berkeley, the first being the popular Chocolate & Chalk
Art Festival slated for June 4. The sidewalks along North Shattuck Ave.
in the Gourmet Ghetto in Berkeley are the target of artists young and
old, professional and greenhorn during the 15th annual CHOCOLATE &
CHALK ART FESTIVAL on Saturday, June 4.
With no fees to artists, areas of sidewalk will be assigned to participants
to create their own fanciful chalk drawings. A CHALK ART CONTEST for the
best drawing will be judged after 4 p.m. Winners will be notified the
following day. Same-day registration takes place 10AM-5PM in event booths
located along North Shattuck Ave. Artist's chalk is available for a fee.
Penultimately, we note the efforts of Jack London Waterfront to bring
some nightlife down there by the Marina. Miss Pearl's Jam House is kicking
off a Comedy Off Broadway series every Thursday, Friday, and Saturday
along with a wine-tasting series. Along with the free movie nights that
have been showing down there along the waterfront, free live music will
happen Thursday nights starting at 5:30 through June at the foot of Broadway.
Finally, we note KBLX will be bringing a little soul to lower Broadway
will a "Whose got Soul" talent search contest. KBLX has been
calling out to all Bay Area Soul and R&B enthusiasts asking them "Who's
Got Soul?" This talent search will conclude at the finale hosted
at Jack London Square as the finalists battle it out for the coveted spot
of opening act at the KBLX Stone Soul Concert. For more information, visit
http://www.kblx.com/. Okay all you
homeboys and girls out there, this is your chance to show Babylon and
everyone else that this is The Warmer Side of the Bay.
ARS LONGA VITA BREVIS
Frank Bette announced a Call for Art with a deadline of May 29th, all
media respected and invited for the exhibition titled "Rhymes with
Orange". Themes: The color orange, poetry, words, comparisons, expressions,
literary, harmony, ode, flame, red-yellow, autumn leaves, fruit, warm,
sensation, pigment, secondary. There will be a gala opening June 3rd.
For more details and submission forms, go to www.frankbettecenter.org.
The lovely and talented Danielle Fox lets us know SLATE contemporary
gallery of Oakland is delighted to announce it's participation in this
spring's San Francisco Fine Art Fair at Fort Mason, May 19th 22nd.
"There will be no fewer than three art fairs in San Francisco that
weekend," Fox explains. "We are hoping that San Francisco can
establish itself as a national art market like New York, LA, and Miami,
which attract hundreds of thousands of serious art buyers to their fairs
each year."
Unlike traditional arts and crafts fairs where artists represent their
own work, these fairs host galleries from around the world, who come to
present works by their top artists. "If you are one of those people
who always thinks you should get out to see galleries, but never find
the time to do it, now is the time" says Fox. "In one weekend
you can see world-class galleries, with over of 60 of them at Fort Mason
alone." The Fort Mason Fair will also feature special sections devoted
to photography and contemporary Asian Art.
There will be seminars on collecting, and a preview party on Thursday,
May 19th to benefit the San Francisco Art Institute. Fox's SLATE contemporary
gallery will be presenting work by four Bay Area artists: Carol Inez Charney,
Joanne Fox, Patricia Thomas, and Victor Cohen Stuart.
Yes, we know the calendar is way behind, but this week we hope to rectify
that problem.
PSA - WEBINAR ON POINT DEVELOPMENT
The City will hold a workshop Wednesday on Point development infrastructure
costs. If you cannot attend in person, you can do so via the Web. To register
for the Webinar, log on to https:www3.gotomeeting.com/register/906934782
DEEP RIVER BLUES
Its been a cool and cloudy week here on the Island. Saturday began blustery
and seagulls began a raucous confabulation over the Safeway parking lot,
which informed all of us Old Timers that Something Big was happening out
there beyond the Farallones. Sure enough a dockwalloper pounded in here
late Saturday night, leaving us with a grey and dripping dawn shaking
streaked tresses as clouds stacked up like granite slabs on Sunday with
promise of yet more to come.
you
can try to put down Nature with a pitchfork
Nevertheless, Spring has arrived. Spring is not a reticent season, no
matter what the weather. Spring does not tuck its heels up under a church
pew like some meek and obedient schoolgirl with her eyes cast down under
dark bangs. No sirree. Spring leaps out there flailing its limbs, flapping
its skirts upward lasciviously to shock all the prudes into silence. Spring
is randy, wild and tossing its mane at a full gallop and god damn all
the generals with their foolish medals and the stern church fathers with
their bluehair house rules. After the heat wave brought out all the squirrels
they have all scampered back up there to their high nests with their mates
and those darned trees have not stopped shaking ever since -- we know
what they are doing up there.
As the man said, you can try to put down Nature with a pitchfork but
it always comes roaring back.
As it is Spring, Wootie Kanootie found a need to keep his herd of elk
corraled for fear of disaster. Every year several hundred Canadians, along
with a fair number of idiotic American tourists, die from moose misapprehension.
In Spring the moose get randy, and nothing is more dangerous than a randy
bull moose. Their eyesight is not good but if they mistake you for another
moose encroaching on their turf, it will only take few pokes from that
rack there to do you in thoroughly. How it is possible to mistake a fat
insurance adjuster from Lincoln Nebraska for a bull moose, heaven only
knows, but frustration can make any animal peckish.
even
dancing of any kind was banned
But this is California where, even if it is not really true anything
and everything goes, enough goes to make it more interesting than Winnepeg
and Minot, North Dakota combined. For all their vices and virtues. Its
the Island which has more in common with Sioux Falls or Minneapolis, but
without the pizazz of either location, that determinedly wishes for blandness
in perverse contrariness to the rest of the Bay Area. O people have tried
to do things like put in a Santaria shop and hold a hip hop festival here,
but the Santaria shop folded for lack of magic and the festival never
could secure the permits. During a low point, even dancing of any kind
was banned on the Island, but that had been considered too radical, so
they dropped the idea. Everywhere else around here you have naked people
trying to sell you headbands guaranteed to channel your chakras and love
monkeys dancing to disco beats and all sorts of carrying on and nervous
jumping up and down.
Various Island-Lifers have been handling this Spring Spirit with all
of its attendant dangers each in their own way. Denby has been hiding
out in his rented room attached to the St. Charles Lunatic Asylum, practicing
"Deep River Blues" over and over again. There is no safer place
as something about the howling hebephrenics and drooling chronics really
puts the total kibosh to Cupid's best efforts. The screaming used to get
on his nerves but now he has come to regard many of the chronics with
something like affection. Even Raymond, who seeks every opportunity to
inject his conversation with the F-bomb. Often he will stand there in
his donated London Fog raincoat, shouting "Eff You!" with great
zest for hours at a time. Quite a while ago, when such treatment was doled
out like asperin for every concieveable ailment, he was given a lobotomy
so as to still his apparent Tourette's Syndrome.
It didn't work.
A couple beauties wearing bobby socks and cashmere came out from the
parking lot down below, headed for Pagano's Hardware store.
"Eff you!" Raymond shouted through the bars, adding a few more
choice epithets relating to female canines.
The girls scampered quickly away and Denby smiled. It was just Raymond's
way of showing affection and admiration in the only way he knew. Had he
been born a bit later, they would have given his hair a mohawk and dyed
it purple. As Martin Luther said, "There is eros and there
is amor and there is caritas. . . ".
O let it rain let it pour
let it rain a whole lot more
cause I got them deep river blues . . .
Down below, a solitary elk galloped by. One of Wootie's
charges had gotten loose. The elk ran past the Senior Center fence and
paused at the intersection with Santa Clara before bolting across. A little
while later a roly-poly man wearing a beaverskin hat and carrying a moose
net trundled on by.
When I cry, don't weep for me
The fish all go out on a spree
When I get them deep river bluuuuuuues . . .
Javier had not emerged from his pleasure cave with the tattooed and pierced
Goth girl he had found, but he did find time to chat with the anxious
Jose on the phone. Jose had been given the assignment to cover an art
fair event over in Babylon and was stressing about the personal exposure
during this dangerous time of year. Javier was of such a makeup he would
happily hump an oak tree if it wore a blond wig and swayed the right way,
but Jose was made of more timorous stuff. He had fallen head over heels
for the Lovely Leona of San Leandro -- who just happened to be best buds
with one of the more influential art curators in the Bay Area. It just
so happened that the Lovely Leona happened to be dreadfully married. With
children at that.
Javier found this condition to be more of a piquant challenge than an
obstacle, for he was just that way. "Hey, she has kids! Means she
knows how to do it, amigo!"
Show
me una virgen. ¡La haré de otra manera!
Jose was of other mind. "Javier you are a . . . ". And here
he used a Spanish phrase of such vularity that was so inappropriate for
Public Radio we dare not repeat it here. Normally, the mild Jose was of
milder stuff. "I do have some principles, which I am honor-bound
as a wab' from Sinaloa to demonstrate to all our gabacho amigos.
And to balance out your own malo behavior for which la Virgen
llora."
"Es Primavera, amigo. ¡Have some fun for once! Show
me una virgen. ¡La haré de otra manera!"
"Vergüenza Javier! Shame on you!"
"Ha ha ha ha . . . ooo that tickles. Stop that! Ha ha ha ha . .
.".
"Vergüenza! Who are you talking to there?"
"O hohoho hohoho! O, don't stop that, it feels good . . ."!
"O for Pete's sake. . .". Jose said.
"I gotta go now, amigo . . .".
"Just when you get out of there this time better hang on to your
huevos colgantes. Remember the last time . . .".
"Click!"
In the dim cube of his offices, the Editor sat before his computer screen.
He had gone back to listening to that Man in the Red Shoes with some guilty
pleasure. He knew that he himself couldn't carry a note, could never remember
the punchline to jokes, was an unimaginative storyteller, abused the English
grammar mercilessly, was largely talentless, and possessed a face some
said was "made for radio."
That last one is generally not regarded as a complement.
Furthermore it seemed pretty unlikely that he would ever managed to finagle
Sister City Status with that famous town up there in Northern Minnesota.
He got up and went to the cabinet where the old tacklebox resided along
with the Ultralight. For some men, Spring means the rising of the sap
and the stimulation of certain perfumes heady on the air, the rumble of
racoons and the bumble of bees. For others of serious mein, it means fishing.
Some
get married. Others go fishing. 'Twas ever thus.
Some get married. Others go fishing. Twas ever thus. Fishing is god's
way of granting peace and tranquility to the bachelor. After all, the
Editor thought to himself. All you need is a jerk at both ends of the
line.
It was approaching the hour of midnight when Wootie finally caught up
with Eugenia, his runaway moose. He found her sitting in the center of
a circle of a bunch of women holding candles at Crab Cove. It was Toni's
Wiccan coven, which had been holding a Spring Goddess fertility rite down
there as usual this time of year. Well, it is California after all, and
we do have some allowances here. Perhaps they have Wiccans in St. Paul,
but if so we have not heard of any.
In any case, there they were all calling on the Goddess for a sign amid
these parlous times of Great Recession and rampant Tea Party shenanigans
when Eugenia strolled in there among them. So they hung a wreath about
her neck and gave her some apples and she seemed content enough when Wootie
got there, and so he paused for there under the glimmering wrack of storm-rent
clouds letting through splinters of moonlight the circle of women glowed
in their pale white gowns with their candles and the animal stood there
all garlanded under the mysterious California heavens. For it had come
to Spring when miracles abound.
From far across the way, the long howl of the the throughpassing train
ululated across the waves of the estuary and the miraculous wildflowers
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.
MAY 8, 2011
BABY PIN A ROSE ON ME
Nothing says "It's May!" quite like a profusion of roses. This
week we got a shot of the iron gate in front of the Julia Morgan house
on St. Charles across the street from Mastic Senior Center.
This house typically presents an extraordinary display of large-headed
blooms each year.
PANCHO AND LEFTY
We were going to push this item down to the international news section,
but we are just tickled pink, absolutely tickled.
Long time readers may know that early in 2001 a nefarious terrierist
highjacked City Hall with the intention of crashing the landmark building
into Jack London Square. His evil designs were thwarted but he and his
band, El Qibble, went on the run, which led to Eugene Shrubb commandeering
an army of bums to invade Newark, ostensibly in search of Weapons of Mass
Doo-Doo.
This resulted in widespread chaos, liquor barn raids, desolation and
tragic loss as well as much nervous jumping up and down as people learned
to their dismay that no one cares about Newark, including the people who
live there.
Clearly this Osama bin Lassie needed to be caught and punished. As a
public service we printed a photo of the terrierist as well as a list
of suggested rewards, and offered to administer a grand mud wrassle match
between Osama and George "Pretzle Throat" Bush, who prepared
for the match by riding his bicycle many times between handout sessions
where he gave pots of money to his father's friends.
Now, we learn to great joy the dastardly doggie has been found and exterminated
by the Navy Spiel Team, a special forces team composed of well-endowed
female sailors who also comprise the Navy vollyball team.
So here you go, the last iteration of Osama bin Lassie. Look into those
savage, fierce eyes of cold command ye tyrants and despair!
THE DAY BEGINS LIKE ANY OTHER
This weekend the first of area street festivals kicked off here while
various Cinco de Mayo celebrations went on in Babylon across the water
and Oaktown's Fruitvale district.
We might not have exotic Aztec dancers but we do have the Kiwanis and
the Elks at the annual Spring Fling.
The fest hosted only one single stage for music, which was a disappointment,
but the quality remained high for both days.
The Metropolitans finished up Sunday with a bracing set of Earth, Wind
and Fire and danceable soul, always a welcome spirit to liven up a potentially
pallid downtown here.
In truth, a casual walkthrough revealed a more representative range of
faces and languages reflective of the people who live here than usually
turn out for these things.
There was the Petting zoo, the bicycle parking area, face-painting, loads
of tchotchkes booths and at least two lunatic xian fundamentalists cheerfully
handing out literature and condemning people to hell in good humor under
the sunny skies.
At the end of the day, a fine time was had by all.
LIKE THE WEATHER
The hot spell gave way to cloudy skies with the gulls flying inland,
indicating storm at sea, but the showers forcast for the weekend never
arrived. Instead we had a week of pleasantly cool temps hovering in the
mid fifties at night. The weekend kicked of with some unearthly winds
that whipped through here and left the tents and awnings on Park Street
billowing for the two days, however not much happened other than that.
We are looking at a gradually warming trend, with the necessary modifications
caused by an El Nina condition Out There. The conditions created during
the December period are called El Nino, on behalf of that feller who got
nailed later on in life, but this atmospheric setup is called El Nina,
perhaps by meteorologists who just like yank our chains. Or so it seems
at times. Puckish lot, those meteorologists.
So we have nothing good for you folks east of here, sorry to say. Montana
can see about two feet of snow in a late season storm in a day or so.
We are sure they can handle that, but this translates to severe weather
in the Midwest. Not a good thing right now, given the state of the Mississippi
River. We imagine the American Southeast is not going to enjoy this much
either after those tornadoes.
You did know that the scientists have been trying to tell us for some
time that the term "Global Warming" is an incorrect form of
legalese, don't you? Global climate change is more accurate.
THIS ISLAND LIFE
Russo takes City Manager Post. The Sun headline says it all. Russo leaves
Oaktown, where he clashed with the incoming Mayor Quan from the start.
He comes to a position in a city government which favors the City Manager
over the Mayor, which ought to please the fellow. He also comes with some
sharp legal chops as well as other abilities, which are desperately needed
right now.
Got a heads up a few weeks ago that Frank Bette was facing financial
trouble due to the hard times hitting everywhere here, and we finally
got a public acknowledgement of that when we heard the Executive Director
had been laid off in October, continuing to work as an unpaid volunteer.
Rather good of Debra Owen to do that as a service. The books show the
center remains in the black, however at the cost of cancelling its Plein
Air paintout.
The Island has seen quite a bloodletting of arts efforts recently due
to the Great Recession, including the closure of the Civic Light Opera
and Autobody Fine Arts. Now we are hearing ProArts didn't incorporate
our own groups in the catalog for its annual East Bay Open Studios, though
last minute efforts by individuals may result in an insert in the program.
Paul's Newstand looks smarter and more polished these days after Jack
Lubeck and Richard Davis painted up the old lady with help from Island
Museum director Robbie Dileo. The stand was built in 1939 after a local
boy named Joe Roschitsch died of heat prostration. "Newsboy Joe",
an emigre from Austria, had been selling papers on the corner since the
late 1800's. 1939 was a banner year for news for obvious reasons, so funds
were got together to house a wheelchair-bound Paul Manning, who occupied
the shack until his death in 1939. Family kept up the stand until the
1980's, when Larry Trippy took it over and sold papers from there until
he died last year. It was nearly demolished in 2006 by the neighboring
business.
The tradition persists of leaving papers out with a donation cup relying
on the honesty of citizens when no one is sitting in the shack itself.
As far as we can tell no one has ever stolen money from the jar, or taken
a paper without paying, in all the years of the kiosk's existence.
Both underwater tubes will be closing during the late evening hours (10pm
- 4am) for maintenance to the 1920's vintage structures.
The Fruitvale bridge, built in 1894, and significantly rebuilt in 1970-1972
by the Army Corps of Engineers, will be closing periodically for repairs
to its worm-eaten piling supports from October to March of -- get this
-- 2012. OOO, that hurts.
Because of the foolish choice to employ metal grid surfaces
on other bridges -- never a good idea over bodies of water prone to condensation
like fog -- the Fruitvale bridge is the only safe avenue of egress and
entrance for many kinds of vehicles, including motorcycles.
NEW TIMES! NEW TIMES! NEW NEW NEW NEW TIMES!
Wussup with the SF Bleakly lately? Ever since they lost their unfair
competition lawsuit with the SF Curmudgeon their editorial slant has been
nastly, snarly and rabidly anti-SF to the degree we wonder if a bunch
of cowboys wearing boots encrusted with West Texas dung have taken over
the editorial offices there. They sure do not seem to like, appreciate,
or even tolerate anything vaguely San Francisco, which begs the question,
why the f---k are these folks in town anywho? They don't like the politics,
they don't like the mayor, they don't like even our flaky festivals and
they sure do not like anything smelling remotely of liberal intent. Well,
we could write exposes about things going on in Dallas and Houston too,
but c'mon. We live here in California, which is a very different Republic,
guys.
Regarding the whole idiotic dispute about guns on campus at BHS, we have
this to say: your freedom to carry stops at the door. No guns on campus.
Period. You do not have the right to carry a pistol to algebra and if
you don't like it, f---k you, dumb s--t; you think you seriously are going
to resolve differences in the cafeteria with a gun battle? Go to hell.
As someone who has personally faced down a .45 handgun in the highschool
hallways, we have strong opinions and we do not effing apologise for it.
No guns in the schools.
Continuing our ranting theme, how many of you noticed KFOG has gone as
stupid and bland as Velveeta Sunday nights. Something like a decent acoustic
sunset gives way to several hours of some moron babbling hyperpole over
stuff that is worthy of contention for the Eurovision Song Contest.
This is not a complement. The Eurovision Song Contest is a dreckfestival
that reputable bands flee like roaches when the light turns on in the
kitchen.
Where did they get such a fatuous imbecile with an accent to blather
on so about the innocuous? This is the replacement for Mike Powers? OMG!
The stuff he picks all sounds the same and hardly represents the talented
unheard thousands of indie songs that Paste magazine seems to have no
trouble finding at all. If he just played the monthly Cd from Paste, the
guy would have no trouble at all, so long as he put a kibosh on the bombast
he ladles out.
KFOG, what is wrong with you?
HAPPY BIRTHDAY!
Today we wish a happy birthday to Grace Keillor, age 96 by report, although
she sure seems to look not a day over 78.
Hey, its radio, where anything is possible.
Grace, we hope you a happy day and many more besides. Your chief credit
is your son, who although he unfortunately chose to be an English major,
shows some promise. We heard through the grapevine that Larsen's Garage
in downtown Minneapolis may offer him a real job, which is always something
important to an English major, so there is some hope yet. In the meantime
he has garnered a fair amount of affection from various folks by means
of his radio hobbies, and we think that this affection is well earned.
So even if he never became a doctor or anything of significance, we would
tell you that you really didn't do too bad with the boy, as he has turned
out rather well. Being well-loved in America is an attribute we find much
undervalued, so congratulations!
As a suggestion, don't eat the icing on the cake, as it is not good for
you.
FOR THE ROSES
Its been unsettled on the Island this week, with Blakean skies, muscular
with gods and chirascuro portents. Strange winds have led to unsettled
nights of uneasy dreams. Far away black helicopters dropped down a sort
of solution to a sort of problem maniac that had been bothering many,
but at the end of the day we are left even more unsettled as to how this
all came to be.
If it comes to torture getting information to where this old sod happened
to land, then it would have been better to let him rot there quietly as
every courier letter was intercepted, decoded and neutralized. For what
does it mean that no one of integrity anywhere will any longer voluntarily
provide the information because the cause is right and just? Supposedly
the head of a vast organization and not one member, not one associate,
not one connected in the remotest way was willing to change heart and
do the right thing. This says more about us than about them. For what
have we made of ourselves that we are become so unworthy?
Nevertheless, the Island is a small place in the scheme of things. Today
was Mother's Day. Some might say that this sort of things ranks a bit
above politics of any kind.
And since this was Mother's Day the Island convulsed through its usual
traditions. Some say we are just full of that Tradition, but nevermind.
The girls living in Marlene and Andre's Household all took out their
mothers to Mama's Royal Cafe in Oaktown. Suan, whose mother has gone AWOL
chipped in as did Marsha and Tipitina. The gang wound up heading back
to the Island where they all got drunk on tequila shots at the Lucky 13,
which has become a favorite hangout for those with still some bucks to
spend.
Bear and Susan took Bear's mother out to brunch at Skates by the Bay
and Mrs. Bear got tipsy on orange juice mixed with champagne so Susan
had to drive her back to her home in the Palo Alto trailor park using
the pickup. They bundled the woman into the flatbed and she sang Woodie
Guthrie songs all the way down.
She
had been sent to Napa with a diagnosis of schizophrenia with Manic
Bipolar syndrome some time ago. . .
Denby drove up for the dreaded meeting with his mother at Napa State,
where she was more lucid than usual. She had been sent to Napa with a
diagnosis of schizophrenia with Manic Bipolar syndrome some time ago and
was not often on the same page with other folks around her because of
the medication. She had found as a friend a woman there whose daughter
had become a Buddhist monk and she thought that maybe something could
be worked out.
"She sounds like a nice girl." Ms. Montana said. "Look
her up. Easy to find."
"Sure mom." Denby said.
"Namaste. Ubi dooby doo. Renkee, um, something. Sang hee oh ahh
or whatever. Its easy. You will get it. Her father was a doctor. They
are good people."
"Sure mom."
Meanwhile Adam was talking with the monk named Sally. Adam had been shunted
to the Island Buddhist temple after falling among the household after
he had been shoved out of a moving car a few months ago. Marlene had enrolled
the boy in Wood Middle School but had felt the undisciplined household
was not healthy for the kid during the long idle summer, so she had sent
him over to the temple there on Santa Clara.
Sally asked about Adam's mother, who, it turned out, had died doing smack
shortly after his birth on the 'Ave. His father had never been known to
him and probably not to his mother and it had been the stepfather who
had shoved him out of the car door on Otis Drive that night.
As for Sally's mother, well, she was incarcerated at Napa State and she
did not want to talk about that.
"Do you want to go on a little trip? See something different?"
Sally said.
"Long as I don't hafta get up outta bed when its still dark,"
Adam said.
"Well I can' promise that." Sally said. "But it definitely
will be different."
Sure enough, before the sun rose a number of the monks piled into a rented
bus that drove over the bridge and headed south. The bus followed highway
for a number of miles before heading up into hills clad with green pines
while the monks sang songs and clapped their hands. This was a real joyride,
at least as far as monks went.
Adam had only a little trouble with waking before dawn at the monestary
and with manually cleaning the floors before breakfast and with the odd
rituals he now found oddly comforting at mealtime. Sally said his life
had begun hard and so hard was the way until it became easy from there
on out. He had been born of fire and therefore nothing would come easy.
That was simply the way it was.
After a while the landscape began to change. The green gave way to charred
stumps and blasted earth. When they turned up a road it looked like the
entire world had been laid waste by an atomic bomb. Everything in sight
for miles was burnt, withered, dessicated. All the trees had been blasted
clean of leaves, leaving black tree bones jabbing at the bone white sky.
What kind of place were they going to? It looked like some kind of hell.
Adam grabbed hold of Sally's hand. He was afraid. "Don't worry,"
she said. "I will be nearby."
In the midst of this forsaken wilderness of stones and ash they arrived
at the gates of a place with buildings and a few green plants and some
water. A creek ran by with some remaining sedge growing along the edges.
"She
is a firemonk. She will explain."
A bald woman stood there waiting. "This is Mako." Sally said.
"She is a firemonk. She will explain." And with that his protector
walked off and disappeared.
"Hello," Mako said with a friendly voice. "You are Adam.
I have heard about you."
"Yeah, well I aint no fool so don't mess with me." Adam said.
Mako pursed her lips. "I expect so. Come along with me."
They walked up a path past a place where a huge satellite dish had crashed
down. Everywhere he looked he saw the signs of destruction and some terrible
disaster.
Up the slope of shattered shale rock and burnt carbon limbs the monk
called Mako paused. "Look here." She said. All along the slope
of dry shale Adam saw small green shoots sprouting in the desolation.
"The terrible fire went though here and killed almost everything
yet life renews." Mako said.
"Man, this fire must've killed everything here!" Adam said.
"No way anything could have survived that!"
"No," Mako said. "Richard, Graham, Steven, and me survived
this storm. This is something you must learn."
"No effing way!" Adam said.
"The
firestorm came at us thirty feet high and forty miles per hour. There
was no opportunity to run. "
"I stood right down there," Mako said, pointing at a place
below where the satellite dish had collapsed. "The firestorm came
at us thirty feet high and forty miles per hour. There was no opportunity
to run. The federal fire command had pulled back from the turnoff down
the road there and none of the monks could come up the way for the road
was overrun by fire. We four were alone when the big waves of fire came
at us from all four sides. Even a pile of hoses got singed.
All that night we fought to save the only thing that had given us some
sense of center, some sense of mother in the nature of its place. The
gazebo went up fast and part of the woodshed, and the fire chewed up even
part of the front gate, but we managed to save most of it. This place
had given us life during its time and we were prepared to die without
attachments to defend her and so we stayed and met the fire as a challenge,
not as an adversary."
"So what happened? How did you survive?"
"They
told us they had expected to see only lifeless bodies."
"We had prepared the buildings with what we called "Dharma
Rain." It was pipes laid along the rooftrees so water would drip
down. And we ran like mad back and forth to quench the flames with our
hoses and shovels even as things broke apart in our hands and dissolved
in the heat as the fire came into the compound. We were lucky, for our
last plan was to get into the creek as the fire roared overhead. There
we surely would have been boiled alive like crabs, were that to have happened.
No one could get to us and there was no way to get out. Nobody knew what
had happened here until the helicopter flew over in the morning. They
told us they had expected to see only lifeless bodies."
The two of them stood on that place above the fire disaster and looked
at the burnt valley. "Adam, you need to find the place in you where
life still thrives. I cannot be your mother or anything like it. Nor Sally.
Everything is impermanent and only attentiveness will serve you."
And Adam went away from that place deep in thought.
Over the next few days Adam helped lay in water pipes and plant new greenery
around the buildings which had been a mainstay of income for the monastic
group. His body was too small to carry tools and use them effectively
but he was able to bring things here and there by means of the wheelbarrow.
Eventually, the time came to leave that place in the hills and return
to the Island.
"You
must enter the fire, but not be consumed by it."
Another thing Mako had said to him stuck with him.
"You must enter the fire, but not be consumed by it."
Late at night back on the Island, Adam lay awake in his bunk listening
to the wind in the trees outside which sound mingled with the sound of
the fountain in the courtyard. It could have been the sound of a distant
violent fire. Or peaceful Dharma rain.
From far across the way, the long howl of the the throughpassing train
ululated across the all-merciful waves of the estuary and the compassionate
wildflowers 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.
MAY 1, 2011
DID YOU SAY YOUR NAME WAS 'RAMBLIN' ROSE?'
Today is May Day, of course, and so here we provide a photo from Chad's
storehouse of botanicals. What better symbol for the triumph of Spring
and the onset of May than this rose.
PEACE AMONG US, WAR TO THE TYRANTS!
As mentioned today is famous around the world for being one dedicated
to the common laboring man.
In an attempt to preserve this spirit, our Editor made a business call
and engaged in work-related research today on behalf of a man with a most
curious name: Milton Friedman. The original fellow, or say rather the
more famous version who was also Ronnie Raygun's economics advisor, passed
away in 2006.
All across the country and in all the great cities of the world thousands
gathered in rallies in support of labor rights. Many of the US-based rallies
concerned themselves overtly with immigration policies that are resulting
in mass deportations from California all the way to New York City, however
the underlying tenor was the same here as elsewhere as per the AP wire
by Verena Dobnik:
". . .seething anger over the rising cost of living and growing
disparities between rich and poor exacerbated by the global economic
squeeze."
"At
least the minimum: fair wages, fair jobs"
from a rally sign in Berlin, May 1, 2011
There is currently no set minimum wage in Germany, and labor is pushing
hard for a minimum wage to become law.
Thousands of workers also marched in Spain, Austria, Moscow and in France,
where things got fractious in Paris where many supporters turned out in
support of Le Pen's conservative anti-immigrant policies. They also marched
in South Korea, Taiwan, Hong Kong and the Philippines.
As would be expected, they turned out in force in Cuba, where a mood
of anxiety prevails as Fidel Castro's son prepares to roll back many of
the Socialist programs there. Ironically, many of those programs would
be regarded by our own Neo-Cons as welfare entitlements.
In many US states the rallies became the incipient omen of a groundswell
of dissatisfaction with the overreaching of conservative governors and
reactionary legislation.
"In
the labor movement we have a saying, 'Don't Mourn Organize!'"
Ben Speight, director of Teamsters Local 728, Atlanta, Ga.
Island-Life: we read the local news in six languages around the globe
so you don't have to.
VUELTA
In our review of the local weeklies, we never fail to omit Gustavo Arellano's
column"Ask a Mexican". After all, we are sure nobody wants to
look like a gabacho sucios when somebody says they are going to
la casa de correos. Tambien, its very important always to know
where to find los neccessitas of course, for one's one comfort at least.
Besides, ever since our in-house staffer Jose got us to read North
from Mexico, we have felt some serious dolors about those zoot
suit riots as well as other injusticias.
With interest we read that the LA Time reporter who broke open the corruption
scandal concerning the SoCal city of Bell where the entire council plus
a few more municipal officials were sent to prison for stuff that made
Tammany Hall look like schoolyard antics, began life in the US as an illegal.
Yep, Ruben Vives was born in Guatemala and brought here at age seven,
which resulted in the man clawing his way through the bureaucratic labyrinth
to become a citizen, and a very productive contributor to American society
at that.
"What
a glorious toma guey to those who say Latinos bring the corruption
of their homelands to the United States . . .".
Gustavo Arellano
Indeed.
THIS ISLAND LIFE
We have notice of two positions filled. One actually, with the other
pretty much a done deal. Most folks probably know by now that Oakland
City Attorney John Russo has accepted an offer to become the next city
manager of the Island, where the City Council will consider his proposed
contract Tuesday during a closed session.
We know, open government and transparency and stuff, but this is an HR
thing, so its all proper. All signs are that the Council will approve
this one as a no-brainer.
