Island-Life - 2010
Vol. 12 - No. 6
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Welcome to the 12th year of this weekly column. This space is updated
each week, 52 times per year. This page is modified each week on Sunday evening, or Monday morning, depending on how the booze holds out. Send news, clues and rumors to Owen@Island-Life.net. To re-visit past years go to the new ARCHIVES section. If your monitor make this page HARD TO READ then use the text resizer in the sidebar.
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FEBRUARY 7, 2010 NO MEANS NO -- EXCEPT SOMETIMES The piece about the popes a few weeks ago brought in some commentary. Here is photo of a product devised by one successful entrepreneur. The product is called the "I said No Condom", and seems to be selling rather well.
WEEKLY VIDEO This week we present a talk by Naomi Wolf , author of "The End of America: Letter of Warning To A Young Patriot" given October 11, 2007 at Kane Hall on the University of Washington campus.
MEASURE B DOWN IN FLAMES Once again Staff volunteered at the polls for an election, this one the Special Election instigated by SunCal's attempt to flagrantly hijack plans for the Point. Nearly 85 percent of them said "no" Tuesday to what SunCal Companies suggested as the future of the former base. SunCal proposed to build about 4,500 new housing units and 3,182,000 square feet of commercial space, as well as a new ferry terminal, library and school at the site. The developer's plan also called for 150 acres of open space but also limited its own dollar amount to amenities like the proposed parkland. Alameda residents overwhelmingly rejected the proposal, which was on the ballot Tuesday as Measure B. Results show that 11,947 voters rejected the measure. Yes votes totaled 2,120, according to the Alameda County Registrar of Voters. Cost of the election will be about a cool one half a million dollars to the City. Next up, June 8 Primary elections. AVATAR - THE MOVIE
Crossing the country one year, an affair that used to happen with distressing regularity by land and road, we happened upon a performance of an outdoor play outside of Bismarck, ND. The play concerned the preparations of Col. Armstrong Custer, who departed on his ill-fated expedition from that city. The middle of the country is not like you and me -- it is far more uninformed, and sometimes willfully so. That play extolled Custer's merits, turning old "Yellowhair" into an archetypal hero of great courage and integrity. Not all the persuasion in the world could convince anyone there that most of the world justly regards Custer as a murderous madman and dishonest thug who was only shunted from horrific deeds by sheer force of numbers. Instead, the people there insisted they were planning to take their work on the road in a matter of months to none other than San Francisco, and they absolutely refused to believe that they would be laughed off of the stage within days of opening. Which is pretty much what did happen. We had Custer and that play much on our minds during our jaunt during the Superbowl to watch the James Cameron movie, Avatar, at the Island Multiplex, where its current popularity is ensuring dual screenings in the recently refurbished theatre. This is the first time staff have entered the controversial venue, the restoration of which was hotly contested for quite a while, and which has resulted in a basically old-time environment with period ornate architecture dating from the 20's. Its interior fits in with the Island olde tyme atmosphere, but basically, all that blacks out once the film rolls, so not much more needs to be said about it other than we noticed numerous technical glitches on which others have commented. The house lights inexplicably came up midway, the screen was periodically as jumpy as the old-fashioned film reels and so on. As for Avatar, we would give the 2.5 hour film a thumbs up as a solidly engaging movie which completes all it sets out to do and more. That said, the movie does not try all that hard or aim that high intellectually. It is true its basically a "Dances with Wolves" with high-tech and seven-foot aliens standing in for the Indians. Old storyline: bad guys get their butts kicked in the shoot-out. As a sci-fi vehicle, its WOW factor does not disappoint, and there is a refreshing sense of wonder that was absent in the final 2 Matrix movies. That would be all to report except for a couple disturbing comments circulating around the film. One concerns the supposed "anti-military" feel of the movie, and the other is a bit more complex requiring a fairly lengthy answer, and which basically boils down to the overheard comment, "I don't think there really are such evil people in large numbers", essentially referring to the hired mercenary army that is a deadringer for the Blackhawk folks in Iraq, but also a carbon copy of previous entities. Stephen Lang puts in a fairly solid performance of an ex-Marine who has moved into the private sector as a "security consultant", which pretty much equals the experience of the Blackhawk folks. All of the security personnel seem to stem from the same background, including our main man, played by Sam Worthington. None of the armed forces are presented in any way as current members of the US armed forces, and great pains are taken to illustrate this. The chain of command is limited to the field commander and there it stops, save for a minor role in their employer, represented by Giovanni Ribisi (Saving Pvt Ryan). The US Marines are generally treated with respect, and at least two characters portray ex-Marines with integrity and honor, so the charge that the movie impugns the Marines in any way is entirely bogus. And, let us point out, Lang does not portray even a very good commander, because a good commander would never have committed the lives of personnel past the point when casualties started to accrue. Lang's Colonel Miles Quaritch needs to be seen as a bad leader responding emotionally, instead of intelligently. The second comment requires some attention, for as in any space-opera/space western you are going to have exaggerated presentations of good guys versus bad guys. The problem we have here is that the situation of a people sitting on something desirable only to have a stronger power seize that thing destructively has historically involved just the sort of folks portrayed in the movie Avatar. One would like to think, we are beyond all that. We have matured ourselves and we no longer do that sort of thing. But history indicates that belief is simply not true. It does keep happening. The great hope is that films like this and District 9 will continue to highlight these situations which unfortunately have become all too typical towards the end of making them atypical. Towards this end, we are including a chapter from our own in-house Work in Progress. This chapter is a conflation of two real events which took place at Gunther's Island and at Clearlake in the 1850's and is drawn from firsthand reports. It is strong stuff -- some of the lines are pulled verbatim from eyewitness accounts, and it is not something to read any time around dinner. No detail has been invented. Yep, it all happened. CHAPTER 58 - THE CLEARLAKE MASSACRE Tiburcio rode up to the place on the Peralta estate where he and Isabelle had settled in a shack beside Temescal Creek and encountered the shock of his life upon coming in the door. Isabelle ran to greet him, exclaiming there was someone there to see him - which was not such a shock in itself. The shock was in seeing his old friend Runakason laid out on a cot, emaciated, bloody and near death. Tiburcio went to him and in broken whispers Runakason told such a tale
as to make the blood of any man who would distinguish himself by the name
to run cold as the ice water that skirts the snowfields of the Glacial
Divide. So Runakason crossed over the water to find the old village only to discover that only the two people -- Eneeka and Hayuusa Joe -- were left scrabbling for survival among the ruins. There was no more village and that's when they headed north to where they had heard some people were living. That's how Runakason had fallen in with the Clearlake Pomo only a few miles north. Those people had lived there for generations, and had managed to get along with the old Californio, Salvador Vallejo, who had set up a small ranch there south of the lake, but two whites had come, one by the name of Andrew Kelsey, the other named Charles Stone. Andrew Kelsey was the brother to the same Sam Kelsey who had been part of Los Osos a few years previously. As for Stone, Stone was a good name for this man, for that is what the man had in place of a heart and as for a soul, he never had possessed any such article and would have sold it cheap to the Devil if ever he did. The men set up a big cattle ranch and, finding few to man the business, purchased several Pomo as slaves. Finding that insufficient, they went to the villages that ringed all around the lake and seized men to come work for the wage of four cups of wheat per week, and any that refused were tied by the wrists to an oak and flogged solidly until the blood ran down and the last breath ran out. The man would be cut down then and thrown into a ditch that was by the counting house. The slaves were made to build a grand adobe house, the first of its kind up there, with two floors and many rooms. While this was going on, Stone felt the urges of a man with large appetites and so when he happened to hear of or see a particular woman he would send for her to use to satisfy his desires. One day Stone called to Tsiaiaruka Ka Ruk to send his woman, Da-Pi-Tauno. The man refused, of course, as any man of the name would. Stone sent some men to grab Tsiaiaruka Ka Ruk and hang him by the wrists from the oak next to the adobe. There Stone flogged the man all day and took a rest in the afternoon for some food and a little nap, leaving the man to hang there for hours. He came back and to flog him a couple hours more but by then the man hung there without breathing. Stone left him hanging there and took the maiden Silent Creek into his place for a time. She was from the eastern shore of Clearlake. One day he came out angry that she had not cooked the meal to his liking and was talking about going back to the eastern shore which he did not like, so he took his pistol and shot her in front of the house. Shot her three or four times and she lay there dying while the people stood around not able to do anything. "Take that you damn Indian, take that!" he said. After that he would pick and choose any woman he wished, whether married or not, and use them for a little while. If another man had her and refused to send her up to the house, Stone treated him the same way he had treated Tsiaiaruka Ka Ruk. He was a bad man that Stone, but Kelsey was not much better. He took several men, including QraNas, Bodum, and Juluh, tied them together with thick ropes and drove them like cattle to the Sierra mountains, where he had them dig for gold, where Kelsey got some out of their efforts and brought it back with great pride, but the diggers were called only that and earned nothing for their pains. The two of them captured people from villages around Clearlake and some they bought as slaves from merchants in that trade. Although Black slavery was forbidden, these two helped keep that institution alive on a technicality for these people were not Black. Runakason knew nothing of technicalities or what, but he did know all of this was not right. The slaves were put to work finishing the building of that immense adobe house two stories high with winding stairs and a big stone fireplace. They hauled timber, sawed planks, lifted rock and many other things and for all of this each was given nothing, not even food. For food they had to depend on the boiled wheat that was paid to the cattleherdsmen and those men were paid only four cups per week for themselves and their families. The winter of '49 was hard with snow and ice such that well over twenty men and women died of starvation and the conditions. Chamis, and Vjute, and Saweeka died in this time. Runakason had settled with Eneeka and Hayuusa Joe with a few Pomo in the village called Badonnapoti on Wakkaley Island, called by gringos "Rattlesnake Island". This island lay in the northern part of Clearlake, but a horse could ride through the shallows and get there easily. Kelsey and Stone kept their ranch on the south end, so these people had little to do with the ranch as it was known as a bad place. One day, as Runakason was out fishing when Ge-We-Lih and MaLaq-Qe-Tou came round saying the people on the ranch had killed the two white men and were now living well on the cattle there. Runakason went to the ranch and found Kelsey's body