Welcome to the second half of year 2021, which began in 1999. The year's content is split into two parts to allow easier page loading for slower browsers. Each year tends to approach the equivalent of 380 typewritten pages.

Selected issues have been re-written for aesthetic reasons and proofed before being place in the Stories section.

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DECEMBER 26, 2021

YEAR OF THE CAT

During the past few months of the drought we had a flood of bobcat and mountain lion photos coming over the transome. This was largely due to the predators following their prey down from the hills to the well-watered lawns in the towns.

Here is a bobcat looking out over a fence for any possibilities.

WHATS GOING ON WHATS GOING ON

Due to the Omicron variant of the Covid-19 virus we are back to selective lockdowns. Because so many people are vax hesitant and also resistant to common-sense preventatives like wearing masks and social distancing, there is a pool of variant breeders who will ensure by their irresponsible actions this thing continues and also continues to produce yet more variants.

The one good outcome from all of this features the Darwin Award actions of a certain group of people in the country who are now dying with higher frequency than folks livining in places gifted with commonsense and higher intelligence.

IN THE BLEAK MIDWINTER

So anyway. The skies have gone all dense with high fog and the nights have gotten chill, for Norcal, and with the sun arising late and descending early, we have started to live in the crepuscular atmosphere of darkness from start of day to end.

Last Tuesday was the longest day of the year as the Solstice ticked over on the ancient stone clock and the sun's rays streamed through the portals of Stonehenge. Old Gaia sits there on the rickety porch of the world. Now is the time when Gaia tilts her weathered face creased with valleys, arroyos, hills, deserts, plains, mesas, continents and the liquid seas of her deep dark eyes away from gazing at her son, Phoebus Apollo riding in his bright chariot as she sits and rocks ever so slowly in the ticking wicker chair, the folds of the quilted Universe draped across her lap, the rocking becoming the dance of Shiva, the creaking rails marking the ever ceaseless count of time's advance, ticking each second, each century, from the first moment of creation until that rocking chair stops at the moment of that last, terrible, motionless silence.

As Gaia turns her face away from the light, her ravined face gradually cools with measured shadows covering the valleys of her eyes, all the world chilling under the frost that puts all of Nature into a deep sleep, and everything is precisely where it needs to be right at this moment while Phoebus Apollo gallops in his low-rider at an angle to her repose, harder to see in his daily journey, a sort of sideshow to beat all side shows.

Now is when the Goddess walks the cold furrows, morning the temporary loss of her daughter, gone to spend a pomegranate season with the Dark Lord below, and the sere stalks crunch beneath her sandals.

And so we passed through the longest night of the year. All shall be brighter henceforth as each day lengthens gradually minute by minute.

The 25th of December wound up on a convenient Saturday and all the usual suspects showed up on schedule: glittering angels, luminescent deer, fat inflateable red and green Santas, douglas firs bedecked with strands of tinsel and blinking bulbs, and Adam Sandler singing that song for all the kids in the neighborhood without a Xmas tree.

The Household, now fully vaccinated and full of juicy antibodies from contracting the Disease once again enjoyed a tree in a washtub, obtained by Pahrump, Denby and Tipitina from some place unknown. Lord knows they could not have paid much for it as no one has any money since the stimulus funds ran out. Martini again applied his electrical ingenuity by supplying lights in the form of LEDs from discarded circuit boards. Beer tabs and condom wrappers festooned the scraggly branches along with strands of yelllow and green CAT 5 cable. Gold ribbons and other tchotchkes rescued from the dumpster helped fill out the gaps. Topping this magnificence was an armless Barbie doll with pigeon feathers glued to her back.

The weather has been unruly with glorious, thunderous sheets of rain replenishing the parched earth, restoring the reservoirs all over the Bay Area and marching East to restore the Sierra snowpack. A great sigh of relief comes from many people who see the drought coming to an end.

Denby has been arriving at the Hospital where he works in the early hours before dawn as usual to push his mop down the long corridors where nothing sleeps. Nurses, Pa's cross from one room to another in white coats. Doctors wearing silver stethascopes peruse clipboards of information. The MAs type on silent keyboards in front of glowing screens. And back and forth, back and forth across and down the hall pass the Providers to and from rooms of various dramas, various fates.

Denby asks Dr. Rodrigo how many lives he has saved today and the Doctor pauses, looks up to reflect, says, "About three or four." Then bends back to his work.

In one room a code is announced and a new mother dies - her intentions fall to the floor. And the figure of a woman wearing a long white robe appears, her wings transluscent, glimmering behind her; she closes her eyes. Lightning crashes outside as the storm resumes and hail beats against the windows of the Team Room. Down the hall, a new mother cries as the placenta falls to the pan and the child is raised up to breath its first breath. And the woman in the robe appears above the new baby to open her incredible blue eyes.

Denby leans on his mop as the woman with wings passes in front of him, turns to look and then continues down the hall, padding in bare feet, unnoticed by the scurrying Providers. She pauses to lay a gentle hand upon Dr. Rodrigo's shoulder and then passes on to another room.

Denby, the hapless schlemiel who has been no good at anything in his life, a total failure in all his efforts at love, at work, at music, at saving people's lives, has one singular talent. Denby can see the Angels who walk among use while he is still alive. This apparition is someone's Xmas gift to him. He is still not sure how to make use of it. So he dips his pole and continues mopping the corridor on this Xmas Eve, Year 2021.

Back at the Household, the hours advance to midnight with all inside asleep in their cots, sleeping bags and hammocks. The decorated tree continued to blink through the night as the small creatures who live behind the walls came out to cavort and dance their usual dances until mama raccoon appears with three young ones who pull at the pinecones hanging from the lower boughs of the tree.

It was a peaceful night in Silvan Acres. No sirens rent the night air and no one got shot and no one got stabbed.

The train horn keened from Oaktown across the estuary to echo off of the embankments of the Island and then ricochet its way through the redwoods of Marin's well-matriculated hills and slide over the sleeping bulk of Princess Tamalpais, following the old, forgotten railheads that once led along Sir Francis Drake Boulevard to the coast, the sound stirring the coyotes who began to howl their evensong which carried forth on the winds over Fairfax and White Hill, ululating through Silvan Acres and the mist-shrouded niches of the San Geronimo Valley, coursing with faint gray shapes along the ridge-tops through the drifts of fog and dripping redwoods to an unknown destination.

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

NOVEMBER 28, 2021

GOOD MORNING

THE 23RD ANNUAL ISLAND POODLESHOOT AND BBQ

Blessed rain and a good Covid report ensured the 'Shoot happen on time this year. But this being the 23rd Poodleshoot in the Bay Area, there is no rushing to press on this.

their dog really "understands me"

It is hard to imagine that more than 20 years ago a daft group of lads decided to hold a humble Poodleshoot in defiance of misdirected sentiment, obnoxious aesthetics, and hideous twisting of values where an asinine species we will never truly understand gets more attention, devotion, and preference than members of our own species. Some foolishly claim that their dog really "understands me". It can be argued that in this present day in the 21st century we still have problems understanding each other, let alone another species and that species, us.

a miserable scrap of fur and teeth

23 years of Poodleshoots and still people lavish more attention and affection upon a miserable scrap of fur and teeth than suffering fellow human beings that really has little more capacity for returning love than a Real Doll made in China. It is all illusion and self deception. Well, that is why the Poodleshoot came to be.

"Poodles, or Piddles, as they sometimes are called . . ."

Actually the original Poodleshoot was held in Monterey Bay, possibly as early as 1985, when the grand prize was a set of bronzed ship's propellers. It is hard to find the original news article; for some reason the local government has diverted traffic from the old site, which is just too bad. The original was created to commemorate two beloved animals with significant acknowledgment of the human perversities regarding the breed. "Poodles, or Piddles, as they sometimes are called . . .". began the original post.

All that aside, the 23rd Annual Poodleshoot proceeded as follows.

The annual Island Tradition took place again, beginning with the usual, traditional ceremonies.

she trailed her gauzy banners across the firmament

As per Tradition, on the day of the 23rd Annual Poodleshoot, rosy-fingered Dawn arose from the horizon's dark bed and pushed back the shutters of night to allow Phoebus to mount his golden chariot and so, preceding the day, she trailed her gauzy banners across the firmament, traveling across the yard from the battered old half-moon privy hard by the weeds to the house back porch, leaving behind a sort of dew after her passage. Gently, she flushed, and gently she tugged upon the coverlet, and gently she kissed the eyelids of the sleeping Padraic, but he stirred not. Gently she nudged the man, who only mumbled and snorted as he remained held fast in the soft, woolly folds of Morpheus. Playfully, she noodged him once again, but he remained walking in that shadow kingdom of the somnolent God.

Her fingers becoming rays of sunlight, turned the dial so as to allow the sweet strains of muse Calliope to thrum the air as guided by the goddess Rosalie Howarth of KFOG, but Padriac snored and stirred not.

Dawn O'Reilly was not a woman to be trifled with

Then Dawn reared back with her rosy fists upraised and brought them down heavily to smite Padraic a mighty thwack, and that got him up all right, for Dawn O'Reilly was not a woman to be trifled with at any time of the day. And so Padraic bestirred himself to make ready for the Annual Island Poodleshoot and BBQ.