In the other important position of Food Bank executive director, we have
11 year resident Hank Leeper, a retired Coast Guard officer with extensive
management and operations experience, both in the military and private
industry.
Leeper fills a position left vacant by the former executive director,
Paul Russell, who left the food bank after six years to serve a nonprofit
organization on the Peninsula.
Leeper joins the food bank, which currently operates with only one other
paid staff member but over 100 volunteers, at the height of the Great
Recession, which has savaged the local economy and swelled the numbers
of Food Bank clients to over 5,000 Islanders.
A recent visit to the warehouse at the Point revealed a list of more
than 200 people picking up food for themselves and as many families with
children. The nonprofit agency operates six days a week all year round
and has been in operation since 1977, serving Islanders in need.
Maybe they though the heat was on, or maybe the idea of a significantly
warmer hereafter tugged on somebody's conscience, but all of the deceased
Mr. Hockabout got returned by someone to the Church from which he was
stolen during his own memorial service.
One
minute you're ready to start a memorial service, and the next minute
the rector's saying, 'Where is he?'
Sean Hockabout, son, of Elkins Park, Pa.
On March 5th a thief walked into the Christ Episcopal Church on Santa
Clara Avenue and walked out with the backpack containing the two sets
of cremated remains while clergy members discussed the funeral with the
family members.
Four days later, an Oakland man said he found one set of remains on 29th
Avenue in Oakland. Those remains were returned to the family. Last Friday,
the second box was found under some ivy near the front entrance to the
church. Significant media exposure was given to the unusual crime which
probably helped in the recovery.
Police say the thief probably thought the backpack contained something
valuable like a laptop, and did not check inside until well away from
the scene. In any case. Mr. Hockabout is back and will likely be remembered
for some time, not only by friends and family.
Speaking of crimes, one of our staffers witnessed an event at the CVS
in Mariner Square this week. While standing at the checkout, our man witnessed
the cashier turn around and bolt to the back after someone said something
to the clerk. The clerk stood talking to a man standing behind the gate
of the photo and key area, which is enclosed by a waist-high fence and
counters. Suddenly the man there grabbed the clerk and began wrestling
with him, provoking people to call for the manager who showed up to call
Security.
The man behind the gate -- we can now safely call him a shoplifter --
broke free scattering stolen cigarette boxes and other items on the floor
from a plastic garbage bag he had been holding and stood for a while just
shy of the exit protesting his innocence and that he had never touched
"that bag". Meaning the bag he had been holding full of stolen
merchandise. Eventually, he walked out.
The guy was
a very cool, very calculated scumbag and he knew exactly what he was
doing; exactly the kind of person you do not want to mess with.
The man was Black male, approximately 25-28 in age, medium dark complexion,
clean shaven with short, well-cared for hair, naturalled, oval face and
wearing a diamond stud earring. He wore a black mid-length, parka-style
coat with the letters AKA on the sleeve. He wore light blue baggy jeans
and white athletic shoes.
In talking with the Manager we learned that getting physical in situations
like this is the wrong thing to do, as he had willingly dropped the merchandise,
so was no longer guilty of theft. In fact his loitering before exiting
the store almost certainly was calculated to prod someone to block his
exit, at which time he would claim assault which would result in subsequent
lawsuit and/or criminal charges, against both the merchant and the person
getting involved, if that person happens to be you. The guy was a very
cool, very calculated scumbag and he knew exactly what he was doing; exactly
the kind of person you do not want to mess with.
I AM A COURIER
It's been cool on the Island, a coolness that culminated in quite a window-rattler
of a dry wind that shook things up proper during the early hours of Saturday
morning. Sunday opened out with bright sun and a promise of a heat wave
coming this way. This ought to be good news to folks East of the Sierra
where they are handling flood-swollen rivers and straining levees. Old
timers are saying it may turn out to be a wet summer, so just enjoy the
respite for now.
Spring has busted out all over, and not even the voracious slugs and
snails can stop Her Highness now. Peas started late and the pole beans
are pallid, lowly creatures for now. We shall see what the week shall
bring.
Father Danyluk has had a bad week which ended worse. First this woman
showed up with a child -- it was Marlene towing Adam and trying to get
the boy into what she imagined was a private boarding school at the Church
of Our Lady of Incessant Complaint. Marlene had come to realize that living
in a tumultuous household featuring a stripper, several itinerant musicians,
a homeless bum who slept on the porch, and any number of perverted misfits
probably was not a positive influence. He had to tell her that the place
was not really a boarding school or a seminary and there were no bunks
for boys.
Adam chipped in with a comment that he had heard all the priests liked
little boys and Fr. Danyluk then had to explain with a sigh that this
was not like other places and they were all well behaved here. He also
explained that the school was not free and what kind of tuition was it
that they could afford.
Well, Marlene had not thought about that. She had imagined the place
was run sort of like a religious agency for poor folks like herself, and
then Father Danyluk had to explain that he could provide religious instruction
well enough and turn the boy into a proper Jesuit by means of Sunday classes,
but as for the school part, well that was not free. That was not how it
worked here.
So Marlene went away from there to the Buddhist temple and worked out
something there with Cindy, a very nice Buddhist nun, even though she
had no hair.
Ordinarily the Easter time was a good one for Father Danyluk, for Easter
time is one of the few times Catholics get to demonstrate and enjoy some
pleasure in life, but of course not too much. All in moderation. It was
not good to get too attached to worldly things you know.
Then there was Pedro Almeida who he was sure was listening
to the Pastor with the Red Shoes on the Radio again. He had been far too
happy lately, even to the extent of humming bluegrass tunes. Mrs. Almeida
had told him that her husband was expecting a CD he had gotten titled
"Mouthsounds: How to Imitate an Atomic Toilet and the Sound of a
Pterodactyl Devouring an Hot Air Balloon Carrying a Load of Chickens in
a Thunderstorm."
These sounds
did not seem proper for a good Catholic to be thinking about.
These sounds did not seem proper for a good Catholic to be thinking about.
Then, to cap it off, who should show up but Jesus Contreras complaining
about this dream he had last weekend. He had dreamed that the apostles
had mistaken him for the original Jesus and they were all having a party
during his crucifixion. Jesus had never come into the church before this,
which had prompted Father Danyluk to quip, "I never thought I'd live
to experience the day I see Jesus come into my church with trepidation."
Finally, he had gotten into serious hot water with the archbishop. Yes,
Bishop Mitty was in a wax, even though none of the affair had been his
idea.
Mario, his old schoolmate from Poly High, had called him up with an earnest
plea for an audience with the Bishop on a matter of grave importance to
the Basilica. It was not until later he had found out that Mario had gone
first to Pastor Nyquist, and the idea that Mario had approached the Lutherans
first really rankled.
Basically, Mario had gotten hold of what he felt was a very valuable
ikon, a serious holy relic, and he had tried to sell the thing to the
Pastor, who had to tell him, first of all, Lutherans were pretty much
all about doing away with all that stuff which basically just got in the
way. He advised him to avoid the Methodists as well. Ikons and things
like that were right up the Catholic alley.
So it was Easter week and the Bishop happened to be in a rare good mood
so he had agreed to meet with the man and view this holy relic.
So the three of them and Sister Beatrice met in the Confusorium of the
Basilica and Mario pulls out this box that was all ornate shining silver
-- very baroque-looking -- and encrusted with any amount of fake jewels.
No wonder Nyquist had turned this thing down; it was positively ugly.
"You
say this is an holy relic," said the Bishop.
"You say this is an holy relic," said the Bishop.
"You betcha", Mario said. "Pope Paul hisself."
Bishop Mitty and Father Danyluk looked at one another.
"You know, Mario, that Pope Paul is being canonized this very week.
This is serious."
Mario clapped his hands. "Exactly! I got in on this relic on the
ground floor. While he was still just a dude!"
"A dude." The bishop said flatly.
"Oh yeah! A pretty holy dude, I gotta admit, but not like a saint
or a demigod or nothin' like that. Reason I am sellin so cheap. Cause
ya know I am," here Mario put his hand over his heart and looked
to the ceiling. "I am deeply, deeply, uh, sanctified and all."
"How can you have a relic of Pope Paul?" Father Danyluk asked.
"He was entombed in front of millions of people!"
"Ahhhhhh!" Mario said and clapped his hands again. "Cause
I found Sister Grimace."
"Sister Grimace?" said both the priest and the bishop.
"Yeah!" said Mario, and here he opened the little box with
a flourish. "Sister Grimace, Officiale Custode della Toletta di Vatican
Più Santa!"
The priest and the bishop peered into the red velvet-lined box wherein
resided a greyish, desiccated mass.
Sister Beatrice gasped.
.
. . a sample of the actual . . . Papal Poop!
"The Keeper of the Vatican Watercloset has given me a sample of
the actual final Papal Poop!" Mario shouted happily. "It was
on my last visit to my mother's old village, Villaggio Polloalimenta,
I stopped by in Roma."
Mitty slammed the box closed and shoved it at Mario. "THE TWO OF
YOU GET OUT OF HERE! IMMEDIATELY!" With that, the archbishop stormed
out, his robes flapping angrily behind him.
"What's wrong!" Mario said, sounding quite hurt. "Dontcha
want the relic?"
"Mario, you have been an idiot for as long as I have known you."
Father Danyluk said. "Take your poop with you. I am going back to
the rectory."
"Hey, you're a priest! You aint supposed to talk to me like that!
You're supposed to be meek and mild and stuff!"
"Eff off, Mario!" Father Danyluk said coarsely.
"Father Danyluk!" Sister Beatrice said. "Do not curse
in the Basilica!"
It would be a long time before Danyluk would live this one down with
the archbishop. When Father Danyluk got back the first thing he did was
break open the oak armoire and pour himself a stiff one over ice. He was
not what they call a "whiskey priest" but the day had been especially
trying.
So there he was when Sister Cicatrice came around the corner and saw
him with a bottle of scotch in one hand and a glass in the other.
"Oh dear, dear, dear," the Sister said. "Its gotten as
bad as all that. I shall call the Bishop now to have a word with you,
if I may."
"I think," Father Danyluk said with patience that surprised
even himself. "That would be a really bad idea right now. . . ".
It's Spring and the roses were rioting all over, pretty much the way
roses do, tossing their heads and showily calling attention to themselves
the way some women will flamboyantly toss their skirts as if daring you
to see something exciting and really mysterious and fun.
The wild turkeys near Franklin Park have been striding about, going to
the ATM, rummaging in the grass and crossing the street back and forth.
The squirrels are out and about, digging for landmines and placing explosives
that likely will annihilate the cat if he is not careful. All the terriers
and sausage dogs have emerged to take their humans for walks, keeping
the species about two or three steps behind them as is customary.
Spring
is not a time for seriousness.
Spring is not a time for seriousness. No one has ever completed a colossal
project in early May -- such earnestness is better put off until June.
In the Old Same Place Bar, Suzie pours shots of Chamucos tequila, which
is a reposado of course. But you knew that already. The bartender at the
Lucky 13 named Rosemarie turned Padraic onto the stuff and so the OSPB
has ordered cases of the stuff from Mexico. It goes down well and makes
you glow like a little teacandle inside, and gets you a little lively,
much like Spring itself. When Denby gets a snootful, he forgets that his
life is a miserable train-wreck headed for the gorge of disaster and that
he lives in a Lunatic Asylum. He begins to believe that Life is actually
interesting. And that the woman with red hair sitting over there is also
quite interesting. As well as that elvish-looking gal over on the other
side; she has a nice voice. Both of them do. Everybody was sooooooooo
innnnnnnteresting . . . .
The handmade blown-glass bottle of the Chamucos features a label sporting
a rather pleasant and happy demon. When Spring arrives, a little deviltry
is good for you. Just a little wickedness.
Suzie watches the hookups, the matches, the clinking glasses and the
paired departures impelled by the Chamucos all night until the big Western
sky has melded from its molten copper to deep blues floating with the
cold slag of clouds until it all drains out to the pitch black kettle
of night and fog. She settles in behind the bar on her stool and the dim
light of the backbar to open her textbook while the remaining regulars
finish up their drinks with low murmurs among themselves and the radio
quietly plays an Audioslave song..
Be yourself is all that you can do . . .
Suzie leafs to the section she has been reading for a while. "The
Bonobo appear to have found that perfect mix of joy and community among
themselves. Each community member seeks to make each member they happen
to meet by chance in the forest as happy as possible. Family and place
of birth matter nothing. It matters only that one has found another Bonobo
and the joy each finds in each in that moment. The Bonobo are unusual
in that they have no permanent anxieties, no hang-ups. Because they live
in the here and now, there is for the Bonobo, no Heaven, no Hell. So it
is, the Bonobo are the happiest of all the communities we have studied
thus far. . .".
A quiet snore eminated from where Denby snoozed with his head in his
arms. Dawn went over and snuffed out the candle. "I'll call a cab,"
she said to Padraic.
From far across the way, the long howl of the the throughpassing train
ululated across the chuckling waves of the estuary and the joyous wildflowers
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.
APRIL 24, 2011
WINTER'S JUST THE CURTAIN / SPRING WILL TAKE THE BOW
This week's headline photo comes from the corner of the block where Island-Life
staffer Denby rents a spare room in the St. Charles Lunatic Asylum behind
Pagano's Hardware. Nothing says Spring quite like a jig by Richard Shindell
and wildly blooming poppies backdropped by lasciviously flowering lavendar.
After the long bone-white agony of the dead time and every loss suffered
before and since, green spikes fire up from the earth like the dragon's
teeth sown by a Greek demi-god and life returns. So what if the shelf
is bare save for the black widowband and the landlord and the lean solicitor
nag for their unreasonable fees; the days grow longer and there is the
momentary gift of a box of rain.
Spring, by Richard Shindell
from Somewhere Near Paterson
The day will begin like any other
Another sunrise in the east
It will reach across and touch you like a lover
It will tease you from a dream
And opening your eyes you will surrender
To the light that fills the room
And the hope that you have carried since September
You will offer up to June
(Chor.) Maybe will be certain
You can take it as a vow
Winter's just the curtain
Spring will take the bow
Looking out your window you will wonder
At the blooming in your yard
And evry opening flower will be a mirror
Of the quickening in your heart
(chorus)
The day will begin like any other
Another sunrise in the east
It will reach across and touch you like a lover
It will tease you from a dream
You wont remember
ALWAYS WONDERED WHO I'D BRING TO A DESERTED ISLAND
As the Island Gerbil and the Island Pun both indicated
in front page headlines, our popularly litigation-targeted City now enjoys
a lawsuit from our former Fire Chief, Dave Kepler, who demonstrated his
erstwhile civic pride by suing for a cool $2 million, claiming wrongful
termination as a result of his use of City gas pumps. Well, okay mistakes
can happen and maybe it was a bit too much of an official claiming official
privilege and maybe the response was a bit harsh and ill-timed -- the
guy was canned a week before vesture of benefits -- but, dude, really.
Suing your former employer aint gonna help you get a new job.
This leaves the former city manager and city attorney with their own
law suits, one of which might be tabled due to a technical consideration
regarding the Council accepting a proffered letter of resignation from
Teresa Highsmith. Obviously, if you resign, you cannot sue for wrongful
termination.
Which leaves the adorable puppy SunCal there with its several lawsuits,
probably with the folks there realizing there is no way in hell they will
ever get another development contract of any significance. Not with their
track record, no sirree. One of these days a bunch of Bear Flagger types
are going to march down to the SunCal offices and torch the place like
they did in The Thing, and so put a final end to that monster. Afterwards
everyone will have a party.
Crying poormouth, PiGGiE and AMP both have increased their utility charges
a notch for all of us here. PiGGiE is pissed because they got thwarted
with plans to screw up the badly battered Mokolume River with another
damn dam, while its cherished Hetch Hetchy is likely to be demolished
-- something which should have happened before the project ever got started.
They are just chunking the expected hissy fit. As for the Island-based
AMP, electricity costs will rise for everybody throughout the Golden State
and they are just keeping pace with the costs of upgrading the existing
infrastructure. Expect a 3.85% increase in your bill July 1.
Our response to Ron Cowan's recent proposal to swap 12 acres for the
Chuck Corica Golf Course -- how about just making BOTH sites golf courses,
huh? Why pack 100 more homes in here where we already got enough of them
damn fool bipeds running around, many of them with far more money than
sense. With two courses, we could stand to become world players in the
PGA circuit. Toss in a fake castle with swans in a moat and we would have
Scotland beat hands down. Our weather is hella better for sure. Just tear
down that old Islander Motel and turn it into a resort spa with a few
rooms held for homeless residential units and such and run shuttles out
to the clubhouse. There's gold in them little balls being wacked around.
Think about it.
DEATH DON'T HAVE NO MERCY ON THIS ISLAND
The statistics will not let us go. First murder of the year on the Island
took place at the West End Summer Apartments Wednesday. Police are still
investigating, so there are few items to report other than an Oakland
resident, male, was found shot to death in the complex located in the
500 block of Buena Vista Avenue. A local resident stated that this was
usually a "safe neighborhood".
MUSIC, MUSIC, MUSIC!
Signs of life are appearing on the horizon. Daniel Castro (no relation
to Dave Castro) rocked the Hard Rock Cafe on Santa Clara here.
Wavy Gravy celebrates his 75 birthday in usual style with a benefit for
the Seva Foundation here at the Craneway Pavilion under the toxic clouds
of gritty Richmond. The usual suspects, Mickey Hart and Bob Weir will
noodle through a few Grateful Dead things along with a long list of luminaries.
Buried in the lineup whom did we notice but Pete Sears, he of the Jefferson
Airplane.
The High Street Saloon may have put the kibosh on comedy, but life continues
apace there with various local acts as well as open mike on Thursdays.
Check out HIGHSTREETSTATIONCAFE.COM
for details.
Lavay Smith came over to the Warmer Side of the Bay to teach a few swing
lessons at Ashkenaz. Interesting to note we are now pulling sophisticated
folks like that now from the Big Silly over there. Maybe the $$$$ has
gotten too !!!! for life to proceed comfortably, if at all over there
and now folks are noticing . . . .
KT Tunstall is doing her solo tour gig at the GAMH on May 8, indicating
that all is not lost in Babylon.
LIVE 105 will hold its annual BFD at the Shoreline on June 5, with Linkin
Park and Snoop dogg holding forth with the Strokes.
The Fillmore looks surpisingly bland through the Spring, with June 23rd
being the sole highlight we care to mention in the form of Jorma Kaukonen
and Dave Bromberg, followed by the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band along with an
interesting collection of guest performers from all over the map. Soulive
and Lettuce cover the 14th of June for you younger folks there.
Nothing at the Regency is worth dealing with the gabbing Marina douchbags
in the crowd. No way we are going to spend cold cash only to hear some
boring schlub gabble about his girlfriend's tit portfolio over the music
we came to hear there.
The Warfield has Susan Tedeschi pairing with the Derek Trucks band. That
one should begin to shower sparks the longer the relationship continues,
as Tedeschi hooked up with the son of an Allman Brothers member a couple
of years ago to concoct some pretty incendiary pyrotechnics. Ah Mary.
If you are City-based, the Independent has been looking up with its steady
roll of figures who used to be the mainstay of Mike Power's alternative
music show before Powers headed to the big Lala land down south to make
better buck$. Don't see many losers there in the Spring lineup and the
prices are about ten bucks more reasonable per gig than the leading venues.
LIKE THE WEATHER
All week the skies have alternated between heavy cloud and outright rain
showers, prompting the old timers here to comment "Goin' ta be a
wet summer this time."
The outlook has a brief shower on Monday followed by some bright days
of sunshine, which ought to cheer folks east of hear. From here on out
we would expect Canadian highs to dominate the Midwest and the East. Rumors
of an unseasonable hurricane for the Southeast appear to be quelled for
now.
The Sierra looks well packed with high-moisture content snowpack, so
we are good to go for a while and should see some passes blocked well
into late June. Truckee is hovering right about freezing at night, but
climbing into the fifties during the day, so we would expect the ski season
to be largely over.
ISLAND LIFE DOES HAVE ITS CHARMS
Saturday dawned with some difficulty under heavy high fog and Sunday
opened up with opening skies of sluicing rain. Marlene and Andre celebrated
Pesach at the Household on Otis in the usual haphazard manner. A table
got laid out, actually it was the coffee table in the main room, with
the usual condiments of horseradish and walnut mush and salad from the
dollar store. Marlene had saved up her pennies and gotten a donation from
Suan to get a lamb shank from the Encinal Market, so they had the meat
and the bone at once. All the parsley was doing well, so they had the
dipping greens from the ironmongery garden out back. Occasional Quentin,
as the obvious childish one, got to ask all the questions.
Given that the household was normally chaotic, so went the Seder once
again this year as per Tradition. Islandlife Tradition.
Instead of asking the proper questions from the Haggadah, Quentin came
up with his own. "Why did god let Hitler kill all the Jews?"
Quentin asked, and naturally it was all at the wrong moment. Martini came
in then and drank up the glass of wine left out for the Prophet on the
edge of the table, which caused Andre much grief and severely put out
Marlene who put her head in her hands.
"Is anybody going to eat that egg?" Tipitina said. She had
given up on her own Catholic upbringing to attend this dinner and all
of it was confusing to her.
"Where's the damn cracker I saw around here earlier?" said
Marsha. "I wanna get into that sweet stuff there with the walnuts
and raisins."
"That's the afikomen," said Marlene. "You gotta go find
it now. Its hidden. What are you doing with the effing prophet's wine
you dimshit!" This last part was screamed at the hapless Martini.
"Because there is no god and he hated the Jews," shouted Andre
at Quentin. "Now read the questions we gave you on the list!"
"How can I find any damn thing in this effing s***hole of a place!
Its an effing s***storm here!" Marsha said. She was a woman with
a tongue on her, so to speak.
"Gimmee some more of that wine," Snuffles said, for the bum
had also been invited in as the token foreigner, or maybe the prophet,
although there was a lot of doubt about that last part.
The new kid, Adam, also was there. "Yo dude. Don't bogart that bottle
man!"
"Why are we doing all this crap," Quentin asked. "Why
is this night different from any other." Adam was younger in physical
age but all agreed that Quentin was much more childlike, so to him were
given the questions.
"There you go," said Andre approvingly. "You finally got
it right. We basically doing this to commemorate our delivery from slavery."
"I dunno about that. We be free? I think we be pretty effed up."
Adam said.
"Dude," said Arthur, who had returned from far off Minnesotta
and his failed attempt to hook up with a gospel singer there. "You
don't know nothing about slavery. Lemmee tell you about my man Malcolm
X . . .".
"Adam, I am watching you on the alcohol, buddy! You gotta go to
school Monday!" Andre said. "I mean it!"
"Yuck! This stuff is bitter!" Adam had a mouthful of green
silage from the circular plate in the center and he spat the mess into
a napkin.
Adam got shut off from the wine and after that things went a bit smoother.
And Marsha told her story of escaping across the wide country from the
servitude of Jersey, her beating and her shame and her battle with the
booze and so it was learned that each of us had been slaves in some form,
either in Egypt or some other place and had crossed the vast ocean on
dry feet and soaked straw and clay bricks with the hot salt of tears and
sweat. All knew exile and wandering and the pain thereof.
The matzo bread was found by Adam under Andre's shirt and so the proscribed
was allowed now and with each glass of wine the far off hills began to
skip like rams and old stories were told and so, although it was not a
perfect Tradition, it was a Tradition of that household, this year in
fear and shame, next year in virtue and justice.
While Jose had gone off to get properly drunk during the weekend, so
as to escape all the religious fol-de-rol, and Javier was still out jousting
with his latest flame, undoubtably getting permanently injured in the
process, Jesus Contreras took advantage of Javier's absence to snag the
man's sleeping quarters in the closet after downing a pint of vodka mixed
with datura left over from when they had dealt with Cmdr. Terse, Ex-marine,
and practicing A-hole. The datura had driven Terse a bit crazy, but Jesus
had felt good enough about it, for he was a decent, moral and non-authoritarian
fellow who was also well soused with cheap vodka.
So Jesus went to bed in Javier's cubicle and had a dream which felt quite
real.
He dreamed he had been mistaken for the original Jesus and was being
dragged off to be crucified.
This was not a pleasant dream, BTW.
There he was at Golgotha and all the disciples were all there, laughing
and passing around a bottle and he was stretched out on the wood there.
Somebody placed a nail and he saw a hammer raised and he freaked out while
Peter was laughing his ass off as if it were some kind of joke.
Down came the hammer and he felt . . .nothing. They did the same thing
at his other hand and his feet and then raised up this cross from which
he hung with his knees pointing out to the side, quite unlike the pictures
and icons he had seen from early on.
"Hey! Wussup guys!" Jesus complained. "Whatchew nailing
me up here for?"
"YOu drunken dickhead," Peter said. "YOu be tied up there
with hemp. It's all a fake."
"O for crissake," said Jesus. "What's this all for?"
"Shut up and look like you be dying," Paul said. "We need
a rally martyr for the rebels against the Romans. Keep still and look
hangdog now."
Time passed and guys crucified for real started dying to either side
of him. This started to look pretty bad.
"Lord, forgive me for I am a wicked thief who set up a bogus hedge
fund and stole the retirement funds of many a widow," the man next
to him said. "I know you can forgive me."
"Eff you and go to hell." Jesus said. "You god-damned
bastard".
More time passed and he started to feel uncomfortable up there as the
light faded from the day. "Guys, how long is this going to take?
I am getting hungry and thirsty here," Jesus said.
"Dammit," Peter said. "Would you shut the eff up or you
will spoil everything!"
One of the centurions, looking bored as hell, lifted his lance and jabbed
Jesus in the side in a sort of offhand way. Shut the eff up. You bother
me.
"Ooo," said Timothy. "That's gotta hurt!"
"See," said Peter. "You be quiet, now."
Eventually the light faded entirely and the entire company on the hill
packed up their excursion lunches and all the tour guides gathered up
their charges to go.
"Hey!" said Jesus. What about me? You cannot leave me up here
on the Sabbath and all that!"
Paul looked at him with pity. "You idiot, the whole idea of crucifragem
by the Romans is to leave the poor sods up there permanently until their
rotten bones fell from the cross as a horrifying warning to everybody
else. They didn't give eff all about the effing Sabbath."
"You gonna just LEAVE ME HERE!" Jesus said in a panic voice.
"O for pete's sake," Peter said. "We'l be back later so
you can be properly resurrected and stuff for the marketing angle. Just
hang tight."
Sure enough, the guys came back a few hours later with some women, including
the foxy Mary Magdalen, and so Jesus had a raging boner as they all carried
him to the tomb.
"Hey," said Jesus. "I'm not dead yet!"
"Shut the eff up," Judas said. "You gotta be a rally icon
for the insurrection."
"Judas, I thought you were my friend,"Jesus said.
"I am your friend," Judas said. "Those effers wanted to
crucify you for real with a lot of thorns and whips and s***. You gotta
thank me, man. Now shut up and be buried properly for a while until you
can resurrect proper for the Media!"
That's when they rolled the stone across the opening leaving Jesus there
in the dark and the increasing cold. It got terrible cold in the tomb
and he began to shiver. What it they do not come back for me, Jesus thought
to himself. He began to despair about all that had happened to him. All
he had done for the apostles and the people and now here he was abandoned
in a tomb, an intended marketing tool for political ends. A glimmering
appeared around the heavy stone of the tomb and even though it had gotten
quite cold, still his friends had not come to rescue him.
That's when Jesus woke up in Javier's closet from his dream. In his tangled
nightmares and tossing and turning he had jabbed himself in the side with
one of Marsha's knitting needles and all the bedclothes had tumbled down
to the side while a cold wind now whipped through the open side window
chilling the entire apartment. He stumbled out of there and through the
tumbled heap of sleepers in the main room to the fresh clean air that
rushed along the shore.
That's where Toni, the Wiccan witch, found him as the dawn began to glimmer
on the edges of the distant hills.
"I had a terrible dream," Jesus said. "I always got the
bad end of the stick."
"It's okay," the witch said. "We all get reborn in the
end. It's all good. Is that blood on your shirt? Are you hurt?"
From far across the way, the long howl of the the throughpassing train
ululated across the sanctified waves of the estuary and the easter lilies
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.
APRIL 17, 2011
EXCELLENT BIRDS
This week's headline photo comes via a circuitous route from Marin to
the Island. This fellow is not in a preserve, a park, or a zoo. He and
his fellows roam freely around the Reagan Memorial Waste Disposal and
Recycling plant outside of San Rafael.
No kidding.
We may make free with the name of the dump, for to disparage honest garbage
with the name of the Great Confabulator hurts us grievously, but near
the entrance where haulers trucking in tons of debris each hour strut
the proudest peacocks in the world, calling out their weird ethereal screams.
Part of the recycling plant is the locally famous "Flying Tin Can"
farm, complete with pigs, peacocks, goats and chickens. Apparently, much
of the green refuse is recycled by means of the animals kept there. The
scampering pigs seemed happy enough.
Its California, where pigs recycle our dinner garbage and everyone swims
to work.
IT'S BEEN 13 YEARS AND A MILLION TEARS
Since Island-Life now enjoys, or endures, its thirteenth year publishing
52 issues a year for the past 13 years, we thought it apropos to drop
in on the lucky13's anniversary of the same number.
The usual suspects were found in midweek attendance. Many of those graybeards
recalled the old Buckhorn Tavern.
Some old acquaintances were renewed and new ones forged on the bonny
occasion of the lucky13's birthday. Needless to say, much of the Island-Life
staff offices emptied out so as to attend.
ISLAND LIFE DOES HAVE ITS CHARMS
Got this report regarding the recent visit by Polly Jean Harvey here
at the Warfield. "saw pj harvey last night in SF...unfortunately
somewhat disappointing as she did the entire new cd (which i don't like)
and the sound (tech wise) wasn't too good."
Well, wussup with the new CD, girl?
Big news recently was that a sinkhole right downtown in the middle of
Park Street held up traffic at the Webb Street intersection. As the effects
of the recent weather drain off, we have noticed sinkholes and burbling
drains all over. Hey, its an Island.
69th anniversary of the Doolittle Raid was commemorated here aboard the
USS Hornet, which is docked here at the Point as a museum. Lt. Col. Jimmy
Doolittle was born and raised here on the Island, and it was from here
that the carriers departed to execute the daring daylight bombing raid
that was meant to show that Japan was not protected by distance from retribution
for Pearl Harbor.
The fallout regarding the recent announcement of financial troubles continues
as folks take sides in the usual charming small-town manner.
A recent tour of the Northern Counties indicated that our troubles are
shared equally now by most of the Golden State now. Even the well-matriculated
hills of Marin no longer are except from business shutdowns and tightening
pursestrings. Yep, hard times are now visiting even Mill Valley.
I AM A COURIER CRAWLING IN THE DIRT
Its been both a moody and a glorious this week on the Island, our hometown
set here on the edge of the San Francisco Bay. Monday the dawn light slowly
exploded in streaks of gold and vermilion through radioactive clouds of
blue from the East, which is the direction from which normally all of
us expect only ill. Yet the day brightened into legions of hope and sunshine.
Other days pressed down with portentous chiaroscuro smudges, as if another
Great War was being waged at terrible cost somewhere in the Nation or
the World.
Denby went up to the North Counties to put his muscles and sinew to the
task of fire abatement on the scree-clad slopes and water-fed scrub there
for the weekend, so the usual entertainment got put aside in favor of
sweaty work and hacking under hot sun.
Sometimes love must take a backseat in deference to labor.
It is Spring and all the broom and brush was blooming amid wild lilacs
and exuberant irises erupting shamefully and without care amid the tangled
wildness of the hills. It was a bit shameful to go about chopping down
the vigorous efforts of Nature amid the blue blossoms, but such must be
or all will fail in terrible fire later on, leaving only the shiny poison
oak, which never seems to go away.