on the side of the creek where they had left him. He heard from Ragnal all about what had happened. Shuk and Xasis, seeing the people starving, determined to hunt down some beef, kill it and so feed the people, who were forbidden by the whites to hunt or fish. They planned to do this at night so they would not get caught and furthermore they would use ranch horses to hunt and carry back the meat. Things did not go well as planned for on the night they went for the meat, it started raining and turned the ground all around into a mud slick. While Xasis was lassoing a good sized beeve, the horse Shuk was riding slipped and fell, throwing its rider. Xasis had to let go of the beeve and try to use his riata to recapture the horse, for the horse Shuk had taken belonged to Stone and that horse was Stone's personal favorite. All the other horses lived outside as the Californios had always done with them, but these two came from the barn where the white men doted on them and fed them far better than the people. Xasis got his horse back to the barn, but he could not catch Stone's horse which joined the wild herd. As for the meat, it all stampeded away when this all started. There then was a big conference where Xasis and Shuk told the people there what had happened. You must imagine what they were all thinking, for things were bad enough. If anyone admitted what had happened that man would be flogged to death with his wrists tied to a tree branch. If anyone did not admit what happened there would be flogging, death, and trouble for everybody. Someone suggested paying Stone for the loss of his horse, but everybody knew he would take the money - then Stone would kill the man who took it to him. The committee decided there was nothing they could do, for no matter what they did, things would be very bad for everybody and somebody would die over this whole fiasco of trying to get something to eat. So it was that Shuk and Xasis decided that if anyone would die, it would be Kelsey and Stone. They set out then for the house at daylight. The conference then conferred, seeing that nothing could be done to persuade Shuk and Xasis one way or another, but they did make one request of the house-help there, all of them boys and girls who had been or were being abused by both Kelsey and Stone, and these boys and girls removed all of the guns and knives from the house early that morning. QraNas and Batus went with the other two, and as these people were not especially fierce and never warlike, when the whites were confronted, there was to be a great fight. In fact, nothing would have happened that morning except for Juluh who had come up with the others just to watch. They all stood around the big kettle used for boiling the wheat until Stone came out and there were Xasis and Shuk having a conversation with the man about food and so on until Juluh lost his temper, seeing that these men did not want to kill anybody, nothwithstanding that this man would soon kill them both for taking the horse. Juluh grabbed the bow and arrows from Xasis and shot the very surprised Stone in the stomach who swung an iron pot on MaLaq-Qe-Tou, breaking the man's arm and there was a great fight then but Stone managed to fight his way back into the house and lock the door. So there they all were, knowing that no weapons lay in the house, but not being able to enter. Batus went away with MaLaq-Qe-Tou to bind up his arm away from there. Kelsey came to the door not knowing what had happened, for he looked puzzled at the blood on the doorstep. The white men had commanded such a large house to be built that apparently Stone had gone in to some other place without ever meeting Kelsey or telling him what had happened. As it turned out later, he had gone upstairs to die in his bed. Kelsey saw the people advancing on him and tried to cajole them, but these people were starving, had just committed violence on his partner and they meant business. QraNas got between him and the door, so Kelsey took off running. There was a running fight from the house to the creek where JuLuh shot him in the back with an arrow, but this failed to stop Kelsey who jumped in and swam to the other shore where Jim Seifis and his wife stood waiting among others. Kelsey begged for his life then, using what words we do not know for he had nothing to offer except the memory of the infrequent act of kindness to this or that person. Jim Seifis said, "Do you remember how you shot down my boy from your horse for the sake of a cup of wheat?" He turned then to his wife, DaPiTauo, and said, "This man killed our son. What do you think?" DaPiTauo took a spear and rammed it then full force into Kelsey's chest so that the heart stopped and the man died by the running creek. They left him there until Runakason found him, partially eaten by coyotes. Runakason returned to the island and told them all what had happened. Some went to see for themselves and found these things to be true. Everybody on the ranch was quite happy for now they had enough to eat for everybody, but more than a few people felt anxious about what was to happen next for the story quickly traveled to all the villages about Clearlake. Many of the people left the ranch and came to the island village, for they wanted no part of murder, not even of the likes of Stone and Kelsey. Some of the ranch people had lookouts posted on Emmerson Hill and in other places. Runakason conferred with the people on the island and they determined that although they had done nothing wrong and would take no part of this affair, they would send a party to greet the whites when they came so as to explain their innocence and all about the slavery and the impossible conditions. For Stone and Kelsey had set a regional curfew over the entire area beyond the borders of their ranch and would punish any violators from any village with the usual flogging. They had their slaves build high walls around the two biggest villages on the east and west side to help with this. Bodom and KraoLah had a more personal and pragmatic approach as they found out later, for the two went down to the river and dug out a cave there, which they stocked with provisions before covering it over with reeds and laurel so that it looked like a thicket instead of a hiding place. The inevitable day came when the lookouts gave notice that the soldiers were coming up the river in many boats and there were armed volunteers among them. When the soldiers got to the ranch, they found it entirely empty of life. All the people had fled into the hills except for Bodom and KraoLah hiding by the river. The soldiers then got into their boats and rowed up along the west shore. When they landed on the island and the closer shore, the village sent out its little group of emissaries including Runakason, Ga-We-Lih and Mule to parley with the soldiers. Runakason recognized Nathanial Lyon as the young Lieutenant as Ga-We-Lih raised his hands in token surrender and began to speak. For answer, indeed, before the man had finished speaking, the soldiers opened fire hitting Ga-we-lih, the man next to him named Mule, and Runakason, whom they winged in the shoulder. Mule fell to the ground, shot in the chest twice and in the head and so he died right away. The others ran into the water and hid in the tules, and the water soon turned red all around from the wounds of those who had been hit. Others ran back to the village, but the unmistakable boom of cannonfire soon shook the air. The US Army was using cannon against women and children and defenseless men who were only trying desperately to surrender. Soldiers then stepped forward with bayonets. Runakason slid into the water after the soldiers had passed and there watched what happened and Ragnal was there also a little ways off, but they dared not say a word to one another. Screams filled the air and the sound of cannon and gunfire ceased. The screaming continued. Through the reeds, Runakason watched as a soldier stabbed Hinke Neppe in the side with his bayonet and then again in the chest. When she fell down he stabbed her again. Just beyond him another soldier stabbed EneeKah, a young woman, who was holding her baby, named Mech, and as she fell, the soldier speared the wailing Mech through the back and went on running with the impaled child just like that. A splash startled Runakason and he though he had been discovered and was about to die, but it was the body of a woman thrown into the water by civilian volunteers who stood on the banks as three other woman stood out up to their waists pleading for mercy. He couldn't see who the woman was, for she floated face down, almost near enough to touch in a cloud of red and brown water. The volunteers shouldered their rifles and shot all three woman down with many bullets. Other women and some men among them ran into the water and swam out into the lake. If they landed on the near shore, the soldiers there shot them down or stabbed them to death with bayonets. Most of these got away however, for they drifted south to thickets there. One woman, named Ah-See-Nah, running between the center roasting pit and the main hall, was brought down by a volunteer with an ax. He pitched it into her shoulder and stopped her running, then grabbing her hair to throw her down, he drove the ax into the top of her head as she struggled to arise. He then smote the hatchet into her face, three times so that blood and brain spattered all about. White chips of her skull flew out to island on pools of blood and viscous grey and yellow matter on the ground until her flailing arms went still. He then ran off to sink his ax into another woman. Ah-See-Nah had been a woman who always sought to broker the peace among squabbling families, for such is the need on a close place like an island, but she was dead now. Another soldier came running up with a dead baby speared on his bayonet and he flung the dead child out into the lake. For a long time the killing went on, until the men wore themselves out chasing the people for sport, the soldiers being ordered back into lines while the volunteers continued to hunt down old women and children and stab them to death. Soon, of the village of 400 people there, nothing but soldiers and armed volunteers and a few children inexplicably saved - perhaps by a few volunteers who had sickened of the whole business - remained alive on the island. Everywhere the air stank of death and the water all along the shore was polluted. The last thing Runakason saw before closing his eyes and keeping them shut while wishing for death was the worst. Worse than all he had just described. Bidameh, a girl of about thirteen of whom Runakason was a bit fond was thrown down on the bank there when a soldier caught her running for the water. The man then unhooked his bayonet from his rifle while standing over her before plunging the knife into her chest. He worked the knife in his fist along her chest for a long six inches, opening her up. Runakason could see the brilliant white of her sternum, almost as one might see a bright orchid amid a nest of red roses arranged by an artist, as the man pulled it free and then cut loose her still beating heart which he held only for a moment before tossing that into the lake, to kill and kill again, leaving the young girl there to stare forever wide eyed at the improbable and open universe framed delicately by buckeye branches twirling their yellow seedpods in a moderate breeze. Before night fell, the armed forces marched off and the survivors crept back to shiver through the hell-wrought night, although not from cold. To the south they could see fires and by daybreak the smoke of burning villages along the Russian River rose as black pillars. One man told of how the volunteers had siezed a man walking along the path and tied him to a tree. This man was named James Tatou, because he had learned some French from a frigate that had come by there years ago. The volunteers then gathered deadwood about Jim's feet, poured pitch upon it and then set it ablaze. Where the people had once set carefully tended fires to roast acorns and let the pinon nuts fall, these whites were setting fires to kill. And so they burned the man alive. When Runakason crawled out of the water finally, with Ragnal they found Ga-We-Lih still alive, for he had only been shot in the shoulder but had played dead so they would not finish the job on him. Ragnal was just a boy then, but he helped get Ga-We-Lih back to what remained of the village. After a while Hayuusa Joe showed up with some of the others who had escaped
by swimming over to the shore. Now, he was in Contra Costa, having gotten there god knows how, grabbing
the arm of Tiburcio his eyes big with horror. "How can these people be? They are savages!" With that, his old friend lay back on his cot and there he died.