So it was that Padraic rolled out the barrels of the Water of Life and set up the Pit for this year's festivities under bright, chill skies, which had cleared briefly from the storm clouds for the day, once again down by the disputed Crab Cove on the Island while Bob Brown, owner of Rancho Nicasio, helped setup the Silvan Acres site with tables, BBQ drums, and all the fixin's for a great feast.

John Phillip Sousa's Liberty Bell March

The ceremonies began with the traditional playing of the Paraguay National Anthem, as arranged by Terry Gilliam, and performed by the Island Hoophole Orchestra accompanied by the Brickbat Targets chorale ensemble. This piece has been favorably compared to John Phillip Sousa's Liberty Bell March, with which work the modality is inextricably entwined.

In Marin the Hapless Jerrykids noodled into Walking on the Moon, which was followed by the San Geronimo Acoustics who performed Neal Young's "Pocahontas". Ensemble then brok e all their instruments and stalked offstage with a number of war whoops.

This was followed on the Island by the devilish meisterwerk composed by Marie Kane entitled, "Die Sieg der Satanische Landentwickler", an adaptable work which allows insertion of alta-contemporary chorales at the whim of the Conductor at the pleasure of any municipal governing body.

The ensemble group which has made something of a name for itself by inventing entirely new parts for voice, consisted of Mayor Izzy as soprano alla triste in the Misericordia segment and Councilperson Daysog as mezzo soprano mournful did a fair version of Iago's treacherous soliloquy, with former Councilperson Frank in his basso triste "You're Gonna Miss Me When I'm Gone" performance in the esoteric work La Chambre à l'arrière Enfumee Boogie by Brooks and Dunne.

John Knox White and Tony Daysog performed a lovely duet as well as a lovely pas de deux in pinstriped pinafores with nunchucks. The two sang "Our Town" and "I got you Babe with astonishing verve.

In Marin, the ensemble performance of Le Papillion Enragee caused a number of ladies to faint and gentlemen to resort to flasks of bourbon to revive our beloved Monarchs.

Karen D'Souza of the Contra Costa Times has called it "devilishly complicated"

Many reviewers have called this piece amazingly impossible to accomplish, and quite a pastiche. The East Bay Express found "this game of smoky backrooms is too much to believe." Karen D'Souza of the Contra Costa Times has called it "devilishly complicated" and "hard to believe it goes on. And on. And on still more," while Jim Harrington has called this performance, "the most dreadful rubbish since the last time I wrote a mixed review. I never fully approve of anything but this gave badness a new name."

The Chronicle, always more reserved due to the heavy influence of conservative ACT in the City, has commented, "It should be interesting to see how well this thing floats in the future amid this stormy time for companies. We miss Trish Spencer performing as City Mayor, a role she continued to adopt with nearly convincing theatricality. Mayor Izzy Ashcroft is far more persuasive although less a comic genius."

Of course, their theatre/music review got mixed up for that issue with the economic report and the elections special, so the meaning of that is up to interpretation.

The East Bay Express got the dates wrong on its Calendar section, as usual, so they had no review.

The Examiner, as usual, ignored Reality and talked about the batboy who had been abducted by space aliens.

Fox News ran a piece about how the Examiner's Space Aliens had stolen the Presidential Election and that former President Obama had never really been President and all this fol-de-rol about poodles was a LIberal Hoax involving COVID attempts to rob Patriots of their Freedoms, and so sensible people paid them no attention save for Ms. Boebert, who is insensible..

This year, with the addition of the venue in Marin, featured a number of local dignitaries. There were also some modifications to the Official Rules in deference to the ongoing COVID19 pandemic.

The high number of absurdly decorated piddles in Fairfax has caused a problem of antagonistic bent. It seems owners are deliberately dieing and barbering their animals and provocatively trotting these creatures in front of impressionable women and children, and the City Council is now holding meetings on the issue. Things may change next year as the boundaries of the 'Shoot expand.

This year, with the change in venue from the Island to Marin, featured a number of local dignitaries, along with national representatives according to tradition. Lauren Boebert appeared, fireing at random at anything that seemed to her feasible until she was taken by the Seargeant at Arms into the Stockade for safekeeping.

The horns tootled and the drums pounded and all the hunters marched into their respective fields of honor with many a shout of "Poodle there!" and "Ahoy! Poodle!" as the grenades went pop and the AR-15's opened up with abandon all across NorCal under delightful skies of mottled blue and grey and the 23rd Poodleshoot was underway.

Thanks to the 2nd Amendment . . . .

Thanks to the 2nd Amendment there was plenty of firepower to be had to let fly upon these Liberal pom-poms dyed with absurd colors of scarlet and blue. Old Grannies emerged from their doors to blast away with riot guns and blunderbusses while little tykes crept out from shrubs to let fly with their 22 longs.

There proceded a set-to with the dog-walkers

It was a grand scene until Margorie Green appeared with an cohort of Border Patriots who joined a phalanx of dog-walkers down by the formerly named Drake High School and she wore a golden chain that was all imbued with the power of Trumpian Evil. The renaming of the local landmark caused consternation among the populace, allowing for the Enemy to gather in great numbers and so assail the red-blooded Californios. There proceded a set-to with the dog-walkers armed with morning-stars, poopy-missles and impermeables against the defenders of the one True Faith. Faith in the True and the Real.

The Margorie Green cohort was supported by members of the Flat Earth Society who hold that the entire world is flat, not round, and the corners are bound by the cities named Springfield. There are many who hold this to be true and that Donald Trump is the Messiah.

Well what can you do when people believe nonsense like that.

The Dawn arose wtth golden spears and incarnadine striatus.

Things went bad for the Believers in Truth and Justice and they were driven back under pressure to the edges of San Anselmo Creek where they took up a line of defence along its banks. There they passed a hard night shoved against the muddy banks under constant sniper fire. The Dawn arose wtth golden spears and incarnadine striatus. Then came over the hip of the Sleeping Lady of Mount Tam the figure of Gandalf the White, who had been formerly Gandalf the Grey, upon his white steed Edward P. Murrow. Gandalf galloped into the throng of the falsehoods and confronted Margorie Green and leveled his bony finger at her affronted face.

"You are a lying, dismal bitch!" said Gandalf amid a clap of lightning and thunder.

And with that the goblins and devils who had supported the banner of Baggot, Bushy, and Green, wilted away. And the host of Californios arose from the banks of the San Anselmo creek and beset their enemies, who were bested and so driven back to the East. And so there was jubilation after this great victory on the Marin side while the Island reported similar victories in what surely would become known as in future times as the War of the Blings and the objects created in error by the Elven Kings of yore that contained so much evil of their Master, Maldoc Trump snarling in his dungeon of Mal de Lago, would continue to plague all the races with his demonic legions until his kingdom would be overthrown.

In the meantime, another poodle was tossed on the barbie and a fine time was held by all on this 23rd Annual Poodleshoot and BBQ.

The train horn keened from Oaktown across the estuary to echo off of the embankments of the Island and then ricochet its way through the redwoods of Marin's well-matriculated hills and slide over the sleeping bulk of Princess Tamalpais, following the old, forgotten railheads that once led along Sir Francis Drake Boulevard to the coast, the sound stirring the coyotes who began to howl their evensong which carried forth on the winds over Fairfax and White Hill, ululating through Silvan Acres and the mist-shrouded niches of the San Geronimo Valley, coursing with faint gray shapes along the ridge-tops through the drifts of fog and dripping redwoods to an unknown destination.

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

NOVEMBER 14, 2021

CALLING ON THE MOON

Going to have a full moon eclipse around here. Certain to be a fair amount of witchery.

NOVEMBER'S GOT HER NAILS DUG IN DEEP

So anyway, Pedro was out upon the sea-lanes after the Officials had given the go-ahead for crabbing. But with restrictions.

The days begin with misty haze and dew. This burns off by early morning, leaving a sort sunny condition that used to be assigned to October.

The lakes are all at 50% capacity after a long dry period. We still are not up to snuff.

This is the time of dank morning mists shrouding the hills with protective coverlets. The heat wave has come and gone and the buckeyes are all gone sere with battered, bare limbs. Mornings and evenings the pogonip drifts in over the hills.

Yes, that special season has come upon us when the air turns brisk with scents of apples and chimney smoke and thoughts turn to traditions and season rituals. Dick and Jane go gaily scampering through the fallen leaves with ruddy cheeks and panting breath hand in hand, leaping over babbling brook and fog-damp fallen tree, each dreaming of popping a few rounds into a Fifi, blasting the stuffing out of a silver-haired poo with a brand new, polished thirty ought-six.

God! It is such a magical time! It is glorious America in Fall! Praise the Goddess for the Red, White, and Blue!

Yep, that much anticipated Island event is nigh upon us once again, the Annual Island-Life Poodleshoot and BBQ.

We will be posting the official rules presently in the sidebar. For now, last year's rules are up there to give you an idea of what this dreadful celebration is all about. What is the Annual Island-Life Poodleshoot you may ask. This year marks the 22nd year that the 'Shoot has taken place and the 2nd time it will be held off the Island after it moved to Marin where the infernal species abounds in great numbers and so provides splendid opportunity for Red-blooded American Sport. To commemorate past glories a small ceremony will be held on the Island which still holds the Old Same Place Bar that funded much of the beverages. It is, in short a Tradition, and around here we are big on Tradition.

Each year avid gun-nuts and hunters have gathered in the Bay Area for the Poodle Hunt, renowned throughout the world as having few events of such magnitude and utmost serious rivaling NASCAR races and the Victoria's Secret Fashion Show.