After the harsh rough of bay laurel left the sinuses everyone repaired
to the bar, after cleansing showers, to talk and make the usual gossip.
And all the gossip and talk that there was concerned itself about love,
for now was come the Season of Venus and the time of Eros.
In the lucky13 the story was told by the Carpenter of Wendy and Eusebio.
Now Eusebio showed up at MacPac one day to work the depths of the basement
there of that ancient hardware supplier for building contractors. MacPac
was located under the confluence of the freeway interchange south of Market
in the City, so even its front door was already underground by way of
access to light and air. The contractors would enter and speak to salespeople
who finalized the purchase of high end hardware for Victorian buildings.
The Contractors then descended to the basement where it was Eusebio's
job to fetch from the caverns there of shelves and storehouse the desired
hardware. Across the street from that place yawned the exit portals of
the City Jail, yea that door known as Seventh Street.
Now Eusebio's hands shook with a spastic motion, and his eyes rolled
in his head and he showed many mannerisms that caused others some grief,
and moreover his speech was halt and disconcerting, but in the basement
of MacPac he had found his place among humanity, far from the judgmental
eye of the socialite and the self-approved and self-entitled. There he
provided service and earned an honest wage and was paid and so did well
for himself where before he had been scorned and cast out and sent among
the swine and the filth. He brought his homemade tuna sandwich to work
and ate his lunch on the stoop facing the place which released the evening
hookers from the jail and then went down to finish his work and in such
wise was he content with what he had. Such was Euebio for many long years.
Then, so as it happened, was come to Macpac an helpmeet for business
was at that time well. Wendy was she who had earned a degree in mathematics
from Yea Olde Standford, once yclept "a good school", but sore
was she to find that no one wanted a woman of female design who knew the
sine and the cosine and the equation and furthermore the significance
of difference less than .05%. Nor was the calculus of space enjoined.
That a woman of beauty should possess mind and heart, was much overlooked,
if not disdained. And so for a long time Wendy wandered bereft of consolation
or respect for her womanhood and her mind, but in the dark shadows of
MacPac the mysterious calculus of the heart began to work its statistical
inevitable destiny.
And lo! Wendy met Eusebio, who knew much of range and indeterminacy,
and the quadratic equations which define the labyrinths of Borges and
the two were ultimately conjoined by way of administrative ordinance in
civic marriage and there began a great story that swelled under the dim
wattage of MacPac's basement. And unto them was granted the great gift
of fertility, as three children issued thence from that union as proof
that Love doth indeed conquer all. And they ate their lunch together thereafter
under the freeway and compared the lingerie and the shoes of the hookers
let out from jail together with great wisdom.
So unto you, I say, unto you be not discouraged that thou hast lost all
thine teeth or be cursed with a large wen, a great nose, a homely appearance,
dull wit, or be in any other way comfortless upon the earth for the spirit
moves upon the waters and surely thou shalt find love in some form, either
in cabbage or melon or human form and so be comforted.
Thus spake the Carpenter as he ended his tale for the moment, although
there was yet more to tell.
Denby remained absent from these discussions, and likely would for some
time until this bogus love business was done with, for he had contracted
a serious case of poison oak while hacking about the shrubbery of Marin,
and as most folks know, a bad contagious rash really puts the kibosh on
affection. That and the memory of Diana showering him with flaming peat
in the cottage in Kilternan before wacking him with an iron skillet, just
to demonstrate that Irish gals can be passionate about things as well
as anyone.
So Denby holed up in the snug of the St. Charles Lunatic Asylum where
he rented a room in partial exchange for caretaking.
Over at the Old Same Place Bar a gay sort of gal named Danya had shown
up full of piss and vinegar, much like Daniel in the lion's den, and looking
for a fight. She kept punching people with great zest, while pretending
to be dancing to the music -- she was some sort of martial artist or something
-- but it was Padraic's idea the gal was all sublimation and showtime.
Usually it was Drunken Ned who showed up trying to lock horns with everybody
smaller than he was in every bar from McGrath's on down past the Forbidden
Tiki Lounge, but this time the troublemaker happened to be Danya, a feisty
and pugnacious woman wearing a leather jacket and attitude.
Dawn was more curt. "She wants a good schtupping, but she's too
short to climb the pole. Seems an American East Coast sort of thing."
In any case, Spring brings out the peacocks and all sorts of animals.
Some of them want a fight. Can't help it for that is the nature of Spring.
The lilacs will erupt and there is nothing to be done about it.
On a jaunty Saturday, Jose went out on the first excursion of the season
with Toby and Tommy on board their sloop, the Lavender Surprise.
Toby was concerned that Jose be all right there amid the close confines
of the boat. "Are you sure you are okay with us here like this?"
He knew that Jose was straight as an arrow and the purple pennant flapped
from the mizzen with mad gaiety.
"Actually, considering Xavier being impaled by his last amor, Denby
being set on fire with hot coals, the Editor hiding out in his office
in fear of fierce Joanne, and all the collateral damage that happens this
time of year, right now I feel quite safe." And so Jose snoozed on
the decks, while Toby and Tommy made folderol below.
From far across the way, the long howl of the the throughpassing train
ululated across the April waves of the estuary and the passionately pollinating
lilacs and irises 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.
APRIL 10, 2011
IN THE GREEN FUSE DRIVES THE FLOWER
This week we have a shot of the same tree branches knipsed by Chad a
month ago, sans birds. What a difference a Season makes!
NEW TIMES! NEW TIMES! NEW NEW NEW NEW TIMES!
It was not a slow news week here on the Island or elsewhere. While one
despot hunkers in his bunker trying to bamboozle his way back to power
in the Ivory Coast and some very determined, very efficient, very experienced,
and very well armed folks have gotten fed up with the run around, another
despot is digging his heels in Libya, extending that nation's agony for
what seems indefinitely.
The Arch-Reactionaries in DC, bolstered by the Pee Tardy Lunatic Fringe,
nearly brought the US Government to its knees. The bogus crisis was only
averted when it became obvious, then gleefully highlighted, that Big Government
also includes the Big Military, which also would not get paid for the
duration. In wartime, mind you.
Oh yeah, stuff is going on in Sudan, Yemen, Syria and Egypt.
On the upside, Spring has Schprung and because the Government did not
shut down plans are underway for that celebration of momentary beauty
in the normally oppressive and ugly as concrete turd swamp of Washington
D.C. called the Cherry Blossom Festival. Most of the time the place looks
absolutely hideous with wretched weather, but apparently a part of it
gets pretty for a while. We got cherry blossoms up the wazoo sprouting
all over the Mariner Square parking lot like weeds so you don't have to
go far to enjoy 'em.
Yep. Spring is in, with the high pogonip clinging to the hills here and
all the squirrels going insane.
Around here it definitely was not a slow news week either. Richard Manuel,
of San Mateo, crashed his plane on the edge of Harbor Bay Island near
the landfill hump that is locally referenced as "Mount Trashmore"
last Sunday afternoon. Officials are still looking into what caused the
1947 Navion 5-seater to nose-dive, killing its experienced 73 year old
pilot.
Thursday morning provided quite the shocker for commuters who noticed
what looked like a body hanging from the Fruitvale Bridge. Turned out,
it was a body indeed, as a bridge mechanic discovered at 7:00 AM. The
coroner has ruled the death a suicide, committed apparently when the man
looped a rope about his neck and deliberately jumped off. Generally suicides
here do not get any press at all, because of concerns for family members
and for preventing "copycat" actions. As the grim number of
1000th jumper approached for the Golden Gate Bridge, for example, officials
and press collaborated to stop the published count. To date, well over
1,300 people have ended their lives from the span -- always jumping from
the side facing the City, even though the ocean side does not even have
a barrier.
Don't diss our Island, not to Mayor Marie you don't. Her Honor responded
tartly and vigorously to the blaring newspaper headline and claims of
immanent bankruptcy online and in the more local newspaper, the Alameda
Sun, stating these claims are irresponsible, unhelpful, and untrue. As
one commentator remarked, the two responsible parties for the rumor, Kevin
Kennedy and Kevin Kearney (the City Auditor and City Treasurer), sounded
an aweful lot like the Tea Partiers had begun their Wisconsin-style invasion
here.
To be fair and balanced (in other words, entirely unlike Fox News-Entertainment),
both parties have responded that their published comments from a March
29 City Council meeting were taken by the newspaper out of context and
that they never claimed that the City was on the verge of anything, but
only that strong measures need to be taken to avoid bankruptcy and that
they had been speaking not directly to the Press but to members of City
Council. They also have publicly said they stand in support of the elected
officials with regard to whatever remediative course of action regarding
the fiscal crisis those officials should take.
We also would like to point out that the Alameda Journal, which carried
the provocative headline, is based out-of-town like the SF Bleakly, a
rag which has decayed so badly in out-of-town hands that we cannot in
all seriousness reference its real name any longer. The Alameda Sun continues
to reflect the local attitudes and styles of the Island.
Interested folks can read both the Mayor's response and the counter-response
in the article section at http://alameda.patch.com.
In a more relaxed, yet still disputacious session, the Council reviewed
four proposals to limit second-hand smoke from cigarettes recently. The
proposals would affect public areas and also multi-family dwelling units,
where concieveably somebody in a neighboring apartment will be able to
bring complaint against someone living on a different floor. Hoo boy,
we can see the fur flying if that one passes!
The local Fire Department responded to the dreaded message "Fire
at sea" this week. Well, not exactly at sea, but tied up to the dock.
It was a 35 footer houseboat at Fortman Marina. Fire was doused in about
15 minutes without spreading to other structures. Wharf fires can be quite
serious and intense due to the difficulty of getting at the fire itself
and the tangle of pier construction, machinery, loaded fuel tanks and
other flammable debris.
Finally, Ron Cowan, wealthy real estate developer, has proposed something
the Mayor and Council call "interesting", and which may perform
an end run around the hesitations of the current manager of the Corica
and Mif golf courses to implement needed improvements. Cowan wants to
swap 12 acres he's got for the golf course land, with the promise to perform
all improvements himself so long as he gets to build fancy homes on the
former golfing sites. And, BTW, write off some $12 million dollars of
debt incurred through infrastructure improvements on his last real estate
project at Harbor Bay. Okaaaaay . . . .
Why live on an Island if its not absolutely interesting every minute
of the day? Fourteen years ago we thought we would probably run out of
things to talk about each week.
YOUR HISTORY BOOKS ARE FULL OF LIES / MEDIA BLITZ GONNA DRY YOUR EYES
If you don't have Howard Zinn's "A People's History of the United
States" on your shelf you cannot call yourself informed about American
history. Zinn's book was never meant to be a comprehensive history, but
one that filled in the blanks which other histories left out, intentionally
or unintentionally. It does contain some eye-opening facts as well as
lively prose.
Much of our publicly-held history is oversimplified and porous with untruths
because history is seen as so unimportant that its teaching is restricted
to children so young they cannot be told the entire truth, to say nothing
of textbook writers wanting to shield themselves from regional sensitivities.
And of course, there have always been people who delight in controlling
the narrative so as to secure power. So these people render facts that
are dry and mundane while hyper-inflating self-serving myths.
Our own dear Bancroft, he of the UCB Bancroft Library is a good example.
His massive undertaken cannot be taken at all for real truth, as he was
a man on a mission to tell a certain story, the facts of which he felt
he already knew. So he instructed he "testamonio" takers
of oral histories to only collect the facts that matched his personal
opinions, starting with asking only the questions submitted by him and
ignoring any statements made outside of the provided schema. Some of those
takers were outright thieves and con artists who had no problem omitting,
rewriting and freely inventing whatever they pleased, which narrative
was further bowdlerized by Bancroft to satisfy himself. In other words,
Bancroft's monumental opus is the biggest collection of pure fiction presenting
itself as fact the world has ever seen.
Howard Zinn has passed on, however we do have the Howard Zinn Memorial
lecture series, held at Boston University which is delivered by notable
intellects of our time for those of us who prefer to mix our wine with
a good helping of truth. The third in the series was delivered by Bill
Moyers and here it is, minus a brief discussion by Moyers about Zinn's
book. The lecture is a hair under two hours.
I KNEW THESE PEOPLE, THESE TWO PEOPLE.
Its been a moody week on the Island. Each day opens with Blakean skies
scrubbed with chiascuro clouds and etched with mythic gods. The days are
cool, sporadically sunny in the afternoons that fade to the shrouds over
the Oaktown hills where the lights march up to an obscurity that is occasionally
rent to show the brilliant ornament of Jupiter.
Each morning the Witch who has been hired by KQED comes in before sunrise
to cue everything up, chant a few spells and make sure all the electronic
gremlins have been locked into their cages of hexes and pentagrams. Her
official job title is Radio Technician but both she and the Chief engineer
knew better. Radio takes a lot of magic to keep working, and the Bay Area
is an excellent supplier of witches. So there she sits in the control
room with all the machines and lights and wires making things happen while
people are still swimming up from their dreams toward the shimmering surface.
In her thoughts she is helping each one break the surface and pop out
of bed from the waves of frothing bedsheets.
Its an age of screamers and people doing jackass things for the camera.
It doesn't take much talent to occupy people's attention; just show them
Spectacle. Some people still make things called "movies" that
are still good, but there are not many of those. And the best of them
know that you need the landscape of language to make things real, otherwise
nobody will believe the pictures. Its the radio magic. And if you have
a witch on staff, anything is possible.
Long before Toni has arrived at the station, Pedro has arrived at the
fishing grounds with his fishing vessel, El Borracho Perdido, and his
faithful labrador, Tugboat. After setting the lines and verifying all
the instruments, he spins the dial to listen to Morning Edition. Another
radio, dedicated for the purpose has already given the tide and weather
report.
The sun glimmers on the horizon soon enough and Pahrump fires up the
scooter to take Martini to work at the factory before its fully up. Thanks
to the marvel of the MP3, Martini is quickly plugged in and cutting away
at the immense alloy steel bars.
Tipitina shows up at the office on Friday and uses headphones to listen
to Ira Flato talk to a scientist about the persistence of radio waves.
She learns that the ghosts of Bob and Ray, the Green Hornet, the Shadow
(no one knows, but the Shadow knows!), the Wonder Dog, and others still
haunt the radio waves. Scientists tell us that the waves emitted from
transmitters fifty years ago and more are still going outwards from our
earth, leaving the solar system and bouncing between the planets, maybe
to return again one day. Just like magic, even though they have always
been there.
Gosh, no kiddin', Ira says.
It's radio, where anything is possible, the scientist says.
At lunch, Tipitina discusses the show with a fellow law clerk where they
work at Burble, Grumble and Quip.
"I always thought his name was the same as that Roman philosopher,"
the colleague says.
When it comes to Sunday, everyone at Marlene and Andre's stays in and
gets up late and in methodical order to take advantage of the single bathroom.
Snuffles the bum takes off his shirt and pours a bucket of water from
the garden hose over his torso. Shower now done, he mumbles a hunk of
day-old bread with the remains of his teeth on the porch. Eventually somebody
clicks on the radio and shifts the dial from LIVE 105 to Click and Clack,
the Tappet brothers.
Suan is in a mood. Its Spring and the Love for Sale business always picks
up, no matter how bad the economy. She usually makes the best money of
all of them at the House, for she works the brass pole at the Crazy Horse
Saloon in the City. Except now after what happened recently with the earthquake
all the Japanese businessmen have vanished. To make things worse, her
shift had rotated now over to the daytime. Now that the Season of Love
had arrived the Object of Love was really pissed for lack of tips.
Andre comes out and starts playing "Dark was the Night" on
his guitar. Jose asks for a happy love song.
"Sorry homie. Don't know any happy songs," Andre said.
Javier had not been seen around the place since he had hooked up with
that wild gal Valerie and they all were expecting a call from Highland
Trauma ER any day now. Things usually ended up with Javier like that because
he was just that kind of guy. And he liked to pick just that kind of woman
each time, one's with violent tempers coupled with short fuses. Nobody
understood exactly why this was so. The last one had run him through with
a spear, for crissakes. Jose seemed to think that this was because Javier
came from Sinaloa. Nobody understood that idea either.
At the Old Same Place Bar, Suzie tended to the mating rituals of others.
She had seen it all, or at least thought she had. Now Aisling was gone
back to Ireland, for whatever purpose was anybody's guess, so she was
alone again. Now she was watching them come in an hook up or fail to hook
up with a distanced attitude. Bartender. Pour drink Collect money. Make
change. Take tip. Next!
Denby was at the bar reviewing some music sheets. Guys like Denby do
not hook up. They spend their entire lives wearing dustcoats beneath some
window somewhere until all the flowers wilt and its no use any more.
"What's that?" a beautiful woman asked. Her hair was scarlet
red and so was her dress, which was so tight that if she wore anything
underneath it, there wasn't much of that except imagination.
I never talk to strangers, Denby said.
"I'm not that strange," the woman said. "Not when you
get to know me."
It starts in a kind of E-flat and its all in 9ths except for this F7
here, he said.
"Are you a musician? I see you have a guitar there."
No. I'm not. I make malderor. What's your name?
"Sarah," said the woman, a bit confused.
Sarah, I have seen you before. You, he said, indicating a man sitting
there. What's your name?
"Sam", said the guy.
Sarah, meet Sam. Sam meet Sarah. Scootch over a bit while I get this
thing out. That's right, just scrunch up a bit together. Perfect.
Denby opened his guitar case and brought out the Tacoma D-9, which is
a sort of parlor guitar made for intimate gatherings. He struggled a little
bit with the "Never talk to strangers", which is supposed to
be a duet, and then moved into "Tomorrow is a Long Time". After
a while he paused to retune. Sam and Sarah were now in deep discussion,
looking into one another's eyes.
It was Spring. Anything can happen.
He finished a couple more instrumentals before packing up to go. As he
turned to go he tipped his fedora to Suzie and said, it's a dark night
in a City that knows how to keep its secrets, Schweet-Heart, but deep
in the Old Same Place Bar I am not asking any questions, because I am
the guy who provides the answers. Then he left with his guitar while Sarah
and Sam were already starting to spoon right there on the bar seats.
Journeyman. Play music. Hook 'em up. Take door cut. Go. Next gig.
Right then the long howl of the the throughpassing train ululated across
the romantic waves of the estuary and the passionate wildflowers 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.
APRIL 2, 2010
SAILING HOMEWARD TO MINGULAY!
This jolly shot of a freighter on the Bay backdropped by the Golden Gate
was taken by in-house web designer Chad. The port where this fellow will
unload under the container cranes that inspired Steven Spielberg for some
of the robotic things in Star Wars is one of the largest in the world.
The estuary is barely large enough to accommodate these things.
LIKE THE WEATHER
It looks that big dockwalloper went right on as we predicted to smack
the East something silly with more winter. The East Coast should see a
reprieve, but not so for friends in the Midwest where "severe weather"
with hail and tornadoes is forecast. Minnesota and Wisconsin will get
another dose of snow mixed with rain. Temps however should be hovering
around freezing, so we wouldn't advise anybody to take any long walks
out on the lakes there and if you don't have your fish-house reeled in
by now, it is certain to make fine bass habitat on the lake floor pronto.
Got a system hanging offshore, which means coolish temps with moderate
clouds and at least one sunny day leading up to a slight chance of rain
come the weekend around here.
Got another month or so in which the crab and oysters will be good, but
things get mushy after that and the season realistically ends May/June
although Drake's Estero will still have them by the bucketload into July.
The smarter folks BBQ them in the shell.
As for eating such an animal raw, we fondly recollect Truman Capote's
reminiscence: "I detest raw oysters and still remember the first
time I had one; it was like swallowing a nightmare."
PSA - BICYCLE SAFETY CLASSES
Adults and any students 14 or older are welcome to attend these FREE
classes, but pre-registration is required. Please visit: http://www.ebbc.org/?q=safety
to register on-line. Both classes will be taught by certified League of
American Bicyclists League Cycling Instructors.
The courses will be offered in the social hall at the First Congregational
Church of Alameda, 1912 Central Avenue (at Chestnut Street) in Alameda.
Bike parking is available at the church and bikes can be brought inside.
SATURDAY, April 30
1:00 - 4:30 p.m.: FREE bicycle safety class offered by Bikealameda with
East Bay Bicycle Coalition. Learn how to ride safely in traffic, avoid
accidents, and fix a flat. No bike required, open to students ages 14-adult.
FREE, but pre-registration required: http://www.ebbc.org/?q=safety.
Certified instructors, bike parking available. First Congregational Church
of Alameda, 1912 Central Avenue (at Chestnut), in basement social hall.
(Info: (Joyce@BikeAlameda.org,
http://www.bikealameda.org/event/safetyclasses/.)
SATURDAY, May 28
1:00 - 4:30 p.m.: FREE bicycle safety class offered by Bikealameda with
East Bay Bicycle Coalition. Learn how to ride safely in traffic, avoid
accidents, and fix a flat. No bike required, open to students ages 14-adult.
FREE, but pre-registration required:
http://www.ebbc.org/?q=safety. Certified instructors, bike parking
available.First Congregational Church of Alameda, 1912 Central Avenue
(at Chestnut), in basement social hall. (Info: (Joyce@BikeAlameda.org,
http://www.bikealameda.org/event/safetyclasses/.)
If you have any questions about the attachments or cannot open them,
please contact me. For more information on the classes please contact
Joyce Mercado (Joyce@BikeAlameda.org, 510-521-5713).
THIS ISLAND LIFE
Well, it's happened to Vallejo down the way along the Bay and its happened
to a couple other places outside of California, and it certainly is likely
to happen to a few more before the Great Recession lets up.
It is not letting up, you did know that didn't you?
In any case the latest bold headline of the Journal blared "BANKRUPTCY
LOOMS". The City's financial troubles are no secret, and towns all
over are struggling to plug shortfalls in creative and often viciously
misguided ways. We are hearing now of some small towns applying fees to
out-of-towners if they should require services such as police or medical,
or even if they are only tangentially connected with someone else who
does.
These ought to steam the Constitutions of them Pee Tardy folks. Talk
about Taxation without Representation, man!
Some of the solutions here involve closing the library and the parks,
slashing employee pensions, raising the business license fee, increasing
sales tax, and applying "entertainment fees" onto things like
theatre tickets. We are hearing similar stories from the other Bay Area
local governments.
Hoo boy, is America that broke and desperate now? Where did all the money
go? O, right -- into the coffers of the top 1% who now hold 95% of all
of America's wealth. Remember the thugs captained by Geitner and his predecessor
who slipped billions of dollars of bailout money to such charmingly humanitarian
outfits such as Goldman Sachs, AIG, and Lehman Brothers?
The S&L financial debacle -- remember that one?
And all the while the Bush crew crowing that they saved America. Jerks.
Absolute vile, despicable, malevolent jerks.
As for the Island City, the outgoing Oaktown Attorney over there, Russo,
has been making all the right noises towards getting the nod for City
Manager here. Basically he is saying the CM needs to work closely with
the Mayor and the Council and pretty much do what they tell him to do.
We hear he really wants out and away from the new Oaktown Mayor. That's
all fine and probably will work out to the City's advantage as the shattered
remnants of City Hall could use a united front to deal with what is coming
up here. There is not even a peep about restoring the pricey positions
of Fire Chief and Police Chief and, of course, there is the matter of
the missing City Attorney which needs to be redressed fairly soon as the
former City Attorney has joined in a lawsuit with the former City Manager
against the City and we still have SunCal endearing itself to all of us
with yet more loss of income lawsuits as well.
The Island City has no real social services -- the sort of things that
the Pee Tardy folks claim cause budget insolvency -- so finding things
to cut is going to be pretty difficult. All of us are going to have to
look at living without in a number of ways. The long-held trope of just
bullying through things without accepting the slightest personal reduction
will come forcefully to a halt, just as it seems the relentless gentrification
that was on the verge of destroying the Island a la the Victorian down
by the Bridge that got razed has slowed to a crawl.
People are saying, "Now's a great time to buy a house -- if you
got the money." Unfortunately, the same conditions that make it a
good time to buy a house mean nobody has the money except speculators.
And a few idiots. The other day we saw a huge ad for mortgage financing
on "variable rate terms. May go up later." My god! What on earth
are people thinking?! Yeah sure, do exactly the same stupid thing that
got us all into this mess all over again.
DING DONG THE WITCH IS DEAD - REPRINT
(This item reprinted from June 5, 2004 and is a response to recent
news articles handling the botched assassination attempt on the Great
Confabulator)
People held BBQ's and champagne parties all over California to celebrate
one of the most hated and reviled of politicians in the state's history:
Ronald Reagan. Reagan was 93 when he died June 5, 2004, at his Bel-Air
home after a twenty-year-long battle with Alzheimer's disease which affected
his capacities throughout most of his second term in office when he became
incapable of memorizing any part of any speech no matter how short, a
problem resolved by prompters holding up large placards with slogans he
repeated verbatim. He could not remember the names of his closest aids
and once claimed that James Bond was a "great patriotic American."
James Bond is a fictional British spy created by English novelist Ian
Fleming.
His closest advocates recalled him as an amiable buffoon who used his
training as an actor well, but most of California remembers how as Governor
he implemented savagely cruel and illogical policies which so damaged
the State that its economy took many years to recover although many of
the effects, such as the large numbers of mentally ill on the streets
-- he turned them out in droves from the institutions -- persist. He was
soundly defeated by a Democrat in a huge landslide when he attempted to
run for a second term, and the State overwhelmingly voted against him
when he ran twice for President, knowing his incapacity for governance
and his tendency to gloss over facts and misrepresent issues.
As President, he continued to punish the Golden State by yanking needed
funds for infrastructure improvements and even shunting science project
funds from Livermore as he laughed and told jokes about people less fortunate
than his well-heeled backers who adored his insensitivity to the poor
and indigent. Pat Volcker was Chair of the Fed at the time, and he worked
with Reagan to slam the progress of the American economy to a virtual
halt via a series of austerity measures an enormous budget cut backs,
all the while granting large tax favors to the wealthy and to corporations.
Under Reagan the infamous "School for the Americas" in Florida
pumped out thousands of bloodthirsty thugs who raped, murdered and mutilated
their way across half a dozen countries in the name of "anti-communism".
One group, the Nicuraguan Contras, who were especially keen on disemboweling
their opponents, was funded through a program run by Army officer Oliver
North in which cocaine was shipped into the United States to pay for guns
and to buy off the Iranian government for favors. Reagan called the Contras
the "equivalents of our Founding Fathers," although several
independent human rights groups indicated the Contras were no more than
bloodthirsty terrorists.
It is true that Reagan so hated communists, although there is no evidence
he had ever encountered one outside of formal diplomatic circles later
in life, that he collaborated with the infamous McCarthy witch hunt hearings
and informed on several people, destroying their careers. His single-minded
obsession destroyed his marriage with Jane Mansfield and estranged him
from his children who all became die-hard liberals. He diverted billions
upon billions of dollars into the fantastical space-age "star wars"
program endorsed by the equally as rabid Edward Teller, but Teller admitted
after Reagan's death, "Oh yes, it never would have worked."
Teller, a Hungarian scientist expatriate, simply wanted an issue to rally
the sentiment of anti-communism, and he did not care who paid for the
unneeded fanciful weaponry.
He kept a jar of jelly beans on his desk in the Oval Office, and when
someone reminded him that "jelly beans" were a reference to
the napalm bombs dropped on Vietnam, causing millions of gruesome casualties,
he just laughed and said, "Oh yeah, I know! That's why I keep 'em
there!" Apparently a person was not a human being if they were somehow
Communist. Or happened to be standing next to one. This jar became a signature
card for his reputed eternal good humor.
He was fond of belittling and disparaging the less fortunate, always
in a good-humored way according to his own lights, and once caused the
now clearly unneeded fallout shelter supplies to be released to the poverty
food supply programs he planned on cutting to nothing. In a locally famous
move, he had truckloads of brick cheese from these storehouses delivered
to San Francisco, a city he detested, where it was distributed from un-airconditioned
warehouses to people who sometimes kept the stuff on the shelf for months
if not years. Apparently something about the cheese did not require refrigeration,
it did not ever seem to age or experience decay, and it was unknown if
any part of it contained any remaining portion of milk.
During the height of the Plague Years caused by the HIV virus, his stubborn
refusal to hear the word "gay" condemned millions to agonizing
deaths while the rest of the medical world outside the US quickly outstripped
the nation in terms of scientific medical knowledge. If it involved gay
people, then those people, in his opinion, could not be people.
Ironically, among the many political trades on the side of irrationality,
Reagan opposed the kind of stem cell research that, had it been allowed
to proceed, would have led to amelioration and perhaps resolution of the
disease that eventually killed him. His wife has since his death promoted
research using stem cells.
As an addendum, it is often said that Reagan was placed in an aboveground
mausoleum because every time they tried to put him in the ground, the
sweet California earth would reject his rotten carcass with a violent
earthquake.
APRIL, COME SHE WILL
The suddenly affable weather has lightened up just about everybody's
mood around here. Even the fog has been holding off so as to leave a breezy
door open for that gauzy-dressed gal April to come flouncing in with her
bouquets 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, which
is throwing out punches this way and that and 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
are erupting with tiny explosions across the fields. Squadrons of swallows
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. If anything. Its all 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
daisies. Right in the heart, poor lad. A goner for sure.
Yes, Spring is the most dangerous Season.
Its no wonder that the Editor has re-upped his Netflix subscription and
Denby has downloaded the entire Dylan catalog in tabulature, both planning
to remain indoors for the duration. Unfortunately, Island-Lifer Chad is
in love again and Javier has been seen with Samantha, a raven-haired woman
who strides a head taller than the boy in four-inch stiletto boots that
rise up nearly to the hem of her short leather skirt, her spike-studded
wrist-bands gleaming in the sun and her various piercings jangling as
she walks. O, this shall not end well. This shall not end well at all.
Jose, Pahrump and Xavier managed to coax Denby out to help clean up the
clubhouse/parlor for the Native Sons of the Golden West. The group, for
some unknown reason, organizes itself into things called "parlors",
but the Island parlor has the benefit of its converted speakeasy at the
marina to hold events. The Spring Fling will be a fundraiser for children
with birth defects, so the group is not entirely without merit despite
occasional accusations of jingoistic xenophobia.
While the guys rousted the remaining raccoons and other wildlife and
mopped the floors, the Man from Minot worked on fixing the roof around
the hastily done patch where Wally's pistol had put a hole some two years
ago.
Three gals wearing dockers, shorts, haltertops and pageboy haircuts peered
in to view the activity and Jose clutched his chest. He suddenly imagined
that he was in love.
"Are you sisters?" Xavier asked, for they looked fairly identical.
"Sort of, the slightly taller one said. We are nuns."
Jose dropped abruptly to the floor on his seat.
"Is that man all right?" one of the girls said.
"No," said Pahrump. "He thought he was in love."
"O!" said the taller one.
"If you are nuns, where's yer habits?" Xavier asked.
"We all have habits," one said laughing. She had green eyes.
"A few good ones and several rather bad ones."
The other one they could see now had brown eyes. "We are buddhist.
From the temple on Santa Clara."
"O!" Jose said, and got up again.
"Sangha-e!" Each of them said and left to go down to the wharf
where a boat waited for them.
Jose wistfully watched their rearends as they departed. "If wishes
were dishes," he said. "I'd be the world's biggest cook."
A phalanx of lean, muscular athletes, members of the Women's Dragon Boat
Club scampered past and on down to the docks.
Xavier handed him a broom. "You might as well wish for a million
dollars to fall out of the sky and the strength of Popeye for all the
good it will do you. They aint gonna have nothing to do with the likes
of us."