It's been a stormy week on the Island, our hometown set here on the edge of the San Francisco Bay. The Special Election came and went pretty much as everyone expected and the rains performed their usual dances to sodden the Southlands and send more misery East. That old Pennsylvania groundhog came out to see his shadow and then scamper on back in side for another three to four weeks of winter. For now we have a few more showers forcast for the upcoming week, which means no good for the rest of you out in the Heartlands. Wouldn't bet on that Monte Carlo falling through the lake ice just yet. Javier skipped out on covering First Fridays and the Oakland Art Murmur on rumors that the lovely Leslie of San Leandro was out looking for him in advance of that annual debacle of a holiday known as Valentine's Day. Instead of going up to Trestle Glen, he hid out with a bucket of chicken wings and a case of beer in his apartment to watch an old road-movie starring Gene Hackman and Al Pacino called Scarecrow. Leslie found some striking Italian with suave good looks so Javier is off the hook for now. In any case, the sky boils with Michelangelo clouds, muscular with gods and sungold each day, while in other parts of the country George Winston plays etudes across the sifting snow crystals that sweep over the hummocky drifts. Over at Marlene and Andre's household the place is packed to the gills with humanity, as the weather enforces all who supposedly live there to actually sleep there physically, for there is no other place to go. Jose forgot to go fetch his load of food from the monthly CFS distribution at the foodbank, so now they are all digging into the freezer for last year's production of fava bean chili. Times are tough and in such times, fava beans are the staple of the survivors. It's Winter and the Great Recession is still in full swing. Everyone is out of work and there is no money for anything. Out back, they've started the crops all around the ironmongery left by Mr. Howitzer but it will be a while before the greens fill out. Sprigs of adolescent bean plants stick up between the garlic shoots promising greater things in a few months. Night arrives like a tired man returning home to hang up his raincoat by the door, scattering a few drops here and there before turning out the lights. Around the little cottage the swaddled bulks shift and snore in their sleeping bags. Occasional Quentin reposes again under the coffee table while Mancini, Xavier, and Pahrump occupy the floor with Bonkers and Johnny Cash. Suan has the couch again. The hallway bunks are all filled with Marsha, Tipitina, Alexis and Piedro. Jose has the closet and of course, Andre and Marlene use the one bed with Wickiwup. Martini, who used to work at the NUMMI automobile factory in Fremont, mentions that he got some work this weekend blowing leaves. That's good, said Xavier. Then everyone is quiet for a while. Do you think these hard times will ever end, asked Martini. No, said Pahrump. Get used to it. Okay, said Martini. From far across the way the long wail of the throughpassing train ululated across the waters of the estuary as the engine wended its way past the dark and shuttered storefronts of Jack London waterfront, heading from the Port of Oaktown to parts unknown. That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.
JANUARY 31, 2010
This week's somber headline photo is the cover of last week's Der Spiegel, the rough equivalent in Germany to Time/Newsweek. The headline translates roughly to "An Entire Nation Dies".
Long time Islandlifers know that we read the news from around the world in five languages so you don't have to. Our precis of world news was last week.
A couple weeks ago Garrison Keillor brought his roadshow into Babylon's Opera House across the water, but kindly allowed a couple locals to perform there, including Marinite and Bluesbreaker Evin Bishop and our own Islandgirl, Frederika von Stade. The lovely Frederika performed a little song about our Dear Island, with just a bit of tongue in cheek at the time and some enterprising Islandlifer has posted the entire performance (with Chanticleer doing backup vox) on youtube. Heavens, we shall soon get such a head from all the attention!
THIS ISLAND LIFE Practically the entire world knows that we are holding a special election this Tuesday, an election which features but a single item, and if you do not know what that issue is, you might as well go home to bed right now. Measure B is the SunCal initiative, of course, a rather bitterly contested issue for all of its merits and admittedly bad faith work on the part of SunCal, who didn't help things much by botching the entire process from the gathering of signatures to the miswriting of many parts of the initiative and the misdirection about just what the plan was all about, altering the plan over which hundreds of people had negotiated over the course of fifteen years since the Navy left the old base at the Point. For the last time -- until the next time -- here are the points of view. Go to the Homes project which is staunchly pro-SunCal to get that point of view in relatively unbiased terms. For the anti-Initiative view, which trends to be largely anti-SunCal Developer in toto, go to Save our City (SOCA) Notable names here feature Pat Payne and Pat Bail, both of whom have run for mayor here as Independents. We are split down the middle in the offices, with some of us seeing the SunCal project the only hope of building affordable housing out there, and some of us just disgusted with all that SunCal is about. One does need to know that whenever Developers are concerned, there is bottom feeder dreck and scum attached -- always was and always will be -- so no matter what happens, a fair amount of nose-holding will be necessary just keep down one's lunch for all the filth that will arise. Its really a matter of finding the best bad deal and working with that to get at least something for the people out of all the feeding frenzy, so one might as well go with SunCal as with anyone else. Nobody builds parks and "affordable housing" out of pure altruism after all. After practically all of City Hall turned against the Initiative, which appears to be heading for a flaming defeat, SunCal has already devised another Initiative for the 2012 Election and is in "talks" between its reps and City Hall.
We got more bad news across the wire here, as it appears that the person who drowned recently in the estuary during an as yet unexplained incident was known to one of us here in the Offices. Ryan Divine was found clinging to a post in the estuary January 20th and was extracted from there by Coast Guard who delivered him to the Island Hospital where he unfortunately passed away, apparently due to exposure and hypothermia. He was 24. A young girl in the offices reports that she "grew up with him" and so knew him for many years. We extend our sorrowful regrets to this person and to the family. This makes Ryan the fourth person within our circle to pass away within as many months. A memorial service was held at St. Phillip Neri on the 25th. COMING HOME Took in Berkeley Rep's production of Coming Home by Athol Fugard thanks to the kindness of strangers. Incidentally, Island-Life thanks all who contribute tickets towards promoting East Bay Culture and Arts with no thought of self-promotion.
(l to r) At Berkeley Rep, Roslyn Ruff and Kohle Thomas Bolton star in Coming Home by master dramatist Athol Fugard. Photo courtesy of kevinberne.com Athol Fugard remains a giant of dramatic literature long after his courageous stand against his country's official position of apart-hate, known as apartheid has been set aside. Besides his stand against an official policy of racial discrimination, his plays have long been studied as prime examples of how theatre can be a vehicle of political and social immanence, fully engaged with social change and active in motivating positive revolution. His is not the dead and dessicated drama of neo-classicism which is experienced by comfortable people who have just departed a nice dinner in an expensive restaurant to enjoy high tone and "elevated thoughts" devoid of currency, but a real depiction of real people engaging with present issues. This is not Racine, with his ultra-polite descriminations and avoidances of ugliness but Gorki thrust in the face. The play begins quietly, with a softly spoken monologue by the girl returning to the place of her youth to her child. All of the language is subdued, even the sung parts. By the end of the long first act, however, the language has become raw and shouted and the emotions ragged and enflamed with passions. The young girl who entered with such calm assertion and quiet promise has become a banshee howling "fuck you!" at the one person she must depend upon to save her child.
(l to r) At Berkeley Rep, Jaden Malik Wiggins, Thomas Silcott and Roslyn Ruff star in Coming Home by master dramatist Athol Fugard. Photo courtesy of kevinberne.com This is not a comfortable play to sit well with after dinner apertifs, but engaged theatre that grapples with some very serious issues. It has been the position of the Berkeley Rep in recent years to present theatre that is engaged with social issues, and not be detached or removed, and to Les Waters we must grant a significant amount of credit for this artistic direction. Post-aparteid South Africa remains a land torn by the issues of its past and the heritage of an unruly present. The AIDS pandemic has been widely reported and the issues come out forcefully during the course of this play. As the principal character lays dying of this plague, from which so many of our best and brightest have died, there is a hope offered in the figure of the young Mannetjie, who remains "after the frost, the one plant still green and living." It was interesting taking in this play after watching the DVD version of District 9, which was filmed substantially in the Soweto district of Jo'burg in South Africa, and which references a real population displacement effort that took place during the apartheid era. We suggest going to this kind of theatre, which remains engaged, difficult and provocational over any other which seeks to present distant and detached high-mindedness that is lacking in real attachment to present day concerns.
(l to r) At Berkeley Rep, Lou Ferguson
and Jaden Malik Wiggins star in Coming Home by master dramatist Athol
Fugard.
Athol Fugard, Playwright Cast Roslyn Ruff, Veronica Jonkers WHAT'S GOING ON The kind folks at Slate inform us that a new exhibit will open in Oaktown's Temescal District February 5th, when there will be wine, sparkling conversation, beautiful people and "Modernism:Expressionism new work by Lisa Barker and Cheryl Rabin." This show celebrates two artists' passionate engagement with painting as both a formal and expressive medium.
Lisa Barker's abstract paintings are inspired by northern California landscapes. Barker loves to travel and explore what she calls "special places," returning to the studio to build up sturdy, almost architecturally-structured compositions using colors remembered from the locations she has visited (e.g Alpine Meadows, Obexer's Market, Castanoa).
While her focus is on balancing color and form in layered blocks of paint in a manner reminiscent of Bay Area Abstract Expressionist Hans Hoffman, her references to nature and the outside world add a topical and personal aspect to the content.
Cheryl Rabin studied fashion design in London in the 1970s before becoming a painter. Her love of the human form-its shape, weight, and movement-comes through in these loose gestural paintings, which are artfully sketched in front of a live model. Restricted to 20-minute poses, Rabin captures the figure quickly but deftly, only later coming back to rework certain areas and build up to a finished, but still essential, composition. Check out Slate Art & Design for more info.
Its been a gloomy and overcast week on the Island, our hometown set here on the edge of the San Francisco Bay. The dark waves mutter "winter, winter, winter" as they clash against the riprap along the shore and the sky has been wracked by the unruly ropes of savage weather, bound all in felted greys and blues and torment. Down by the iron waters a splash reverberates against the hard stones and a young life is swept away. In Babylon every corner sprouts anouther insistent panhandler and the BART stations are thronged with buskers and dime-gatherers, all calling "Spare change! Spare change!" If you have trouble, go to Sausal Creek. That's for East Bay. If you are Babylon, you are on your own during the Great Recession. It's the dark time of Winter when there is no mercy and all that Christmas would have taught only a short while ago is long forgotten. Savage! Savage is the sjambok, the whip, the asp in this time. Down by the Strand the folks huddle in their squat on Otis, Mr. Howitzer's one bedroom cottage that houses some fifteen people during the Great Recession and the rental pressures as the demonic Developers seek to convert the Island into the Place of Pleasant Living by the Bay, even as that dream evaporates in the face of realities. The heat has been turned off but everyone is gathered around the fire of driftwood to get some brief warmth before crawling into sleeping bags around the hearth. Such is life down along the Strand as Occasional Quentin looks up through the torn porch roof to examine the encroaching clouds of the next storm. Down in the Garden Javier has been pacing under his rainhat, staring at the soil and the anti-rodent netting spread out across the loam. In other parts of the country, the wind blows snow crystals across the crusted surface of deep drifts. Here, Javier is pacing the brick borders of his garden. In other parts of the country, they are all laying wagers on when the station-wagon will break through the ice during spring and plunge then into the lake. But down there, Javier is staring at the soil, commenting on the uprising. Nobody plants in the Spring, because the wise farmer lays down the seed during the harshest and coldest of times, while others are asleep. Spring is the time to enjoy the results of what one has already done. Javier, who stems from old stock, knows this well. That is why he planted his seed during the cold November days. Now, even while Winter holds sway and the Earth keeps her face turned away, come the quiet eruptions. You just get down there and you dig down and you sure enough are going to find these green whorls firing up -- something is going on down there. And it happens pretty much every year. Now we have to tell you people to the East of here that a couple more storms are coming your way out there, you who have the deep blue world of white ice and snow to deal with for a time. But be patient. The change will come soon enough. Over at the Old Same Place Bar Suzie is serving out hot toddies and Gaelic Coffees to the rude and uninitiated and those simply looking for shelter during the storm. In the corner a band of gypsies sits at the table, playing cards among one another. One of them, a woman wearing a shawl goes from table to table offering to tell fortunes by the tarot or by the palm for a fee. No one knows from where gypsies originally came. They have no home but their caravans, so there is no returning to any place one can name in their language or any other. So people keep a wary eye upon them, although they mean no more or less harm than anyone else. Sometimes they get rounded up and put in places like District 9 until people tire of them there or desire that place and then they get evicted to some other place. But for now, they are safe in the Old Same Place Bar. Here on this Island. For now. The old woman tells Eugene that he is a great hunter and by the end of November of this year, he surely will experience great luck. This makes him feel a little better and forget a little bit about how badly things are going, for the economy is bad, no one has any money, it is winter, winter, winter. And its going to rain today. From far across the way, the long howl of the throughpassing train comes ululating across the muttering waters of the estuary as the locomotive hauls its heavy load from the Port through the dark and shuttered Jack London Waterfront, heading off to places unknown.