This year the hunting promises to be very good as Marin is a haven for misapplied sentiments and distracted emotions applied to a scurrilous creature rather than fellow humankind. Herds of the repulsive animals are seen daily cavorting on pampered booties with atrocious pompoms and bowties while NIMBYS protest the building of homeless shelters in a nearby neighborhood.

Haze is in the forecast, dull fogs and overcast skies instead of the relief of rain, the Editor thinks as he looks out at the sere buckeyes, the oaks and acacia that have been cut back for fire protection. He returns to his desk with all the lights off save for the one pool of light spilled by the desklamp and he sits down. The night passes as he continues to work as he has for the past 22 years, face lit by that lamp and his remaining hair flying about his head in an aureole, surrounded by the curtains of darkness and the sharp longing that somewhere out there must be a like mind filled with piercing desire for a monad of ecstasy, also pursuing these failed meditations, and so he continued doing all for Company.

The train horn keened from Oaktown across the estuary to echo off of the embankments of the Island and then ricochet its way through the redwoods of Marin's well-matriculated hills and slide over the sleeping bulk of Princess Tamalpais, following the old, forgotten railheads that once led along Sir Francis Drake Boulevard to the coast, the sound stirring the coyotes who began to howl their evensong which carried forth on the winds over Fairfax and White Hill, ululating through Silvan Acres and the mist-shrouded niches of the San Geronimo Valley, coursing with faint gray shapes along the ridge-tops through the drifts of fog and dripping redwoods to an unknown destination.

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

OCTOBER 31, 2021

HOO ARE YOU

I MISS YOU

So anyway. The long drought and Fire Wars have come to an end -- for the moment. Heavy rains blasted the countryside and refilled the lakes, bringing the salmon up, or down, the creeks as if they materialized out of nothing, flashing and flailing with vigor the still shallow shallows. The oak trees have gone sere and buckeyes have lost their leaves, the bare branches heavy with pendulous fruit and the nights have gotten somewhat chill. It is the time of the full moon again, and the last days of Los Dias de los Muertos showed up as an apparition.

The time came for Denby to make the annual crossover, which had remained as a Tradition even though the offices and the Household had been transplanted by force during the Night of Shattered Fires. Tradition has its own powerful force as some of you may know.

The sun descended and shadows grew long across the little avenues of Silvan Acres. Because of the creek passing through, and then the long absent train line and now the road, this place had been a traveling place for many hundreds, if not thousands of years.

The Editor said, "Go now," and so Denby took his walking cane and went out to the uplift where the earth was embanked higher than in other places along the road.

A train came trundling along the way beside the Sir Francis Drake Boulevard, even though the tracks that once had gone to the coast had been torn up long ago.

The machine heaved to a stop with steam and groaning and Denby climbed aboard and took his seat in a cabin with no other passengers in the car. The train proceeded down Sir Francis Drake, stopping at Yolanda Landing and various points not known to Denby and then proceeded south and east through a dense fog that made identifying landmarks difficult. For a long time everything outside the windows was entirely black and Denby assumed they were somehow crossing one of the bridges.

"Endstation! Endstation!"

At one point the train stopped and the conductor, a gaunt man wearing a robe, came down the aisle announcing in a foreign accent "Endstation! Endstation!"

Denby disembarked to find he was on the Shoreline Road on the Island. He walked along the path there that bordered the brightly lit condos and the seawall until he came to the Iron Gate, the gate which appeared only for a few hours each year. He undid the latch and was greeted by an owl. "Who? Who are you? Who?!"

An iron bell began to clang and then he saw the vast expanse of bonfires lit upon the beach. Those bonfires lit by the souls waiting passage to redemption or eternal fire.

A distant dog or set of dogs set up a jarring sound of barking.

He used his cane to push open the gate and so step through a veil of mist to the Other Side where a long reach of strand with bonfires extended to north and south, broken only at this height by the extension of a stone landing.

As in years past, as he approached the Portal, the Voice bellowed to him from some echoing deep cavern.

"Lasciate ogni speranza voi ch'entrate!"

"Lasciate ogni speranza voi ch'entrate!" and the words flamed inside the skull as if poured in molten steel. Just as it had for the past 22 years.

For pete's sake. As per Tradition, dammit, Denby muttered.

A large owl, about two feet tall, perched on a piling scolded him with large owl eyes.

"Hoo! Hoo! Hoooooo!"

Okay, okay. Poor choice of words.

"Hooooo!"

On the other side the ground sloped down as usual to the water for about thirty yards, but he could not see the far lights of Babylon's port facilities or the Coliseum. A dense, lightless fog hung a few yards offshore, making it appear that the water extended out beyond to Infinity. The sky above was filled with black cloud and boiling with red flashes of lightening and fire although not a drop of rain had fallen.

All up and down the strand he could now see that countless bonfires had been lit, as is customary among our people in this part of the world to do during the colder winter months along the Strand, and towards one of these he stumbled among drift and seawrack.

Sitting around that fire, he recognized many faces. And many more all up and down that beach.

"ch'io non avrei mai creduto / che morte tanta n'avesse disfatta"

Strange words in another language reverberated again inside the skull: "si lunga tratta / di gente, ch'io non avrei mai creduto / che morte tanta n'avesse disfatta" echoing and echoing down long hallways of echos into eternity

A small child, barefoot and wearing a nightdress ran past and disappeared as quickly as she had come.

A glimmering figure appeared before him, a woman shining with internal light, her blonde hair glowing in that dark atmosphere, and clad in gauzy fabric blown by an invisible wind.

"Denby!" said the woman. "Here you are again!"

"Hello Penny," Denby said. "Back again."

A year has passed up there in your world, I guess. Here another year is all the same for waiting.

Several little girls, all between the ages of six and nine, wearing pinafores ran barefoot across the sands between them and vanished into the misty beyond.

There are usually a couple people you should meet, said Penny.

Same as usual," Denby said.

"But," said Penny, "This time is different. Different from all other times. I think the time is coming when you need to start thinking about yourself and the Last Crossing."

The infernal wind whirled about them and the scads of barefoot girls in pinafores ran this way and that in play on that dark beach.

They sat down together on a hillocky hump of sawgrass, the older man and the ageless woman with her arms wrapped around her knees above bare feet. Out beyond spread the sands with their scattered bonfires to the right and the left while the black expanse of water extended into the darkness. More than 22 years had passed and she had not aged one bit.

So, Penny said. After all these visits we finally have a chance to chat for a while.

"I have come down here some 22 times. Usually I meet somebody I used to know," Denby said.

Who died, Penny asked.

"The question is who is left to die," Denby said.

Well Strange de Jim is over there at that bonfire. And your friends Johnny and Julie are jogging way down that way. Most of the others have made the Final Crossing. But lets not talk about that. It is so lugubrious. (An impish smile appeared on her lips) How's your singing been?

"Umm . . . well, ah not much time for that these days. I think all of that is done now forever".

Penny burst into peals of laughter. Little, little mortal man you know nothing of forever! I am the one who knows about Forever!

So spake the Angel of Death, because it is true. No mortal can possibly know the Infinite.

"Well there is no more opportunity and at my age unlikely to be any forthcoming." Denby said.

O really, said Penny. Are you so sure? No possibilities hovering in the wings, no friendships that might turn torrid?

"Je suis seul, comme tout." Denby said, with some cynicism.

Penny put her hand up to her forehead and leaned back with her eyes closed. O my magical dead lady powers foresee a dark haired maiden, er, a dark haired damsel in thine future with flowing locks, lots of tattoos, and naughty underwear. . . .

Now it was time for Denby to burst out laughing. "I do not think that is possible, but thanks for mentioning. Surely you do not mean Pimenta Strife?"

Penny kept her laughter rolling. Pimenta? For you? She is way way too much a butch fiend, as your friend Chad used to describe her. Pimenta? Surely you are joking.

"Well I have a pallet on my floor and it is narrow and admits only one these days, so that is that."

That is just too bad, Penny said. You really ought to practice your singing. I remember that . . .

From far across the water came a glimmering from what seemed a single source. As the thing drew closer the glimmering divided into two wheels of fire.

The Ferryman is coming, Penny said. But I still have no obolu, she said sadly in a tone that tore at Denby's heart. And so here I must remain for yet another Season.

"Penny, could anything could have been different than what happened?"

Of course my friend. You could have found a way to take in my cat, Snowball, after I was gone, but you did not. The past is always conditioned by our choices.

Bevies of children ran this way and that down below along the glimmering beach.

The fire revealed a towering figure controlling a skiff that approached a stone jetty towards which a multitude of souls approached, each holding the gold obolu, the passage fare. Each soul offered up its fare and those that were destined for the Eternal City of the West were allowed to board. Those others destined for the City of the South were unceremoniously shoved down and away to be fetched later for their journey to Hell.

This time around Denby observed few individuals he knew. A man wearing journalist clothing passed by and said, "Senator, why do you want to become President?"

A girl walked by with a guitar, singing "It's a hard life, a hard life, but Love's on sale tonight at the 5 and Dime."

A lean English gent passed by carrying drumsticks. "When people talk about the '60s I never think that was me there. It was me and I was in it, but I was never enamoured with all that. It's supposed to be sex and drugs and rock and roll and I'm not really like that. I've never really seen the Rolling Stones as anything. The world of this is a load of crap. You get all these bloody people, so incredibly sycophantic."