Jose sighed and got to work.
"Old Indian saying," Pahrump said. "No money, no Honey."
At that moment they heard a thud and looked to see that a package had
fallen from the rafters to the floor.
"What was that?" The Man from Minot called out.
A little while later, all of them sat around an open canvas sack. The
light had faded into evening and a chill had come over the Island with
the distant lights of Babylon twinkling across the Bay. Inside the sack
had been a .45 caliber pistol and more than $50,000 in twenties and fifties.
"What are we going to do?" Denby asked.
"In the real world, some gangster looking like Xavier Bardem would
show up and kill all of us," Jose said.
"Real world?" Pahrump said. "I am not so sure there is
such a thing."
Right then the long howl of the the throughpassing train ululated across
the puzzled waves of the estuary and the logical positivist wildflowers
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 lucky week.
MARCH 27, 2011
COOKSFERRY QUEEN
This week's photo comes from Beatrice in Marin who submitted this one
as an ID contest challenge on Facebook.
It is a shot of the Bay Bridge through the spray-streaked windows of
the trans-bay ferry.
BUCKETS OF RAIN, BUCKETS OF TEARS
This past week brought a big dockwalloper in to pound the Bay Area every
day for the entire week. We are looking at rising temps and slowly clearing
skies for the next week, which ought to cheer up folks east of here although
we expect they will be seeing snow and hail across the Midwest to further
East until about Friday before it clears.
For the record, local amateur meteorologist Mike reports 21.61 inches
precipitation for this season so far.
THIS ISLAND-LIFE
Most of the news this week concerned three-dot type items. Both weeklies
featured feel-good puff pieces about how some businesses were doing well
during the recession, although news we lost another bakery on Park Street
in the 26-year veteran Golden Pin. The owner, Rahim Seyedin came to the
US from Iran in 1978 and set up his shop when people thought the word
"espresso" meant an Italian guesture of enthusiasm.
No special news, but the City Council is still looking for a City Manager.
Qualifications including ability to work miracles and must possess sharp
elbows. . . .
Don't drive to the Island. Not when parking ticket fees went from a sharp
$40 to a whopping $70. Not unless you plan on using the city parking garage.
The entire intent is to bolster declining city coffers. . .
Reviews of the Crimestoppers Notebook indicated a sharp rise in "domestic
violence" episodes here. Seems the weather has been forcing unhappy
couples to deal with each other more physically than usual. People, a
calming walk in the rain might be a good idea and sound alternative to
prison. Please, chill . . .
If you really want to help out the State and the City revenues, then get
caught on a DUI. IPD snagged three benefactors at checkpoints over the
past week. These people will be chipping in hundreds to thousands of dollars
to the local economy by way of fines, court fees, mandatory classes and
attorny fees over a period of the several years it takes for these things
to clear. . .
Another budget solution we have: tax all vehicles weighing over 1.5 tons
which do not already pay road taxes, as most responsible truckers do now.
We would see a cash influx to the state, reduction in emissions, less
road surface wear-tear, and far less bad driving as these SUV behomeths
got removed in haste from the roads. It's a win-win situation. . .
Did we really see that item? The Sun reported that the City Council is
reducing the number of committees in-house, starting with the establishment
of a Committee on Committees to supervise this process. We cannot make
this stuff up, for no one would believe us . . .
According to a line item in the Express, Island-based Peets Coffee is
considering a sellout to none other than archfiend Starbucks. O, the horror!
The horror! Report remains unconfirmed. . .
BEEN ALL AROUND THE WORLD AND JUST GOT BACK TODAY
The Spring Season is on the verge of launching with concerts and events.
The Oakland Marathon took place for the 2nd time this weekend after a
long hiatus of several years. Still have no reports on how that went with
the rain continuing to this Sunday afternoon.
The West Coast Blues Hall of Fame hosted an awards show in the Grand
Ballroom at the Airport Hilton on Hegenberger. Check out bayareabluessociety.net
for details.
Three international guitar luminaries held forth at home here at the
renovated Paramount this past Friday. Oliver Mtukudzi (Zimbabwe), Afel
Bocoum (Mali) and Habib Koite (Mali) graced the stage in a pure acoustic
concert in a series that will likely remain in the region for a while
before moving on. Each of these guys has worked with notable headliners
such as Bonnie Raitt and Ali Farka Toure. Check out www.ciis.edu/publicprograms
for more info.
Terence lets us know that the Berkeley Rep has finalized its upcoming
Season as follows:
"In September, the five-play Main Season begins with a stunning
series of world premieres. First its Rita Moreno: Life Without Makeup,
a captivating show created specifically for this outstanding actress;
next Kent Nicholson directs How to Write a New Book for the Bible, Bill
Cains poignant new play about caregiving, followed by Ghost Light,
a haunting fable about San Francisco written by Artistic Director Tony
Taccone and staged by Jonathan Moscone. Then Steven Epp returns to unleash
another Molière masterpiece with A Doctor in Spite of Himself,
and Associate Artistic Director Les Waters tackles John Logans Tony
Award-winning Red. Two additional shows that complement this compelling
collection of work will be announced later for Berkeley Reps Limited
Season."
Melissa Gans lets us know that the Comedy College, which had a brief
run here at the High Street Cafe, continues a collaboration between SF
and San Jose with the following monthly events:
MONTHLY SHOWCASES - NEW!
· When: First Wednesday at 8pm
· What: Stand-up comedy showcase Laugh Lounge"
· Who: Tom Anderson, Big Wave of Comedy Tour, hosts this showcase
featuring some of the funniest people in town!
· Where: San Jose Improv, 62 South Second Street, San Jose, CA
95113
· Public info: www.sfcomedy.com
· Contact: Melissa Gans, Melissa999us@yahoo.com
· Admission: $10
Get over the hump during the week with lots of laughs in this stand-up
showcase on the first Wednesday monthly at the infamous San Jose Improv
featuring some of the funniest people in the Bay Area! Line-ups change
every month. Support local comedy!
WEEKLY NEW TALENT SHOWS
· When: Mondays and Tuesdays at 7pm
· What: Stand-up comedy SFCC Underground
· Who: Hosts and line-ups change every week. Show is produced by
the San Francisco Comedy College.
· Where: The Purple Onion, 140 Columbus Avenue near Kearny, San
Francisco, CA 94133
· Public info: www.sfcomedy.com
· Contact: Melissa Gans, Melissa999us@yahoo.com
· Admission: $6
All tickets available in advance on BrownPaperTickets.com!
The Spring Season is customarily a warm-up for the bigger Summer events
starting in June. On the distant horizon, we note Further at the Shoreline,
Jorma Kaukonen and Death Cab for Cutie at the Fillmore on seperate dates
plus more. Stay tuned in, even if you drop out.
THE SKY IS CRYING
The dockwalloper that set in here through the week failed to knock down
the freesias, but definitely polished off the fledgling tulips who never
had a chance. It really brought out the jasmine, but it also brought out
all the spineless vermin and Jose was out there cursing during the rare
breaks in the rain as he dropped countless slugs and snails into salt
water buckets only to see another horde come marching across from the
vacant lot next door. Jose swears he could hear the sound of tiny bugles
as they advanced.
The other day, Father Danyluk was called to the bedside of Old Peter
who lay dying at the Water's Edge Retirement Home. Old Peter was understandably
concerned. Nobody from the Firm to which he had devoted some 45 years
of his life had come to visit him or even send a card. Old Peter was fearful
that now, after a life of some 88 years, he had never amounted to much,
had never built up a fortune to hand to his grandchildren, and never done
any great things, never mastered Spanish or finished learning how to play
the piano. That old piano sat there in the parlor for years until it got
time to move out after Martha had passed on and the movers came and with
incredible balletic grace these two men had pirouetted this massive grand
Steinway up into the truck and it was gone. Just like that. Just Like
him, never having played an entire song from start to finish for anybody.
Except for that one song he did for Martha so many years ago when they
were courting.
What was that song?
O, he couldn't remember that. But it must have worked for she had married
him. Over the next 48 years they had raised four kids, two boys and two
girls and they had turned out all right. As for the score to that song,
Martha had kept it in the piano seat but he had never looked at it again
and then the movers had come and now it was gone. Gone like a lot of the
memories.
What happened to that piano? O, he gave that to Edison High School. For
the music program.
Father Danyluk spoke to him then, this man who knew he was about to die,
and this is what he said.
Dust you are. To dust you shall return. By the sweat of honest work you
earned your bread until this day, this time. Now that is all over.
We like to remember here on this Island in the land where you cannot
count on the earth to remain firm under your feet that what is important,
what really lasts beyond monuments and concrete structures, and banks
is compassion. That is what will last long after each one of us has walked
down to that beach to take that last one-way ferry trip to the Other Side.
None of your bank accounts and none of your big deals memorialized in
lucite matter in the slightest. What matters is the love we leave behind
when we are gone. There is faith and there is hope and there is charity
and finally there is love, and the greatest of these, I am given to tell
you, is love.
I can say no more than that and so I commend you and your soul. Yes,
I commend you! To go to that place which is best for you have earned it.
All your transgressions, real and imagined, are forgiven.
With that the priest opened the door and had all the grandkids come in
along with all the surviving friends from old times and those he had come
to know since arriving at the Water's Edge.
Here, my good man, said Danyluk, Is the future. Stop
worrying about it. Father Danyluk was famous for being unorthodox.
Old Joe had brought a DVD viewer with him. "Hey old friend, I got
some great copies of "Behind the Green Door" and "Bodacious
Tatas" guaranteed to perk you right up!"
"Now is not a good time," Father Danyluk gently chided him
as all the little nephews thronged around.
The Man from Minot has been walking around the Sons of the Golden West
meeting hall, which the SGW calls a "parlor" by tradition, but
which used to be a biker gang hangout down there by the marina. He and
David have been checking for any leaks from repairs made to the roof and
walls after the disastrous Affair of the Easter Peeps. In most areas of
the country Easter is generally regarded as a peaceful time, for it generally
coincides nicely with Passover in a way Xmas and Channukah do not. In
our neck of the woods, the presence of raccoons and firearms along with
Western Machismo sometimes results in violent events of which the alleged
Savior probably would not approve.
WWJ Say? "Don't do that!" And probably with irritation.
In any case the two of them eyed the beaded persperation under the rooftree
with suspicion. What the devil put that hole up there?" asked the
Man from Minot.
"Wally's 50 cal pistol," David answered.
"And the floor over there?"
"The same."
"And I imagine the wall in the kitchen as well and the former aquarium
stand too," the man from Minot said.
"Yes."
"Must have been hell of a shootout with drink and nudie girls there
and all."
"Actually it was all over Easter peeps," David said.
"What is that?" asked the Man from Minot, who was a Unitarian
willing to accept any sort of idea as long as it was reasonable.
"You probably do not want to know," David said. "Its religious
and potentially explosive. There were no nudie girls."
"O!"
In the Old Same Place Bar Padraic knew a thing or two about religious
extremism and violence, but his attention was fixed upon a man who stood
about three feet high in his socks sitting now at his own bar with a large
fish beside him on the stool there.
"I'll have a Jamison's for me and an Arthur Power for my friend
here, the Wee Man said. "Both on the rocks."
"Right," said Padraic. "One for you and one for your friend.
Um, might he want a twist or something?"
"Nonsense," the Wee Man said. "He is dead. Dead as a dead
fish can be. Don't be a ninny. I'll drink them both."
"O! Right!" Padraic said.
The Wee Man finished first the one and then the other and then he smacked
his lips and all who sat and stood there waited for what would happen
next, for the Wee Man commanded attention like no one else of which anyone
had ever heard or seen.
"Um," began Suzie a bit anxiously. "If you are going to
do anything, like, down below, could you make them lined with cotton?
Them metal threads really . . . Oh!"
The Wee Man clapped his hands and as he did so, several of the bar patrons
and bar help yelped.
"O!" said Dawn.
"Hey!" Padraic said.
The Wee Man placed a solid gold Punt on the bartop and set out to go
without his fish laying there on the barstool. He clambered on down to
the floor, put on his cap and took up his walking stick and headed on
out.
"What about your fish friend here?" Padraic asked.
"O him! Go ahead and eat him. He's good for ya! Best salmon in the
world!" With a twinkle he was gone. At least for another year.
At the end of the day, they found the fish there laid out in a silver
salver on a bed of crisp lettuce with a fine lemon sauce withal and all
who tasted that fish found it famous for its smoked flavor. Padraic found
that his sensible boxers had been transformed into a gold lame g-string,
which he hung up there with the others from the previous episode.
The lovely Suzie kept smoothing down her green mini-skirt as if afraid
a stiff wind might blow up; she had taken hers off and bunched them in
her pocket. When Aisling appeared her face went bright red.
"Had no idea, them elvish types were such perverts," said Padraic.
"O, but they are, they are!" said Dawn. "Give me a kiss
now for I am all hot and bothered. Come see what he did to me own knickers
you naughty Commando you . . . !"
Things got a little steamy there in the Old Same Place Bar and the place
closed early with hardly a clean-up as couples bolted for the door, hardly
waiting to get one another's clothes off and go at it like crazed weasels
in apartments and upstairs bedrooms all over the island. There must have
been something in that salmon besides.
O, but the famous Spring of 2011 was fast anon.
Right then the long howl of the the throughpassing train ululated across
the laughing waves of the estuary and the erotic wildflowers wildly pollinating
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 rollicking week.
MARCH 20, 2011
SQUIRREL SANCTUARY
Apparently miffed that not everyone can live on something like Jesse
Colin Young's homestead, somebody put this sign up on a telephone pole
outside Silly Hall a couple weeks ago.
The editorial comment does add dimension to this thing.
LIKE THE WEATHER
A real dockwalloper pounded in here as the weekend began for solid days
of solid rain and high winds. The skies pulled back close to sunset to
reveal torn clouds and streaks of vivid turquoise, providing a respite
on the first day of Spring. The vaunted "big moon" remained
hidden on Saturday, however.
The report is for a mildly rainy Monday followed by more wet stuff from
the middle to the end of the week. Less virulent than this past one, but
wet enough. Folks east of here almost certainly will be seeing some thunder
and lightning as well as hail and probably some snow in the colder regions
in a few days.
THIS ISLAND LIFE
As folks know the tsunami spawned by last week's Japanese earthquake
arrived in the Bay during low tide, and the natural breakwater design
of the Bay's mouth contributed to that low tide to make it largely a nonevent
here. Interestingly, the warning was issued in the early morning hours
and expired before most folks had finished their morning coffee. Given
that it is known the time frame for arrival here was about 12 hours, we
wonder to whom the warning was given and in what manner. It's safe to
say that most people had no idea something was coming.
Santa Cruz harbor was totally wrecked by the thing, putting the kibosh
on the entire fishing fleet there while severely damaging about 60 commercial
fishing vessels, so its not like there was no danger at all. And you do
know now that one is supposed to listen to AM 1280 for news in case of
disaster, right?
Well, now you do.
THE POISON GLEN
Recent events in Japan surrounding one particular atomic energy plant
reminded us and others about previous power plant disasters, the worst
being Chernobyl.
On the Friday evening of April 25, 1986, the reactor crew at Chernobyl-4,
prepared to run a test the next day to see how long the turbines would
keep spinning and producing power if the electrical power supply went
off line. This was a dangerous test, but it had been done before. As a
part of the preparation, they disabled some critical control systems -
including the automatic shutdown safety mechanisms.
Shortly after 1:00 AM on April 26, the flow of coolant water dropped
and the power began to increase.
At 1:23 AM, the operator moved to shut down the reactor in its low power
mode and a domino effect of previous errors caused an sharp power surge,
triggering a tremendous steam explosion which blew the 1000 ton cap on
the nuclear containment vessel clear of the building, spewing hot graphite
chunks into the air. The cap and pieces of the graphite rod cladding landed
near the building.
Some of the 211 control rods melted and then a second explosion threw
out fragments of the burning radioactive fuel core and allowed air to
rush in - igniting several tons of graphite insulating blocks as well
as the building structure itself.
Once graphite starts to burn, its almost impossible to extinguish. The
first firemen responders to the accident became sick within minutes of
arriving and quickly lost the ability to function in any capacity. All
of them died within days. Robotic repair devices all spun around uselessly
as the intense radiation destroyed their electronic circuits. It took
9 days and 5000 tons of sand, boron, dolomite, clay and lead dropped from
helicopters to put it out. The radiation was so intense that many of those
pilots died either instantaneously as they flew into the radioactive cloud
or a few days later.
It was this graphite fire that released most of the radiation into the
atmosphere and troubling spikes in atmospheric radiation were measured
as far as thousands of miles away.
In 2007 Island-Life was contacted by a resident of Belarus, named Elena
Filatova who had put up a website that documented her unorthodox periodic
visits into the Exclusion Zone around the destroyed power plant. The zone
is now guarded by a combination of Russian and Belorussian soldiers --
all 330,000+ former residents of the zone had been evacuated prior to
the collapse of the Soviet Union and only people with special permissions
were allowed to enter. Some 3-4,000 individuals chose to return to their
homes, largely in rustic villages; no one knows if they are alive or dead
except for Elena.
Because Elena's father is a physicist, she not only could obtain papers
to enter, she also could obtain information about how to enter somewhat
safely as dangerous pockets of radiation remain throughout the region.
One important factoid was that asphalt does not store radiation -- it
lets it pass through. So as long as one remains in the median of a paved
road, one is relatively save from exposure. Step a meter away from the
road and the errant pedestrian will die within hours from radiation poisoning.
Estimates of the total number of deaths attributable to the accident
vary enormously, from possibly 4,000 to close to a million. Elena speculates
about 600,000 people died over the next couple of years, including all
firemen responders, all plant workers, the security guards manning the
entrance gate, soldiers sent to pickup the hot debris with shovels, wheelbarrows
and their hands who were protected only with paper gas masks, and most
of the inhabitants of nearby towns.
Elena's website is located at http://www.elenafilatova.com
and remains one of the best personal descriptions of the disaster, its
origins, the official responses to it, and the legacy of the disaster
as it persists in the surrounding neighborhood.
There are other websites, even more heartbreaking, which deal with the
horrific birth defects caused in the surrounding areas by radiation-induced
mutations over the past 25 years. The images are ugly and we leave it
to the curious and the prurient to look these up on their own.
The other disaster, the scope of which may never be fully known, took
place here in the United States at Three Mile Island.
The Three Mile Island accident was a partial core meltdown in Unit 2
(a pressurized water reactor manufactured by Babcock & Wilcox) of
the Three Mile Island Nuclear Generating Station in Dauphin County, Pennsylvania
near Harrisburg, United States in 1979.
The power plant was owned and operated by General Public Utilities and
Metropolitan Edison (Met Ed). It was the most significant accident in
the history of the USA commercial nuclear power generating industry, resulting
in the release of up to 481 PBq (13 million curies) of radioactive gases,
and less than 740 GBq (20 curies) of the particularly dangerous iodine-131.
The accident began at 4 a.m. on Wednesday, March 28, 1979, with failures
in the non-nuclear secondary system, followed by a stuck-open pilot-operated
relief valve in the primary system, which allowed large amounts of nuclear
reactor coolant to escape. The mechanical failures were compounded by
the initial failure of plant operators to recognize the situation as a
loss-of-coolant accident due to inadequate training and human interpretation
of ambiguous control room indicator lights on the power plant's computer
monitors. The scope and complexity of the accident became clear over the
course of five days, as employees of Met Ed, Pennsylvania state officials,
and members of the U.S. Nuclear Regulatory Commission (NRC) tried to understand
the problem, communicate the situation to the press and local community,
decide whether the accident required an emergency evacuation. The NRC's
authorization of the release of 40,000 gallons of radioactive waste water
directly in the Susquehanna River led to a loss of credibility with the
press and community.
In the end, the reactor was brought under control, although full details
of the accident were not discovered until much later, following extensive
investigations by both a presidential commission and the NRC. The Kemeny
Commission Report concluded that "there will either be no case of
cancer or the number of cases will be so small that it will never be possible
to detect them. The same conclusion applies to the other possible health
effects". These findings have been disputed, but due to corporate
and state veils of secrecy, the truth may never be fully known. Both the
damaged reactor and its working companion have been shut down and plans
are in the works to decommission both of them. Total cost of response
and remediation is estimated at a staggering one billion dollars.
OTHER INCIDENTS - BUT THERE IS MORE . . .
These, of course, are not the only loss-of-life or meltdown accidents
to have occurred. A list of accidents is detailed at http://www.lutins.org/nukes.html
and begins with an incident in September of 1944, when the two Manhattan
Project chemists were killed by an explosion of radioactive uranium hexafluoride
gas at the Naval Research Laboratory in Philadelphia, PA. Problems with
manual control of certain procedures led to the explosive deaths of other
scientists the following year. Increased safety measures led to an hiatus
of problems for about ten years until 1956 when nine people were killed
in explosions at the Sylvania Electric Products' Metallurgy Atomic Research
Center in Bayside, Queens, New York. From that year going forward, civilians
died in atomic energy accidents every year until 1964.
Civilian incidents have gradually declined in frequency along a mild
curve since then.
These incidents must be added to the numerous military accidents which
happened throughout the 1950's, generally involving bomber crashes, but
also involving Navy vessels and the bombs themselves. The most famous
is the explosion of the USS Thresher which killed at 129 crew members
just east of Boston. There have also been incidents involving radioactive
waste.
These incidents led to a slowdown of new atomic plants around the world,
including the US. California has two plants, both along the coast, and
discussions about shutting down these in a land prone to earthquakes has
been passionately intense, to put it mildly.
HERE COMES THE RAIN AGAIN, FALLING ON MY HEAD LIKE A MELODY
The rain came and the rain went and so went St. Patrick's day this year,
much like the Chinese Year of the Hare celebrations. The famous parade
in Babylon across the water there took place in a torrential downpour,
but other celebrations have happened, great and small all around the Bay,
including an Hawaiian hula dance performance in honor of the Hare that
happened here on the Island. We have, besides "dragon boats"
a hula dance studio located on Lincoln street a few doors down from Pagano's
Hardware. They do an informal music jam with ukes and slack key guitar
during the week.
With all the rain, people have been changing their usual routines to
remain under cover. When the lunch whistle blew, instead of going out
to hang with the Nammie vets under the dripping eaves, after getting his
burrito from the truck, Martini wended his way to the dark side of the
factory where perhaps out of a kind of nostalgia for the old technology,
perhaps out of a wistful value for craftsmanship, or perhaps because of
Union stipulations, the Veriflo Corp maintained a fleet of hand lathes
manned by a squad of machinists whose numbers dwindled year by year.
The factory made high-pressure valves cut from blocks of a special alloy.
Nowadays, the blocks of metal were drilled by immense robotic drills driven
by CAD programs and maintained by computer educated machinists. In this
part of the factory, however, lean silver-haired men raised and lowered
the drill bits by hand, able to drill within a micron of tolerance, just
like the big ball-end mills. However, the big mills could do 18 blocks
in the time it took guys like Old Al to finish just one. Men like Al were
used now to fabricate the prototypes, not the production pieces.
Old Al sat there with his box lunch beside his machine, pretty much like
the old days.
"How goes it sawboy?" said Al.
Martini's job was to cut the thirty foot rods of alloy into manageable
ingots with a metal saw. He motioned to one of the lathes which now was
draped with canvas. "Rodney?"
"Rodney's gone." Al said.
"O."
The two men ate their lunches in silence for a while.
Al said he didn't think he would be around much longer either. Production
had been cut back and Management was looking for more things to cut. The
valves made by the factory were used to power the robotics that made cars
and computer chips. Each alloy valve cost well over a thousand dollars,
with some of the titanium ones costing upwards of a million. They each
had to withstand pressures over 900 PSI. Other factories around the world
were cannibalizing their existing machines as they also cut production.
Everything was uncertain for everybody.
They had some time left so the two of them went to the big delivery doorway
to look at the rain falling on the industrial vigor of Richmond. In the
distance, the Chevron refinery towers loomed like Tolkein castles in the
mist.
Al asked him if he, Martini, still lived "on that Island."
Martini said he did.
The old machinist remembered how he had seen Johnny Weissmuller dive
from a platform way back when the Island had hosted the largest seaside
attraction strip on the West coast. Bigger than Babylon's Ocean Beach
with its Laughing Sal robot. That was Neptune Beach.
Martini wasn't unhappy about them retiring Laughing Sal. "That old
lady scared the bejeezus out of me. I was convinced she was Evil."
He was convinced that it was her, that robot in a case dealing out cards
-- or something like her -- which had burned the Cliff House two or three
times.
This made Al laugh. He had a better understanding of machines than Martini.
The whistle blew and they each went back to work.
At the end of the shift, Pahrump arrived on his scooter to drive Martini
back to the Island in the rain.
Both of them were soaked when they got back, and because Pahrump used
the bathroom, Martini stripped, dried himself and dressed in warm, dry
duds in front of Tipitina and Jose in the Main Room, where they sat listening
to KQED. Lack of money meant little privacy and few luxuries for the fifteen
men and women who shared space in the one bedroom cottage owned by Mr.
Howitzer.
Jose commented that the show wasn't nearly as pretty as Suan, referring
to their housemate who worked at the Crazy Horse.
"Suan gets paid for it," Martini said.
Tipitina snorted as she looked up from her Crossword. She worked as a
part-time AA for a law firm in the City. It was a position pretty much
a half step below what Suan did on her brass pole. At least at her other
job as a cashier at Long's she occasionally got some respect.
The child named Adam, who had come to join them a few weeks ago after
being thrown from a car one dark night came out. Most of his bruises and
cuts had faded away. Kids are resilient like that.
Martini asked him if there was anything to eat.
"Beans in the pot." Adam said. "And day-old. Marlene is
out."
Stale bread and beans were good enough with the right condiments. Martini
went into the kitchen. The sound of the radio drifted through the doorway.
These are the good times
Rain patters on the leaves
We always practice kindness, kindly if you please
Life is flowing,
Flowing like catsup on your beans!
Catsup! Catsup! Catsup!
Martini remembered to fix up a plate and carry it out to Snuffles Johnson,
who slept in the hole in the porch whenever it rained. The hole had been
caused when Jose and Pahrump had nearly burned the place down by accident
on Jose's fiftieth birthday. One of them had let a smoldering roach fall
between the floorboards while polishing off a gallon jug of wine. That
birthday had been an unfortunate one. So now whenever Mr. Howitzer dropped
by, which was not often, they dragged an old sofa to cover the hole.
Martini sat on the sofa while Snuffles mumbled his beans with toothless
lips in the hole and the rain fell from the ragged skies and the world
went by stages into the darkness of night.
Father Danyluk stared out at the night at the same moment. "How
was the corned beef, Father?" Sister Beatrice stood beside him. It
was good, the priest said. The two of them looked out at the rain, which
was tapering off.
"A bad night for those without a roof," the nun said. "And
we grateful for what we have."
"Actually," said the priest. "I am thinking about fish."
"You mean, like the parable of the loaves and the fishes?"
asked Beatrice.
"No," Father Danyluk said. "Just about the fish in the
Cove. Herring and mackerel and sea bass."
"O!"
Beatrice often thought the good Father swam in waters too deep for the
likes of her. Then again, she often wondered if the man was just simple.
Over at the Old Same Place Bar the gang was mopping up after another
St. Patrick's weekend. Things had gotten raucous, as usual. "That
boy Gallipagus wants a lick or two of my stick, he does." Padraic
said, referring to Eugene who had gotten so drunk he had fallen over into
the potted ferns brought in by Dawn.
The string band which called itself Ard Feis and which Padraic had brought
in also had all gotten very drunk and had started to behave badly. The
bassist kept trying to reach up under Suzie's green miniskirt until she
had to sock him in the eye so that now the boy was at home nursing a big
shiner. Then Aisling and the fiddler had gotten into a fight over similar
issues, which traveled out into the street. Aisling could not fight to
save himself. Nor can most fiddlers, who generally hang tight with drummers
for the purpose. They can always say, "Sean, deal with that man,"
but that night there was no drummer. The two of them wound up rolling
around in the muck, tearing and scratching at one another before getting
up to go at one another, flailing wildly until they each fell down again
to repeat the sequence. They were all pretty much the worse for wear.
"Lord save me, but I am glad St. Patrick's comes but once a year,"
Dawn said.
"It's the wannabe's what does it," Padraic said. "You'll
notice the folks from Wicklow sat there nice as you please. I think those
musicians were all Germans and they'll not get a cent out of me for all
that trouble."
"At least," Suzie said. "The wee man did not show up."
She looked up to where the gold knickers and the hats he had caused to
appear hung behind the bar.
"O!"
They all remembered the night the wee man had shown up. What a night
that had been!
"Him with his infernal trickery and all the embarrassment of it."
Padraic said.
"I found him amusing," Dawn said.
"Glad to hear it," a voice said.
"Will you look at that. Cute as a pint-sized pot of peas, but its
him!" Padraic exclaimed.
Indeed, the door had opened and there stood the Wee Man. He held a large
fish, almost as big as himself in his arms. It looked like a steelhead.
And as he placed the fish on a barstool and then clambered up on another
beside it , from far across the other side of the Island, the long wail
of the the throughpassing train ululated across the greenish-tinged waves
of the estuary and the shamrocks thronging 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 mysterious journey to parts unknown.
That's the way it is on the Island. Have a magical week.
MARCH 13, 2011
THIS IS YOUR CAPTAIN. WE ARE ABOUT TO ATTEMPT A CRASH
LANDING . . .
Laurie Anderson may have meant that line tongue in cheek, however Google
Maps users got a startling eyeful when they scanned over the Island last
week to see what looked like a disaster out at the decommissioned airstrip
at the old Alameda Naval Air Station.
The crashed jet you're seeing in the Google Map is not a commercial airliner:
at least, not an active one. The jet was destroyed for use in an episode
of Trauma in 2009, according to Google Maps Mania. The Point has been
the sight of several movie sets, including a scene in the Matrix: Reloaded
which featured a chase filmed on a temporary freeway section.
THIS ISLAND LIFE
They are still counting ballots over there at 1221 Oak Street, but its
all over but for the sour grapes regarding Measure A, which passed at
last count (Friday, 3/11/11). Out of 21,830 ballots cast (51% of 41,609
registered voters) 14,685 (68.01%) voted in favor of the property tax
that will replace the previous two measures in support of the schools
to just 6,907 (31.99%). This qualifies the Measure by the necessary 2/3rds
majority.
The Measure was stridently argued for a number of weeks right after the
very contentious midterm elections, but we are hoping that people will
now get behind the present administration in City Hall and at least give
the obvious power block there a chance to do something to remedy the present
bad economic sitation.
We did not like everything that went down over the past three months
either, but there is no point now in fussing over issues that have been
essentially resolved.
If Livermore Labs chooses to establish a lab at the Point, that with
the military Columbarium will be good additions there, and may point the
way to gradual, typically-Alamedan development instead of the insane rapid
land-grab and relentless gentrification that otherwise could have happened.
In fact, a number of outsiders pointed to some positive benefits here
should the Economic Development funds be cut, as the Island can then comfortably
preserve badly needed open space which can possibly turned to other uses
in a deliberative manner later without the pressure of high-roller developers.
Then there is that acquisition of Southshore Mall by a party which plunked
close to $2 million into our General Fund by way of the property transfer
tax.
In other words, its not all bad.