JANUARY 24, 2010 MURDER IN THE TRAILER PARK This week's headline photo is a shocking display of animalistic savagery upon the mean streets of the Big City. It was a switchblade night and a hot rain on 42nd Street -- the umbrellas? nah, they aint got a chance.
Its a jungle out there, boys and girls and only those with the sharpest claws will survive. CH, CH, CH, CHANGES Returning visitors will note the floating jukebox created by Chad. The control buttons do work, so you can change songs, replay, or just mute the thing entirely. We are looking at other controls for the feller, and we'll be changing the content periodically. The first addition will probably be Denby's rendition of "Hamsterdamn? I don't wanna go to no New Hamsterdamn!" which was planned for the aborted 2009 Holiday CD; its a thorough violation of Lawrence Juber guaranteed to cause the hackles to raise to raise of anyone who desires such trivial things as harmony, timing, melody and the right notes. . Also, we are busy working on code behind the scenes to make things load quicker for you folks as content gets added. And the Sidebar will have some changes, as certain members of our Staff appear to have a Crush on a certain entertainer named "Carmen" (no woman ever wore Produce with such elan, we must admit), that gal will make a recorded appearance. And since no Californian should be without a solid underpinning of that most sibilant of languages, Spanish, we provide a little Spanish lesson as well, courtesy of Firesign Theatre. We also fixed up some of the broken hyperlinks in our ever vigilant quest to improve the lives of Island-Lifers. HARD TIMES COME AGAIN NO MORE As many of you probably know, one of the music world's dearest voices passed away at the young age of 63, when Kate McGarrigle succumbed to cancer recently. The McGarrigle sisters became world famous in the early sixties with their extraordinary voices, earning a joint Order of Canada award, the highest honor bestowed by that country. They toured all over the world, performed with and for virtually everyone, and wrote countless songs that garnered dozens of Grammy awards for the folks that covered them. Not content with that, Kate married Loudon Wainright and produced a pair of Grammy award winning progeny, Rufus and Martha. Their family enjoyed performing songs by Stephen C. Foster, he of Civil War fame, so here we provide a black and white video of the young sisters with their kids performing the timely Foster song, "Hard Times," from the PBS Special, "Songs from the Civil War."
LIKE THE WEATHER The series of dockwallopers shows no signs of ending, albeit we have
enjoyed a slight pause through the weekend with only gloomy skies above
and some sprinkles, however the forecast is for more of the same series
lining up to march from West to East, causing mudslide dangers in SoCal,
snow closures along 395 and Route 80 and yet more misery for you folks
East of here. Rain is expected to build through tonight, getting heavy
tomorrow and through Tuesday with a midweek pause of moderate clouds but
pretty nippy temps in the thirties, followed by more of the same precipitation
on Friday. Expect some more drenchers in about a week and yet more feet
of powder on the East Coast while Old Man Winter puts in one last brough-haha
for the Season.. Some of the Old Timers are reporting go-aheads with plans for fishing trips on the Eastern Sierra in February "pending weather conditions", so we would expect the Greybeards to have some insight here and perhaps some hope of relief. IMAGINE A BRIGHT BLUE BALL IN SPACE SPINNING, SPINNING FREE Its time for a look at the World and what everybody else outside the Provinces might be talking about. The headlines in most papers concern the same subject that has been dominating ours for a couple of weeks: the ongoing disaster that is Haiti. From Der Spiegel, the loud message is jarring: "Haiti entwickelt sich wieder zur Kolonie". This article, and others, make the assumption that the total collapse of social order and infrastructure in the poverty-striken nation means that the only real resolution will be colonization of the territory which has no functioning government, no functioning social system, no functioning utility system, and nobody really to put these things together. The article notes that it took two days for Obama to contact Rene Preval, the Haitian president, because the telephone system was entirely destroyed. Brasil has controlled the national telephone system, as it does in several South American and Caribbean nations, and that country has not yielded over its purview. France has sent a police presence to assist with maintaining order in the increasingly unruly cities, while the aircraft carrier USS Carl Vinson is mentioned as a floating airport provided by the US. With so many countries having a sayso in what goes on now, the Haitian president has effectively thrown his hands in the air to declare that, although the country is "nominally a Democracy", it really needs to keep cool and let the various powers handle things as the government has no real ability to handle the crisis. In fact, since 2004, the country has been a UN "protectorate" anyway, and the earthquake solidifies this status into that of a "colony", but of UNO, instead of any single nation. Really, what is implied is that the player with the biggest muscle takes control -- and responsiblity -- over the entire future of 9 million people. Not much is reported here about Haiti's neighbor, the relatively more well-off Dominican Republic and its response to the crisis occuring to its neighbor. The DR has always regarded its neighbors as inherently "dirty, anarchic, and violent", according to the German report, but some help is forthcoming in the form of individuals contributing heavy equipment, such as bulldozers, and the Jimani hospital taking in thousands of the severely injured. Also in the BRD news, the recent terrorist attack in Kabul which killed dozens of people after an extended firefight. The internal news concerns the political crisis happening to the SPD, which is the more middle-liberal of the four German political parties that share power there. The Google affair in China was reported in several German newspapers, with warnings that the hacker attacks are likely to continue no matter what Google decides to do. A curious report did a follow-up on the Öltanker "Exxon Valdez", which spilled a massive oil leak off of Alaska 21 years ago. Appears the consequences of that disaster continue to plague the region, a story that is not pursued very much around here. Move over Matisyahu, now we have a Zen Monk rapper described under the headline: "Yeah, the Buddha, that's what I am talkin' about, yo!" LE MONDE The Haitian story concerns itself with "logistical problems" and the "serial precipitation of castastrophe", while trying to maintain a sense of distant cool about the former French colony. France still smarts from the problems engendered by the persistence into the 20th century of its colonial issues, and there is scant desire for deeper involvement with foreign places that do not bear fond memories of colonialization. On the same page are articles about the "foreigner problems", with one article focussing on the "right to vote" for non-native French. Most of Le Monde concerned itself with local national issues, with the government contemplating a tax on internet usage -- a theme we have heard before -- and with the loss of unemployment benefits, which the French consistently list as a set of "rights". Unemployment is far higher in Europe during the Recession than here, so the loss of benefits is seen as a serious ratcheting up of the poverty level nationwide. It is estimated that about 38-40% of the unemployed will lose benefits this year due to time limits. Some argue that the catastrophe of so many unemployed losing benefits far outweighs the cost of finding a way to continue them as a function of the total national economy during this Recession. EL MUNDO A couple issues dominated the Spanish papers, besides football and Haiti. The election of Sebastián Piñera in Chile is seen as a opening a new era in that country, and indeed, the relatively rightist new president makes local business there feel better and his annoucement of a new "era" in relations with long time rival Peru is also seen as a major change. Spain, for those who have paid attention, secured the EU presidency and the consequences of that were speculated upon, with the upshot being that it probably will make little difference to Spain except a bit of prestige. MEXICO Various Mexican papers talked about the Bicentennial "Bicentenario de La Independencia, Mexico, 2010". The 1810 liberation from Spain also is bolstered by the 1910 Revolution that toppled Porfirio Diaz. The Haitian crisis brought back painful memories of the 1985 Mexican earthquake, which registered an 8.1 on the Richter scale. The quake caused an incredible toll of death and destruction in Mexico City. PAN launched a survey on n Mexico City on same-sex marriage and the right to adopt children by same-sex couples. The survey would last all week said Mexico City PAN leader Marian Gómez del Campo. The Pinera election cited his "fecund and ambitious" agenda for ties between Peru and Chile. There was a fairly long article speculating on China's putative relaxation of controls on the value of its currency, which turned out to be entirely speculation when other international sources were consulted. Nevertheless, the article did indicate Mexico's high interest in the Asian-Pacific Rim and its eagerness to become a major player there. Not a single country showed the slightest interest in our own fulminations over health care. The Recession is seen as ongoing with no sign of change in the offing, so just deal. A few countries had the usual People-style fluff pieces on what Mrs. Obama was wearing on so and so occasion. So that's it, that's the news of the world from Island-Life. We read newspapers in five languages so that you don't have to. ON AN ISLAND A while ago we reported some jerk had robbed the household of Islander and world-famous opera chanteuse Frederika von Stade in October. We are pleased to report that the thief was apprehended and that it appears that most of the stolen property may be recovered. The thief apparently tried to sell items at Michaan's Auctions, which is located here on the Island. Not only that, the thief returned a second time, at which time police say they arrested 47-year-old Kelly Lee Baslee on suspicion of possessing stolen property. This is especially pleasing in that it does appear no traffic ordinances were violated at any time during the crime or the apprehension of the suspect. Way to go! If you follow the police blotter with any sort of regularity, you will appreciate a neat web-based tool for pinpointing trouble-spots. The City of Alameda Police Department is providing a Crime Mapping tool to show reported incidents of crime in Alameda. You can view an overall snapshot of the City, or drill down to certain neighborhood. You can search by time period or by incident type to see, say, how many DUIs occurred on St Patrick's Day. You can use a tool to view trend reports, so, for example from October 8, 2009 until January 13, 2010, 27.4% of crimes were Theft/Larceny. There is also a "cluster" option where crimes within a certain radius of one another get flagged with a number so you can see where crimes are concentrated. Read more: http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/blogs/inalameda/index#ixzz0dMdtWVH1. The Frank Bette Center for the Arts has a call out and deadline of February 1 for Island photographers to apply to the Alameda on Camera competition. Generally this means that registered photogs get a specific section of the Island to document within a stated period of