And then he was gone.

After a while the skiff had loaded its cargo and so then departed across that stygian water.

A squadron of girls dressed in pinafores scampered across the sands before them. They passed this way and that like petrels.

"Life is a harsh and violent series of disappointments, full of sorrow and suffering," Denby said. "LIfe is a vale of tears."

Of course it is, Penny said. But you do not need to stick yourself in some gloom as a result. There are many things you among the living can still enjoy.

A girl ran up to Penny with eyes as clear as centuries and said, "Mama?"

I will be along in a little bit sweetheart, Penny said. And the little girl ran off into the dark. You see, said Penny, even the disappointed Past can contain some measure of joy.

At that moment the tolling of the iron bell rolled across the vast wasteland there.

Time for you to go, Penny said. I am sorry we don't have more time during your annual visits to talk. And then she stood up, a shimmering vision of luminescence.

Denby arose and turned to go up the slope back to the gate which led out of that place. He stumbled up as the insistent bell clanged its fateful hours on the last day of El Dias de los Muertos, that day when the veil between the worlds is thinnest.

"Denby." Penny said simply and he paused as a wind kicked up with gusts.

She reached out her hands to cup his face. Cold, so cold. He felt a wetness on his lips, on his face. The rain had returned to NorCal.

Good-bye. Until next time.

He ascended the slope as the sound of the bell and three dogs became more insistent until he stumbled through the gate which slammed shut behind him. There, an open door to a train compartment waited for him and he climbed in to plotz into a seat in an otherwise empty railcar with salty, wet cheeks. On the return journey, he reflected Penny had become in the afterlife what she had been before. In life she had been a nurse during the height of the AIDS plague whose job it had been to handle the affairs of patients who had been sent home from Hospice as they lapsed and eventually died and allowed her to handle the paperwork of such things, there always the angel to usher souls to the door and through it to the next form of existence, if any, beyond.

The train passed through shadowy regions of smoke and the skeletal forms of houses and the smoke of spooks until it passed Yolanda Landing and eventually to the San Geronimo Station, where Denby disembarked. From there he went dutifully to the Island-Life offices although he felt exhausted unto death.

The Editor awaited him as in years past.

"So this is the 22nd time you have crossed over," said the Editor. "How was it this time?"

Denby fell into a plush chair Martini had snagged from a For Free roadside pile. He gave the Editor the one thousand yard stare.

"I can tell you are wanting a drink. And by just the look of you, so am I." The Editor reached into the desk and pulled out a bottle of Glenfiddich and set two glasses on the desk before pouring more than two fingers into each glass.

"So any talk about how the Pandemic will end up and what the Economy is going to do?" asked the Editor.

"Somehow the subjects did not come up," Denby said.

"Well, I suppose given past reports I should have expected that," said the Editor as he poured out the bottle. "But no harm in asking."

The train horn keened from Oaktown across the spectral estuary to echo off of the embankments of the Island and then ricochet its way through the haunted redwoods of Marin's well-matriculated hills and slide over the sleeping bulk of Princess Tamalpais, following the old, forgotten railheads that once led along Sir Francis Drake Boulevard to the coast, the sound stirring the coyotes who began to howl their evensong which carried forth on the winds over Fairfax and White Hill, ululating through Silvan Acres and the ghostly mist-shrouded niches of the San Geronimo Valley, coursing with faint gray shapes along the ridge-tops through the drifts of fog and dripping redwoods to an unknown destination.

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

OCTOBER 24, 2021

CELEBRATION OF THE LIZARD

This is a blue-tailed skink photographed by a Nextdoor neighbor. Most people get enthralled by the mammalian life around here but recently an amateur herpetologist presented several photos of absolutely gorgeous, colorful reptiles that inhabit Marin.

LET IT RAIN, LET IT POUR, LET IT RAIN A WHOLE LOT MORE

So anyway. A "cyclone bomb" has dropped on Norcal for the past few days and as we speak the flood sirens are going off from all the firehouses from San Rafael out to West Marin. Those little parched trickles a few inches deep two weeks ago are now topping 8, 12, 15 feet tonight. Nixle let us know earlier today the Sheriff wants people to stay home as tree branches come crashing down and water collects in the usual places.

Just now another alert from the County Sheriff over the transome: "Please stay off the roads!"

Obviously, for this area, Fire Season is put on hold, but with other hazards taking the place of fire. We shall see if the bulwarks that the DPW built shall prevent White Hill from again descending onto Sir Francis Drake Blvd.

That road remains named SFD because all of the municipalities needed to agreed unanimously to rename it to something softhearted and bogus, mushy and unnecessary as a sop to White guilt over slavery (instead of really doing something realistic about its consequences) did not come to consensus. Some towns saw the whole thing as nonsense and so balked. You cannot rename a road extending some 25 miles through several different districts with alternative names; that, of course, would have looked as ridiculous as the entire idea was originally.

You can change names of streets in European cities from block to block but Europeans are charming and sweet and lovable in their historic old school sensibilities Americans are not like that. We are brash and abrasive and entirely the new Germans of the world. Yes we are the new Germans. Obnoxious, arrogant, full of self-superiority, pushy, smug, self-entitled, waving No. 1 foam fingers, plus all the things Hollywood and the Greeks used to accuse the Nazis of being.

During the Bush Error, a German friend called and said, "At last, at last! We Germans are no longer the World's Nemesis! Now it is America!"

For now the rains come to Norcal in a Cyclone Bomb, as the Meteorologists call it. There are also events occuring in other parts of the Country.

Love your "global warming is a Liberal agenda" message you idiots of the formerly GOP. The GOP is not the GOP anymore. The GOP has become the Greatly Obtuse Party, denying electorial factual outcomes, denying scientific evidence, denying all realistic plausibilites when facts interfere with agenda. The GOP is now the Greatly Obtuse Party and no longer the party of my parents and my family who have abandoned the former GOP because the Party has become idotic.

As the rain pelted down a miserable Denby sat upon the Island-life porch looking out at the drenched trees and the downpour in back of the Island-Life offices. Little Adam was sittling there with him.

"So what does it mean to be Chosen every time," Adam asked.

Adam was referring to the annual Tradition of choosing the Island-Life staffer who would cross over into the Other World when the veil between the Worlds was thinnest. Each year there was a game of chance in which the one who drew the shortest straw must cross over into the Infernal Realm for a night. And each year, according to Tradition, Denby always lost.

"Tradition is a hard thing, my friend." Denby said. "It is all that binds us together as a people with Culture and the weight of the Past that makes us what we as a People happen to be. To violate Tradition is a mighty risk for you risk destroying the People."

"Isn't there an end to this sometime?" Adam asked.

"Well, " sighed Denby. "Some say there shall be a Second Coming and the dismal fields of Hell shall be harrowed and all the gates broke open. Then there will be no need for the Crossing."

"Is that day coming soon?"

"Don't hold your breath."

The rain beyond the porch fell with persistant insistance. Fire season was abated and the world was awash.

What about until then? Adam asked.

"Until then each year I am fated to cross over until that day I cough up the obolu and cross that last distance myself and Shiva puts down her foot for me once and for all, ceases her eternal dance, and time comes to an end and I make that last ride on the ferry to the Other Side."

And Little Adam's head, weary from the labors of the day nodded until his chin touched his chest with drousy sleepiness as Nixle alerts continued to arrive on Denby's iPhone.

Yes, the text messages were right: Rain was general all over Norcal. It was falling softly upon the Bay Area and, further westwards, softly falling into the dark waves of LandsEnd. It was falling too upon every part of the lonely graveyards of Colma. It fell covering the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the rain falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.

The train horn keened from Oaktown across the estuary to echo off of the embankments of the Island and then ricochet its way through the redwoods of Marin's well-matriculated hills and slide over the sleeping bulk of Princess Tamalpais following the old, forgotten railheads that once led along Sir Francis Drake Boulevard to the coast, stirring the coyotes who began to howl their evensong which carried forth on the winds over Fairfax and White Hill, ululating through Silvan Acres and the mist-shrouded niches of the San Geronimo Valley, coursing with faint gray shapes along the ridge-tops through the drifts of fog and dripping redwoods to an unknown destination.

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

OCTOBER 17, 2021

IT'S A DEADMAN'S PARTY

BOX SET AT THE FREIGHT & SALVAGE

Many are the artists and bands that emerge each year, each deserving a shot at the famous Brass Ring of fame and fortune. Most are cast down after much struggle . Box Set, a band that has grown from a trio to a quad-person band and shrunk to just a duo to grow again to a five-piece has certainly seen its share of ups and downs.

This weekend the Freight and Salvage opened up its own Post-COVID lockdown with the 30th Anniversary of a band that has long eluded "signing" either by design or by the fickle ineptitude of an acknowledged inept Industry of entertainment.

Jeff Pehrson and Jim Brunberg have forged a following of many over 30 years of performance and Saturday night at the sold-out Freight proved they have good reason to hold such a following with a solid performance over two set sets and 120 minutes of excellent music and superb harmonies that this band certainly had demonstrated it has solid "legs". They performed a number of old favorites along with brand new music, showing that this band has the chops and the staying power over bands that are far slimmer in depth.

At the end of an incendiary performance the standing ovation and the repeated calls for an annual return were a testament to this band's extraordinary sonic achievements.