HE'S GOT THE KEYS TO THE HIGHWAY
And he must be moving on. Yep, Friday was Food Bank Director Paul Russell's
last day after six years of feeding the hungry. Last year, the Bank served
provided services to nearly six thousand people, with Russell working
nearly seven days a week, usually appearing to oversee things at the distribution
sites in person. The Oakland resident and father of two children will
take a new post in the Palo Alto-based nonprofit, Hand-in-Hand Parenting,
a parent education resource. The food bank's board of directors is seeking
candidates for the executive director position. A job description is available
at www.alamedafoodbank.org.
Board President Neil Rubenstein said they're looking for candidates who,
like Russell and the current staff and volunteers, "really buy into
the mission."
We have known Paul for a couple years and have always found him to be
calm, personable, capable and a tremendous asset to the community. Wherever
he goes next we know he will do well.
NINE POUND HAMMER
Hot Tuna dropped by the Marin Veterans Memorial Auditorium to help out
with a fundraiser there on Friday and also prep audiences for a new CD
from the old hands Jack, Jorma, Barry and new drummer Skooter. Special
guests Charlie Musselwhite and Jim Lauderdale came along for the ride,
each adding their own unique qualities.
Kaukonen was a founding member of the Jefferson Airplane before moving
on to form Hot Tuna with fellow homie Jack Cassady. A student of Reverend
Gary Davis, Jorma developed his own signature fingerpicking style while
also helping to forge the distinctive "San Francisco Sound"
of the Sixties. He has added several songs to the permanent canon of American
Music, and his Embryonic Journey is generally included in any documentary
of the turbulent Sixties period.
Charlie Musselwhite hardly needs an introduction either. The Mississippi-born
Cherokee-blood bluesman is not quite as old as the hills (born January
31, 1944 in Kosciusko, MS) but he has been performing for quite a while.
He left home as a teen for Memphis, where he supported himself by digging
ditches, laying concrete and running moonshine in a 1950 Lincoln.
Like many, he gravitated to Chicago where he worked as a driver for an
exterminator while practicing his music and sitting in with older, well-established
musicians, such as Big Joe Williams and getting known and liked by many
of the others, including John Lee Hooker.
It was not until he recorded with Paul Butterfield and then formed his
own band to cut an LP that he achieved significant wide renown, however.
His decision to move to San Francisco proved a wise one, for amid the
incense and middle-class flower-power revolution he was seen as the gritty,
genuine article, a real Bluesman. From that period onward, his popularity
soared through over twenty albums.
His interest in latin music took him to Mexico, Cuba and South America,
which led to some interesting blues branch-off efforts, one of which had
to be recorded in Norway because of the political difficulties between
Cuba and the United States.
His life-long friendship with John Lee Hooker continued right up to the
passing of the legend and in 1981 John Lee served as Charlie's best man
at his wedding to Henrietta.
After kicking a life-long problem with alcohol he was nearly killed in
a 1999 automobile accident in Mexico while on vacation when an 18 wheel
semi sideswiped his car. Fortunately he fully recovered to tour with BB
King in Europe and capture about six W.C. Handy awards.
As for Jim Lauderdale, the 53 year-old Nashville-based singer/songwriter
has been performing since 1986. He tends to host shows, such as the Americana
Music Awards and "Tennessee Shines," a monthly concert at the
Bijou Theater in Knoxville, Tennessee. He also hosts "The Jim Lauderdale
Show" Wednesdays at 2 PM (Central Time) on WSM Radio AM 650, and
also www.wsmonline.com. Lauderdale is also a frequent host and performer
on "Music City Roots: Live from the Loveless Cafe", a weekly
Americana music show broadcast live on WSM from the Loveless Barn on Highway
100 in Nashville.
In his free time, if the man ever has any, he works with Robert Hunter,
the famous lyricist for The Grateful Dead and puts out albums. His 2009
release "Could We Get Any Closer?" was nominated for a Grammy
at the 52nd Grammy Awards in Jan. of 2010.
Generally with an experienced line-up like that its hard to miss and
the crowd there, consisting largely of silver-haired men and women who
recall the chants and the patchouli of days past was not disappointed.
The concert was split into an acoustic set and a longer full-electric
set, with Jorma performing pretty much as bandmaster, stepping forward
for some old Hot Tuna chestnuts and then stepping back to allow Lauderdale
plug numbers from his newly released Patchwork River CD.
Jorma kicked things off with just him and Jack on stage with Blue Country
Heart's "What are they doing in heaven tonight", in memory of
his parents. Things felt a little cool, as to give the guys some credit,
the snazzy blue Marin Auditorium has hardly the ambience of say, the bare
wood of a venue like the Shantytown Saloon or Preservation Hall, which
would have suited the spare country feel better. It also sounded like
the older crowd was not as up on Nashville sounds Jorma had been exploring
in things like Blue Country Heart and Stars in My Crown. A musician has
to keep moving forward like a shark, however, or die and we tend to appreciate
people turning to new channels for different sounds.
The set was understated and the material chosen tended to reflect the
experience of artists setting out for a long evening which was to be one
of many in tour not slated to wind up until November.
Barry Mitterhof did a lively and jazzy mandolin number called "The
Vicksburg Stomp".
The room really came alive, as it always does, when Charlie Musselwhite
came on stage for a couple numbers, including a very moving, exquisitely
beautiful quiet blues he dedicated "To Henrietta".
He and Jack finished off with the Uncle Sam Blues.
The room also woke up after intermission when the boys plugged in and
Barry started doing amazing things with his electric mandolins not thought
heretofor humanly possible, turning the normally sedate instrument into
a fire-breathing monster with killer lead licks while Jorma and Jack brought
back the San Francisco sound for all the former hippies out there. It
is not often you see this, but when they launched into a blistering attack
on the first number you could see Jack Cassady grinning from ear to ear.
Its that sort of thing which turns a long evening into a truely enjoyable
and memorable one, for if the performer enjoys him or herself, the people
will as well. Musselwhite proved he can rock with the best of them, punching
through long melodic lines that wound like snakes around the sinewy playing
of Kaukonen in the best call and response manner of the blues. Charlie's
voice also proved to be surprisingly powerful and capable. Some of his
electric guitar work can be heard on his more recent albums and he fortunately
did one tasteful and spare number that evening.
"I feel another blues comin' on!", Musselwhite said, and guestured
with his arms as if to add, "Okay, now -- we are really going to
work!" Clearly he was enjoying himself as well.
Jorma's deeper register voice had a little problem making itself heard
above the combined ensemble of drummer, bassist, himself, Charlie, and
Jim Lauderdale on amped acoustic dreadnaught. He certainly made up for
it with some inspired instrumental work. Interestingly, he continued to
use the same finger picks for electric that he uses for acoustic playing.
The ensemble finished off with customary bow for each performer to inject
a solo, including Skooter on drums and Jack on bass. We don't know if
Jack knows or listens to Victor Wooten, but there certainly was a nice
melodic quality to Jack Cassady's work that resembles the lead work that
Wooten does in jazz.
In general, the second set shone the brightest and evoked the most passionate
responses from the audience, all of whom undoubtably left the hall feeling
like it was an excellent evening of good music delivered by boys who know
there business well.
LET IT RAIN, LET IT POUR, LET IT RAIN A WHOLE LOT MORE
(3/15 Corrected errors)
The seagulls came swinging in on what they must feel by now is a regular
commute a day ago and sure enough, we had a sizzler come in Sunday evening
as a prelude to things to come. Not much wind around here but we note
some big stuff marching up to the Northwest with winds up to 60mph. Not
sorry that missed here.
In a few days that front will sort of turn around and march back down
again after some warming and cloudy days for a very wet weekend starting
on the 18th. We are likely to have some showers leading up to a dockwalloper
as the weekend winds up and that immense pinwheel of a system out there
in the Pacific keeps slinging its arms like Pete Townsend.
For folks East of here, they probably will get a slight break, with the
Midwest seeing some Spring-like weather and the swollen Passaic dropping
some unless Canada has something more to say.
We are all getting heartily sick of this eternal Pineapple Express. With
most of the houses having only iffy and afterthought heating systems,
everybody's woodshed is drawing down to kindling and chips now. The houses
are built in such a way that even folks from Montana are saying, "Damn,
its cold around here!"
Nevertheless, the daffydowndillies have popped out under the leaden skies,
with the freesias beginning to bust out and the jasmine blooming by the
Old Fence, indicating something good is happening.
Wouldn't walk out on the frozen lake anymore up There. That Chevy parked
on the ice is likely to bust through any day now.
Over at the Old Same Place, the folks who still have jobs, including
the house contractors, the fitters, the Port longshoremen, the plumbers,
some teachers and nurses and hospital techs among them, and all the rest
have been clustering like bees seeking heat from Padraic's Celtic Coffee.
He calls that concoction made of whiskey, coffee, brown sugar, whipped
creme and at least one Mysterious Ingredient smelling suspiciously like
Bailey's a "Celtic Coffee" because he insists no Irishman ever
would have invented such a monstrosity that abused the Water of Life so.
When someone knowledgeable comes in to order an Arthur Power or a Jamison's,
Padraic will say, "Right! I'll make it a double!"
Naturally he and the bar had to listen to the recent PHC broadcast with
its Irish Green Theme twice if not more.
"What are we coming on now?" said Dawn. "With the poor
Genius man beggin' please do not kill our town! What is all that about,
pray tell me?"
It was, of course all about the Reactionaries who were seizing power
right and left, from the battled halls of Wisconsin to the Capitol itself.
Now they are all talking about killing the National Public Radio, the
last voice of Reason and Democracy in the country. So was the Man from
Minot of opinion as he spoke his mind there. And many were there who had
helped teach Der Governator a rude lesson not three years ago to mind
his betters and heed the voice of Labor. Angry mutterings collected in
the dark shadows of that room.
And what were we to have with no NPR but only Some Things Considered,
This American Life - With some Exclusions, and Junk Science Friday, said
Dawn. Its a shame. Will we then have only the ostentatious Peacock, the
sneaky FOX, the cowardly Rat have voice while our little bird that sings
have none? Why is this?
And at this, the Editor came into the bar for a quick one before putting
the latest issue to bed. Padraic asked him how the grand Sister City plan
was going. That is to say, the well-known plan to establish this status
with a famous town up in Minnesota.
The Editor hemmed a bit at this and placed his order. O that harebrained
scheme, well that's been put to bed.
There was an acre of frozen silence in that room then, across which a
crow could have called an ensemble to sing "The Halls of the Mountain
King."
That did not happen, of course. Dirt ruts in the crusty furrows of winter
corn fields have more motion than that room at that moment. Tough men
with hands hardened by working daily for years with winches and concrete
drills looked at him with cold eyes.
Suzie quietly placed a glass of Fat Tire ale before the Editor before
scampering back.
"D'ya mean ta tell me you are putting aside a life's work because
of . . . what?" Said Padraic.
In vain did the Editor expostulate about lawyers and difficulties and
temperaments of the famous and their own insignificance in the face of
all of it.
In answer, Padraic slammed down his mighty blacktorn stick upon the bartop,
interrupting the Editor's excuses. "I tell ye we who defeated the
Vikings at Baile Ath Cleath, at the Ford of the Hurdles, and sent them
back running with their tails between their legs will not hear of this
absolute ninny-nancy poodle equivocation not seen since Shem first shot
the Russian General for his great insult to the Old Sod!" Intense
was the fire in the man's eyes which called forth the terrible Finn Mc'Cool,
and terrible is the wrath of Cuchulain in wintertime.
The Editor remained calm. "Render unto Luther what is Lutheran and
unto the Great Goddess what is Californian," he wisely said. And
all who sat there were amazed and confused.
"Should we not stand shoulder to shoulder with our Northern Brothers?"
said Dawn. "And with NPR?"
"I do," said the Editor. "In our own way. Our towns are
similar but not the same. Perhaps more alike than Shendong and the town
called "Alameda", but that is not our concern. All small towns
are more or less the same, for America is very large and it may be true
that from coast to coast we all long with the same dreams, the same desires,
have the same dashed disappointments in life, fall in love, marry, have
children, grow old and eventually pass away to a little churchyard not
far from the elementary school where each of us first learned ABC's from
teachers just like Ms. Morales, whom I think some of you know. This much
we have in common and because of that if there is anything I can do to
contribute with my little rattling alms-box of skills I will do so. Stand
at the barracades of Homestead and hurl the stones of 1916 in another
Railway Strike, which it seems we are fated to re-enact once again, I
will do so. The ghosts of Samuel Gompers and Joe Hill visit me every night,
for you do know that it was here that the national struggle took shape.
A struggle that for too long, perhaps, got shoved aside as an inconvenient
deduction from a too comfortable paycheck earned not by you but by people
who died for the rights we all enjoy."
At this, those tough men of the docks and the warehouses sat back and
meditated on this history, a slice of all they knew. It was here, right
here, that the fury was born which transformed the Country from a nation
of industrial serfs into a land of freemen. That had been a land where
the worker was so made a cog he slept beside the machine he served. Now
the times had led to the time of the Reactionaries whose one path led
inevitably to either totalitarianism or a repeat of all the violence that
had come before.
The Editor paid his bill and left.
Dawn spoke to a young girl with raven dark hair sitting by herself, pale
and thin at the end of the bar. "If it isn't Moira O'Callahan herself.
Sing us a song, love and cheer us all up a bit, would ya now."
In answer the girl stood up and folding her hands below her waist sang
in a high sweet voice so beautiful several tough guys fell in love with
her all at once and began to weep.
Ag uirchill a' chreagain sea chodail mise
'Reir faoi bhron
Is le heiri na maid'ne thainig sinnir fa mo
Dhein le poig
Bhi grisoghrus garth' aici 'gus loinhir ina
Ciabh mar or
'S ba e iochshlainte 'n domhain a bheith
'G amharc ar a' rioghan oig
A fhiafhir charthanaigh, na caitear thusa 'nealta
Ach eirigh go tapaidh agus aistrigh liom siar sa rod
Go tir dheas na meala nach bhfuair galla inti reim go foill
'S gheobhair aoibhneas ar hallaf 'mo
Mhealladhsa le siamsa ceoil
A rioghan is deise 'n tu helen fa'r
Treagh sloigh
No do na naoi mna deasa, pharnassus thu
Bhi deanta gclo?
Ce'n tir ins a' chruinne 'n ar hoileadh
Tu, a realt gan cheo
Le'r mian leat mo shamhrhailsa bheith
'Cogarnaigh leat siar sa rod?
"That's lovely," said Eugene Gallipagus, the poodle hunter.
"What's it mean?"
"I think its about a dead man goin' for a walk," Suzie said.
"O!"
"You could say that," said Moira. "And he meets a woman
who can cure all the ills of the world, and so she offers the young man
hope."
"Speaking of dead men, look who's here, cute as a drowned rat stuck
in a sewer pipe," Padraic said as the door let in a dripping boy.
It was Aisling, who hesitated there. Last time he met, Padraic had tried
to strangle him to death for being absent so long. Padraic had never really
forgiven Aisling for getting himself arrested and put in the notorious
Maze prison on account of being mistaken for an IRA terrorist. It had
all been a terrible accident.
"Come in, love," Dawn said. "Don't be standing there letting
out the warm air and letting in all the ghosts of the Sé.
You can take your break now," she added to Suzie, who knew the girl
was great with the boy.
Suzie and Aisling went out and shared a cigarette under the eaves.
"Ah, young love," mooned Dawn.
"Aggggh!" said Padraic.
Things were silent and still at Marlene and Andre's Household. The entire
household was gathered around a blue flickering tube from the battery-powered
TV that Martini had rescued from the trash. Toshi, a friend of Martini's
had family in Japan and she had been watching the tube and monitoring
her phone constantly for hours now.
A great earthquake had struck Japan, registering 8.9 on the Richter scale
and the subsequent tsunami had wiped out Japanese villages as well as
towns in Hawaii. That morning a panic had swept along the California coastline.
Toshi, a neighbor girl was with them, for she was of need for company
on this dark night of wind and weather. Her cousin, Kobyashi, was with
them as well.
"Any word yet?" Marlene asked Toshi. She had relatives in Japan
who lived in a small mountain village. All the lines were still down.
An uncle lived not far from the atomic power plant. She kept her cellphone
beside her every minute.
"No," she said and kept her eyes on the TV, which sometimes
showed images of places she knew. Once she thought she saw a former schoolteacher
run across the broken street in front of a fire.
Marlene made bread soup for everybody as the evening wore on, and handed
the guests bowls of the simple, hearty stew.
There they were, the little community, sharing what they had. We who
know disaster well.
As they ate their faces glowed in the blue light of the tube, and they
all waited for news.
From far across the other side of the Island, the long wail of the the
throughpassing train ululated across the patient, rain-dappled waves of
the estuary and the society of wildflowers thronging 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.
MARCH 6, 2011
RHYMES WITH ORANGE
This week's headline photo comes from the presskit for the Doof Festival,
courtesy of the mellifluously appelled Lisa Bullwinkl who works as an
Event Planner/Coordinator/Promoter for all things East Bay.
When Lisa gets involved you can be assured the event will be wild, wacky,
interesting and not your usual tchotchkes, tents and tedium street fair.
The Doof-a-Palooza will come on May 22nd to Jack London Square for a day
of food-oriented hijinks you should should not replicate in the school
cafeteria. See the Calendar for details.
It's another Bullwinkl Production, of course.
EAT THESE SHORTS!
Got a shout-out from Nik Colyer, current resident of Grass Valley. When
last we heard from Nik he was fixing to demo a surefire antigravity machine.
An occasional jewelry maker and sculptor, Nik is the serious author of
the three-book series titled "Channeling Biker Bob".
We sent him a note mentioning that the series featured unexplored comic
potential, but the guy is irrepressible. He is now out with another novel,
this one featuring two burglars and a flamenco dancer. Okaaaaay . . .
.
Here is a link to an excerpt.
COLYER
FACEBOOK
Also got a note from local boy Dave Elias, who used to jam down at the
San Gregorio General Store on Sundays before taking a sabbatical to Hawaii.
He has returned but still has links to the Big Island, and here is one
to a YouTube thing he did recently honoring "Grandmother Hapu'u".
Seems appropriate for Women's Day.
Got a brief report from Marinite Jennifer about the recent W.S. Merwin
reading up there at the Commonweal Gallery. The elder statesman of poetry
resides in Hawaii where he communes with trees and adds incrementally
to his 30+ books yet substantially to the planet every moment he breaths
on that other plane on which he dwells. Over 200 people came to listen
to the man speak in a rare public appearance out at Point Reyes. Videos
of him reading can be obtained through www.poets.org.
RAIN LIGHT
All day the stars watch from long ago
my mother said I am going now
when you are alone you will be all right
whether or not you know you will know
look at the old house in the dawn rain
all the flowers are forms of water
the sun reminds them through a white cloud
touches the patchwork spread on the hill
the washed colors of the afterlife
that lived there long before you were born
see how they wake without a question
even though the whole world is burning
YOU AINT NOTHING BUT A BRICK IN THE WALL
This Tuesday Islanders will march to the polls to decide on Measure A,
the school funding property tax. As the various arguments settle out it
seems pretty clear that the pro-tax folks fall into two camps while the
anti-Measure A folks fall into two very different ideological camps as
well.
On the Pro-Measure side we see a raft of folks looking to support the
schools regardless of costs, while we have a more flinty-eyed group that
appears to consist largely of realtors and property developers still seeking
to mine the increasingly ephemeral bonanza of still-inflated property
values.
We tend to sympathize with the first group, who really have the interests
of their own families at heart.
On the anti-Measure A side, we note a group of property owners who bought
some time ago with the intention of -- shock! -- actually inhabiting their
property for an extended period. Many of these are living on reduced means
due to the Great Recession and other factors, such as fixed incomes. These
folks see another property tax as particularly onerous during this time
of pinched reserves. These types are far more sympathetic than the crowd
of "starve the government to anarchy" types who would protest
any tax for any purpose simply on the basis of reactionary ideological
grounds. These people have only the thinnest of reasons for objecting
to the Measure, although they are by far the most numerous. Its unfortunate
that the lunatic idea that the United States would be better off with
a system like Somalia, where there definitely is no tax and no government,
appears to be on the rise in this country, fueled by demagogues and pundits
masquerading as "fair and balanced" news programs.
Most of the arguments about "efficiency" vs. "support
the schools" and "accountability" vs. "class size"
and the whole testing score comparison thing tend to be sophistic and
largely beside the point. We are in the middle of a savagely cruel "Recession",
"downturn", "austerity period" -- Whatever you want
to call it. We don't have provision for this set of circumstances at any
level of government you can name. Raising the parking fees and issuing
more traffic citations simply will never fill the budget hole. Not for
the schools, nor for any other issue. The recent proposal to boost the
parking fine so as to balance the budget is a canard and Rob Ratto knows
it.
The people elected the Unified School Board. The Board has said they
need more money to make things work. Things have gotten far too tight
to make the ridiculous argument for "efficiency" in government.
People, you do not want an "efficient" government. An efficient
government that is lean and mean is a totalitarian fascist dictatorship
and there is no other living or dead example. If you don't like how the
Board runs things, then elect another Board. But don't slam people for
doing their jobs honestly and conscientiously.
If people want schools they must pay for them. If you want fire and police
services, you must pay for them. You don't want to cut government to nothing,
for in such an anarchy you cannot expect that everyone will think and
act exactly like YOU. It really is as simple as that.
If people really want to seriously resolve the local government crises
now slamming every municipal and county government from Yreka to Brawley
in the Imperial Valley they need to orchestrate a carry-over of encumbered
debt from year to year -- necessarily involving significant federal involvement
-- to avoid situations like Vallejo while still maintaining critical social
services which right now are the only slim hedge against nationwide disaster
scenarios matching and exceeding 1929.
As for this bogus term "entitlements", time to drop it. This
is getting old and tiresome and in the way of getting things done.
Whatever. If you haven't mailed it in, get on over there to your precinct
and cast a vote this Tuesday. Think of it as a party and the more the
merrier. And more convincing the outcome. Because its a Democratic Republic.
IF TODAY WAS NOT AN ENDLESS HIGHWAY
A dockwalloper marched in to the Bay Area, preceded by refugee seagulls
fleeing the last few rattling boxcars of the 2011 Pineapple Express, which
last looked on the radar like a stream of white ribbon under a big pinwheel
orbiting the Bering Straits. Looks like gloomy skies are in the offing
for the next week around here with snow in the mountains above 7,000 feet
and a gradually warming trend in the middle of the country after a brief
spate of flurries. A slow warming trend should let folks shunt down their
heaters on the Island, but hovering sixty is about as good as it will
get for now. Expect some high winds on the bridges on Monday.
As the Great Recession grinds on we continue to hear of companies doing
mass layoffs here. Lately, the Island-based State Street Bank dumped about
100+ employees as they shifted operations to Sacto. Webcor, however, recently
announced a move to Harbor Bay Island, with an unknown number of jobs
to occupy an entire floor at 1751 Harbor Bay Parkway.
Mancini has got a part-time job working as a sawboy up at the Veriflo
valve factory in Richmond. A sawboy is basically a journeyman machinist
whose job is to cut fifty-foot alloy ingots into chunks that can be worked
into unibody valves. Each day the truck pulls up and unloads by means
of a crane these long rods of five-inch thick steel alloy, each weighing
thousands of pounds, which Mancini cuts with a manual saw into nearly
cubical shapes. The dies then got dropped into plastic trays to be sent
down the assembly line for drilling.
The air is thick with the yellow/orange cutting oil used by the big ball-end
Makita drills and Mancini has to shower down every day after work to get
rid of the thick stuff in his hair.
Every day, Mancini rides up to the factory on the back of Pahrump's belching,
coughing, knocking old Beezer before the sun comes up, and every afternoon
Pahrump fetches him back along the San Pablo slot past the hookers and
the body shops. Upon arrival Mancini then gives him a dollar for the gas
and the trouble. And every Friday, Pahrump uses his weekly wages thus
collected, minus gas, to buy a gallon jug of wine which he and Mancini
and Occasional Quentin would polish off on the porch, weather permitting.
Xavier got a job working down in South City at the I Magnin distribution
warehouse. This one began about 4 p.m. so Pahrump had plenty of time to
gas up and haul him over for the minimum wage gig before dropping off
Marsha at the Overnight Messenger dispatch office where she and a guy
named Carlos maintained the radios for truckers and delivery nomads through
the wee hours. Carlos came to work armed with a 9mm Beretta, which he
would periodically pop off outside the door towards the swamp that lead
down to the Bay. After catching some shuteye, Pahrump went through the
cycle of pickup and deliver all over again, occasionally shifting to Sharon's
beatup and very disreputable Tercel which had lacked its fifth gear for
as long as anyone could remember when the Beezer was proving to be more
than usually intractable.
Sharon worked as a crisis nurse at the Sausal Creek Psychiatric Clinic
and usually was far too engaged to be concerned about her car.
"I AM GOING TO KILL EVERYBODY IN THIS ROOM, INCLUDING MYSELF! AND
STARTING WITH YOU!" Sharon's last patient screamed. The man started
taking off all of his clothes.
"Um, should I 5150 this guy?" Yolanda asked.
"No you don't" Sharon said, ignoring Yolanda. "You know
you really don't want to hurt me. Just think how boring things would be."
Things got better with the man after that.
The bundle rolled from the car at the feet of Andre as he walked along
the Strand, trying to forget the Troubles of Life.
A ragged figure emerged from the bundle. A young boy. The car's tires
squealed as it tore off at the bend of Shoreline towards Oaktown.
"You okay?" Andre asked.
The boy paused, then said, "Nothing broken, nothing thrown. This
time."
It looked like he had a few scrapes, nonetheless. "You going anywhere?"
Andre said, a certain fatalism creeping into his voice.
"No place particular," The boy said.
"You might as well come along with me." Andre said.
"O, I know. You wanna DO me," the boy said. "That case,
I want somethin' ta eat, first. I want something ta eat before anything."
"No I don't want to do you. Just want you to meet my girlfriend.
Come on now."
"O that's kinky. But I want somethin TA eat first. I wan' a burger
and some fries an' . . .".
"Don't worry. She'll feed you I guarantee."
"Okay now. You look funny with them rings and tattoos and stuff.
You seem all right. What's up with the girlfriend?"
"Well . . . we are all kind of alike. And I expect you'll meet her
approval. You need to meet her approval you know."
"O!"
"Y'see she can't have no kids on account of what her daddy done
to her. But you look all right. I guess you will do."
When they got to the Household on Otis, Marlene set to fussing right
away. She set on a kettle to boil and got some pads left over from when
Jose broke his leg the last time, and sneaked some painkiller from Javier's
stash. The boy dove into the bowl of bread soup Marlene set in front of
him like he was starving, which he probably was.
"How come you got tossed from the car," Andre finally asked.
"Didn't wanna go to the piss boxes with the old men no more,"
the boy said, while Marlene dabbed at a nasty gash above his eyebrow.
An' I didn't like being beat up all the time like Sylvester my brother."
Marlene looked at Andre.
"Um where is your brother now?"
The kid looked wary. "Not sure I know nothing."
"We'll take care of him later," Marlene said.
Suan came home then, breezing through the door and shaking raindrops
from her cape. "Who's this?"
The kid pushed the bowl away. "There's plenty left there. I didn't
take all of it!"
"Well I see, there is plenty there. But I ate something at work
already." Suan said.
"You not going to hit me are you?" The child said.
Suan looked at him. "No honey, I am way too tired even if I was
of such a mind. You needn't worry about that."
As the weekend evening went on, household members drifted in from out
of the rain-dappled streets. Andre held a House Meeting. "Folks I
know its crowded right about now, and things are really tight, but seems
we may have a new addition here and the rules being what they are, everybody
has to agree."
Everyone looked over to where Suan had fallen asleep with the kid wrapped
in her arms on the sofa. The vote was unanimous in favor of acceptance.
That's how Adam came to join Marlene and Andre's household.
They all knew that no family is complete without a child and they all
knew that they were sorely incomplete as Islanders without one and lo!
A manchild had been dropped in their collective laps. Consumatum Est.
Later that night Andre sat with Marlene at the table beside the guttering
candles and the remains of the bread soup repast.
This isn't going to be like raising chickens, you know, Marlene said.
I know. This is most definitely not Turlock or Lake Wobegon. Love them
or not, these are the people in my life. This is our world. And if I have
any say in the matter, in this world peace, truth, justice and beauty
will be the norms.
Right then the long wail of the the throughpassing train ululated across
the compassionate waves of the estuary and the tender wildflowers 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.
FEBRUARY 27, 2011
... IF A PREACHER PREACHES LONG ENOUGH/
EVEN HE'LL GET HUNGRY TOO
Nothing gets you past a cold day at the end of a seemingly eternal winter
better than a stack of hot waffles. And who should know better about cold
days in winter than a Scandanavian.
This week's photo comes of the sign over a local landmark eatery which
has been at its location on the Island since 1927 with its classic neon
sign, proving at least a couple Norwegians settled here in addition to
Minnesota.
We also have, in all seriousness, a diner called "Joe's", which
is wildly popular on the weekends.
A quick check reveals that Ole's has not only a facebook page but also
now does the Twitter thing.
Photo courtesy of Chad Chadwick.
WALKING BLUES: THE 17th ISLAND-LIFE WALKABOUT INSTALLMENT
We are getting close to the punchline of this extended series of 20 segments
featuring characters who have appeared in the "monologue" portion
of Island-Life over the past twelve years.
Segment 17 has the Narrator meeting up with a series of folks on the
street walking to the NYE party at Doyle's place. A magician's rabbit
attempts to resolve several serious social issues and an herd of moose
get into Mrs. Almeida's garden to cause there a ruckus, much to the Narrator's
irritation.
The YouTube post lists the various music credits if anyone cares about
that.
WALKABOUT SEGMENT 17
THIS ISLAND LIFE
It almost feels like City Hall is taking a deep breath, set to exhale
after 8PM on March 8th when the polls close on yet another single issue
election. Folks will vote on the school funding initiative, which due
to Prop 13-spirited requirements, requires 2/3rds majority to pass.
As a side note on a topic about which we shall examine more exhaustively
in a later issue, these 2/3rds majority rules and similar restrictions
tend to mimic a concern the Founding Fathers had for something called
"the tyranny of the majority", which is to say the Founding
Fathers understood that simple majority rule does not always work. In
fact they were very afraid of mob rule in this new experiment of modern
Democracy. Hence their careful arrangement of what is called "the
balance of powers." We will go into that at length later.
The business of government must continue, however, and candidates for
the vacant position of City Manager now have been winnowed to about three.
Speculation is useless at this point, so just sit back and see who will
be allowed to sit in a rather unenviable warm spot for the duration. We
do not see an improvement in the financial outlook occuring for at least
several months. If not years.
Rumors that the NUMMI plant may reopen may have been delt a shove-back
by the recent massive recall by Toyota. Still, that was the model plant
for the US, which should have instructed GM management to pursue a wiser
course (which they did not), so we cross our fingers and hope. It does
appear that GM has shifted from making cars they want to sell to making
cars people want to buy, which some marketing wonks see only as a fine
distinction instead of business common sense . . . .
The effort to slash funding for mental health and health services met
a defeat in Sacto recently, when the Reactionaries were beat back by Dems
heartened by news of change in the wind against the so-called Tea Party
movement. Also, it appears wiser heads prevailed in consideration that
they want fewer Sausage King and Tulsa-type massacres occuring on their
watch. Crazy people -- take care of them or they will take care of you.
On the upside, the recent sale of Southshore Mall pumps some $2 million
into cash-strapped City coffers. Now if only a portion of this could be
diverted to that "deferred maintenance" we have been hearing
about.