time in February. Work will be exhibited and juried in April. Go to http://frankbettecenter.org/aoc-exhibit.html for more details and application. LIFE IS A CABARET MY FRIEND Island-Lifer Sue reported on the memorial for Norton Buffalo held at the Fox, where the Doobie Brothers, Steve Miller, Maria Muldaur, Roy Rogers, and Bonnie Raitt tore it up for the blues harpist who died of cancer at the end of last year. Word was the entire affair, which raised money to help out Buffalo's family, was fantastic, with each performer yanking the energy level up a notch, starting with Bonnie Raitt's searing opener; that little red-headed girl sure can rock. A gaggle of people attended the sold out "gypsy music" festival starring Dorado Schmidt and Dave Grisman at Yoshi's East here on the Warmer Side of the Bay. Schmidt interacted with Grisman with his customary sense of humor and playfulness to put in a full evening of solid music influenced by Django Reinhart. THIS ISLAND LIFE Its been a soggy week on the Island, our hometown set here on the edge of the San Francisco Bay. The series of dockwallopers remains with yet another to drench the place on Monday, which will certainly lead to fairly cool weather. Jose has been out in his garden, puttering under an umbrella while prodding the ground, looking for some signs of life. Does appear the freesias are starting to bud out and there are green shoots that look suspiciously like randy tulips, which always can cause some explosive energy when the season gets its mind around to change later on. The early favas are starting to erupt, which they will tend to do when planted in November. Yes, things are going on down there. You up there in snowbound Minnesota, just hang in there a bit. There will be mosquitos as big as sparrows bounding against the screens before long, just you wait. Father Duran continues to make his daily revolution around the block that holds the Church of Our Lady of Incessant Complaint, turning smartly to the right as he proceeds clockwise on his regular course with his umbrella held stiff against the elements. Just as regularly, Pastor Nyquist of the Lutheran Church of Emmanuel proceeds as is his natural bent, anti-clockwise around the same block and the two nod at one another every day in passing the bus stop on Santa Clara. Its night now, and all the regulars in the Old Same Place Bar are talking about the upcoming Special Election which is to determine the future of the Island, as some see it. Word has it that SunCal has already put up another Initiative for the 2012 mid-term elections, in anticipation this rather silly one will be sure to fail, so it probably will not be such a big determination after all. Still it makes for a lot of grand talk and the place is hopping with Dawn and Suzie serving up those "Gaelic Coffees", so called because Padraic insists no Irishman would ever devise an insult to the Water of Life that would mix base materials like coffee and cream with "daycent wishkey". The more simple among us opt for a Fat Tire, which comes with its own assortment of ribs and puns. "You say you have a Fat Tire? Well I've got a pump and a spare in the back . . .". It does work better when the talk is between the coarse and the fair sex. Jose heard that The Man with the Red Shoes was in town across the water for a full two weeks, but impecunious circumstances prohibited a visit by the Editor, who has long admired the successful Radioman. An effort was made, an honest effort. The Island-Life jalopy was hauled out from the shed and was made ready to go when the gendarmes pulled the thing over for a broken headlight, so back it was to the shed. The crew went over to Frederika's to try to hitch a ride over to the opera house, as we knew she had a date there, but the imperious doorkeeper held us at bay. "Frau von Stade, hier sind Gammler und alles unanstaendiges dazu. Was wollen Sie damit? Ah . . . du . . . weg! Einfach abhauen." Ah yes, to be compared to trash and dismissed in the same sentence. Few enjoy the privilege. Or perhaps many. Next, the plan was to obtain BART passage and perhaps entrance as embassadors in a side entrance. BART was amenable, albeit late. So rare for a regime which has made the trains finally run on time. So the editor arrived at the Opera House in pelting rain and proceeded promptly to the stage entrance. To his great suprise, a burly man, entirely worthy of Dickens in apparel and demeanor, refused entry with many Anglo-Saxon attachments to his language, although his accent betrayed Eritrean ancestry. But if sufficient "drink money" were located, a position somewhere left of the lighting engineer might be found in the third etage . . . In a steaming welter of rainwater the Editor fumed. Leon Spinks, Mohammed Ali and George Foreman have stood as geniuses of that Sweet Science, yet Anglo Saxon remains the language of refusal! Damn it!, he said. And still, it is Spanish that determines all that happens in California, for it is lack of Dolores that I now fail! Not enough dollars! Jose stood there with a dripping umbrella, waiting for his boss to calm the fuck down and get real. "Why don't you just call your gabacho friend on the telephone when you get back. He is here two weeks already." The Editor screamed, which caused several tourista to stop and stare, expecting a street performance, and the boys dragged him away as the SFPD began arriving with paddy wagons. It was a dismal return on the sodding ferry, the last one of the night to the Island from the City, on which the Editor fretted and fumed on the deck above where on clear and sunny days the passengers admired the jewelry-draped skyline of Babylon, but which now swept rain and wind and all sorts of wind-born wrack and ruin against any who would dare stand up there on the bare metal planks. Back to the sadly middle-class and frumpy Island we all returned, with nothing to show for all our efforts. In the Island offices, with their beat-up windowshades and broken slats and our humble fax machines, dusty shelves and tawdry cubicles our Editor damped and steamed his frustrations. A bottle of single-malt scotch was brought out to ease the pain. Later that night the Editor told a story to Jose about how once as a child he had run to a camp of gypsies to warn them of how a group of men were planning to come and destroy them, for he had heard all about it in the barber shop. He was really deep in his cups. The gypsies knew of what he spoke, for this kind of thing they knew well, and as they broke their camp the captain there asked the boy if he wanted to come with them, become a gypsy. Of course, such a thing would mean never returning to his former life. The Editor did not know exactly why he did not go with the gypsies then. It may have been something as trivial as not wanting to be late for dinner that particular night. The gypsies left and continue to wander the earth to this day. The Editor became a sort of gypsy to whom no place is counted home. The Man with Red Shoes returned to Minnesota. Jose went to the Old Same Place Bar, where the regulars sought Oblivion
from the Economy and all things Sour. After after twenty years of Altzheimer
Ronnie Raygun and violently idiotic Bushes, the long train wreck that
is Current Events shall not shunt aside easily, not by Brakeman Obama
and not by any ineffectual Congress of Wack Engineers either. It occured
to Suzie, somewhere in midshift, that there is really no final decision
in anything. Its all process along the way and what matters is the sum
total of everything decided. So the Sister City Status and all of that
does not matter. What matters is what you have done and whether you have
been kind or not in the process. Jose palmed Eugene's keys as the man fumbled for the door and drove the weaving and wobbling man home past the dark and watchful front of Officer O'Madhauen's Crown Vic. Right then the long wail of the throughpassing train ululated across the rain-spattered waters of the estuary as it steamed its way from the port of Oaktown through the dark and shuttered storefronts of the Jack London Waterfront to parts unknown. Its a dark night in a city that knows how to keep its secrets, but in the Old Same Place Bar sits one bartender still pondering Life's Persistent Questions.
JANUARY 18, 2010 SHOAH This week's image is a rather conflicted one that does require some background. The painting is a study of a Pope but not of Benedict or Pope Pius the XII, although the image has often been associated with that pontiff because of the work from which it comes, entitled by critics "the screaming pope series," and because of the time period in which it appeared -- immediately post WWII -- and by the known anti-religious bent of the painter, Francis Bacon. The work is actually entitled "Study after Velazquez's Portrait of Pope Innocent X", a work originally done in 1650. That pope reigned during the Renaissance and was neither better nor worse than other popes. References to the work, which reflects the high anxiety and paranoia of the Postwar period, have resurfaced as a partial response to the current Pope's initialization of the process that typically leads to sainthood for the controversial Pius XII. At least one artist has painted a "Screaming Pope Benedict" as a result of this decision and of other questionable deeds by the former Cardinal Ratzinger. Generally the current brough-haha is over Pius XII's complete silence prior to and during WWII over the Holocaust. As it stands, if you are a Catholic, the fact he was a Pope means he was a Good Guy, and those folks go cherry picking the facts in his favor. If you are not, then you are either anti-cleric or standing with your arms crossed, saying WTF. There's plenty in all three camps. Cursory research indicates that Pius XII maintained official neutrality and complete public silence until 1944, when Allied Powers informed him of their intention for total victory and their good likelihood of achieving just that and that he better speak up or face fairly severe consequences. The threat was not idle. By 1944 the Allies stood excellent chances of achieving their aims. Subsequent to victory, such notables as Reza Pahlavi went straight to prison for their collaboration with the Nazis. In prison Pahlavi remained until the British decided a man of his talents would be more useful heading up a puppet government in the newly created state of Iran. That Pius XII knew of all of the anti-Semitism and the resultant extermination camps is beyond a shadow of a doubt, for his own Berlin nuncio informed him of such after Kristalnacht and the provost of the Berlin cathedral, Bernhard Lichtenberg, after offering prayers for the Jewish victims, was sent to Dachau, where he perished. Pius XII was besieged by countless entreaties from many public officials in several countries to say something, however other than a few private efforts, which did manage to rescue a few thousand Jews, he wrote and said nothing other than a bare handful of rather vague and general messages. Some speculate that his hatred of Communism or fear of reprisals against individual church officials prevented him from denouncing Fascism, however his exact motives remain unknown. Some of his actions actually hindered the escape of Jews to Brazil, a place that entertained an internal ecclesiastical dispute with the Vatican. Generally, independent researchers -- without access to the Vatican's sealed records -- all agree that while not entirely indifferent, Pius XII's actions during WWII were contradictory, inconsistent and perplexing. A joint Jewish/Catholic workshop opened at Yad Vashem to investigate the matters more fully. It does seem likely that whatever comes of this affair will be a product of Politics with a capital P, which already has been the hallmark of the current Pontiff, rather than of the Spirit.