The band has long been considered an underdog in the signing arena for reasons that are difficult to analyze. Their lyrics range from the problems of being on the road to longing for home and difficult endings to romantic relationships. In one song Jim Brunberg describes taking an ax to a bicycle owned by the ex, who had run off with a cocaine dealer. "It was that or hours of therapy, "explained Brunberg about the true story.

Whatever you do, do not offend a song writer

Saturday's performance before the packed house at the Freight led to two standing ovations. Not a small accomplishment in the Bay Area.

DEAL

So anyway. COVID notwithstanding that old sun had done its great revolve and once again it was come time for the annual Island-Life Drawing of Straws for the candidate who was like to transit between the worlds when the veil between the worlds is thinnest and so return with news of important content.

Before that time the Editor holds the Traditional Drawing of Straws which determines who shall traverse on that awful day from the world of the Living to that of the Dead on the last day of El Dias de los Muertos.

So anyway. She made arrangements down the hall with Carol to have Henry cared for and then packed her overnight bag and set her traveling hat upon her head and stepped out into the hallway of the St. Charles Home for Wayward Souls and Demented Managers and locked her door, knowing that locked doors in that place had no special significance among the nest of thieves and lockpickers that inhabited the building. Nevertheless, one must put on a show of defiance.

From the front doors of the St. Charles Infirmary, Rachel walked down in the early afternoon to the bus stop on Central to catch the last bus heading out to the Ferry Landing. There, she waited an half hour until the ferry came to deliver her to San Francisco's Ferry Terminal. There she wended her way to the landing that allowed her to board the ferry to Larkspur after some 45 minutes playing Hero Wars on her iPad.

Rachel took the bus from Larkspur that dropped her at the Red Hill Hub and from there took the Point Reyes bus that brought her all the way to Silvan Acres in the San Geronimo Valley

She strolled in to the Offices, dropped her bag and the Annual Drawing of Straws began. By the rules, anyone who draws the shortest straw is commissioned to cross over to the Other Side on the last day of El Dias de Los Muertos, the days when the veil between the worlds is thinnest.

That Rachel is appointed as the Straw-bearer is a matter of Tradition. That the Drawing of Straws occurs in mid-October had been a matter of Tradition these past 20 years. That the end result is always the same, is also a matter of Tradition, but nevertheless, Rachel must make this long journey, leaving behind dear Henry the cat to be cared for by apartment hallmate Carol so as to preserve Tradition.

In the new Island-life offices that were created in the space of a former barn by the labor of Pahrump, Denby, Mancini, and others, the surviving staff gather for the annual ritual.

As in the 20 past years, Rachel walked around with the hat filled with straws and each member of the staff drew so as to determine who shall be the one to cross over to The Other Side, their charge being to inquire about the possible future.

As Rachel walked down the aisles, each staffer drew a straw with great hesitation, sweat beading out on the brow, nervously clutching the straw until it was revealed to be longer yet than any other to that person's great relief. Even Festus was made to draw -- nothing is uglier than an anxious, sweating hamster -- but it had to be done for the sake of Tradition.

Finally it came around to the reluctant Denby, who, as Tradition dictated each year, drew the shortest straw.

"Why must it be me each year," Denby lamented.

"Because you are Chosen," Marlene said. "It's just it is not always to advantage to be Chosen. Okay everybody, tea and coffee and cakes on the verandah!"

And so they all filed out, clapping Denby on the back congratulating him on his good fortune while muttering under breath as they exited the door, "Thank god it is not me, poor sod!"

Mancini put up Rachel for the night with a space heater in one of the better quarantine cabins.

Finally Denby was left alone with the Editor.

"So I guess the infernal train shall arrive on schedule to take me there as usual," Denby said.

"Right you are." The Editor said, huffing on his cigar. "You can see that the way the Pandemic is going we need to know what is going to happen. Are we to suffer a new variant?"

"This organization is entirely too much like health care," Denby said.

The Editor removed his cigar for the first time in a long time. "What the heck do you mean by that?"

"If you are not a licensed professional with the Board you can just Go To Hell," Denby said.

The Editor lit up his stogie. "You have your charge. I expect thorough professionalism and the utmost order of quality response in all efforts."

"Just like health care: you can have all you want, just so long as you pay for it." Denby said. "I think at this point I deserve better compensation."

This was the first time in 22 years anyone had ever demanded anything of the sort at Island-life..

"Who put you up to this approach," said the Editor. "We have had Union reps lurking around here lately. May I remind you that the Union people can talk all they want off the clock and off the property and all other discussion is forbidden.

"I am my own man," Denby said. "But I think 22 years of consecutive passage to the netherworld needs to be looked at. "

"Is Tradition," said the Editor. "You are Chosen and that is that,"

It was late in the day, and the sky, which had been overcast with tumultuous clouds briefly seized up and produced an heaven-sent burst of rain upon the earth as the sun set.

There might be Pandemic and Insurrection, but blessed rain was in the forcast and the end of Fireseason upon us with great relief and the smokes of the North sent up arms of suppliance to that inconstant God that may or may not rule over us. .

Denby walked out onto the porch and breathed in the soft, cold air of rain. Once again he was Chosen for the Crossover as part of Tradition. And rain had returned to the NorCal Earth. Someone asked, "What does this mean to you to be Chosen year after year"?

A Tzadik once said, "It is not always to advantage to be Chosen". But one has no choice. No one ever does.

The train horn keened from Oaktown across the estuary to echo off of the embankments of the Island and then ricochet its way through the redwoods of Marin's well-matriculated hills and slide over the sleeping bulk of Princess Tamalpais following the old, forgotten railheads that once led along Sir Francis Drake Boulevard to the coast, stirring the coyotes who began to howl their evensong which carried forth on the winds over Fairfax and White's Hill, ululating through Silvan Acres and the mist-shrouded niches of the San Geronimo Valley, coursing with faint gray shapes along the ridge-tops through the drifts of fog and dripping redwoods to an unknown destination.

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

OCTOBER 10, 2021

THIS ONE GOES OUT TO THE ONE I LOVE

This was the commute last Friday into the San Geronimo Valley. Fortunately the blaze was confined to just two acres on White Hill. This one was a little too close to home for comfort.

WHAT'S GOING ON

The past 18 months have been incessant rock 'n roll with FQHC's battling pandemic COVID and an epidemic of ignorance fed by lies. We have been in the forefront of the medical fight and so with 12-18 hour days six to seven days a week there has not been much time to devote to Island-Life.

Now that we have not just one but three vaccines out mean that we just might begin to turn the corner on this thing, which after the Delta, Lambda and Mu variants now has over 14 variants in the wild with the Delta appearing to be the most dangerously virulent. Marin is 87% vaccinated with 2 shots, and 91.4% vaccinated with one or two shots. The other Bay area counties hover around 81.5% vaccination. Case rates per 100,000 are well below the State average of 15.1 so the Bay area is loosening up with outdoor and indoor dining, bars open with owners requiring proof of vaccination for service, sports events are filling up the arenas with the Warriors playing to a large crowd last night. Yoshis and Freight and Salvage are presenting acts again.

We just might resume the event calendar again.

As for the mask-wearing, you know you are not the only ones finding it onerous. Here is an anecdote: working afterhours at a big Urgent Care Clinic on the weekend we heard this nurse yelling as she came around the corner, "I AM SO SICK OF WEARING THIS GODDAMN MASK . . . "!

Just as she turned the corner her eyes went wide when she saw me standing there in front of the switch closet. "WHOOPS! SUH SUH SORRYYYYY!"

Spare a thought for the nurses who have really been put through the wringer far worse than any of you people defending imaginary "freedoms" out there. Not to mention the physicians.

LEAD ME ON, LEAD ME ON

So anyway. The Equinox has come and gone. Old Gaia, sitting on the porch of the world begins to tilt her weathered face creased with valleys, arroyos, hills, deserts, plains, mesas, continents and the liquid seas of her deep dark eyes turn away from the direct gaze, away from her son, Phoebus Apollo riding in his bright chariot as she sits and rocks ever so slowly in the ticking wicker chair, the folds of the quilted Universe draped across her lap, the rocking becoming the dance of Shiva, the creaking rails marking the ever ceaseless count of time's advance, ticking each second, each century, from the first moment of creation until that rocking chair stops at the moment of that last, terrible, motionless silence.

As Gaia turns her face away from the light, her ravined face gradually cools with measured shadows covering the valleys of her eyes, all the world chilling under the frost that puts all of Nature into a deep sleep, and everything is precisely where it needs to be right at this moment while Phoebus Apollo gallops in his low-rider at an angle to her repose, harder to see in his daily journey, a sort of sideshow to beat all side shows, galloping toward the Solstice time of deepest remove.

Now is the time when the shadows of the afternoon grow long, the days get shorter, and tiny monsters breed and bellow forth from the shadow doorways as the days and the hours tick by to the time when the veil between the Worlds grows thinnest.

During the month of October the Bay Area normally enters a glorious orgiastic celebratory holiday period in which people let go of inhibitions, put on avatars of their imaginations and generally have a good time up to the day and evening of Hallowed W'een.

This year promises to be specially exhuberant due to the long period of denial. This is usually party time and, man, right now we really could use a good party. Jan 6 insurrections, Isis, Taliban in Afganistan. Trumpism, Covid 19, lockdowns, mask mandates, pandemics, the debt ceiling (!!?!!) -- it goes on. We really could use a break.