99 LUFTBALLON
The scheduled Island-Life review of international news took a sudden
back-seat upon the eruption of events in Egypt and other North African
countries. Quite obviously, all the attention was on Cairo and Tunisia,
Libya, and Bahrain. Even Al Jazzera (yep, we got contacts there now as
well) echoed the same concerns. During the anti-press riots in Cairo,
even the Al Jazzera offices got torched; well how does it feel to be a
rolling stone, guys. Pretty much all of it can be summarized from El Pais
to the Frankfurter Allgemein as, "somebody done stuck a stick in
the water and we got mud as long as it lasts."
Essentially, the different news orgs indicated that what comes out of
all of this instability will vary from country to country with no clear
pattern among them, except that the US seems to be for the first time
entirely absent from all of this. Sorry Bush Doctrine, you got nothing
to say here, in other words.
Bahrain will likely remain as it is, while Saudi Arabia will likely see
moderate revisions in their monarchy, leading to a much later eventual
demise of that structure long after everything else has been resolved.
The writing is on the wall for that poor bastard Gadhaffi. There is really
no good end resolve for this guy, given the course he has taken. Its okay
to pity the murderous f***r now, because the end is always the same for
these guys who refuse to acknowledge what is happening. A lot of people
will die needlessly because of his decisions, and that will only fuel
the fury unleashed upon his hapless self. He could have retired to France
like Idi Amin, but instead he will die horribly in some dirt-floored anonymous
basement.
Egypt has been an enigma for some 8,000 years and will likely remain
so.
Yes, your gas prices will go up and they will not go down, no matter
what happens. We are talking $6 bucks a gallon, and talk of $4 a gallon
is silly. Better unload that anti-social SUV now. Last we heard, used
Hummers were going for about $2,000 . . .
But what Europe really is concerned about is football. No, not that brutish
head-banging NFL stuff, but serious football, called soccer by you neanderthals.
Latest news from Der Vaterland has humble Hannover placing in the Top
Four of the Bundesliga, which is a kind of National Conference equivalent.
Winner there advances to the World Cup.
Hannover? Hannover is Germany's Chicago Cubs equivalent, except that
they have never, never, never ever been within a sneeze of a national
championship. It's as if a Minor Leagues team upset the Red Socks, New
York and the Giants all at once. As recently as this evening Hannover
was ranked over the awesome power of Munich-Gladbach. Blue and Gold forever!
IT'S TIME FOR DINNER NOW / LET'S GO EAT
A rough wind blew in across the Bay Area, bringing chill temps and a
dockwalloper that smacked us with cold rain and frost this week. Cars
with high profiles were warned off of bridges and the ferry service to
Babylon was cancelled for at least one day due to high winds. The weekend
struggled forward with bright skies but icy mornings as folks chopped
at unaccustomed crystals on their windshields.
As far south as San Diego 55 degree temps with cloudy skies were reported
while we all endured temps hovering near freezing in an unusually cold
period.
Sorry to say the Pineapple Express has at least one more storm heading
our way, due about Wednesday, which means that places East of here will
experience yet more misery a week now hence. Folks up in the ski regions
around Tahoe are loving this sort of attention, so its not all bad.
This morning all the cars out on the road glistened with skeins of ice,
indicating the early dawn hours got pretty nippy. Rumors of snow proved
to be unfounded at the end of the day, however.
Its been pretty cold for Susan at the Earhardt Garage in Berkeley and
so Lynette has been sending her out the door each day with mittens and
gloves. All the gals at the woman-owned business there putter about under
the lifts and hoods with parkas and bearskin hats while listening to Ani
DiFranco off the CD player. Lynette worked variable shifts at the Psychiatric
Center in Fremont, although due to budget cutbacks, her hours had been
reduced below 40 per week.
Tommy and Toby have kept their sloop, the Lavender Surprise moored up
at the Marina, stopping by periodically after each storm to check on things
there. Tommy had lost his job at the law firm in the City and so had turned
to temping for Bolt. Things were tough all around.
The four of them went over to the Oaktown Museum for the Free Saturday
there and talked about what the President's recent decisions about marriage
meant for all of them.
Tommy said he was not sure he would survive another wedding like the
one which had been disrupted at the Chapel of the Santified Elvis by a
pitched battle between angry poodles and the hunters one memorable Thanksgiving.
Susan mentioned that the Teaparty people probably would be causing enough
trouble to put everything off indefinitely anyway.
"Teabaggers!" said Tommy. Toby started giggling. So did Tommy.
"For Pete's sake," Lynette said. "You guys . . . ".
At Marlene and Andre's household, the long winter and the weather had
enforced crowded conditions which had begun to abrade everyone's sensibilities.
"EFF YOU!" screamed Marlene.
"BITCH!" screamed Tipitina, who also had turned to temping.
Her current assignment was for a supercilious jerkoff in the City who
constantly reminded people that He, for one, had made the Right Decisions.
She couldn't scream at the jerkoff, but then there was Marlene and Quentin.
"STUPID IDIOT!"
"You better watch out," warned Quentin. "A stupid idiot
got himself elected President of the United States! Twice!"
Andre then drowned out everyone by setting his guitar amp to nine and
playing a song by Metallica.
"AARRRAAAAAHHHHH!", screamed Suan who just woke up. Javier
groaned from his closet bed where his leg, still encased in a cast from
the disastrous V-Day impalement throbbed.
Yes, the winter had been long, and another storm was coming in by midweek.
Jose and Tipitina took a walk down to the beach where the temporarily
clear skies sparkled merrily with stars while the lights of Babylon across
the water gleamed like the fairyland of Oz. Tipitina asked Jose if Javier
had ever mentioned why his girlfriend had run him through the leg with
a javelin.
Jose shrugged. Love is mysterious. Javier probably had said the wrong
thing. Like he didn't want to get married or something. He paused. And
maybe she had bad aim.
Well I guess that action ought to make up his mind, mentioned Tipitina.
They said hello to Denby, who also was out for a walk. Denby rented a
room in the Lunatic Asylum next door to Pagano's Hardware and sometimes
the giggling and the howling got on his nerves. Lately he had been walking
down to the Cove where Strange de Jim had spent the last few minutes of
his life. It was peaceful there.
The three friends looked out across the water.
"Will things ever get any better?" Denby wondered aloud, his
breath forming clouds in the cold air.
From Orion's belt a streak gleamed briefly in an arc and then went out.
"Look!" Tipitina said. "Les etoiles riant!"
"Yep," Jose said. "Long after all of us are gone, there
will still be the stars. And they will laugh with or without us."
Right then the long wail of the the throughpassing train ululated across
the frigid waves of the estuary and the frosty wildflowers 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.
FEBRUARY 20, 2011
LIKE A BIRD ON A WIRE
This picture comes from Chad's Winter Gallery and was taken shortly after
they had landed in the tree. Gives a good feel for the rather longish
winter that has been wearing on people around here lately.
See weather report below.
LIKE THE WEATHER
A real dockwalloper blasted into the Bay Area this week, drenching things
with hail alternating with downpours and blowing cars off the road with
high winds, something sure to cheer up folks East of here in a few days.
Sunday dawned bright and clear after a week of lower than normal temps,
and we are looking at a few days of sunshine, minus a cloudy Monday, so
that ought to help out in places like Illinois and Minnesota.
However the Pineapple Express is not done with us yet, as we see another
storm forming out there in the Pacific and expected to arrive Friday with
more showers as well as a continuation of cooler temps. Tomorrow night
is expected to get quite frigid for this area, making all the SoCal transplants
long for home even more.
Extended forecast shows rain tapering to showers right up to March 1
with slow warming trends to 55 degrees. In other words, may not be time
to unhook that motorcycle battery from the trickle charger just yet.
DRIVIN' IN MY CAR / TURN ON THE RADIO
Episode #16 of the Island Walkabout is up on YouTube. This
one involves an episode to Percy and Madeline as they prepare to go to
the NYE gala at Doyle's place. Percy prepares by shining up his immaculate
two-toned 1929 Mandelbrot coupé, while Madeline's preparations
shock the audience by her . . . Well, you will just have to see.
ISLAND WALKABOUT SEGMENT #16
THIS ISLAND LIFE
If things were not bad enough the Island made front page news -- again
-- this time with the EB Express which did one of its special feature
reports on our humble little burg. The topic was all about the questionable
manner in which Anne Marie Gallant was ousted from her position as City
Manager, an event we had long predicted would happen at some time anyway.
The report by Paul Gackle also mentioned the rather thin air at the top
with a number of vacant core leadership positions.
The absent Fire Chief, Police Chief, City Attorney, economic development
director along with the MIA City Manager whose job is essentially to run
the city by means of a city charter that places the position above Mayor
in decision making does put us in a bad spot.
We tend to think the ouster of Doug DeHaan and Frank Matarrese has little
to do with any "power play" other than the endorsement of the
Democratic Club went to Gilmore, Bonta and Tam as a unit, leaving them
in the cold. It is true SunCal practiced a form of chicanery, which just
seems to have been, in hindsight, further demonstration of their incompetence
and bile rather than any effective action to return as players here. When
we last checked a day ago, SunCal still had offices with corporate name
on the building occupants' marquee inside 300 Frank Ogawa Plaza, but that
means little for the Island.
It seems, given the likely large events to unfold, that with the State
economic development funds cut back or removed entirely, for a developer
to build dwelling units along the estuary would be economic suicide. They
would have to make their own sewer and power connections, as the city
does not have the money to do it. We are hearing more "mixed use"
space and "office/retail structures" in the plans coming up,
which would be more cost effective than housing in the middle of a supply
glut.
Here we need to pull the bottom out of the magic hat of current realty
statistics, which have to be the most elaborate charade of smoke and mirrors
with a cape ever devised. Yes, building units ramped up slightly regionally
and nationwide, but where "units" used to mean "houses",
now they mean apartments. In other words, they are building more or fewer
structures, but the structures they do build feature apartment units,
not single-family dwellings.
As for the Point, it seems the best case scenario is to allow the Navy
columbarium and veteran's medical facility to go forward as best usage
of the land on the south end. Another entity is proposing a largish office/retail/industrial
park on the north end. All of which makes a lot more sense than having
one megadeveloper do whatever it wants with the majority of that space
there in a process that would oust tax and lease-paying existing tenants
who currently chip in some $11 million dollars right now without the city
having to do anything.
On the upside to this situation, if property values continue to slide
-- they are, so admit it -- and this continues to occur because Measure
A fails to pass, every other municipality experiencing exactly the same
problem will also experience exactly the same results across the board.
So you don't want to move to Alameda because the schools are not funded
so you move your kids to . . . say . . . Oakland. Yeah sure. Do they make
kevlar vests in kid size? Well then, how about San Francisco? Raise a
family by choice in San Francisco these days?! I think not! Every single
person we know who was born and raised there has departed over the course
of thirty-five years, angrily shaking the dust of the City from their
heels. We know a City cop over there personally and even HE hates his
job.
Under the toxic clouds of Richmond? Think again. Emeryville? We know
somebody who works for the City of Emeryville in their equivalent of city
hall and from those stories we get, nope, nope, nope! They are closer
to bankruptcy than we are and the one elementary school they have is on
the corner of San Pablo and 47th. Oh, and its also the high school, K-12.
Vallejo? They already are bankrupt. The loving biker gangs of Martinez
have some decent folks among them. Just because a guy has been to prison
a few times does not make him a bad neighbor. Necessarily. We generally
like the people of Martinez actually. But then Island-life does own a
vintage Harley. Well the streets of Newark, which never have possessed
a mayor, or a city council for that matter. And looking at Newark, you
can tell. The place looks like an armpit rejected by New Jersey.
When you talk about moving to some place like Dublin or Marin, well "screw
you", we say. Those people are strange with uncouth customs. As for
the GGB, you may have been around long enough to have heard a muttered,
"They never should have built that damn bridge." Save for the
unlikely intervention of Pilot Rock, even the drunken pilot of the Costco
Busan would have sailed right on through. Save for that damn bridge jumping
in his path.
People, when you go to the ballot box vote whatever, but vote for informed
reasons, not because of what amounts to blather on both sides of the issue.
On other fronts, the redevelopment funds issue is unlikely to affect
the Catellus project at Alameda Landing, which will feature a badly needed
Target store designed to keep dollars here on the Island.
Unfortunately, the Great Recession claims another casualty by way of
Borders Books, which will close its excellent store at Southshore Mall.
Another one bites the dust.
WHAT'S THE BUZZ TELL ME WHAT'S A HAPPENIN'
There's about three or four hot things happening nationwide, all of them
interrelated.
By now everybody should know what is going on in the Midwest right now.
About 70,000 people are camped out at the state capitol in Wisconsin in
protest against the attack on collective bargaining rights and unions
in general. It should be no surprise for people to learn that unions and
collective bargaining have long been prime targets for destruction on
the Ultra-Right agenda. Similar events are taking place in Illinois and
Ohio right now as the Reactionaries who are hell-bent on returning the
U.S. to the Middle Ages encounter stiff popular resistance from people
who finally realized that voting for a straw boss who has been mouthing
a few Palin-type platitudes also brings in an entire package about which
those people have not really thought much. When its about faraway immigrants
and invisible welfare mothers that is one thing, but when it comes down
to your own family and taking the bread off the table, well that's when
a few states are going to experience what we already went through with
Der Governator who never fully recovered from his political debacle.
One good thing may come of this -- people nationwide may start looking
harder at what these mouthy Reactionaries are really saying and what it
really means for them. We call them by their rightful name because these
folks ceased being Conservatives long ago.
Of course this agenda is being played out on a larger scale in Washington
DC right now as those same Reactionaries attempt to push through draconian
budget ideas which have as much reality behind them as Santa Claus and
the Tooth Fairy. It seems these people want to cut everything except things
they like personally, such as lucrative military contracts and bridges
to nowhere. Cutting taxes is patently foolish, for as every tax preparer
worth his or her salt will tell you, "you cannot make money from
taxes. It will always be either pay a lot or pay a lot more."
At this point the deficit is so large, the Great Recession so severe,
that even if a thousand dollars were dropped today into the pockets of
every single family in America where someone still has a job and every
single one of them went out to spend it, the resulting blip in any one
of the key economic matrices would amount to scarcely half a percentage
point lasting less than a week. Even if the tax reduction theory were
a valid concept generically, it would simply not be enough to turn around
the steep snowball avalanche which is happening right now.
Finally we come to our pet issue here, which is related to one of the
cuts urged by the inflexible Reactionaries who don't seem to remember
a key condition stipulated by their precious Federalist Papers (written
without debate and without majority delegate involvement) involves that
prickly thing called "compromise".
Long time Island-Lifers know that we riff off of and occasionally parody
-- all in light jest -- NPR programming. Some of us listen to NPR programs
regularly, for NPR has been providing the real fair and balanced news
coverage lacking in the vast majority of the alleged news media, which
is really a collection of OpEd Opinion desks sitting squarely on one side
or the other, all eager to misrepresent, distort and inflame the few facts
they bother to relate.
If not for NPR none of us would have heard Paul Wolfowitz express his
side of the Iraq war and how it began, for no way any of us would have
bothered with the nonsensical excuse of media outlet like FOX at any time.
Then there are the entertainment programs, such as Prairie Home Companion,
City Arts and Lectures, and short story readings on Saturday nights, not
to mention the rather brilliant reporting of This American Life with Ira
Glass.
Its clear why Reactionaries want to stamp out any media voices not beholden
to their agendas. With MSNBC totally disorganized and CNN hidebound by
internal rules by which no one else abides, FOX would be totally free
to blat its well funded "messages" as ultimate Truth in a vacuum.
As Ira Glass said during a recent interview, nobody reads the papers any
more for news. Nobody pays attention to news at all. Everybody listens
to and watches commentary and then people say they only want to hear news
that they agree with. That is the problem, but maybe that is the way America
is today.
This too is commentary. Because we want to pitch an argument. Our argument
is neither for or against any particular party. We argue for support of
PBS and NPR as pretty important institutions which should be supported
without reservation for in an healthy democracy, well-formed debate is
critical to conducting the business of self-government.
That's it for our punditry this week. And hopefully for a long time.
O LOVE O LOVE SEE WHAT FOOLISH LOVE HAS DONE
A big dockwalloper set in Monday with enough virulence to knock the feathers
off of the seagulls, and then kept up the pounding nearly every day until
Sunday. Folks heading to work at the factories in Richmond had to get
out ice scrapers to clear their windshields, while a fair number just
stayed home in bed.
Monday, of course, was the big V-Day. And the weather made a perfect
excuse for many to stay not only indoors but under the covers. It did
help if someone were there already to provide some body heat. All over
girls appeared in the late morning wearing thick robes and holding coffee
mugs behind steam-clouded windows before disappearing back into the shadows
of their houses for the rest of the day, while bouquets appeared on doorsteps
everywhere.
Despite the weather, Lionel opened up the Pampered Pup with a whistle
and a jaunty step.
Seems his date with Jacqueline went well Monday night. The two of them
had dinner at Cera Una Volta on Park Street and then caught a movie at
the newly renovated Paramount Cineplex. We don't have many romantic restaurants
on the Island, for here the taste runs to places like the wholesome Juanita's,
the sturdy Island Grill, the very democratic Casa Azul, the even more
democratic Chinese buffett on Webster, the family-run Everett and Jones
BBQ and the heartland corndogs of Der Wienerschnitzel, all places where
the mechanics, the print-shop workers, the fishermen, the day laborers,
the leaf blowers, the low level clerks, the teachers, and the house restorers
feel comfortable enough to put their elbows on the table.
Don't be surprised we have only one wine and cheese shop on the Island.
In any case, things went well for Lionel, for once and his friend Arthur
was dying to hear all about it at the close of the business day.
"Yo brother, you finally bringing out your deep warrior self, man
. . ."
"O please," said Lionel. "Sounds like you been hanging
too much with them Robert Bly types."
"I'm talking about roots, man, roots. So how'd it go? I heard our
main man Thomas got to homeplate last night. And that foxy Yvonne came
to work with her hair all out like a wild animal pulled on it!"
"Arthur, don't you think you need to get on with your own life instead
of messing with other people's? You remember old Will said 'The best part
of myself is my reputation'. He said that, old William. Y'know what I
am sayin'?"
"Yeah I remember that. But he also said, 'The very flies do lust
in my sight . . .'."
"I think you are badly misappropriating there, Arthur."
"Well all right about that. I'll admit that old king was nuts. But
there's also this:
'As an unperfect actor on the stage,
Who with his fear is put beside his part,
Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,
Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart;
So I, for fear of trust, forget to say
The perfect ceremony of love's rite,
And in mine own love's strength seem to decay,
O'ercharged with burthen of mine own love's might.
O! let my looks be then the eloquence
And dumb presagers of my speaking breast,
Who plead for love, and look for recompense,
More than that tongue that more hath more express'd.
O! learn to read what silent love hath writ:
To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.'
"Well," responded Lionel. You remember the lines well, but
'Speak the speech trippingly upon the tongue . . . Do not saw the air
too much with your hand, thus, but use all gently . . . O, it offends
me to the soul to hear a robustious periwig-pated fellow tear a passion
to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings.' So when
are you going to get a girl for yourself Arthur? There is also,
'THEN let not winters ragged hand deface
In thee thy summer, ere thou be distilld:
Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place
With beautys treasure, ere it be self-killd.
That use is not forbidden usury,
Which happies those that pay the willing loan;
Thats for thyself to breed another thee,
Or ten times happier, be it ten for one;
Ten times thyself were happier than thou art,
If ten of thine ten times refigurd thee;
Then what could death do, if thou shouldst depart,
Leaving thee living in posterity?
Be not self-willd, for thou art much too fair
To be deaths conquest and make worms thine heir'.
So there!"
It may seem odd to hear such fellows as these, the owner of a hotdog
shop on Park Street and a garage mechanic talk in such a way, but let
it be known that Lionel and Arthur came from a generation who's parents
were not allowed the luxuries of things like decent public schools, and
in some places were not allowed schooling or books or learning in any
formal manner whatsoever. Whole generations steeped themselves in the
great books of the philosophers and the poets by flickering candlelight
and the soft voices of their mothers in broken wood tin-roof shacks, becoming
far more learned than their alleged masters, for to seek Truth and meaning
under the lash and the chain becomes far more critical to the man in that
position than he who finds both The Republic and Nicomachean Ethics only
to be onerous chores interfering with pleasure and business both.
Those who would decry the worth of public schooling today apparently
have never learnt their history proper. The greatest enemy to tyranny
is education -- and They know it.
"O I get some now and then. Don't you worry about me," Arthur
said. "In fact I been keeping my eye on one particular foxy lady
right now."
"O really now." Lionel said. "And who might that be? And
does she even know anything about you?"
"Wellllll . . . there is this Jeralyn . . .".
"Jeralyn the Gospel singer!" Lionel was shocked. "That
woman is steeped in the Lord! You rascal, you talk about 'gettin' some
now and then' and you haven't been inside a church of any denomination
for well over the twenty years I have known you! What's got into you?"
"Uh, I heard her singing on the radio and I, . . .uh . . . it reminded
me of . . .".
"Talk about aiming high! I think this is the Stairway to Heaven
up the Tower of Babel. It reminded you of what? Being a child I guess,
'cause you sure acting like one."
"I am going to get spiritual and pure," said Arthur. "Let
me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediment . . .".
"o for pete's sake. You tear down that poster in your crib of Miss
February yet?"
"O I will get to that . . .".
"Hah! And throw away your little black book of names and numbers?"
"O that's on computer now . . .", Arthur said.
"Marriage of true minds. There can't be one 'cause you got nothing
between your ears! Damn fool waterhead . . . ".
"I think I am going to be going now," Arthur said as he eased
out the door.
"Stop by the Old Same Place and have a double on me, Mr. Spiritual!
'Cause that is exactly where I know you are heading instead of Pastor
Bauer's".
"Bye Lionel!"
The Island does have a collection of people who do reflect the vast improbable
mixture of the People that is America, with all their strengths and their
foiables, their loves and dislikes, their smartness and their foolishness.
If you are going to love America, and California in particular, you have
to love the People, who surely can be contrary sometimes.
So the day drifted into night a little later than yesterday, and a little
more later than the day before. The solstice had passed and old Gaia was
ever so slowly turning her head towards her warm Son, Mssr. Soleil.
In the Old Same Place Bar Suzie placed a glass in front of a woozy Arthur
and asked if she needed to call a cab.
"Y'know, that Lionel gets real tetchy when he gets into that love
business." Arthur said.
"I've heard some people do," Suzie said before turning to the
evening close-up.
Right then the long wail of the the throughpassing train ululated across
the romantic moonlit waves of the estuary and the star-lit wildflowers
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.
FEBRUARY 13, 2011
EXCELLENT BIRDS
This week's headline photo comes from Tammy Ferris of Sacramento, California,
who took this shot at dusk from the window while visiting her brother
here on the Island. They may kill cedar waxwings mysteriously by the thousands
in other parts of the country, but around here we know to provide safe
harbor.
The tree is outside an old house on the corner of Alameda
Avenue and Chestnut Street
THIS ISLAND LIFE
Segments 13-15 of the Island Life Walkabout are now up on the YouTube
channel. These return to the more lighthearted genre we have done. The
Walkabout drops in on the newlywed Sanchez's before visiting with the
crew of the Iranian spy submarine that occasionally passes through the
estuary. While the captain puzzles over a mysterious message from Teheran
we slip away to visit with Island-life staffer Denby Montana, who is keeping
himself busy on New Year's Eve by practicing his music -- with admittedly
dubious success. The Editor comments how difficult it is to obtain good
special FX staff and qualified musicians willing to work for free.
Walkabout Segments 13-15
HARD TIMES COME AGAIN NO MORE
Mayor Elect Marie has been getting down to the dirty business of the
City finances in parlous times, noting that the Reserve Fund's seemingly
flush condition is due to massive deferred maintenance amounting to over
$75 million dollars. This caused the City Auditor to comment that he is
"not optimistic" about the city's financial future, due largely
to pending pension and benefit issues.
A couple deferred issues concern both the firefighters and the police
union who both are getting concerned about lengthy delays in completing
contract negociations. That's shorthand for somebody dropped the ball
in the last administration.
The proposal by the new Governor Brown to slash Redevelopment Funds hits
hard at the Island, especially for those areas along the estuary side.
Park and Webster Streets are largely done projects, all which facelifting
was substantially covered by these RF monies. There's still a lot to be
done on the Webster side, including fixing up the tunnel portal, but that
will take a backseat for a while, along with any chance of polishing up
the "boatworks" area with its decrepit cannery and the industrial
waterfront extending to the newly refurbished Bridgeside if those funds
disappear.
Management of the parking revenue stream, sometimes facetiously referred
to as theParking Citation system, has been transferred as you read this
to a business in Irvine. Parking revenue taxes, levied as citations, must
now be mailed to
City of Alameda,
Parking Enforcement Center,
P.O. Box 57010, Irvine, CA 92619-7010
Parking citations may also be paid online at https://step1.caledoncard.com/
tickets/alameda.html. Free Internet access is available at the Alameda
Free Library, 1550 Oak St.
Any questions about paying ticket citations or instructions on how to
contest one must be done by a toll-free number (866) 353-0453, Monday
through Friday, 8:30 a.m. to 5 p.m. or by mailing written questions or
concerns to the address noted above.
Finally, we noted that somebody has taken the perfectly reasonable approach
to restore the shopping mall name to its rightful "Southshore Mall".
We, too, thought "Town Centre" a bit foo-foo as well.
OLD MAN TAKE A LOOK AT MY LIFE / I'M A LOT LIKE YOU
WERE
The Mastic Senior Center, which has been serving the community since
July of 1980, held a ribbon cutting ceremony on a bright, sunny Thursday
to mark the completion of the Lobby Renovation Project. The project upgraded
not only the interior but exterior landscaping and the ornate gateway
to the facility.
As the facility acts as a significant locale for meetings, events, and
special programs for Seniors and for the community at large, the occasion
was well attended by members of City Hall, including the Mayor, Councilperson
Tam, and the Acting City Manager Lisa Goldman.
After Lena Tam had just successfully fought a brutal hardball
politics battle, she certainly had a right to be all smiles.
Approximately one hundred folks from the surrounding neighborhood showed
up to witness the ribbon cutting ceremony, which ran into a minor snag
when the ceremonial shears failed to slice the thick ribbon at first.
Here, Senior Services Manager Jackie Krause delivers the welcoming comments.
The meeting rooms have been used by a number of civic organizations,
including the Registry of Voters as a polling place, the League of Women
Voters as a forum venue, and others. Programs have included low cost feature
films, budget lunches, live music, yoga, Spanish language classes, and
more among the potporri of offerings.
Nancy Gormley is head of the Advisory Board that funded the project by
means of donations, Saturday Bingo proceeds and thrift shop sales.
I THINK WE ARE ALL BOZOS ON THIS BUS (PSA)
AC Transit is developing a comprehensive fare policy and looking for
public input on elements ranging from goals and principles, to pass pricing
and transfer rules, to the timing and level of fare increases. The overall
aim is to have fares that are more logical and equitable, and fare changes
that are more rational and predictable. District staff has spent the last
half-year on internal deliberations, with periodic presentations to the
Board of Directors. We are now reaching out to our passengers, community
leaders, and the general public for feedback on our work so far. In early
March, staff will present a formal proposal, which the Board may choose
to take to public hearing in April, and then implement in late summer
or early fall.
Full details on the fare policy development are available in the Have
Something to Say About Fares? We Bet You Do! article on the ACT
Web page. Three of the most significant aspects open for discussion are:
· Should the District establish and maintain a fare structure
with consistent relationships among the various fare types (adult, youth,
senior/disabled) and fare media (cash, passes)? (At present, pass prices
are not a consistent multiple of the cash price for each fare type.)
· Should the District gradually raise the prices of youth 31-day
and senior/disabled monthly passes to reach a consistent multiple of the
cash price? (At present, adult passes are priced at 40 times the cash
price, while youth and senior/disabled passes are priced at 15 and 20
times the cash price, respectively.)
· Should the District adopt a multi-year schedule of specific
fare increases to provide cost and revenue predictability? (At present,
fare increases are proposed, considered, and adopted individually at various
intervals.)
The public can weigh in on the discussion via online form, e-mail, voicemail,
fax, or letter (see details in Web article). Theyre also holding
a public meeting to engage riders and other members of the community in
discussions with staff:
Thursday, February 17
5:00 p.m. to 7:00 p.m.
AC Transit General Offices
1600 Franklin Street, Oakland
THERE AINT NO BUSINESS LIKE SHOW BUSINESS
The financial hardships forced us to stop getting season tix to the Rep,
but Terence still lets us know what's up over there, and sounds like things
are staying hot in front of the footlights created by that old Swede,
Strindberg.
ANNA DEAVERE SMITH RETURNS TO BERKELEY REP WITH LET
ME DOWN EASY
Creator of Fires in the Mirror and Twilight: Los Angeles
comes back with her new hit show
Its been 15 years since shes performed on a Bay Area stage
now Anna Deavere Smith is returning. The beloved artist will bring
her latest solo show to Berkeley Repertory Theatre, the same theatre that
presented sold-out runs of her previous hits: Fires in the Mirror and
Twilight: Los Angeles, 1992. Conceived, written, and performed by Anna
Deavere Smith and staged by esteemed director Leonard Foglia, Let Me Down
Easy is an electrifying one-woman show that explores the depths of human
strength. Berkeley Rep presents Let Me Down Easy as part of Arena Stages
national tour of Second Stage Theatres production. The show starts
previews in the state-of the-art Roda Theatre on May 28, opens June 1,
and runs through June 26.
Anna Deavere Smith is one of the great purveyors of modern culture,
says Tony Taccone, artistic director of Berkeley Rep. I see her
as a civic shaman, someone who channels the currency of opinion about
huge social issues in this case healthcare and inspires
us to think and feel in new ways. We are thrilled to welcome her back
to our stage.
The Let Me Down Easy journey began when I was invited to be a visiting
professor at the Yale School of Medicine, Smith remarks. My
first thought was, Really, me, a clown, to create something in such
a serious elite environment? I walked away from the experience with
an increased compassion for doctor and patient alike. The stories stayed
in my heart and became the basis of this play.
Let Me Down Easy examines the body and the body politic, as only Anna
Deavere Smith can. Called the most exciting individual in American
theater by Newsweek, Smith conducted 320 interviews on three continents
to create this show and now she paints indelible portraits of more
than 20 unforgettable individuals. Using her unique performance style,
she introduces you to a rodeo rider, a prize fighter, and an altruistic
doctor as well as legendary cyclist Lance Armstrong, supermodel
Lauren Hutton, and former Texas Governor Ann Richards. Together, their
voices tell a stunning story about the vulnerability of the human body,
the resilience of the spirit, and the price of care.
YOU AN' ME BABY WE AINT NOTHIN' BUT MAMMALS, SO LET'S DO IT LIKE THEY
DO ON THE DISCOVERY CHANNEL
Its got to be that time of year again when our somewhat puritanical society
starts referring to animal behavior. Recently we were startled by a reference
during our favorite radio broadcast to "fingers like wild badgers"
tearing at an unfortunate woman's blouse, an unseemly image that hardly
does justice to either apparel or the noble badger.
We thought we would set things right, as some of us are looking to re-invite
the wild badger back to the Golden State, from where he has been absent
for many a year and where he rightfully belongs. Nevermind some old timers
complain the badger had the habit of breaking into cabins to tear up the
place worse than a rock band in a hotel room before pissing over everything.
Some critters never get a break from nasty rumor.
So here is a badger, apparently angry at the false rumors flying about.
Obviously, that is a poor mug shot, so here are two peaceful badgers
minding their own business.
Now badgers are not the only critters to get a bad rap about this time,
as innuendoes fly about like, well, like mad wombats.