Okay, that was a bit much for "Image of the Week". How about this one, submitted by Chad, which purports to be that of a Wall Street Banker.
THERE'S NO SEX IN VIOLENCE Staff members witnessed a shocking and savage assault and battery on St. Charles Street this past Tuesday. No joke, it was real. Staff came out on hearing a woman screaming for help from 1551 St. Charles Street on the Island to see one Andre Pastre, the burly apartment manager of that building, straddling a woman while beating her with his fists while she screamed and fought back by clawing at the assailant's face. Her boyfriend, a Sean O'Connell, was attempting to pull the attacker off of the woman with little success. A passerby had already called the police, who arrived within ten minutes. By then Mr. Pastre had separated himself from the couple to walk to his car parked just in front of the building where he stowed away some personal effects while the couple huddled on the porch of the building. The woman victim's name is presently being withheld by Staff pending investigation. Mr. Pastore claimed that the two had attacked him and that they were under the influence of drugs. We later interviewed Mr. O'Connell and the woman. Mr. O'Connell, a slightly-built musician who is raising a child of about eight years in that building as a single parent said that Mr. Pastre had been "baiting" him in a challenging manner for some time. He also expressed dismay about the drug activity that had taken place in the building during the managership of Mr. Pastore, as he felt the environment was not safe for his child. Mr. O'Connell had clear evidence of having been hit in the face some three days later, as one eye was entirely swollen shut. He alleged that Mr. Pastore had pinned him against the wall inside the building and punched him, causing the injury. O'Connell stands about five nine in height and appears to weigh about 130 pounds at the most. Mr. Pastore works as a hauler and handyman, and is listed with the County as a Small Business and appears to weigh about 180 pounds. The woman declined to comment and no explanation for the cause of the incident was offered. We could not make further inquiries as Mr. O'Connell was taking his child on a field trip to a California Mission as part of a school project. Mr. Pastore has been observed by various Staffers and patrons of nearby businesses to have a temper, to be extremely inflexible, and to be verbally abusive to people on the street and to tenants in his building. We have also observed other apartment managers in this block, who appear to stem from an earlier era when the Navy was here, to be assaultive and verbally confrontational. We are not sure why property owners retain problem individuals like this, but as the Island trends to a more upscale environment, the need to remove them becomes more and more pressing. Nobody wants to be screamed at by some maniac who has the veins bulging in his thick neck, and certainly the kind of folks the landlords would like to attract here will make short legal shrift of such people. THIS ISLAND LIFE Other folks live by the sword. Islanders live by the golf club. And Silly Council got an earful all about the revisions and anticipated closures regarding the Island MIF golfcourse. When we first heard about this issue, the Course had been raking in bucks for the City for quite a while, when some errant group suggested we farm out the management of the course to private interests because we were making too much money off of the enterprise. WTF as the kids like to say. Next, we hear that the MIF golfcourse, named after a nickname for Chuck Corica who ran successfully for the Mayor position three times in the 1960's on a single issue ticket -- preserve the golf course -- is losing money and must be farmed out to private interests. Who all seem to want to reduce the number of holes by about half. And oh! What to do with the remaining acreage! Why build on it of course! Why waste perfectly decent wooded land on golf! Do I smell "Developer" in this mix somewhere? I think I do. Well, they ruined their City across the Bay, now they want to come here and ruin ours. They've done it before and they'll do it again. Except this time the old guys with rusty carts and saggy bags all converged on the Silly Council to raise a royal ruckus convincing Lena Tam to delay votes on what happens to the long contended land for which Chuck Corica fought so long ago. Alice Lai Bitker has announced she is not running for reelection to the Board of Supervisors this next time around, but did not state what she would be doing instead. We fondly remember the girl as she served as aide to the Board some fifteen years ago, working her way up through the ranks to elected office, and so wish her well in whatever she now pursues. We do welcome Councilperson Frank Matarrese to the unenviable race for the Mayorship. Frank was among the first to indicate budgetary problems some four years ago, was the author of the initiative against the Iraq deployments of local Coast Guard and was an early doubter of the SunCal Initiative. He is a devoted longtime Islander, has served the community well in a responsive manner as member of the Council and we think he would act well as Mayor of this little town. Besides, we like the sound of "Mayor Frank". Has the proper ring to it. ONE IN THE NAME OF LOVE
Monday some of us will celebrate the birth of Great American. He was a simple preacherman who wanted only to make things a little better for members of his flock. He spoke the Truth and he spoke it plainly and forthrightly. He was a man entirely without pretense and he did not seek fame nor notoriety. He simply desired justice. He was not a stupid man and although he did not want contention or strife or violence, he knew that someone would try to kill him. In fact the last speech he made referred to his own anticipated murderer, and was one he had delivered many times. We do not celebrate his death, but the things he accomplished for all Americans this Monday for this Monday we celebrate the vivid and life-affirming legacy of Martin Luther King. This Monday we will connect with old friends and informal associations going back many years in memory of truly great American Statesman, the like of which few can match these days. Save, perhaps, the present President of the United States, who is our hope. And the realization of our Dreams. ON AN ISLAND Its been a damp week on the Island, our hometown set here on the edge of the San Francisco Bay. The roiling boiler clouds finally tromped on in with a dockwalloper that looks to be settling in for spell of real weather, giving some relief to the reservoirs and the snow-bare mountains up higher, although we expect this means yet more misery for folks East of here. Local Islander Mike Rettie indicated that his gauge showed a good October but a poor November and December as far as averages went, so we shall see what we shall see as far as the drought. Garrison remained with his roadshow for an unexpectedly pleasurable second week over there in the Opera House across the water. Local faves bluesman Elvin Bishop and our very own Fredericka von Stade gifted the airwaves with the Man in Red Shoes putting in yet another enjoyable and grammatically correct show. Have to concur with Mrs. Sundberg: Listened to this week's show and must say, it was not bad. To our great surprise the lovely Frederika sang a song about the Island, which moved many of us to tears -- we hadn't thought we were worth that much consideration. Soon as that one hit, the transom overflowed with a deluge of messages from folks, all saying, "Didja hear that?!" Oh dear. We are so Midwest that when anyone pays the slightest attention, we get all confused. Surely they meant some other island. Hawaii perhaps. For those of you who do not know, the name "Alameda" is a Spanish word meaning "woody promenade" or "avenue of trees". Its also the name of the County. At one time the largest natural grove of oak trees in the world grew here, extending from the Island up to the crestline of the hills. As a last trivia tidbit, the song Garrison sings about walking in Golden Gate Park was based on "Down by the Salley Gardens", which goes to show you; you can't leave the Bay Area without a touch of the Irish. Okay now, before we get all fluttery, we need to get down to the Old Same Place Bar.
Its a place that could be sculpted into the imaginations of everyone who lived. It could have been the broad palm of God holding all of us up above an abyss. It was only a group of dirty wooden tables swept by rain. Passing the Rettie place, a group of old friends sit around the table and a bowl of paella while gypsy music plays from the radio and the rain sifts down through the lamplit trees. Reminiscences and conversation. Inside the Old Same Place Suzie set up the drinks and Dawn took the orders and Padraic worked the kitchen. It was business as usual. And the sweating workers were diamonds in the rough. In other parts of the country snow lay deep on the hillocks and passion lay buried beneath layers of guilt and oppression. It was deep winter and heaviness rested on the land. A crust of ice and snow layered the land in Minnesota; in Virginia, the rime encrusted all of the emotions of the moment, chilling desire, and in Massachusetts people actually contemplated electing a dastardly Republican to fill Ted Kennedy's seat. In Mississippi, the trout beneath the freeze. In Haiti, utter disaster prevails. The Deep Recession continues. But deep beneath the blanket of snows the deep green shoots are already firing up. Tulips preparing for sudden glory. Freesias are getting themselves ready for an explosive eruption. Sudden change is about to happen and you had better get yourselves ready for this change will be extraordinary in its flowering. There is something going on down there and there is no stopping what is about to happen. Closing time and Last Call. Folks spill out of the Old Same place and scatter beneath the falling rain to all directions. Old friends under the Rettie porchlight saying good-bye. Water pouring from the eaves Years from now someone will ask, "Where were you and what did you do during the Great Recession?" Did you keep your job? Did you lose it with flailing fists, like some angry handyman loses his cool? Were you stingy or were you kind? Somewhere someone is writing a book about you that will be remembered. This Island is not a grandiose place of tall towers and alabaster; its a place of Hobbits who do not want any adventures, only to prop our furry feet up on the hob. Across the water we can see the Shining City of Possibilities, and there that place should stay, always distant yet always possible. Always in view. Like the end of Hard Times and the coming of Peace. We are not there yet, but perhaps someday. As the old friends walk away their separate ways beneath the rain, the long wail of the throughpassing train comes ululating across the dimpled waters of the estuary as the locomotive wends its way with its fiery eye past the dark and shuttered storefronts of the Jack London Waterfront, heading from the Port of Oaktown to parts unknown along its dripping tracks of iron. That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.
JANUARY 10, 2010 BABY DONE A BAD BAD THING One of our staff returned from the frigid East recently, where temps in NYC dropped to an even 0 degrees, resulting in a devotion to indoor activities during the visit there. Chief among them was a trip to the Museum of Modern Art where our attended an exhibit of work by Tim Burton. One particular piece attracted his attention, compelling our off-duty reporter to knips this photo of a drawing entitled, "Never shoot a constipated poodle."
Kinda says it all.
Boys and girls, its come around to the time when we must learn you all proper all about the birds and the bees. This came to our attention only recently and by degrees. Oh, we know. You would rather be out popping squirrels with your new Xmas present popgun, or snuggling there with your Auntie and a cup of nice warm cocoa. If the neighbor girl or boy comes to mind, well, we know you would rather play the booger game or see who can climb the highest without getting into trouble in the madrones. Its a terribly tedious thing, if taught properly by your Elders, and such instruction is meant to guide you into healthy pursuits like getting drunk at Frat keggers or wrecking the family car. Cold showers and vigorous excercise on steroids. Things like that. But recently we have noticed some curious tendencies popping up around here among the members of our staff. No pun intended. Chad has taken to submitting rather salacious material for inclusion
here, material we feel is fraught with potential for damage of the most
erotic kind. We mean things like that reading of James Joyce's "Araby",
a work of notorious inclination written by an equally notorious writer
whose magnum opus, Ulysses, once faced the probity of the Supreme Court
of the United States. Then there was the coverage of the Berkeley Poetry Slam (see below) during which famous poet Denise Jolly began one reading with "I like dick." Boys and girls, she was not speaking of anyone named Richard. No, she was not. We were shocked. Simply shocked. So as a benefit to our less worldly readers we offer this two fer video special, featuring a government training video created for the U.S. Airforce, meant we imagine to teach those randy flyboys what its all about. In 1968. To bring us all up to date, we have a contemporary expert, Madonna, and a reading from her own magnum opus on the subject. Yes, you all can now claim with perfect truth that Island-Life has posted not one, but two sex videos. Learn and enjoy.