Martini has returned to his job as sawboy at Veriflo in Richmond. The alloys used to make the long rods cut into blocks that will become high-pressure valves are made in America, so there is little supply-chain problem there. Tipitina and Marsha have returned to their AA jobs in the City and Suan is back at the Crazy Horse taking her clothes off with a pole for support, but wearing a mask. She and Sarah had gotten through the lockdowns by working for Good Vibrations, which the City of Oakland wisely and quickly determined was an Essential Business. Gradually the demand for those little vibrating friends grew in demand.

Hey, all alone and locked down for 18 months? What's a healthy girl gonna do?

Pedro has not stopped going out on the fishing lanes, save that because of unusual temperature conditions crabbing season was affected independent of COVID. And Mrs. Almeida managed to save her chickens from the Night of Shattered Fires caused by the Angry Elf gang so with the subsistence garden her family remained well supplied as well as fully occupied, for when the kids were kept home by the contagion, Mrs. Almeida simply put them to work on the gardens, just like in the Old Country.

The gardens were kept well supplied with recycled water via an ingenious system devised by Martini, who sometimes revisited the Island.

Javier remained continuously employed as a gardener because in Marin gardens are considered to be as inviolable as churches and perhaps even more important. Besides he was of Mexican heritage and therefore his life of less value than some others. In this respect, Marin is no different than the rest of the Country.

Chiton Manioc, seeking to capitalize on the situation, tried to set up "Masking Stations", where a person could obtain a necessary mask, hand sanitizer, and laminations of vaccination cards. Along with, for a fee, official vax cards allowing a person to enter any venue having the requirement. In addition his stations also sold Black Lives Matter t-shirts. Along with this product was a bright red t-shirt that said TRUMP LOST 2021! As a capitalist Chiton had some good ideas. As a pragmatist in today's America, he was wanting.

His booths were vandalized and wrecked by brownshirt groups of Anti-maskers and his Black Lives Matter provoked yet another nasty group in Marin that would have nothing to do with the idea that all people were created equal and liberty and justice for all means just that. Chiton's agents were attacked on the street, vilified in public and his merch burned and destroyed in a sequence of pogroms organized by servants of Steve Bannon.

The night fell and the air cooled from the horrific temps experienced the past weeks. Violent storms are forcast for the middle of the country this coming week and we are scheduled for dry winds, which all fortells an ill will for all. Fire on the one hand and floods on the other.

The Editor sends each employee off to bed and stands in the new offices at Silvanacres looking down at the aisles of desks at what was rebuilt after firey disaster, the Night of Shattered Fires.

Red Flag warnings issued for this troubled night. High winds and dry conditions and Planned Power Shutoffs all around.

The fight shall go on.

Tonight the Nixle alerts are all buzzing with warnings and PGE might renege on its promise not to shut down power. A Red Alert arrives every few hours about high wind warnings.

Water bottles in the car and bags kept packed by the door for Evacuation.

It is the start of Fall in the Bay Area and everyone is on edge, praying for rain. This is life in the Golden State in the year 2021.

The train horn keened from Oaktown across the estuary to echo off of the embankments of the Island and then ricochet its way through the redwoods of Marin's well-matriculated hills and slide over the sleeping bulk of Princess Tamalpais following the old, forgotten railheads that once led along Sir Francis Drake Boulevard to the coast, stirring the coyotes who began to howl their evensong which carried forth on the winds over Fairfax and White's Hill, ululating through Silvan Acres and the mist-shrouded niches of the San Geronimo Valley, coursing with faint gray shapes along the ridge-tops through the drifts of fog and dripping redwoods to an unknown destination.

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

SEPTEMBER 19, 2021

SERPENT OF DREAMS

Neighbor sent this one in, afraid they had found a rattlesnake in their pantry. In reality this is an harmless gopher snake.

WHAT'S GOING ON

So here is the beef. Americans, not ever willing to sit on their hands even if action results in general safety and prosperity for all, have unhooked the various restrictions all over the country, resulting in a sharp uptick of COVID positive cases along with hospitalizations and deaths.

The two new variants appear more malicious and injurious than the preceeding strains. And as it turns out the vaccinated need booster shots against the newer virus strains.

California is better off than some other states because the response to the COVID outbreak was more organized and more agressive than in states which allowed anti-virus measures to become politicized.

Because the states have not been roped into a common, standardized approach that makes sense, various foreign nations have restricted travel from the USA due to fears of uncontrolled contagion invading their borders.

The Bay Area has a high vaccination rate due to aggressive non-politicized efforts and a generally well-informed public, but we see an uptick in cases and hospitalizations due to our exposure to visitors from out of State.

Denby, working for a large healthcare consortium that includes Tri-City, Asian-American Health, La Clinica, CHCN, Native American, Lifelong Medical Care, and various municipal governments has noticed the several vaccination pavilions to be working in overdrive with streams of people coming in to get the shot.

In Marin, where many people live their entire lives aloof from the problems that plague the majority elsewhere. people have started to congregate at places like the Iron Springs cafe. Freight and Salvage in the East Bay has opened up again.

In other news Fire Season continues with sporadic outbreaks in Marin, some of which appear to have been caused by Angry Elf activity, which were quickly suppressed.

CALL ME LUCKY

So anyway. They call me Lucky but I don't know why. I aint been lucky since the day you said goodbye.

The pogonip has started to move on in and the days are heavy with morning cloud and the evenings are breezy with a welcome relief from the hot temperatures we have been experiencing. The aftenoon shadows grow long and the autumnal equinox came and went amidst all of our troubles with hardly a notice.

Old Gaia sits on the porch of the Universe with the coverlet of the starry Milky Way spred across her lap to acknowledge the change of the seasons. Time to talk about her tumultuous relationship with Phoebus Appollo carreering across the heavens in his blazing chariot and the sad return of Persephone to her underground domaine.

Baby Boobie lost his election attempt to depose Ronald Handsome from the Governership seat in the Official Treefort for the State of Caligula on the Island, and so the minions of Boobie have returned to their persistent insistence that the Election of 2020 was a total fraud and that Boobie won the election by a landslide (despite all evidence to the contrary) and that Boobie should be the rightful President just as he was selected in the previous election (also garnering a vox populi minority at that time).

Boobie's minions have hitched up their diapers and once again issued a barrage of lawsuits contesting every trivial aspect of the elections and the fourth grade teachers at Longfellow are much put out about the fol de rol caused by the ruckus.

"Fourth grade! Fourth grade! Can we stop this shouting and attend to today's history lesson?" So pleaded Ms. Sanchez at Longfellow while wags on the Right continued to hurl spitballs at their classmates on the Left side of the center aisle.

Life continued apace with the recent heat wave dipping into the cool evening forties and fifties to help ease the pain. Now we move toward the COVID-INTERIM. All this time, for 18 months we have been dealing with the COVID-ONSET period in which we collectively have been dealing with the appearance of a deadly virus pandemic and the subsequent attempts to qwell its affects. We attempted lockdowns and a robust drive to create a vaccine. As we enter the Interim period, we deal with the variants, and the understanding there is vaccine resistance among the populace, and the realization this thing is just not going to go away in the space of a soundbite of news. The Intertim is the grind of the daily and continuous economic and social effects of a contagion that will restructrure our society whether we like it or not. Nobody, Left or Right is going to like what comes out of the Interim Period.

Previous Pandemics had their post-Interim period erased from historical memory by large world events that dwarfed the occasion. The 1918 flu epidemic end was washed out by the elation of the end of World War I.

The Editor stood on the back porch of the Island-Life Offices and considered what was to come. Almost certainly a Recession, guaranteed, stamped and approved by Donald Trump, who set up the conditions to make it happen.

The area out back was sere and dry and the pink ladies that bloomed each year had wilted within a matter of days.

One day posterity will look back and wonder how could we have been so stupid, thought the Editor. How could we have been so possibly stupid?

The train horn keened from Oaktown across the estuary to echo off of the embankments of the Island and then ricochet its way through the redwoods of Marin's well-matriculated hills and slide over the sleeping bulk of Princess Tamalpais following the old, forgotten railheads that once led along Sir Francis Drake Boulevard to the coast, stirring the coyotes who began to howl their evensong which carried forth on the winds over Fairfax and White's Hill, ululating through Silvan Acres and the mist-shrouded niches of the San Geronimo Valley, coursing with faint gray shapes along the ridge-tops through the drifts of fog and dripping redwoods to an unknown destination.

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

SEPTEMBER 05, 2021

FOXY LADY

[IMAGE]

This image was captured by a Nest Cam looking at part of the back porch. Seems the fox is quite comfortable in a bed that looks like it was intended for use by the cats or dog during the day.

LEAVE THE LIGHT ON

So anyway, Shanah tovah. May the next year bring in better realization of hopes and desires than this past one cursed by the Pest and the interference of imbeciles who still possess far too much power for our own good.

A number of anniversaries are upcoming. Of course everyone remembers where they were on 9/11 and the twentieth anniversary of that terrible attack. But against that let us remember 9/9/21 as the 50th anniversary of the release of John Lennon's remarkable song Imagine.

Randy Handsome was elected by a majority of the sixth graders at Longfellow to be Class President. The Presidential palace happens to be a tree fort set up in a Madrone that sits on the edge of Guilliam Hensy's peach orchard. Bobo (Baby) Boobie always had a dislike for Randy's associates who listened to their moms, never cheated or stole and always got good grades while Bobo always got caught and punished for throwing crabapples at Mrs. Reina's windows and stealing candybars from the 7/11.