Googling "mad wombat" (gotta love the English language!) brings
up some interesting results. Here we have a wombat who appears rather
jovial and not mad at all.
You never know how Google will interpret what you thought was a fairly
straightforward term. Here is the 2nd most popular image for "mad
wombat".
Now, Eva Longoria is most certainly a fine mammal, but it took reading
the byline to understand just how this ebulliant woman would come up under
the search term. Apparently she is known to friends (and probably a few
enemies) as "The Mad Wombat Eva". Whatever. This pic certainly
looks to be a good representation of the Golden State spirit, so stentanorum
est.
Since Ms. Longoria is not really of the wombat genus, we provide here
an image of a baby wombat that vies for cuteness. Little feller does not
appear to be mad at all.
Nothing swells the vernacular around this time more than the legendary
pair of "crazed weasels". Back to Google for that one and we
once again pull in some gems for this much maligned creature.
Apparently there is even a club with a most disrespectful logo
Continuing our search, we go to the King of cuddly animal representation,
hoping for vindication of our friend, only to find that even the gentle
Walt Disney has it in for the crazed weasel.
Dear, dear dear. This will not do. We were shocked. Simply shocked. So
we invited several known weasel associates to submit portraits. The winner
here appears to be ready to don his top hat for job interview or a night
at the opera.
So there you have it. If any of you young folks happen to be going at
it like crazed weasels this weekend or removing one's duds like wild badgers,
we certainly hope you do so with some manner of decorum. At least put
an Edith Piaf LP or "The Song of the Lonely Goatherd" on your
turntable for the evening.
LP? Turntable? Have we just dated ourselves?
MEAN OLD WIND DIE DOWN
Some stiff wind swept away the incipient warm weather, knocking over
tables and tearing branches from trees earlier this week on the Island,
our hometown set here in California on the edge of the San Francisco Bay.
High wind advisories remained throughout Monday for all the bridges where
high-profile vehicles were warned to stay off due to the gale force conditions.
This let to startlingly clear skies for a while, along with some chilly
temps (for California) at night.
Some folks wondered what had gotten into Pedro Almeida recently. Truth
has it that the man working all alone out there on his boat started to
imagine that his radio was talking to him. Not the two-way transmitter
used for communications, but the transistor radio to which he would listen
while motoring to and from the fishing grounds. He had become fond of
listening to the voice of a televangelist who ran a syndicated variety
show out of the middle of the country.
The man possessed such a folksy, warm, comforting tone, combined with
such reasonable delivery that made mockery of all vanity and foolishness,
Pedro found himself enraptured by the voice over the course of some twenty
years listening to the weekly broadcast to the point that Pedro began
to feel personally addressed.
Since there was not a living soul on the boat save for himself and Tugboat
his dog, he fell in to naturally talking back to the radio as if it could
hear him. "O I know what you are going to say next. You are going
to say, 'Well that's a fine thing!"
And the voice from the radio said, ". . .and that's a fine thing,
indeed!"
"Ha!"
"Heh, heh, I bet you knew I was going to say just that . . .".
It helped that he, like many Islanders, was going through some particularly
tough times financially. His old boat was in need of a serious overhaul;
things were leaking, fittings coming loose, paint was worn, rust was showing,
motors kept failing. And then the herring decided to vacate the Bay. The
radio voice made a perfect friend, for it never complained, always delighted,
offered sound advice, never borrowed power tools, and seldom asked for
money. Just once in a while. And since he was a friend, Pedro gave him
a little bit and bought his books and his CD sermons and put up the LED
crucifix he got from the radio website in the wheelhouse where the thing
shone bright enough to read charts by, so it kinda worked out as a deal.
One day, he came around the corner after having just lost a net of fish
due to some foul-up when he heard the preacher say, "And you! Yes
you! I am talking to you now. When was the last time you called your mother?
I say get down on your knees. Right now. Go ahead, right now! Repent I
say!"
And Pedro got right down there in the running bilge, saying, "Yes!
Yes!"
Denby was not so sympathetic when he heard about this. "Dude! You
gotta lighten up, man! When times are tough, people who sell Fear rake
in the big bucks. You gotta know that."
Fay, from the Filipino Center, and her friend Mona had the idea that
the main problem was that Pedro needed to get his hiney over to see Father
Danyluk and lay off whatever strange sect to which he had been listening.
"I trust him," said Pedro defensively. "He's a Democrat."
"O for Pete's sake."
So that is how the whole thing got started with Pedro and the radio.
As most folks know, the dreaded V-Day thing has rolled around again.
Denby holed up through the weekend with supplies of bean burgers while
the Editor barricaded himself in his office with Festus and Javier and
a case of single malt scotch. Festus was sent to peer through the blinds
for any sight of the notorious manhunter Leggy Joanne.
It was still early, early by the clocks of the nightowl, when the phone
rang. Festus answered by rapping the speakerphone button.
"This is Highland Hospital . . .".
The Editor grabbed up the receiver and listened gravely for a minute
before setting the handpiece into its cradle.
"Javier, get your hat. We've got to go collect Jose from the ER."
So the two of them went off to Highland. "Must be serious if they
took him to the Trauma Center," Javier commented. "Instead of
the Island Hospital."
The Editor just nodded.
When they got there, Jose was out front leaning on a metal pole, his
left leg encased in a cast.
"Hola amigo," Javier said. "Cómo está
usted?"
"Ah . . . estoy bien," Jose said, looking pretty damn
pale.
The Editor was more blunt.
"Okay, what was her name this time?"
"Angelica," said Jose sheepishly.
"Angelica? Ella es una morena impulsiva!" Javier said.
"Sí,ahora sé," agreed Jose.
"What did she do?" the Editor asked.
"Uh, she impaled me with a spear."
That's when they all noticed the pole that Jose was using for a crutch
was a javelin.
"O for pete's sake, come along," said the Editor. At that moment
the ER crew came out to wish Javier bon voyage, something not every patient
in one of the business trauma units in the country enjoys.
"Bye bye Jose!" A pretty doctor waved along with several nurses.
"See you again next time!"
"Why on earth do you always get involved with women like that?"
Jose hesitated a moment and then looked at Javier. "Como las
mujeres apasionadas son las más interesantes."
The Editor looked at Javier with a raised eyebrow. "Translation
please."
"I think he means he likes them . . . excitable."
The Editor drove Jose back to Marlene and Andre's Household where Jose
slept in the closet with the javelin sticking out the passenger window
from the back seat. "People do many things for Love, but Love is
precisely the wrong reason to do most of anything."
"Ah," said Jose. "Senor Editor you have never been in
Love."
The Editor paused. "You may be right about that."
Jose and Javier exchanged knowing looks.
"Ah señor, I have someone you should meet . . .",
began Javier.
"Ooooo, no, no no . . ."!
"Is nothing serious. Maybe coffee or . . .".
"No!"
Right then the long howl of the the throughpassing train ululated across
the romantic moonlit waves of the estuary and the starry 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. And do try to
stay out of trouble.
FEBRUARY 6, 2010
SLOW SURPRISE
We've heard via rumor and hamster-vine that things are a bit frosty up
North and folks getting testy with the long Winter. But the Solstice was
some weeks ago, meaning each day gets longer and a little warmer as Old
Gaia turns her face back toward the source of life and heat. And if California
is always the bellwether for things to come, then let this week's headline
photo provide just a little bit of Trost to those frigid Nordic types
up there.
This fellow suddenly popped open just yesterday, so take heart ye in
the frozen hinterland. Some changes and better times are coming your way.
PARADISE BY THE DASHBOARD LIGHTS
It hasn't escaped everyone here at Island-Life that a Certain Day is
coming up -- how could it escape notice with the daily onslaught of more
arrows and bleeding hearts than in all of that gory movie "The 300",
squadrons of smarmy songs all seeming to claim the dubious honor of having
won the EuroVision Pop contest and lurid displays featuring naked babies
armed with weaponry framed in eye-damaging shades of pink and red.
It's not even a proper Holiday with the day off. O crumbs.
Yes, for the jaundiced and the lonely and the impoverished (often a combined
descriptor), V-Day is another difficult time coming just after the Xmas
tree has been hacked to compost and post-Holiday Blues recovery has completed
itself.
So for you we provide the winning video from our little contest to help
you over the hump. Or lack thereof. Title here is "Love Hurts."
WHAT IS A PIER BUT A DISAPPOINTED BRIDGE
Some good news comes this way in the form of the Coast Guard's recent
decision to enforce 24 hour manning of the drawbridges and cancel a plan
that would have reduced bridge tender hours.
If the plan had been adopted, the Park Street, High Street and Fruitvale
bridges would only have been staffed by tenders from 9 a.m.-4:30 p.m.
and could only be raised in off-hours with four hours' notice.
Alameda County public works staffers had put the plan forward in an effort
to save money in these parlous times. Staffing the bridges 24 hours a
day, seven days a week costs the county about $2.6 million a year, and
they said they believed limiting the hours would save them about $600,000.
It took the disastrous fire of the Tiki bar at the base of the Park Street
bridge to make people realize that emergency crews would be unable to
access affected areas if problems occur during the wee hours -- precisely
when they usually do.
One thing this area takes VERY seriously is fire, and the consequence
of that arson-related event, which completely destroyed the waterfront
restaurant-bar.
A HOUSE IN CALIFORNIA
Houses are not moving right now in the Bay Area (somebody tell Keb' Mo'),
and when they do, they nearly always go at some kind of loss, even here
on the Island. One kind of property IS moving well and at significant
profits for previous owners -- shopping centers. The recent sale of Southshore
Mall to a German firm hit national news by way of the scope of the sale.
Now we are hearing of other big sales. In early January, investors bought
Southshore for $181 million. In November, Loja Group purchased the shopping
center that makes up downtown Pleasant Hill for $70 million to $75 million.
Pinole Vista Shopping Center in Pinole sold for $20.8 million in January.
All of these centers have at least one grocery store as an anchor. Most
recently, The Shops at Waterford retail center in Dublin purchased a year
ago sold the Safeway-anchored center to a group of Southern California
investors in January for a price estimated to be in the $50 million to
$54 million range. The announcement was made only this past week.
It appears that investors are responding to the shaky housing market
by flocking to somewhat stable, income-earning properties possessing the
key feature of grocery stores where people need to return at least once
a week.
ROCK 'N ROLL HIGH SCHOOL
Johnny Ramone would probably be amused by the antipathy and sheer nastiness
over the Measure A dispute going on right now. One side claims "32
- 1 Aint Fair", while another screams "Support the Schools at
Any Cost", and both sides ignore rational discussion about dollars
and cents and where precisely it should all go. In the latest skirmish,
acrimony prevented any discussion at all when one side threatened to picket
an event to be hosted by the League of Women Voters at the public library.
As a result the LWV canceled the forum entirely.
O for goodness sake and goodness sake people, please calm down and respect
one another. Didn't any of you learn anything in kindergarten?
Voters have until March 1 to request a vote by mail ballot either by
going online to www.acgov.org/rov or drop
in to the ROV at 1225 Fallon Street, Room G-1 in Oakland. That room is
in the basement of the admin building accessible via the parking structure
elevator. You can call the ROV at 272-6973.
ALL THUMBS
Nobody has every written a pop song about golf. Think about that. Not
even mini-golf! Few and far between are the sitcoms and movies about golf,
although there is a rather funny bit in that old-guys movie with Steve
Martin.
Anyrate, people still play that game, and this is an island where an
entire election was decided on preservation of the course here. People
take golf very seriously on this Island. Now there is a great flap going
on over the Chick Corica Course which is to be maintained by KemperSports
in a long term lease agreement still under discussion. The Kemper rep
showed up at a recent meeting to lay out details of a plan which apparently
stunned folks by its vastly limited scope which reduced the anticipated
36 maintained holes to 27. Without a clubhouse.
Holes are one thing, but everybody knows a hard day on the links must
be followed up by a mandatory sit with a few stiff one's in a comfortable
clubhouse -- which does have other uses by the way -- and so the folks
there responded to a befuddled Kemper rep who thought that all of this
had been understood from the get go.
THE ISLAND WALKABOUT
Our technical hamsters completed work on Segments 8 -12 of the Walkabout
and have posted the results to YouTube on the Island-Life Channel.
Segments 8 and 10 visit the Marina briefly, while Segment 9 checks in
on Tommy and Toby on board the Lavender Surprise, and #11 drops in on
Strange de Jim's Widow on Santa Clara. That is Denby assaulting an old
Grateful Dead song. Segment 12 gets pretty somber. The music is "Smells
Like Teen Spirit" while dropping in on what the young folks are doing
on the Island, and we pay some attention to one teen named Karen in particular.
This one has some disturbing material drawn from experiences at Sausal
Creek Crisis Center and various Bay Area hospitals, so be ready for that.
We will lighten up going forward from here.
Segments 9 - 10
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Segments 10-12
|
|
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HERE WE GO AGAIN: ANOTHER ROUND OF BLUES
The sun opened up the heavens this week here on the Island, our hometown
set in California on the edge of the San Francisco Bay. All the moisture
left by the dockwalloper of two weeks ago dried up and all the folks headed
right out to take care of business all at once, running into each other
on the roads in minor fenderbenders and vehicle contretemps.
With the change in weather and the approaching wretchedness of V-Day,
Island-Lifers all scrambled to handle upcoming upheavals as best as each
could. Since Winter is the time for it, this past week brought a great
deal of soul-searching and . . . very special last good-byes.
Pedro Almeida went looking and found Father Richard Danyluk fishing out
by Crab Cove on the jetty there.
Father, Pedro began, its been, uh ... six or seven weeks since my last
confession and, uh, please forgive me for . . .
O nuts with that, Pedro, said Danyluk. I'm fishing here. Just tell me
what's on your mind. Father Danyluk was not one to stand on ritual.
Pedro told the good Father that he had become concerned about things
Pastor Rotschue had been saying -- that was one thing -- and then there
was this other thing bothering him . . .
Well if you are asking me to comment on what a Lutheran Pastor says during
his weekly sermons, I am afraid you have come to the wrong place, and
I would mention that perhaps you should be spending your time with either
me or Archbishop Mitty on Sundays. What's this other thing?
Pedro said that he had perhaps been using unfortunate language.
O? As in taking the Lord's name in vain? he said as he reeled in his
merry bobber.
O no, no, no not that, well . . . maybe a little bit once in a while,
but I mean I have been talking about people I don't know very well . .
.
Ah yes. The tongue is perhaps the most pernicious of the Devil's weapons.
Downfall of many women and the damnation of many a man. The Father threw
out his line. About whom have you been, um, gabbing?
Wellll, the people there up in Minnesota . . . ".
Pedro, you know Pastor Nyquist is a friend of mine. And I rather like
Pastor Bauer."
Yes Father.
You know when we get together each New Years, you know what we talk about?
Fishing. That's what we talk about. And . . . he coughed. Good wine. And
Tuscany. And Nigeria. You know we both spent some time there, although
different parishes of course. I am not sure if they have parishes but
anyway, Pedro, I believe that Pastor Bauer and Pastor Nyquist and probably
your Pastor Rotschue on the radio can take care well enough of their own.
This is California. Time for you to come home and gossip about your own.
And perhaps Unitarians. For them I would make an exception.
Yes Father. I am so sorry. I only wanted to help . . .
Yes yes. Leave to Caesar the things that are Caesar's and to god the
things that are god's and the Lutherans to Lutherans. Go now in peace.
Are there no fish in this cove?
What shall be my penance, Father?
O skip that Hail Mary crap. Next time you have a brace of perch or sea
bass bring them to Sister Beatrice. Would you do that?
Pedro agreed and went on his way.
Denby was having a time of it back at the House and Marlene was trying
to console him. He had just gotten his rejection letter from the Bluegrass
New Grass Talent Contest. They had sent back his demo CD with a note and
five dollars. This is what the note read:
Dear Mr. Montana. It is difficult to know where to begin
about your performance. Ordinarily we try to offer constructive criticism
to aspiring musicians so that they can return to the woodshed, so to speak,
and emerge better, but in your case we could find very little on which
to build. Your vocals compare unfavorably to a frog farting on a foggy
day, according to our Ms. Shackelton, and your guitar-playing lacks the
qualities of tempo, harmony, rhythm, melody -- and the right notes --
which most find important for music. This according to Mr. Strenghaus,
who is the foremost authority on the subject. Your entire demo caused
the sensitive Ms. Watkins to turn pale. You should be embarrassed of assaulting
the sensibilities of such a delicate young girl. Shame!
We attempted to gather up a kitty so that you can perhaps
get some lessons on just about any subject, for in all of them you want
improvement, but five dollars was about all we could muster. Please do
not spend it all on booze.
Cordially, Ole Norsemann
Denby was brought quite low by this right at the time he needed to be
stocking up on 88 cent Michelina's frozen meals and similar provisions
so as to make it through V-Day. He had been hoping to win the contest
or at least win the runner's up prize, a fishing trip to fabulous Bemiji
where he had hoped to meet the fabulous Sara Watkins, but that certainly
looked to be out the porthole and flushed down the head now.
Denby, said Marlene. You are not a bluegrass player, you are an effed
up punk like the rest of us here. And Watkins is half your age. Give it
up. Come on home to Social D, Offspring, Iggy and the Monkey Spankers.
That's all you are ever going to be. Get real.
Denby grabbed his guitar and angrily began playing a Nine Inch Nails
song.
Eff! You are pretty bad, said Marlene. Maybe you should stick to Black
Sabbath . . .
Meanwhile the Editor was going through his own farewells to certain obsessions
he had held for some time. Festus, the messenger hamster, had returned
from the Frozen Great White North after great travail to issue his report.
"No go, Chief. The main man upstairs says you gotta drop this thing
or he is gonna sick a pack of rabid huskies on us. Ain't no way you ever
gonna get Sister City Status with this one. They are just too Big and
we are just too small."
The Editor was disconsolate. Fifteen years of trials and effort had come
to this -- a rodent's naysay report. There would be no great dreams, no
merging of minds, no melding of ideas, no creative fusion such as of which
he had dreamed.
He had imagined that common membership in the Professional Organization
of English Majors had counted for something, but apparently not.
Dude, Festus said. He is wildly successful doing what he does; he does
not need or want you. He is rich and lives in a house on a hill. He called
you a vampire back in October, remember! Time to just give it up, boss!
The Editor sighed.
Boss, California is a different place entirely from Up There. We all
used to be an Island -- remember your history. The prairie aint no California.
We got the mountains and we got the ocean, boss! We are the place people
go to get away from there! Right now its minus twenty degrees (believe
me I felt it!); here all the flowers are blooming. The wisteria is going
hysterical. The hardenbergia is holding forth. Daffydillies are dallying!
Are you not GLAD you do not live in Minnesota!?
The Editor sighed again. You are right Festus. Time to give up this mad
scheme. I had thought we would enjoy a dialogue, but obviously I was very
wrong. The Golden State is beset all around by its enemies and the Great
Recession and we must rely upon ourselves. What tho' the battle be lost.
All is not lost. Shall we get down on bended knee before that proud tyrant
before whose throne something something lately shook . . .
O for pete's sake, said Festus. I had to get an English Major for a boss.
Get out of here Festus.
I'm gonna get me a pizza and a beer. You want anything.
Go, Festus.
The Editor put on a Joni Mitchell CD and bent down to work on the big
Farewell to LWB issue, his remaining white hairs flying about his head
in an aureole.
Long ago, a writer friend -- one of those kinds of writers who wins awards
and stuff like that -- had told him, "You must do more than simply
like your characters. You must love them." Pause. "Sometimes
that is more terrible."
It was true. Once they were born they went out into the world and lived
lives of their own and like any parent, you got fond of them beyond reason.
They interacted with other people and you got jealous. It was always like
that. Probably best to leave other people's children alone, given what
he would do if anybody dared touch one of his.
"And now I am returning these things to myself
/ which you and I suppressed . . .".
At this time, a sorrowful Pedro sat in the wheelhouse of his boat, El
Borracho Perdido, a few hours before he was due to set out on his daily
run, and turned the dial of the radio from 88.5 slowly through the range
to 104.5. Goodbye Pastor Rotschue. Be well with your flock or whatever
you call your radio listeners. I am free now to go my own way. Maybe I
will check in on you once in a while, but things are changed. Tomorrow
will be a brisk new day.
Right then the long howl of the the throughpassing train ululated across
the quietly departing waves of the estuary and the waving 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.
JANUARY 30, 2011
A HAZY SHADE OF WINTER
This week's photo comes from Chad's collection of seasonal pics. No explanation
necessary.
ALL ON AN ISLAND
The Island has brushed with fame from time to time, and many are the
stories about the glitterati who have waded in the waters along the Strand.
Fitness guru, Jack LaLanne is rumored to have lived here for a while,
although we have no documents proving that. He was born in San Francisco
in 1914 and attended Berkeley High. He built his first fitness club in
Oakland, also the first of its kind in the nation, and performed many
of his spectacular fitness feats in and around the Bay. There are photos
of him doing high dives from the tower that used to be part of Neptune
Beach, so we can claim at least that much.
The barges in the estuary which so offend the aesthetic sensibilities
of people who feel they purchased fine uncluttered views with their beachfront
property are legally moored, not abandoned, and they are performing necessary
maritime work which is a normal function of an operation seaway/port area.
Boats which are truly abandoned are removed as they are discovered and
resources for safe and nontoxic disposal come available. Hey, you want
to cut government to nothing, this is the sort of thing that goes.
With the end of the mid-term elections there has been little, if any,
reduction in acrimony. The latest thing to plant bees in some people's
panties has been the Measure A property tax on which voters will decide
in March. The Measure requires a clear 2/3rds majority to pass because
of all the Jarvis/Prop13 limits. Folks have taken to calling each other
names and stealing lawn signs. Clearly we need better schools, for all
the adults are acting like children.
PSA
The latest iteration of NPR's fund drive is underway around here. Contrary
to the opinion of some, National Public Radio is not substantially funded
by the government, but by its listeners who contribute either individual
sums or memberships to keep this independent voice going. The forum provides
a badly needed neutral space for all kinds of issues to be raised, and
is vastly more fair and balanced than any other media outlet. Were it
not for NPR, we never would have heard Paul Wolfowitz admit to Terry Gross
"We never expected things (in Iraq) to go so badly." And of
course there is our favorite around here, Garrison Keillor's Prairie Home
Companion. Keillor has been called "a national treasure" with
some justification. His program has been running now for 35 years and
the older the guy gets, he just keeps on getting better, unlike some of
us here.
Folks who want to keep it local can donate directly to KQED (88.5 FM)
or KALW (91.7 FM). The link to KQED is HERE.
Or you can go to NPR
and enter your zip code to find an affiliate close to you if you are not
a Bay Area local.
While we sometimes riff off of and satirize NPR programs from time to
time, we do so with admiration for the truly talented men and women who
provide the news, commentary and entertainment of world class quality.
And all at a bargain price.
I COVER THE WATERFRONT
Its been a sunshiny, but cool, week on the Island, our hometown set here
on the edge of the San Francisco Bay. The weekend concluded with a real
morning dockwalloper that sluiced out things pretty good before moving
on across the Valley. Parts of the Bay and the Valley saw some thick tule
fog, indicating that the change in seasons is about to happen around here.
It may take a little longer for places like Bear Lake, MN and Minot to
warm up, but great changes are on the way even for the icebound areas
of the country.
Fog or rain makes no difference to the fishermen out beyond the Golden
Gate still trying to snag the last of the season's crab and shrimp and
cold water fish. Mr. Almeida has been out every day this past week plus
Saturday, same as usual hours before the dawn on his boat, El Borracho
Perdido, with his faithful Labrador, Tugboat. While he is out there working
he has been listening, again as usual, to his favorite radio programs.
Saturdays he always comes back late, idling in slow while the voice from
the radio sermon consoles him or not as the case may be. Last week Pastor
Rotschue had a guest host his show, and while the guest, a woman Lutheran
pastor from Nickel Creek, WY, sounded chipper and talented in her own
way, Pedro missed the rich tonalities of the more experienced man's voice.
In truth, there was no replacing the man. He had his niche there, telling
stories, singing hymns, introducing guest musicians and there was no one
who could quite do what the man did and that was a fact. Latterly, the
Pastor had been talking about getting old and moving on to other things,
but Pedro didn't want that to happen. There in that old boathouse the
warm, comforting voice had been with him for many a long hour, many a
long year, through all kinds of troubles. And lately with the financial
difficulties, it seemed that the sun would never shine again through his
backdoor.
After setting the lines, Pedro sat down in the wheelhouse with a pen
and paper and commenced to write a letter to the Pastor. He himself had
been feeling his age coming on -- just the other day he had felt some
difficulty cranking the forward windlass. The Doc had put him on these
pills for his heart, which made him have to pee all the time. Dear friends
were passing away, and it seemed every few months another note arrived
which began, "Dear Pedro, you better sit down when you read this,
for I must now tell you some really bad news about . . .".
The time was coming for when he, too, must face the Adversary and leave
everything behind; everything he loved so much: his boat, his dog, his
tidy bungalow, his wife Maria. And this life. With all the nervous politicians
jumping up and down and the country doing to hell in a handbasket. Beyond
the blank glass of the wheelhouse, the hours before the dawn swelled with
the sound of a lone foghorn out there beyond the billowing prairie of
waves.
He thought perhaps he should begin his letter with a joke or two. Lighten
things up a bit. He was not so good at telling jokes, but he thought he
might try.
Why do bagpipers walk in a circle? To try to get away from the noise.
What do you call a pile of bagpipes at the bottom of the ocean? A very
good start.
What do you call a pile of burning oboes? Kindling for the bagpipes .
. . .
Pedro re-read what he had written. He was concerned that maybe capping
on bagpipes was not a good idea. Perhaps the man actually liked the sound
of bagpipes. As for oboes, Pedro was not sure what they sounded like,
but he felt sure it was something mournful. What kind of music were Lutherans
supposed to like? He was not sure about that one either. He did know the
man seemed to know a lot about music, so Pedro thought he might try to
sound erudite.
How do you put the sparkle in a soprano's eye? Shine a light in her ear.
O for Pete's sake, he couldn't tell a decent joke for the life of him!
He was just a fisherman and that was that.
He put the pen and paper aside and went out to check the nets. And take
another pee. Damn pills! Pretty soon he got busy and forgot all about
the letter and he stopped thinking about the dismal future ahead, or the
possibility that there just might be no future at all.
Very much later, as he motored back to the marina, he passed by a party
boat out from Jack London Square loaded with families and their kids.
One of the kids, a boy about seven or eight and wearing a bright orange
life jacket waved at him in the middle of his own special adventure on
the seas.
"Ahoy!" called out the kid.
Pedro smiled and waved.
"Ahoy!" the kid called out again. "Ahoy! Ahoy!" Pretty
soon about six youngsters were all calling out to him, jumping up and
down and waving their arms.
Pedro reached over and tooted his caution horn a couple times, which
sent the kids into paroxysms of absolute glee. A girl with braids did
cartwheels on the deck until her mother made her stop.
It was then he remembered something the Pastor used to say on his radio
program. "Nothing you do for children is ever wasted." Right
then, Pedro felt better about things. There might be one with him or without
him, but there would always be a future, no matter how bad things got.
As long as there were kids like that, there would be a future.
As he tied up at the dock and hopped off with Tugboat, he noticed a cardboard
carton someone had left on top of one of the pilings there. He opened
it up with a small suspicion and found that he was correct. It was a carton
of leftovers from the banquet for the Norwegian bachelor farmers that
had been held at the Native Sons of the Golden West meeting hall several
months ago. Juanita had packed the hotdish recipe with jalapeno peppers,
which had not sat well with the guests. There had been quite a lot of
leftovers.
He closed up the carton and left it for someone else to find and whistled
the Mandalay Pirate song as he strolled down the dock. "Heave ya
ho boys! Let 'er go boys! We're in for nasty wea ..... therrrr . . . ".
His wife knew that Pedro had been feeling out of sorts so later that
night for dinner Mrs. Almeida made Bacalhau, which is a kind of native
comfort food for the Portuguese. It is a simple dish consisting of simple,
unpretentious ingredients. Potatoes. Onions. Olives. Salted Codfish. It
is a reminder to people of their origins, of poverty, and of humility's
necessity. No one orders bacalhau from a restaurant with fine linens.
It must be eaten at home and be prepared by roughened hands that use love
to convert these simple things into Life.
The main ingredient is salt cod and the dish is such a mainstay that
a national crisis occurred when the cod fishing industry totally collapsed.
There was rioting in the streets and flaming barricades. People became
afraid that the days of the dictator Salazar would return with a vengeance
as total anarchy ensued. When the little country went looking for a salt
cod source everyone was delighted to find that one Scandanavian country
had tons of it -- enough to last for centuries, as those people seldom
ate the stuff any more. This is how everyday throughout the Iberian peninsula
and to Portuguese restaurants around the world, trucks pull up and drop
off these wooden crates from the country of Norway, each bearing the printed
name of the contents: Lutefisk. Proud Norway had saved Portugal
from disaster.
Right then the long howl of the the throughpassing train ululated across
the quietly laughing waves of the estuary and the grinning 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.
JANUARY 23, 2010
LEARNING TO FLY
One hundred years before Tom Petty, Eugene Ely took off from the USS
Pennsylvania in the Bay not far from the Island. Here is a pick of his
famous effort, the first ever from a US Navy ship in 1911 on January 18.
Ely was so terrified of landing in the Bay, he wrapped two bicycle tires
around his waist. They were not needed as he took off and then landed
successfully on the 120 foot long makeshift landing strip assembled for
the purpose.
SHORT PEOPLE GOT LITTLE CARS THAT GO BEEP BEEP BEEP
Somebody finally made a real estate sale here, and it was quite a humdinger.
Several months of negociations completed themselves in the sale of the
Southshore Mall (now called Towne Centre) to a German firm that specialiZes
in large public properties. Harsch Investment Properties announced the
sale of the 600,000 square-foot mall for $181 million dollars to Jamestown,
which also owns New York's Times Square. As someone commented on theislandofalameda.com
blog, the 1.5% property transfer tax means a pretty decent windfall for
the City right now when we really can use it.
Maybe they'll change the sign for the Mall back to the name we all know
it by as a guesture of reason and good faith.
The Police Department is looking for additional victims of the doctor
who used to work out of AAI Health Clinic on Central. Dr, Ernest Simms
allegedly sexually molested a patient there. Anyone with information should
call the APD at 337-8340.
Our marvelous League of Women Voters is sponsoring a forum on the controversial
Measure A. The measure proposes a parcel tax to fund local schools. The
forum will take place 7pm, Thursday, February 3 at the main library on
Oak Street. For more info go to www.alameda.ca.lwvnet.org.
Friends of Dave Landon flew down from Portland to check out the bluesman's
opening gig for the newly installed Miss Pearl's at 1 Jack London Square,
but found themselves turned away at the door Saturday night when the hostess
informed a group of blues lovers that the joint had not gotten its entertainment
license yet from the City of Oakland. Miss Pearls was a tony locale across
the water in Babylon there from 1989 onwards before moving here to the
warmer side of the Bay. Guess Oaktown aint the city that knows how just
yet.
MUSIC DO I HEAR?
Mike Ness is bringing the Social D boys to the Warfield on the heals
of a new CD release. A listening party was held here at the Uptown recently
and word is the stuff is hot. Social Distortion will rock your socks February
3-4.
Yoshi's has a brace of good performers coming to the East venue after
Ladysmith Black Mambazo held forth righteously and Grammy-nominated Ledisi
enchanted folks for three nights there. Bobby Hutcherson is celebrating
his 70th with his quartet from the 27th through the 28th.