And in Madonna's own words, ...
THEY REACH FOR THEIR MOMENT / AND MAKE AN HONEST STAND Its been some time since any of us dropped in on the poetry scene, having experienced such a thoroughly stinging rejection the last time around. A couple of us on the staff here bear the distinction of once having attained sufficient notoriety in Babylon so as to have been booed off the stage -- prior to reading a single word. So it was that with an army of some sixteen friendlies we marched up to Berkeley's Starry Plough to make sure that did not happen to one of us for Berkeley's Poetry Slam emceed that night by Ekabhumi and Tatyama. Jazz music was supplied by Three Blind Mice. We are happy to say that the rough and tumble poetry slam thing now runs with some rules to it and a sense of openness that was absent for a while on the other side of the Bay. Money prizes are involved now, which is perhaps not a good thing, but we will table the final decision on that pending further review. Out of sixteen plus signups, a lottery culled about eleven to read for the first round. Five random unaffiliated judges were selected and the sum of point tallies for each read was recorded by a secretary. Four poets made it to the second round for the first place try. Audience was encouraged to particpate with "good natured heckling" and solid boos for any use of the published "anti-word" of the day. Each reading was limited to 3.5 minutes with points deducted for overtime. The emphasis that night was placed solidly on drinking beer and having fun. As for the poems, the better reads featured the neo-beat free form rap style declaimed with lots of emphasis. What has not changed from the eighties and nineties is the traditional subject matter of graphic sex, racism, sexual identity, and rape. Visting dignitary was Denise Jolly, third place finisher in the National Poetry Slam contest. Denise, a large and lovely lady, was dropping by on the first step of a national tour in which she would be living entirely off of performance proceeds. As a national luminary, she clearly provided the best work that night in terms of musicality, presence, delivery, and construction. Playing to a crowd of adoring fans, she drew from a grab bag of works that featured a piece about Michael Jackson that segued into Ed McMahon, and a randy number that began "I like dick." Her best read, however, was probably a lyric about her mother singing "Amazing Grace," which Jolly sang affectingly with a powerful voice. If you have never been to a Slam or even to a regular poetry reading, we recommend this one for starters. Be prepared for a fairly raucous, good-natured evening and get your lungs in shape to cheer for the poets you like best like it is a sporting event. The weekly slam happens each Wednesday at the old Starry Plough on 3101 Shattuck. Show starts at 8:30pm and admission is $8. Its possible to work around the admission fee for subsequent events, depending on need for volunteer help. This Wednesday, the World Poetry Champ of 2008, Joaquin Zihuatanejo, will be the featured guest, so expect a crowd. WHAT'S HE BUILDING IN THERE?
For a quite a while we have been meaning to drop into a a couple of highly interesting venues that started up more than a year ago here on the Island. Saturday night we finally managed to slip on over to Autobody on Park Street to catch the opening of a solo show by an artist who calls himself Matt136. Autobody is the brainchild of Jacqueline Cooper and Colin Herrick, who converted an old mortgage brokerage firm above an auto body shop on Park Street into a chic display and performance space that would be well at home in either London's Soho or Berkeley's new Temescal Art District. Their gallery is a hop-skip over the Park Street Bridge right into the "Jingletown" area of Oakland, yet another sign that the Warmer Side of the Bay is developing talent that is escaping the high rents of other locations around the metro area. Matt136 does work that looks like someone fell asleep watching Tim Burton movies while high on mescaline. Skull forms and the stitched mouth face of Jack from The Nightmare before Xmas flock around Peanuts characters while the Indian god Ganush floats above an old fashioned gramophone while holding domestic tools.
There is a sense of humor as well as a sense of frustration and ominous decay; in all of his images there is the impression of movement, of a story happening. His sensibility is similar to that of certain graphic novel artists, and it is no surprise that he does have at least one book of drawings. His mordant humor is one that appreciates Tom Waits -- there is an ink drawing of Waits with a reference to his Black Rider theatre piece, which we reviewed here a couple years ago. According to Amy George of Autobody, "Matt136 is meticulous in his craft. Old vinyl records are sawn into landscapes across which people and animals march and a simple ball point pen is used to produce highly detailed images through repetitive cross hatching. As a skateboarder, Matt136 has produced a number of skate decks and also deconstructs the boards themselves to act as environments for his characters. The work is obsessive and extremely focused but retains a playful, almost cartoon-like quality that allows Matt136 to address complicated personal and social issues while still seducing his audience. Drowning drunks, insecure parents and a variety of levels of frustration are all mirrored in his characters, as is a celebration of the diversity of emotions and challenges that face both the artist and his audience."
As for the gallery, they have space available for special events, and periodically host events of their own, including music and performance. Check out their website at WWW.autobodyfineart.com.
PSA We've got a couple new sites for those of you East Bay boosters out there, especially lovers of Oaktown across the water there. These suggestions come from Tom York. Make Oakland Better Now! is a grass-roots civic organization dedicated to improving the City of Oakland. Make Oakland Better Now! strives to use issue research, education, advocacy, outreach and candidate vetting to empower Oakland’s independent voters. Make Oakland Better Now! is an unincorporated association, with membership open to all residents of and businesses in the City of Oakland with plans to become a fully recognized social welfare organization under Section 501(c)(4) of the Internal Revenue Code. For more info, go to http://www.makeoaklandbetternow.org. And for a site on local events happening in Oaktown, especially with focus upon the African-American Community, folks should drop in to visit http://oaklandlocal.com. NIGHTHAWKS AT THE DINER Its been a quiet week on the Island, our hometown set here on the edge of the San Francisco Bay. Heard Garrison's roadshow blew through here for a stint at the War Memorial Opera House over there in Babylon this weekend. Heard also that he compared the infamous Babylon weather to "eternal Spring", which it may very well be in comparison to present-moment Minnesota now enjoying average noon-day temps of about minus twenty degrees. Due to the impecunious nature of the Office coffers, we had to forgo attendence there, and so we never got to tell the Man with the Red Shoes how we always had wanted to grow older, dispensing wisdom and witticisms to adoring multitudes with ravishing Scandanavian women hung on the arms and legions of readers begging for autographed copies of any one or all of the several dozen published books, while inbetween runon sentences we would host all sorts of brilliantly talented folks coming in from all over the world to be our friends on a wildly successful radio show. And furthermore, to go to work wearing red shoes. Well, instead of any of that, we just got old. That part we managed all right. Javier is back on the Artbeat desk again, taking care to shield himself appropriately after last year's heart bruising by the lovely Leona of San Leandro. Jose tells him that Javier is lucky his heart was the only organ damaged in that fiasco, but then Jose is an earthy fellow from Sinaloa, and does not share Javier's finer feelings about such matters. "Hey, Javier, forget that gabacha and lets go have margaritas at La Pinata!" The food at La Pinata is not very authentic nor very good, but because they make the best margaritas, nobody complains very much. We do have Lutherans here, indeed we have pretty much a sampling of everything here, but our Lutheran pastor, Reverend Bauer rides about on a Harley Davidson, which probably would not go over well in Lake Wobegon. Indeed the once dominant religion used to be Catholicism hereabouts, but not even Jose or Javier pay much attention to it anymore. It may be because of this, or any other laissez faire attitude, that resulted in Father Guimon being called away and replaced by Father Riccio at the Basilica. Nobody knows exactly why Fr. Guimon was replaced, whether due to illness, incapacity, or ill favor. He certainly strenuously objected to performing rites in the grotto of the Church of the Sanctified Elvis vigorously enough, but the new pope is a German and Germans are known to be highly inflexible. As mi abuelta often said, "is always something." Probably the old Cardinal Rattenfanger would not approve of the New Year's Convocation in which Pastor Inquist of the Lutheran Church of Grand Street, Rev. Freethought of the Unitarian Church, Rebbe Mendelnusse, Father Duran of the Church of Our Lady of Incessant Complaint, and a few others all gather at the Home of Truth Unity church to ring in the new year. Unlike Lutherans, Catholics tend to wack each other's emotions like so many pinatas, using any kind of verbal kendo stick handy until everything erupts in screams and sobbing. For all of that Father Duran tends to rely on Pastor Inquist to supply choral arrangements for special occasions because the Lutherans tend to possess the more talented singers. This sort of thing is probably also something of which the pope would no approve, but until the doctrine of infallibility gets called up -- something that happens only every eight hundred years or so -- hey, let it ride. Catholics tend to be adaptable to circumstances. In the diocese of New Mexico and Arizona, the priests tended to have multiple wives and large families with many children. In New Mexico you never saw such happy people and such happy priests. Que sera sera. When Easterners come here they become astounded by what they perceive as a total lack of rules. Of course we have rules: don't be a jerk and would you please relax. We have been trying to teach our Gobernador, Herr Arnold, how to relax for several years now. But because he is Austrian, which is very much like a a German or a New Yorker, it is difficult. But Austrians are also very much like Italians who like to feel up the womens under their short little skirts also, so there is some hope for him. We shall see. Over at the Old Same Place Bar, Suzie lines up the Gaelic coffees on the bar there to warm up the clientel. Since it is always Spring here, many native Californians go about wearing flip-flops and shorts no matter what the temperature. That's because it is always Spring. Pahrump, a Native of yet another kind, comes in wearing mukluks, an heavy fur overcoat and mittens. He looks at the guy sitting there in shorts like the man is insane and then orders a hot toddy. Right then, the long wail of the throughpassing train ululates across the unsettled waters of the estuary as the locomotive wends its way through the dark and shuttered storefronts of the Jack London Waterfront to settlements on the edge of town, the windswept hillocks of the desert lands, and the high cold steppes of distant Siberia, to places further off and unknown where poor and unwanted Gypsies huddle about their campfires, casting spells in the old Roma language against yet another forced resettlement. That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.
JANUARY 3, 2010
We start off the year with a little impulsive savoire vivre from Chad. When Life is divided essentially between the Horrible and the Miserable, why be serious?