It was all unfair. A kid couldn't have no fun around here. That Mrs. Reina was an old wrinkled cow anyhow.

Burt and Hanrahan sniggered and Burt nearly swallowed a booger, which would have been a waste.

Baby Boobie had tried during the first week of January to storm the presidential treefort with his gang of miscreants but had been foiled by the simple expediency of closing the trapdoor entrance and liberal application via a rain of pissy and poopy missiles.

Then Baby got it into his mind to hurl fruit from the neighboring orchard at the open windows of the treehouse to force an eviction, but this attempt at im-peachment proved to be quite costly when Hensy found out and made them -- or their parents -- pay for the destruction of so many peaches.

Hensy wanted the kids to act more like adults when it appears they had only been following by example what supposed adults were doing on the national stage.

This attempt continues yet as of this moment and the future of the California kids hangs in the balance amid this senseless war of slingshot turds and ruined produce.

The sun's savage assault upon the landscape eased with cooling shadows. The animals that owned the crepuscular time started on the move. Small mammals were pursued by the predators which had followed them down from the dry hills to places where they sensed water. This is the time of the fox, of the coyote hunt. All of the fawns and turkeys have vanished; either grown up or eaten.

The Editor walked down the lines of desks in the Offices of Islandlife where some things had returned, uncomfortably, to some kind of new Normal. Plexiglas shields between cubicles. No gathering in the former lunchroom. Rules for restroom Occupancy. Rules for conference room occupancy, a room nobody occupies any more save for the occasional one person who needs to get something done with no one around.

Life had changed and there would be no going back to "Normal". In a few days, the nation will commemorate something that happened on 9/11/2001 which led to widespread, permanent changes in American life. Now we have this disaster, minimized by the Baby Rumps and followers to our detriment.

Will we ever arrive at a comfortable place? The answer is no. There never was a comfortable place, not in 1868, not in 1950, not any time during the Cold War period and certainly not during the Vietnam period. Life has never been at a standstill.

The train horn keened from Oaktown across the estuary to echo off of the embankments of the Island and then ricochet its way through the redwoods of Marin's well-matriculated hills and slide over the sleeping bulk of Princess Tamalpais following the old, forgotten railheads that once led along Sir Francis Drake Boulevard to the coast, stirring the coyotes who began to howl their evensong which carried forth on the winds over Fairfax and White's Hill, ululating through Silvan Acres and the mist-shrouded niches of the San Geronimo Valley, coursing with faint gray shapes along the ridge-tops through the drifts of fog and dripping redwoods to an unknown destination.

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

AUGUST 29. 2021

THE WHEEL

A neighbor got this image of a bobcat snagging squirrel dinner. A number of others moaned the cost of life and offered suggestions on how to "prevent" such distressing displays of nature's cycle. Others, more realistic, commented this is just what happens and the bobcat needs to eat and feed her family.

LEAVE THE LIGHT ON

So anyway. It has been a while. Because idiots hesitated on the vaccine and stupid governors acted, well, stupid on mask mandates, we now move from the Delta variant to the Ypsilon variant, which was inevitable, given the lack of action from people who should be protecting us, the antivaxxer contingent and the anti-masker folks.

Dunphy was coming into the Valero station to get gas as his wagon started gasping on vapors when he saw one of the middle pumps was out of commission and people were jockeying for position at the remaining six pumps. Dunphy pulled in behind a fellow whose BMW sat there blocking two pumps while folks struggled to fill up during a busy time.

The man in the BMW looked slumped over with his chin to his chest and Dunphy became concerned the man had stroked out as he appeared entirely ignorant of the situation at the station. Dunphy got out of his car and rapped on the window of the car. The man rolled down his window and looked up. He had been texting someone on his phone.

Apparently he was not dead or stroked out, and that realization was a brief relief.

"Are you going to move forward?" Dunphy asked.

"Yes, I have already filled my tank," said the man, apparently satisfied that his personal needs had been met. "I am finished with the pump."

"Um, if you are done can you please move forward to clear the pumps for use? You can see there are disabled pumps here and people are . . . ".

"Just drive around and back in," snapped the man, who was named Tscherk. "That's what I always do."

There was an open space 50 feet in front next to the tire inflation area that Denphy normally used for anything involving something other than gassing up. He did not understand why the man had not pulled forward to this spot while so many were inconvenienced.

"Could you just please move forward, man?" Dunphy asked quietly.

"I need to finish what I am doing here," Tscherk snapped.

Dunphy was unused to such patrician self-absorbed attitude, but he needed gas. So he left the station from one entrance and entered from the other 50 feet away but failed to jockey his car into position. His father had foisted a mini-suv upon him before dying as a sort of revenge as Dunphy had always hated any sort of SUV for being too large for the roads and the times. Dunphy banged into one of the guard poles positioned for some odd reason on the far side of the pump lane. Fortunately some people cleared out after seeing the situation was getting precarious, fearing some kind of road rage incident, and so drove down Sir Francis Drake to the next station at the shopping mall to get gas; all because of this self-entitled yahoo blocking a third of the pumps.

This exodus opened up a pump on the far side where Dunphy could drive around and start filling his dry tank.

To his surprise Tscherk opened his window to shout at Dunphy that his bang against the guard pole was comeuppance and that Denphy was all at fault.

Denphy said calmly he had only asked politely for the man to move and was by the man promptly contradicted.

Denphy insisted on his version of the facts.

Tscherk shouted the negative and Denphy insisted that he had only politely requested the man to roll forward.

In response Tscherk shouted "ASSHOLE!" probably because he was unused to being contradicted, and so he drove off in his expensive European sportscar.

Dunphy rubbed off the yellow pole paint when he got home -- apparently the rearview cameras had a blind spot -- and he repeated this story to an acquaintance who said, "Yeah there are a lot of people self-entitled like that in Marin. It's turned the place into something else."

Life at the Household had adjusted to the new norms of the COVID world. The Veriflo factory in Richmond had opened up again, with restrictions, so Martini returned to work as a sawboy. Tipitina also returned to work, also wearing a mask, in the City. Masks were required to ride the ferry and the busses. Suan returned to work at the Crazy Horse where strippers could remove everything -- save for the mask. Same for patrons. There never was kissing allowed anyhow.

The restaurants had all reopened in some manner or form so Pedro had returned to sailing out his fishing boat El Borracho Perdido some time ago.

The Old Same Place Bar had resumed operations with Padraic requiring all patrons to submit proof of vaccination, which did not sit well with some libertarians and Trumpist loyalists, so there were frequent arguments at the door necessitating the liberal use of Padraic's hawthorn shillelagh more than once to calm down recalcitrant individualists.

You can say what you want and do what you do but nothing in the Constitution guarantees the right to scream FIRE! in a crowded movie theatre and smoking is still prohibited most everywhere for damn good reason.

The northern fires send smoke to the Bay Area and every day the sun rises as an orange ball through the murk as entire towns are destroyed. Sunsets are equally as colorful.

The Editor strolls the aisles of the Island-Life offices after yet another impossible day. Trump is no longer directly in power but stupidity and assholism remain rampant throughout the country. The sun set in a bright orange ball through the murk sent out by the Dark Tower of Mordor. We live in dark times of contagion and drought, hurricanes and floods. The world is not a safe place to be right now for anyone.

In the past year so many friends have died. As many as back in 1969 when he lost so many in combat. This time we human beings are engaged in a new war, a war that determines who we are as a people. We need to turn from being soldiers of War to warriors of Mankind.

The old soldier, The Editor, drew down the blinds to the windows and started the evening fans to cool the place from selected windows so as to beat back the accumulated heat from the current heat wave assaulting the Valley. One day the rains will resume again.

The train horn keened from Oaktown across the estuary to echo off of the embankments of the Island and then ricochet its way through the redwoods of Marin's well-matriculated hills and slide over the sleeping bulk of Princess Tamalpais following the old, forgotten railheads that once led along Sir Francis Drake Boulevard to the coast, stirring the coyotes who began to howl their evensong which carried forth on the winds over Fairfax and White's Hill, ululating through Silvan Acres and the mist-shrouded niches of the San Geronimo Valley, coursing with faint gray shapes along the ridge-tops through the drifts of fog and dripping redwoods to an unknown destination.

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

JULY 11, 2021

WATER NO GET ENEMY

The West is suffering the worst drought and heat conditions in 1,200 years. The causes appear to be a conflation of natural climate shifts and human-created climate change. This image is of the troubled Oroville dam reservoir.

Text is a reference to Fela Kuti of Nigeria.

WE COMING HARDER EVERY TIME

So anyway. All the gang has been let out of jail and ICU after Javier's last birthday descended, as it usually does, into an atavistic orgy of uncontrolled chaos and savage ultra-violence.

Milch bar me droogies?

Anyway. Javier managed, as usual, to escape entirely unscathed with the help of the Most Interesting Man in the World who arrived with a hovercraft in the nick of time. The MIMITW issued a number of commands laden with his imitable accent to whisk Javier away on the winds. As Fernando Lamas used to say, "When you speak with a person who has an accent then you know you are speaking with someone who speaks one more language than you."