The Fox continues to attract reeely big shews, as Trey Anastasio brings
his band around on the 5th of March after they have swept up all the spent
spleef from the ragamuffins festival on 2/26.
THE ISLAND WALKABOUT
Work continues on the sequel to the annual Holiday CD with the 20-segment
Audio Walkabout. Because the thing is so big, we are packing segments
into 2-4 unit chunks and sending them up to the Island-Life Youtube channel.
Segments 1-5 and 6-7 are up now for your listening pleasure with soundtracks
provided by Paul and the Monkey Spankers doing acoustic guitars, and Andre's
No Future in Real Estate doing little numbers like Black Sabbath's "War
Pigs."
We didn't know you could do things like that with an f-hole archtop --
and on second thought, he probably shouldn't. You will need Windows Media
Player or something similar to view and hear these.
ILWA ON YOUTUBE - PART I
ILWA ON YOUTUBE - PART II
A HAZY SHADE OF WINTER
Its been a bright and sunny week on the Island, cool for those of you
hailing from SoCal, but rather toasty to those of us from places where
you ought not to press your tongue against the City Hall flagpole.
Actually, the idea of doing that in any kind of weather sounds yucky.
Midweek we had a major dry dockwalloper in the form of powerful winds
that swept all the loose stuff from the trees and knocked the backyard
furniture against the Old Fence. The Old Man bent and swayed back there,
but that Old Sequoia has been there for well over 150 years and has seen
a lot worse. This windstorm followed a day and a night of dense tule fog
so thick you could carve slices out of it and lay it on your toast with
your tunafish. Such things generally signify that things are about to
change for the duration and all of Nature starts holding its breath for
that green explosion soon to come.
The rough weather follows a 4.1 afternoon shaker that reminded all of
us that we are put on this earth only for the duration and so its best
not to get too attached to things.
The bright sunshine does mean that folks East of here should see a respite
of sorts from the snow and such, save for what comes down from Canada.
There's something brewing out west of Hawaii, but that will take a while
to get here, if ever it does.
Down at the Old Same Place Bar the Editor parked himself on a stool for
a long "set" as they say, looking pretty glum. The Great Recession
is still ravaging the land with no end in sight and now the folks losing
their jobs are the ones who sat there in what they imagined were pretty
secure situations. Island-Lifer Agnes, she of Mountaintams.org, just got
laid off by a boss with more imagination than sense. Agnes had been the
IT specialist, HR Department, Chief Accountant, Office Manager, Supplies
Clerk and coffee maker for a guy who has a problem figuring out his golf
score. He fired her to save money, but when fools that stupid try to run
things on their own, things get ugly fast. Just look at what happened
to GM.
This was not the reason the Editor was in a foul mood. His reason was
far more personal -- he also had just lost his job.
No, not his editorship of a non-profit rag-tag collection of losers.
No, he had lost his real day job by which he had earned his modest income
and paid the rent therefrom.
This brings to a total of six out of seven managerial staff who are out
of work now. Not counting proofreaders, copyboys, the entire foreign news
section and Denby, the feature writer/editor. As for Chad, he was living
on Disability.
It had come time for the State of the Onion Speech by the President,
right in the middle of his term and in the middle of very trying times.
It also had come time for the Editor's Annual Pep Speech, and for the
first time in quite a long time, the Editor deeply sympathized with the
Chief Executive. O Lord, give us strength for mine enemies are at hand.
In a little while, the Editor had need to face ranks of people working
diligently without hope of recognition, without pay, and without any great
encouragement except what he may offer, even while their own lives became
ever more destitute by way of this lunatic economy.
And now, because of this situation, he would not be able to afford a
trip up to Bemiji, MN to ice fish with potential friends and trade jokes
and yarns and thoroughly enjoy all that the Great White North in winter
had to offer. Bracing gales of minus forty below and breaded walleye.
Frostbitten toes and sour neighbors with all the delights thereto. Never,
never, never, never, never . . .How many nevers did that old king babble
on the heath anyway? Nevermore.
Nevermind. It was all done. His life was utterly ruined. He was a total
failure. Not enough saved upon which even to retire in comfort. How could
he face anyone at the high school reunion for Poly High? Impossible. He
had another shot with a glass of Fat Tire ale.
"You still have your Island-Life agency," reminded Suzie, trying
to help.
The Editor tossed back his shot and ordered another right away. What
good was this profit-less enterprise to which no one paid heed, no one
attended? Worthless. All of his life, worthless. He would never hob nob
with the famously talented, nor embrace fabulously beautiful Scandanavian
women and really cute bluegrass singers, nor be embraced by the adoring
millions. He would never get to wear red tennis shoes to work. Not ever.
The agency consisted of a gaggle of ADA dependents, wheezing on oxygen
tanks, clanking their wheelchairs and getting querilous with one another
at the Office Colostomy Bag Replacement Center. Who else would work for
such an outfit as he ran?
O god. We are all miserable wretches.
In a fog he stumbled out the door and paused there taking in gulps of
cold air, well, coolish air, for California. The temperature was about
46 degrees. Above zero.
The long and level straight of Lincoln Street extended for miles in either
direction under the quietly buzzing streetlamps. Out there, in what some
call The Real World, people were losing jobs and their houses and homes
right now. There was a grim reality to this situation to which the smirking
idiot who used to run things never copped. No, you do not make your own
reality; reality makes you and the moment you step on a landmine or meet
an IED or lose your home you abruptly learn the difference. People were
genuinely suffering out there, and he, as The Editor, still had a job
to do. Make them laugh, make them cry, do what you can to ease their tortured
moment in the World. That is your job above any other. As old Jacob Marley
once shouted at his incredulous former business partner, "Business?!
Mankind was my business!"
And it seemed or felt as if the echos of that ghost reverberated down
the long streetlight way of the old railway line which once ran its tracks
along the path now followed by Lincoln Street. Mankind is our business.
Right then the long howl of the the throughpassing train ululated across
the patiently suffering waves of the estuary and the stoic 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.
JANUARY 16, 2011
YOU'RE WELCOME IN THE HOME OF THE BLUES
This week's headline photo might not be the Home of Blues, but it sure
is the Home of Truth -- because it says so right there in front.
This is the original site of the Unity Church, founded here in 1904 by
ministers from New England who were exporting the ideas of the New Metaphysics
and suffrage to the West as well as the novel idea that all religions
contain some truth to them. The property leases meeting space and runs
a bookstore to make ends meet. We found the ministers there to be delightful
folks worth talking to. You want Truth? Set right up; we got it here on
the Island.
THIS ISLAND LIFE
Right about now the first debates over the Property Tax have taken place
with the expected results. The Island Sun is publishing pro and con letters
each week as well for the election to take place in March.
Tempers are still running high after the last election and the recent
tragic shootings in Arizona, so y'all settle down easy now.
The shooter Jared Loughner might just be an isolated nutcase that is
more a product of our society's failure to set up appropriate channels
for the mentally ill than political vindictiveness, but the truth is that
the events mirror so well the violently strident nature of current political
contention -- which long ago during the first year of the Bush Appointeeship
abandoned even the pretense of "discourse" -- that any call
for a return to reason and moderate temper is a good idea. Politically-motivated
or not this time around, given what non-elected pundits, talking heads
and inflammatory voices ensconced within news organizations have been
doing, this sort of thing was bound to happen any day.
The bad conditions, call it Great Recession or whatever, just might last
for a good long while, so people better learn to deal.
HOME, HOME IS WHERE I WANNA BE
All signs point to the local realtors finally getting set to let the
steam out of the bubble here on the Island in a long delayed move. Prices
had been kept artifically high here by means of a number of maneauvers
as realtors expected things to turn around much faster than they have
along with helpful assists from various gentrification projects. Unfortunately,
this created a rather thin-skinned secondary bubble in the housing market,
which meant that the Island was about to see a rash of forclosures occur
about the time a glut in housing from people bailing on the high prices
and poor job prospects was due to hit the market. A recent gander at home
sales showed sales trending more toward the regional medians in the high
500's, with steady losses for homes purchased since 2003.
On the upside, if you bought prior to the 90's when the Navy was still
here and the Island not an attractive place to settle, you stand to more
than recoup your inital costs, plus any costs for remodeling upgrades.
A recent discussion with a notable financial analyst had this to say
about buying a home right now: "Do not think of your house as an
investment (as some people once did). Your land property should NEVER
be the largest item in your portfolio. If you buy, buy with the intention
of sticking in there for quite a long time and for reasons other than
investment gains. . .".
In the interests of disclosure, we note that the analyst did admit buying
a house recently, however in a part of the country where the base price
was in the $20's. Clearly, not anywhere in California.
BORN UNDER A BAD SIGN
In more disturbing news we note that certain reps at Kane Realty have
made it a habit of denying the return of security deposits to renters
on move out regardless of apartment conditions. One complainant we noted
never actually occupied his apartment during the two years of lease as
he travelled extensively and slept with his relationships when in town.
His stove, fridge and bathroom had never been used for any purpose, however
Marie Kane still withheld a portion of his security deposit "for
damages." Another former tenant was forced by Marie Kane to buy her
own refridgerator and then leave it behind. This six-year tenant had the
entire $1000 retained by Kane "because of the messy refridgerator
and wall damage." Turns out the plumber engaged by Kane left a hole
in the wall, caused other damage to floor tile, stole a shower fixture
owned by the tenant, went and lost the apartment keys made by the tenant
and never returned to finish these and other repairs.
In another apartment rented by Kane, we noted the wall plate removed
from a wall electrical socket. Someone had cut a basic electrical extension
cord, wired the ends into the socket well, then stapled the cord to the
wall down to the molding and along the wall to another room. Other wall
sockets also had their base plates removed -- this is how the apartment
looked on move-in.
Every day the bucket goes to the well.
LIKE THE WEATHER
Good news for folks east of here and for California in general. The week
has seen uniform days of moderate fog yielding to bright sunshine and
some high wispy stuff. We don't see a recurrance of the rain storms for
a few days, which means that the middle of the country should also see
some easing from the snow which has at least touched all 49 continental
states. It may be a while for folks in Montana looking at -29 degrees
to note any improvement, but hey, a little less worse might be better.
O, and if nobody told you, do not stick your tongue onto the town's flagpole
when it gets like that. You make become national news.
GOT THESE OLD WALKING BLUES
We found we had so much material this past Holiday Season that we could
not pack it all into one CD. So, we are going to post as a serial installment
the Island Walkabout sequence, which measures in total over an hour of
sound packed with narrative, music and several hundred sound effects.
And all without the help of Tom Keith (although we really could have used
him for the moose calls and the atomic toilet).
So here you go, the first two bits chopped into 2.5 minute
segments for ease of downloading/streaming/iPod whatever. Click on 'em
and they should play. Otherwise save to desktop and play at home with
any MP3 player.
INTRODUCTION
|
THE
ISLAND STREETS
|
|
|
There are over 20 segments, with some of them extending
to six minutes or more, so we will be parsing those out to you over the
course of the next year.
At some point we will push it up to the Island-Life Youtube
account where a few things already reside.
ONE IN THE NAME OF LOVE
As most folks know, this Monday is a national holiday, (courtesy of efforts
by Representative Conyers). Some events are slated for the weekend, including
a musical tribute headlined by Goapele. We'll talk a bit more about the
man and his legacy next week. Suffice it to say that each and every American
owes a significant debt of gratitude to this man who courageously, peacefully
and unself-consciously caused a seismic groundshift in the terrible social
conditions which basically had established an America for millions of
Americans that was no different from the harshest fascist dicatorships
in the world.
Freedom was essentially meaningless when nearly one half of the US population
was not at liberty to speak, to own property, to walk the streets without
fear, to earn an honest wage, moved freely from one place to another,
to be safe from warrentless searches, free from unwarranted arrest, free
from physical attack, free from rape, and free from general servitude
and necessary obesiance.
We now can be proud to say to the World that America's First Family in
the White House is a Black family.
ON A WINTER'S DAY
It's been a sunny week on the the Island, our hometown set here on the
edge of the San Francisco Bay. Things are drying out slowly, with the
morning fogs hanging around to past ten or so along the coast. All the
oaks along Santa Clara seem pretty convinced about the season, and the
squirrels have not been scampering along the Old Fence as usual. They
might even be doing something so radical as hibernating. And there has
been not a peep out of those pesky racoons for a while ever since the
Animal Control people showed up. We're sure they are all holed up under
somebody's house playing poker and drinking hard liquor while waiting
for the heat to go down.
Heard that a couple of wild turkeys had taken up down around Taylor and
they have been chasing the dogs. What on earth; do those turkeys think
they live in Minnesota where such behavior is condoned just about everywhere
except St. Paul?
Speaking of which, some of us listened to this week's PHC show on KQED,
our local NPR affiliate. Have to say it was not bad. Also, could tell
-- even over the radio -- that Sarah Watkins is a lot better looking than
that guy in the red shoes.
Padraic turned the dial to 88.5 in the Old Same Place Bar and they all
gave the guest host a good listening there in that bar while folks drank
their Fat Tires and noshed on his Celtic Buffalo Wings.
"What makes these wings Celtic?" asked Eugene.
"You see that parsley there beside?" said Padraic. "That's
the bit o' green remindin' of the old sod."
"But these wings are orange. . .", began Eugene.
At that blasphemy, Padraic brought out his blackthorn stick and smote
the bartop with a great crash which caused the earthquake monitors in
Berkeley to throb. "Enough of that talk!" shouted Padraic. "Put
a dollar in the jar or I'll break yer legs again!"
Bashfully, Eugene dropped a dollar in the collection jar for Sinn Fein
and the IRA, the contents of which Padraic dutifully collected each month,
deposited into an account and then sent of a check for the amount -- no
matter how paltry -- so that Sinn Fein and the IRA could continue to plague
the English and the UDF with polemics and the occasional firebomb and
random acts of torture and maiming.
It was done in all good humor, though. And up until recently, quite unlike
what is done here.
After the show was over, Padraic put the station back on
to music. A discussion started up between the Man from Minot and Eugene.
The man from Minot was called that because few around here had ever met
anyone from North Dakota, and fewer still had met anyone from Minot, which
many, including Padraic, thought to be a queer and strange place. Indeed
the Man from Minot played into this by telling the most outlandish stories
about the coldest place in America which was just about as flat as it
was cold. The nearest town to Minot was Winnepeg, Canada -- according
to the man -- and that town made the Island look like Sin City by way
of the residents resolutely resisting any eventful occurances.
Eugene had one up on the Man from Minot for he could remember
when the Island City Council had briefly outlawed dancing of any kind,
for fear it would encourage floozies to incite the sailors in any sort
of speakeasies.
The Man from Minot had to agree that this was novel language
to his thinking, and probably un-Californian.
Eugene could not remember if anyone from New York City or
Chicago had been on the City Council at the time, and so the talk turned
to events of note which had happened on the Island, including a spectacular
jet fighter crash which had wiped out a city block -- including Mrs. Tontini
with her dog -- and the time Joe DiMaggio knocked a ball out of the lot
where the Senior Center is now. This brought the Man from Minot to recall
the time he lost his partner when a house fell on him. This is not something
which happens everyday, not even to witches in OZ.
Everyone leaned in close to hear about this one.
Unfortunately, the prelude to this story sidetracked everybody
in a most aggravating manner.
"Me and my partner -- his name was Spencer and he was
as bald as a cueball from radiation treatments they had given him as a
kid for his thyroid . . ." .
"They don't do that any more." Lionel said. "Can
you imagine they used to zap kids for their thyroid?"
"Now I am trying to get on with this story," began
the Minot man. "Its not important."
"Well why on earth did you mention it then? The business
about his hair and his thyroid. Aint the thyroid in the throat? Reason
they call it 'thyroid'.
"Its just local color about the man. I could tell you
about his ex-wife Xiu Xong who once ran at me with a hedgetrimmer, but
nevermind . . . ".
"That's assault and battery with a deadly weapon,"
Eugene said. "Them hedgetrimmers are nasty business."
"No," someone else said. "That's Battery
pure and simple. Assault is if she threatens you with it like verbally
and so on. Law is clear on that. Did she say anything meaningful to you
as she came at you?"
"You don't know feck all about the law," Padraic
said. "Shut your gob."
"As I was saying," the Minot man began once again.
"We had to lift this house on Central because of a law about . .
.".
"I will not shut up," the outraged man said to
Padraic. "Its a free country!"
"The damn County made us lift this house," the
Minot Man pursued. "On account of this regulation for shearwall.
. ."
"You don't have to lift the whole damn house to install
shearwall," Eugene said in protest.
"I am trying to tell a story," the Minot Man continued.
"It was because of the termites we found . . . ".
"And that's another thing about the Government,"
Eugene went on. "You used to be able to just throw down some of that
copper green stuff and be done with it. Now you got to go and lift the
whole damn house clear of . . .".
"What's this down here?" The Man from Minot had
found a carton under the table with his foot. He reached down and brought
up a small cardboard box like the kind used by Chinese takeout. A faint
aroma of old cheese wafted out when he opened it. "Looks like somebody's
leftover hotdish!"
"You are probably one of them folks wants to do away
with all the government that is," Padraic said to Eugene. "And
undoubtably you are against the Measure A parcel tax."
"Yep!" Eugene confirmed. "Starve them bureaucrats
until there aint nothing left but police and fire. Any other ideas are
Socialist or lack common sense or both."
"And I suppose letting all that copper green stuff
flow into the groundwater is a bright idea in your opinion," Lionel
said.
The discussion degenerated right about then into a verbal
free-for-all with Eugene calling anyone who disagreed with him a Socialist,
and Padraic trying to tell Eugene that a society without a government
is pretty much the stock definition for Anarchy, but without the punk
haircuts.
The Man from Minot eventually found himself outside the
bar with Tipitina holding the box of leftovers from the Norwegian banquet
that had been held months ago. They could hear crashing, thuds, loud voices
and the breaking of glass. Things were getting ugly.
"So what happened to your partner," Tipitina asked.
"I had an aunt who used to make a hotdish like this,"
the man said thoughtfully. "Oh Spencer? He died."
"Because the house fell on him?"
"He had no health coverage. Couldn't afford it. End
of story."
"O!"
Right then the long howl of the the throughpassing train
ululated across the contentious waves of the estuary and 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.
JANUARY 9, 2011
HERE COMES THE RAIN AGAIN, FALLING ON MY HEAD LIKE
A MELODY
We don't know if Island-Life photographer Chad likes Annie Lennox, but
if the song fits, well, sing it. This week's headline photo comes from
Chad's large storehouse of images and sort of reflects the, um . . .,
weather as its been latterly. Looks like the Midwest gets a break for
a few days, but there's another Pineapple Express boxcar rumbling down
the tracks scheduled to arrive Tuesday in the form of another two-day
dockwalloper.
NOTHING CHANGES ON NEW YEARS DAY
The Island-Life Holiday CD is out and available from the usual shady
characters in questionable locales for next to nothing. This year we had
so much original material that we have more than an hour of music and
scripts for another CD which is now in the editing room for production.
In fact, we had so much original stuff we managed to sneak in only two
"pro" samples: BB King from his Xmas CD and Frederika von Stade's
rendition of "My Alameda" as she sang it this past year at the
War Memorial Opera House. Both available independently online at YouTube.
As usual the CD is available "kostenlos" as we really couldn't
ask for money after wrecking poor Euterpe's sensitive ears by way of slaughtering
harmony, rhythm, melody and the Circle of Fifths in such an indecorous
manner. Even Professor Schickele was aghast.
A particular triumph was obtaining Bob Pritikin's performance on the
handsaw of "I Sawed Mommy Kissing Santa Claus" with the San
Francisco Philharmonic Symphony. We wanted to credit the Director, but
for some reason he did not wish to be mentioned and managed to conceal
his identity by blacklining the notes with a magic marker and wearing
an Halloween Nixon mask during performance.
We got Bob, a former friend, to perform my means of the usual unsupported
blandishments, flattery, and alcohol. Normally, he is quite the urbane,
well-behaved, successful businessman who spends his time entertaining
guests at his Mansions Hotel with magic tricks. The hotel has been rated
by Michelins with five stars.
That absinthe available from St. George's here on the Island is pretty
darn good stuff, BTW.
WE GOT TROUBLE RIGHT HERE IN RIVER CITY
No, we are not singing "Sha Boopie" (and after listening to
the I-L Holiday CD, you won't want us to sing anything at all ever again).
No, the new year's baby is barely out of diapers before our Silly Council
managed to really foul things up along with the new Mayor Marie by breaking
two laws right away in holding a secret closed doors meeting and firing
the controversial Anne Marie Gallant from her position as City Manager
and putting the City Attorney Teresa Highsmith on "administrative
leave".
The action against Highsmith was pure formality, although somewhat questionable
in view of certain limitations presented by the 1953 Brown Act, which
guarantees the publics right to attend and participate in meetings
of local legislative bodies. (Assemblymember Ralph M. Brown who authored
the original law is no relation to the current Governor). The reason why
it was pure formality stems from the fact that Highsmith had already abruptly
departed service here without bothering to notify anyone that she had
engaged to do business for the city of Barstow -- some 400 miles away.
The problem with the action against Gallant -- a rather public political
foe of the new Mayor -- is that the city charter specifically forbids
the removal, suspension, or salary reduction of specific city employee
positions within 90 days of installation of a new officer to City Council.
Both the City Attorney and City Manager are listed as falling within the
boundaries of this limitation.
Then to do it during a closed door meeting violates the Brown Act in
addition. PDF copies of the act are freely available on the Internet.
While Gallant certainly should have suspected something would be done
against her, given what is probably a rather prickly atmosphere over there
after her failed coup against Tam immediately prior to the elections,
however the manner and timing of the housecleaning has outraged many,
who feel this was pure vendetta.
Yeah, well its pure politics. Get over it.
The problem now is that, save for the nuclear core of the Mayor and Council,
there is no longer any effective City government here, as virtually all
of the major administrative positions now stand open. The Fire Chief,
David Kapler, had already been put on notice, which he answered with a
full resignation in late 2010 after a brough-haha over him using city
gas pumps for his private car. Unfortunately he had also been acting as
Police Chief, so we are without one of those as well. The city no longer
has a planning director or a finance director, and its economic development
director, Leslie Little, just left for a job in Morgan Hill, leaving one
of several vacant leadership positions in the city. The recent elections
managed to plug at least one hole, as the head of the School District
had also resigned earlier in the year.
Now we are hearing about additional resignations, presented in protest
by city employees over the Highsmith-Gallant affair. Ironically, Gallant
had managed to improve the City General Fund situation by laying off some
40 internal employees, among other things, and her present position of
Administrative Leave means that both she and Highsmith will continue to
draw down salaries until the end of their respective contracts, costing
the City yet more money.
Its not really germane to ask why Gallant was given the heave-ho; it
was pretty clear to everybody that she needed to be looking for a new
apartment in another city after Tam got elected. The problem with all
of this was the way in which it was done, with the recent meeting of the
newly staffed Sunshine Task Force with the new Mayor providing a kind
of bitch slap by way of her recommendations that public comment during
public meetings be limited to 15 minutes per person and moved to an earlier
time slot on the agenda.
Yes, well, if the really important stuff happens behind closed doors
-- in direct contravention of the law -- it doesn' t really mean a whole
hell of a lot, does it?
ELEPHANT
Les Claypool does not live here on the Island but he might be amused
by some of the language around the debates for and against Measure A.
To clear the air in advance of distortions and misleading the pro and
anti forces will hold an open debate over the school parcel tax to be
decided March 8. This is not the same Measure A, passed in 1973, which
is cited by folks seeking to slow the destruction of Victorian and Edwardian
structures on the Island.
The upcoming measure will institute a parcel tax intended to support
the Unified School District and forestall closures planned in the event
the tax does not get approved. Two similar measures have been either narrowly
defeated in previous elections or challenged in court.
The debate will occur Wednesday, January 12 at the Hospital on Clinton
Avenue from 7 to 9 PM.
And for those of you who love all things both Navy and crabby, the Navy
League of the US will hold a crab feast at the old Officer's Club on West
Red Line out at the Point. Cost is about $35 for access to the no-host
bar and dinner in support of the League, which is a nonprofit that supports
men and women in the sea services and their families. You can call 263-9399
for info, or email nicole@pkconsultants.com. The website is WWW.NLUS.ORG.
ANOTHER YEAR OVER / AND A NEW ONE JUST BEGUN
Its been a chilly week on the Island, our hometown set here in California
on the edge of the San Francisco Bay. People have been taking advantage
of the break in the rains to get out and enjoy the cold, bright sunshine.
Mittens and parkas and boots are the order of the day, although our temps
hovering in the high 30's, well above freezing in most areas, hardly can
hold a candle to places like Montana where a couple Island-Lifers spent
the New Years period cuddling under blankets as the outdoor cold dropped
to a -29.
When it gets that cold, all the humidity crystallizes and you would hardly
know how bitter it happens to be unless you happen to be a Californian
grabbing a gas pump at the station -- without gloves. Searing, is the
operant noun modifier here, we are told.
Most Californians were never warned sternly to not lick the pump handle
when it gets like that, so they just do not know. Don't even think about
the iron porch railings. But then, most native Californians would find
it odd to go around licking ironmongery by habit. Heavens, so besotted
must be the place where children go around doing that in any kind of weather.
Don't these deprived kids have fudgesickles where they live? Where are
the parents for crissakes while this is going on?
The annual meeting of the National Organization for the Traffic Enfeebled
and Directionally Confused took place, again with a single meeting spaced
out over the course of two weeks, as none of the participants ever managed
to all assemble in one location at any one time. As a result, the published
syllabus is identical for all days -- sometimes even the instructors get
lost and fail to make it -- and the Symposium Notes are actually a compendium
of everything that happened over the course of two weeks, but reported
as if it actually all happened on a single day in December.
Once again the hot topic this year was "The Stealth Turn: Its Nuances,
Elegance, and Singular Assortment of Illegalities." For some reason,
the participants really love to practice here on the Island, perhaps because
Officer O'Madhauen looks so charming the more irate he becomes. There
is nothing like a man in uniform, or so say the ladies. And certain gentlemen.
Long term Island-Lifers know the Stealth Turn as that peculiar traffic
maneuver in which a driver either refuses to signal prior to changing
direction, or signals to do so only to abruptly do the opposite thing,
as in signaling to turn right in the right-hand turn lane before yanking
the wheel to the left and cutting across the intersection.
Such actions require deftness, skill, quick reactions and brazen obtuseness
to execute without murdering someone. Prizes are awarded for style and
sheer bravado. A common leap across three lanes of freeway to take the
exit from the fast lane earns only one point per lane, plus a point for
traffic density, while a sudden change in mid intersection gets a happy
Stealth Turner as much as five points. Especially if there are pedestrians
involved.
Simply turning right without signaling gets you one point for sedans,
and one half point for trucks. Any maneuver which costs a bodily organ
results in automatic deduction of five points.
Competitors who earn 100 points in a year obtain the coveted Golden Steering
Wheel Award at the annual meeting, if they are still ambulatory, and can
manage to show up on the same day and time as the national president,
who also has some issues finding his way around.
This year a special Discussion Topic entitled "Bemoaning the GPS"
was held 4.5 times.
Over at Marlene and Andre's household, everyone had crowded in for the
night as the cold and wet had driven those wont to sleep at the beach
indoors. Even Snuffles Johnson, the bum, moved from his hole in the deck
(where Javier's 50th birthday celebration had taken an incendiary turn)
into the fireplace. It was all to the good, for as no one could afford
to pay PiGGiE to heat the place, the place stayed nice and warm by the
heat of fifteen bodies or so in the one bedroom cottage there leased from
Mr. Howitzer.
Despite the realities of the Great Recession, Mr. Howitzer and similar
landlords on the Island refused to lower the rents, so the poor people
had to make shift as best as they could. With times as hard as they are,
some of Mr. Howitzer's business associates had seen their comfortable
profits dip a bit as folks moved to more reasonable lodgings and others
refused to buy the properties at still-bubbled prices. As a consequence,
folks like Marie Paine had taken to hiring substandard tradesmen to really
trash the places so that she should blame the tenants for damages and
so keep all the security deposits as well as the interest earned. Marie
was also fond of telling her tenants when an appliance failed, "O,
that apartment does not come with a fridge. You need to buy your own."
This was really a good one, for as everyone knows, it is next to impossible
to take a full-sized fridge with you when you move out, so Ms. Paine could
then get a free refrigerator or stove while additionally claiming damages
for the condition of the appliances. It was a profitable racket. Probably
illegal, but as Ms. Paine would say, "F---k 'em."
Meanwhile, at the household, it was bread soup again for dinner, as the
season for veggies had passed. After everything was cleaned up and all
the folks had enjoyed as much bread soup as they could slurp down, everyone
settled down in their sleeping bags on the floor, the couch, under and
on top of the coffee table, in the hallway, and in the fireplace which
had long possessed a blocked flue ever since a family of raccoons had
moved in there. The raccoons did not bother the household, for there was
never anything to eat there and they dislike dealing with Bonkers, Johnny
Cash and Wickiwup, the dogs, so they got left alone in their den.
"They say that the Great Recession is over and people are buying
crap again," Mancini said.
"But there aint no jobs," Pahrump said. "Its easy street
if you got one already. But there was over two hundert families at the
Food Bank last week."
A baby raccoon peaked out from beneath the flue until Bonkers woofed
at it.
"All that retail money is going to China," Jose said. "Instead
of staying close to home, like Mexico."
"Jose, you need a girlfriend. You are always complaining."
Said Tipitina.
"No money, no Honey." Pahrump said. "Old Indian saying."
"At least its nice to be warm and wearing something," said
Suan.
And they all pondered these words from the woman who worked as a stripper
for the Crazy Horse Saloon.
Right then the long howl of the the throughpassing train ululated across
the fridgid waves of the estuary and 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.
JANUARY 2, 2011
WILL THERE BE ANY STARS IN MY CROWN
We'll start off the new year with things everybody likes:
stars and bellies. Photo comes from Chad's trove of images.
They say 3 Wise Men followed a certain star. Now we see
why.
NOTHING CHANGES ON NEW YEAR'S DAY
Brand new for the calendar, we have Knox White shooting us a press release
as follows:
Media Release: January 12 Debate will be Measure A's
first
Supporters and opponents of Measure A, the March 8, school
funding ballot measure, will present their points of view in what will
be the first public debate of the tax measure. The meeting is open to
the public and audience members will have an opportunity to ask their
own questions whether they are members or not.
What: Measure A Debate, City of Alameda Democratic Club meeting
Who: Representatives of Alameda SOS and the Committee Against Measure
A
When: Wednesday, January 12, 2011, 7pm 9pm
Where: Alameda Hospital (2070 Clinton Avenue, Alameda)
All members of the public are welcome to attend and submit questions
In its 26th year, the City of Alameda Democratic Club is the 2010 Alameda
County Democratic Club of the Year for its dedication to working on issues
that are important to Alameda and Alamedans. Membership is open to all
registered Democrats interested in working together for common social
and political goals.
So as we recover from NYE, we will update the formal calendar pages.
WELCOME BACK MY FRIENDS TO THE SHOW THAT NEVER ENDS
Welcome back to the 13th full year, and 14th year of Island-Life on the
Internet. Been busy working on the Holiday CD which is just about done.
So we will provide a taste of what's on it with a couple MP3's down below.
Thanks to Chad for technical assistance, Paul for guitar work, and Sharon
for voices.
__
Each part is about 11 minutes, and is downloadable as MP3
format. The really bad music in Part I is only 45 seconds long -- be patient.
FOR PREVIOUS MONTHS AND YEARS GOTO THE HYPERLINK
BELOW
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