WELCOME TO THE MACHINE
We'll promise to try to be less pessimistic -- at least at the start. For those of you needing a shot in the arm for inspiration, here is one little fellow who has quite a performing career ahead of him. Here is the famous "Ukulele Kid" doing an original song. Don't forget to see the one where he covers the Beatles' "Obladi Oblada". On last count, over 10 million people have seen him perform "I'm Yours".
The lights go down, an ostensible telephone conversation in French is heard, the subtext of which is a dispute between a man and a woman. Lights come up and a basic chest of drawers occupies center stage. A drawer opens, a hand emerges, then retreats. For the next ten minutes, various drawers open and close, arms and legs appear, a woman appears to be getting dressed in a black dress and red shoes inside the chest, while also noshing on a plate of pastry, lighting a candle with matches by feel, and drinking a glass of red wine. Not for a good eight minutes does the head of the charming Victoria Thierree Chaplin emerge and it takes another five minutes for her to pop up, and toss first one leg, then another leg, then improbably yet another leg over the edge of the bureau and finally step out on stage. For the next sixty minutes, the natural world as we know it upends itself as kites fly people through the air, draperies chase one another and embrace, occasionally swallowing up performers as they climb, taxi's arrive and depart with their fares upside down and a man dances with empty garments that flirt, cavort and -- on one memorable moment -- beat him up before carrying him off stage.
A woman asks the time of a shadow that is casting out the form of a live person on the stage, sets her alarm, and when it goes off, goes to sleep. She dreams of flying and of hanging out her clothes to be watered and of a man who runs this way and that (performed by an impish Jaime Martinez) calling out the name "Aurelia!" It seems he wants to own and control this woman, leading a wild jerky dance at first, then trying to dress her in costumes after finding only empty dresses and cloaks to dance with. She cannot be controlled or owned; she is elusive, aquatic, arboreal, aerial, and magical. She also wishes for some maintenance over this world, but as she swings high above the stage, the entire structure shakes, falls to pieces. The very structure of the world falls apart as the curtain frames collapse, forcing her back to the earth.
She tries to control Time in the end, by manipulating clocks to play a tune, but she is turned herself into the symbol of time's passage, when she finds herself dissolving through an hourglass into a pile of sand. Anguished, the man sweeps up the sand and pours it into an empty dress, but lacking magic, he tosses the dress into a pile of clothes. From which the woman magically emerges, startling the man, who runs off. The final piece of this largely wordless "Oratorio" shows the man carrying a lantern and a timepiece, beckoning the woman to follow. She refuses and he exits. She then enters an oval train track, opening a door in her midsection, relays a section of the track so that it seems to pass through her body, and so becomes a portal for the train as it circles about the track and the lights fade. An "Oratorio" was a piece of music for orchestra, choir and solo singers. It usually told a story from the Old Testament and stems from about the 18th Century in Europe. Unlike conventional opera, an oratorio was sung, not acted, performed usually in the religious setting of a church or a concert hall, and always done in the common language of the composer, instead of high Italian. The most famous oratorio, probably, is Handel's Messiah. There is quite a lot of music in Chaplin's piece here, which was performed by Aurelia Thierree and directed and concieved by her mother, who is herself quite a piece of work. Briefly, Victoria Thierree Chaplin is the daughter of actor/comedian Charlie Chaplin and Oona O'Neill Chaplin, and the granddaughter of playwright Eugene O'Neill. Although born in Santa Monica California, the family moved soon after her birth to Switzerland. Together with her husband, Jean Baptiste Thierree, she created a new style of theatre which is generally credited with being the inspiration, if not the very foundation for Cirque du Soleil. What American audiences see here is an heavily European-inflected set of performances with evocations of circus, vaudeville and the commedia del'arte physicality that Rep audiences have come to experience more and more by way of Les Waters' creative direction. This is very physically demanding theatre requiring split-second timing and the willingness and training to dangle head-down thirty feet above the stage -- among other things -- while making it all appear simply delightful. It is theatre as Magical World, a world which we are invited to view, but not allowed entirely to enter, for this kind of thing specifies Fourth Wall distance. There is an almost Brechtian detachment of foreign regard in this kind of theatre, which can only be executed by properly trained individuals who,quite frankly, are not like you and me. For all that, the creation of this virtual world of magical upside-down is charming and heartening in that the understanding impossiblity has its limits has a way of setting us free. One could spend endless hours and words analyzing what it all means, which is a great strength of the production, which Victoria claims is only meant to entertain. Well, one can be entertained by a strip show, a football game, or something engaging like this. Besides, long time Island-lifers know we have a thing about trains, which provide the evocative closing images and sounds to the Oratorio. "Einsteigen! Tueren schliessen! Vorsicht beim Abfahrt!" who’s who Victoria Thierrée Chaplin, Director / Conception Cast Aurélia Thierrée (The two "Chinese Conveyors" are not credited) THIS ISLAND LIFE Folks will have noted the February Special Election Sample Ballot features only the one item, the notorious Measure B which seems very likely to go down in flames. A recent canvas of the blocks immediately surrounding the Offices here revealed not one supporter of this questionable initiative, which features a modified version of the original SunCal plan for developing the Point. For unbiased information on this measure, go to www.smartvoter.org or contact karen.butter@ucsf.edu. She is with the League of Women Voters, who will be conducting an information forum at the Library this Thursday. Notably absent from the Ballot is the recall of the three school Board members, which has been called off after the Board looked into expanding -- not contracting -- the anti-bully curriculum, to include as many representative groups as possible, which effectively defused the claimed reasons for the out-of-state group's reasons for objection. We await official response to the Island-Life submission for the new curriculum, which goes as follows: No hitting. No name calling. Be nice. That's it. Short and sweet. For High School our expanded program adds the following: No bullets, man. No bullets. A man armed with a rifle carjacked a couple in front of the Big 5 Sports at the Southshore Mall on Xmas eve, taking their 2000 Toyota Camry after getting out of a white 4-door sedan. How rude. But because no traffic infractions took place during the theft, the perps got clean away. Police did a positive ID on remains found in an abandoned warehouse at the Point. The skeletal remains belonged to John Paul Garcia, 26, who has been missing for about three years. A transient hunting for scrap metal discovered the body. There is no suspicion of foul play, but it does appear that Garcia had been living off and on in the warehouse, which has not been used for five years, for some time. No traffic violations are associated with the issue, so the police are treating the case casually. "We'll probably never know how he died," department detective Rod Rummel said. About 160 DUI people failed to "Avoid the 21" this holiday season, and so although they each one spent a cold night in the drunk tank, an experience that tends to toss a wet blanket on seasonal joviality, at least that many more lived to see another Xmas. Think about it.
It's been a moody week on the Island, our hometown set here on the edge of the San Francisco Bay. After a spat of rain over the weekend, looks like we are headed with overcast skies and moderately cool temps while the moisture left by the Holiday storms settles into the soil. Up in the Sierra, we hear that mid teens and decent snowpack have brought back the schussers on the slopes there about Tahoe, which can use the lift fees right about now. Our friends in Minnesota report rather chill temps of about 20 below, minus wind chill factor, which means you had better wear your mittens out there young fella. And don't stay out too long either. Further East, they are all shoveling snow drifts like mad -- perhaps because they like to. Down the pike we have reports of the weather front pushing storms up into Canada, where they belong, and down South, where they know how to handle this sort of thing, so its all good for the next week or so. Precip around the drought-striken Golden State this mid-season is hovering around 100%, so that is yet more good news, even though the budget does not look all that healthy. The Holidays are over, thank goodness, and we hope you all got what was coming to you. Right now its the depths of Winter, even though the Solstice has passed, and gone unnoticed in many parts of the world mentioned above, even now, the Old Earth is slowly turning her face as she sits in her rocking chair, back towards the light, for the longest night of the year has already passed. The days are getting longer again, and pretty soon things happening beneath that silent snow will make their presence known. A few problems developed here surrounding the annual Island flyover, so our technician hamsters have been working on the Island Walkabout, which ought to be ready by the end of the month. Javier has been stumping around in the garden out back, peering down at the raked earth there and the anti-squirrel devices that make sure the little diggers do not go uprooting the glads or the tulips. Every once in a while he gets into a real stare-down with Mr. Peepers who perches up there on the Old Fence with a glare at Javier, who dares shield the delightfully tossable soil where surely something must be there somewhere worth eating. Mr. Peepers has not forgiven Javier for failing to plant his favorite corn, so wonderfully theft-able. And so delicious. And for spraying the sunflowers with peppermint oil. Like biting into raw habanero, those seedheads! Mr. Peepers scolds Javier for these and other crimes before scampering along the fence to the redwood tree. Meanwhile, over at the Old Same Place, Suzie is serving up Fat Tires and doubles as the regular crowd resumes its serious drinking. Usually, during the Holidays, the regulars all vanish in favor of newbies who get seriously drunk only once a year. Its the insult of rank amateurism that does it. So they all buy cases of cheap whiskey from BevMo and retire to their dens of iniquity to wait out the foolishness before returning to the old haunts and their accustomed rails at the bar. There is a scene in the movie Barfly, where Mickey Roarke turns to Faye Dunaway and asks, "What do you do?" in a classic bar line. "I drink." The woman responds with perfect surliness. From then on, it was a match made in such heaven as exists. So it was, these sorts of folks who crept out from their dens to return to the Old Same Place Bar, somewhat wan and ennervated from lack of alcohol. Things are getting back to normal. Over at Marlene and Andre's, they are running low on provisions, as the house has been fully populated on account of the bad weather and even Food Bank volunteers need a few days off during the Holiday time. Yesterday they were all out back burning an old tire and some boards along with the Xmas tree and the tire was melting perfectly over the cinder blocks there and the festive lights Martini had powered by jacking into the Municipal power supply winked merrily all around the yard. This year Martini had built proper converters so that there would be no repetition of blowing out the substation for the entire block as he had done last year, and Jose had made some kind of lemon liquor with rinds and sugar and grain alcohol that had been sitting under the porch for a month, and so a fine time was had by all there around the Yule tire. As the fire died down, and folks sorta dropped and lay where they fell, the fogs rolled in over the Bay, draping the Golden Gate before hiding it entirely, leaving the Island entirely isolated from any other part of the world. "Andre," said Marlene, somewhat slurring her words. "D'ya think 2010 will be nearly as f---d up as 2009?" "It is what it is." Andre said. "Que sera, etc." Right then the long wail of the throughpassing train ululated across the estuary and the width of the Island as the locomotive wended its way from the bright gantries of the Port through the dark and shuttered Jack London Waterfront to parts unknown. That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.
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