So it goes. When you speak with the Most Interesting Man in the World, you are speaking to someone who has surpassed your life's work, so you need to get jump started my friends. The MIMIW climbed Mount Everest, bench pressed four lovely ladies, stopped the Polynesian Revolution while jumpstarting the one in Nicaragua, written several novels, produced 7 operas and promoted the band known as U2 to promenance. He has also composed three concertos, five symphonies, two operas and rescued the reputations of several pop singers with ghosted material.

His books of collected poems have enthralled women from Columbia to Senegal where he collaborated on projects with Fela Kuti. In this latter effort he achieved mastery over the saxaphone and the keyboards. In his Polynesian effort he found time to master the drums of gamelan.

So what have you done with your life in this time? Stay thirsty my friends.

The Household, which consists of characters considered interesting not so much for exploits, but stupendous errors of judgement and sheer haplessness, has been muddling along in these waning days of COVID. Javier's birthday seems timed to allow Denby's probation hours earned on the previous V-Day in February to have been all used up. Then it is once again hauled before the increasingly irritated Commissioner for another round of Community Service. Some County departments have started to count on Denby's assistance for various DPW projects on a regular basis.

Laterly Denby was consigned to scrubbing a waste-water purification tank, an odiferous job for which it is difficult to obtain volunteers, even from San Quentin. As for Denby, the motto goes "Born to lose and destined to fail."

He was down in the tank when a delegation of officials came by to survey the Works operations amidst the drought and the men stalked with shiny shoes and the women fluttered with feathers of many colors as they passed. Some of the women were clearly note-takers and go-fers in training, sported smart and sharp haircuts, and looked young and fresh and neatly pressed for Politics.

Denby was paired with Nilo Salgado (30 days, Reckless driving, public nuisance). "Don't pay them no mind," Nilo said. "They aint gonna have nothing to do with the likes of us."

The Flat Earth Society of Marin, now combined with sections of the GOP (Greatly Obtuse Party) has continued to hold meetings throughout the Pandemic, with occasional enforced hiatuses when members came down with a sickness all deny is COVID, because COVID is entirely a Liberal conspiracy to rob us of our rights, control our minds and take away our guns.

Flat Earth Society believes the idea that the earth is round is a fiction foisted by the usual Liberals and enforced by the Deep State. In reality, the earth is a flat irregular shape bounded on the corners by cities with the name of Springfield.

This evening, the Society was hosting a Distinguished Speaker who would indicate by his words the level of sane discourse involving the Deep State and Donald J. Trump.

"Ladies and gentlemen, those who have preserved their sacred pronouns, I am honored to welcome our guest speaker from Q-Anon."

"Good evening fellow germs. Given the existence as uttered forth in the public works of Puncher and Wattmann of a personal God quaquaquaqua with white beard quaquaquaqua outside time without extension who from the heights of divine apathia divine athambia divine aphasia loves us dearly with some exceptions for reasons unknown but time will tell and suffers like the divine Miranda with those who for reasons unknown but time will tell are plunged in torment plunged in fire whose fire flames if that continues and who can doubt it will fire the firmament that is to say blast hell to heaven so blue still and calm so calm with a calm which even though intermittent is better than nothing but not so fast and considering what is more that as a result of the labours left unfinished crowned by the Acacacacademy of Anthropopopometry of Essy-in-Possy of Testew and Cunard it is established beyond all doubt all other doubt than that which clings to the labours of men that as a result of the labours unfinished of Testew and Cunard it is established as hereinafter but not so fast for reasons unknown that as a result of the public works of Puncher and Wattmann it is established beyond all doubt that in view of the labours of Fartov and Belcher left unfinished for reasons unknown of Testew and Cunard left unfinished it is established what many deny that man in Possy of Testew and Cunard that man in Essy that man in short that man in brief in spite of the strides of alimentation and defecation is seen to waste and pine waste and pine and concurrently simultaneously what is more for reasons unknown in spite of the strides of physical culture the practice of sports such as tennis football running cycling swimming flying floating riding gliding conating camogie skating tennis of all kinds dying flying sports of all sorts autumn summer winter winter tennis of all kinds hockey of all sorts penicilline and succedanea in a word I resume and concurrently simultaneously for reasons unknown to shrink and dwindle in spite of the tennis I resume flying gliding golf over nine and eighteen holes tennis of all sorts in a word for reasons unknown in Feckham Peckham Fulham Clapham namely concurrently simultaneously what is more for reasons unknown but time will tell to shrink and dwindle I resume Fulham Clapham in a word the dead loss per caput since the death of Bishop Berkeley being to the tune of one inch four ounce per caput approximately by and large more or less to the nearest decimal good measure round figures stark naked in the stockinged feet in Connemara in a word for reasons unknown no matter what matter the facts are there and considering what is more much more grave that in the light of the labours lost of Steinweg and Peterman it appears what is more much more grave that in the light the light the light of the labours lost of Steinweg and Peterman that in the plains in the mountains by the seas by the rivers running water running fire the air is the same and then the earth namely the air and then the earth in the great cold the great dark the air and the earth abode of stones in the great cold alas alas in the year of their Lord six hundred and something the air the earth the sea the earth abode of stones in the great deeps the great cold an sea on land and in the air I resume for reasons unknown in spite of the tennis the facts are there but time will tell I resume alas alas on on in short in fine on on abode of stones who can doubt it I resume but not so fast I resume the skull to shrink and waste and concurrently simultaneously what is more for reasons unknown in spite of the tennis on on the beard the flames the tears the stones so blue so calm alas alas on on the skull the skull the skull the skull in Connemara in spite of the tennis the labours abandoned left unfinished graver still abode of stones in a word I resume alas alas abandoned unfinished the skull the skull in Connemara in spite of the tennis the skull alas the stones Cunard tennis... the stones... so calm... Cunard... unfinished..."

The evening descended unfortunately into an atavistic brawl as is characteristic of all Q-Anon sponsored events.

The train horn keened from Oaktown across the estuary to echo off of the embankments of the Island and then ricochet its way through the redwoods of Marin's well-matriculated hills and slide over the sleeping bulk of Princess Tamalpais following the old, forgotten railheads that once led along Sir Francis Drake Boulevard to the coast, stirring the coyotes who began to howl their evensong which carried forth on the winds over Fairfax and White's Hill, ululating through Silvan Acres and the mist-shrouded niches of the San Geronimo Valley, coursing with faint gray shapes along the ridge-tops through the drifts of fog and dripping redwoods to an unknown destination.

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

JULY 4, 2021

YEAR OF THE CAT

A lot of people claim to have seen mountain lions around here recently. We know of only one verified sighting; most are of bobcats and lynx's which have a similar coloring but tufting in the ears. Bobcats are as common as raccoons and other animals and so is the lynx. Mountain lions are rarely seen although one was seen around July 4th up high on the San Anselmo ridge. The image above is of a bobcat seen in Fairfax.

Because of the drought killing the grasses, the deer have been coming down to populated areas to feed in watered areas and the predators have been following them.

LAST ONE GOES THE HOPE

So anyway. All Silvan Acres denizens boiled out of their mansions and hovels to view the resurrected Unofficial Non-Incorporated Silvan Acres Independence Day Parade, a name that is bigger than the town itself.

Our parade is better than any other largely because, since we are unincorporated there is no Mayor, no Council and no Assemblyman car draped in bunting to spoil the fun of hurled candies, prancing horses, old jalopies, stiltwalkers, music bands playing on flatbeds, and one very cute and adorable bagpipe player.

And nobody wore a mask.

Even so, although we are blessed in the Valley other places still face the contagion.

This July 4th, with its usual mixture of self-congratulatory jingoism, old fashioned traditions, celebratory familial joy, and BBQ, this time was tinged with a reflective quality of commonality not felt for a long time across the country. This sense of everyone having passed through the fires together in isolation was so quiet, so subdued, that few remarked upon it. Your Q-Anon extremist and your Black Lives Matter cohort will still angrily deny something in common, but that is now. History will tell otherwise. And History is most likely to be on behalf of people struggling for freedom and the simple right to live over conspiracy agigators subsisting on a Big Lie.

The country stands at the brink of a tremendous opportunity for reconciliation even as we continue to battle this Pandemic. We are in an excellent position to restore our international respect in the minds of millions by assisting other parts of the globe now experiencing the devastating third wave in the form of the Coronavirus Delta variant. Even at home there are parts of the Country that are woefully and inexcuseably unvaccinated.

With a vicious drought choking the West there were no fireworks anywhere this year, which gives us all some quiet to reflect each in his and her own way, on the state of our lives and where do we go from here.

And so, the Editor elected this year -- voting is a right you know -- to not have the Parade dissolve in chaos with explosions and Harold flying overhead on a handglider puttling a patriotic banner of stars and stripes as a bowling ball pulled his pants down, and the Presbyterian float packed with strawbales and a mule did not catch on fire, and as the sun set on the quiet San Geronimo Valley no wirens wailed and no body got shot and nobody got stabbed.

The train horn keened from Oaktown across the estuary to echo off of the embankments of the Island and then ricochet its way through the redwoods of Marin's well-matriculated hills and slide over the sleeping bulk of Princess Tamalpais following the old, forgotten railheads that once led along Sir Francis Drake Boulevard to the coast, stirring the coyotes who began to howl their evensong which carried forth on the winds over Fairfax and White's Hill, ululating through Silvan Acres and the mist-shrouded niches of the San Geronimo Valley, coursing with faint gray shapes along the ridge-tops through the drifts of fog and dripping redwoods to an unknown destination.

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

 

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