Island Life - Year 2009
Vol. 11 - No. 26
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Welcome to the 11th 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.
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JUNE 28, 2009 SYMPATHY FOR A DEVIL This week the headline photo comes from Sharon and is of a car backseat in the parkinglot of the Laurel District Lucky's in Oaktown just over the water.
Behold the grim visage the stern look of command. My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings . . . Whatever. MUSIC MUSIC MUSIC The annual summer season is in its post-Spring doldrums, with lots of the good local bands on tour away from home, however these items are worth noting with the two high notes, Death Cab for Cutie (July) and the Outside Lands Festival (August) still to come. Houston Jones had their CD release party over at the Freight and Salvage. Understand a cranking good time was had by all there. Missed also the quirky and delightful Australian Xavier Rudd at the Fillmore. Nobody rocks out with a reggae didgeradoo like Mr. Rudd. Tracy Chapman pops up her head "Telling Stories" with her acoustic guitar August 21. Meet the gal who spent 21 days in a Virginia jail for her lover, for her lover. Paolo Nutini brings a big of Euro flavor to the refurbished Fox Theatre September 12, but there is little of interest on the slate until then. Those adorable Mexican kids, Rodrigo y Gabriela are going to rock the purple chandeliers September 23 with acoustic pyrotechnics. You have not lived until you have heard them do Metallica covers on nylon string guitars and gotten the entire audience to sing "Wish You Were Here" along with. The Outside Lands festival takes over GGP 8/28 - 8/30 with the following
acts of interest: Closer to the date, we notice Coldplay at the shoreline July 13, with
current Press Room faves, Local boys, Luce perform July 11 at the Great American Music Hall, while Marin local Joan Baez appears among the eucalyptus and fog with Blame Sally the next day, July 12 for a free concert at Stern Grove. Did we just say "FREE!" Yes we did. Tori Amos rocks out on the harpsichord July 13 right here on the warmer side of the Bay at the Paramount, warbling in the upper register and doing things to piano stools of which Pat Robertson would not approve. Those irrepressible Canadians, the Cowboy Junkies, appear with Son Volt July 17 at the Montalvo Winery Continuing a blastingly good July, those V-twin engines of the acoustic world, the Indigo Girls will seriously stir up the s---t July 20 at the venerable Fillmore. Finally, homeboy Adam returns to reprise the Counting Crows with Augustana July 26, but closer to home at the Greek this time. Trey Anastasio reunites Phish for some serious tie-die and extended solos August 5 at the Shoreline, while SoCal native Jackson Browne rolls in August 19 to the unstoppable Paramount Theatre. Still alive. HOME IS WHERE I WANNA BE: WEEKLY VIDEO This week the video comes from Chad who has long pushed for presentation here on this subject of global ecological involvement. The video is a full-length movie of some 93 minutes, so we cannot post all of it here, but provide a hyperlink to its free youtube location.
The main site where you can both view for free and purchase a download of the movie is: http://www.home-2009.com/us/index.html. We can say that the photography alone is absolutely stunningly beautiful, consisting of landscape pans from many different parts of the globe, and the musical score well matched to the material. This is a film among films that either change lives or bolster ineffective cynicism. It is far more elegant and watchable than "An Inconvenient Truth", BTW. As an observation, we note that the film goes beyond the issue of global warming with its clearly disastrous consequences, to include the broader concept of human stewardship of the given Earth. Agree or disagree, you will have to admit the film requires response. If you knew you had only 10 years to live, what would you do? EAT MY SHORTS The latest flap over at Silly Hall, besides the unsurprising news that SunCal has put off introducing their controversial Initiative until the 2010 elections, is the brough-haha over the proposed bridge closures, which pretty much would doom every business on Park Street and murder the daily commute, at least the commute by car. Because cessation of bridge maintenance would cause Maritime Law to kick in, every drawbridge would need to be kept raised, because maritime traffic trumps land access. SunCal Yes, the Developer on everyone's lips. Turns out the Initiative was not an honest effort to present to the voters the Point redevelopment Plan but an attempt to lock down in stone and legal bonds what had been up for point by point negotiation with the Mayor's Office. The contract with SunCal was and is already in place, and the Plan in process of execution. But the actual numbers as to amounts SunCal would contribute was not yet defined, meaning if the Initiative passes, SunCal gets a waiver on cost overruns and has the right to walk away from any number of promises, whereas without the Initiative, SunCal still develops the land, but will need to answer to all the negotiated items. Meaning the 200 million for Ferry terminal, parks, and other public amenities is a maximum cap, not a guarantee of work. Remember, somebody still has to pay for things like the environmental impact reports. At first we kinda liked the idea of more affordable housing out there, but this whole thing is really beginning to stink. Of course if SunCal chips in to pay for the bridges, well, we just might rethink our position. DOWN BY THE RIVER Its been a quiet week on the island, our hometown set here on the edge of the San Francisco bay. The cool weather turned hot and bothered and sent all kinds of folks out of the area to the surrounding lakes and parks and whatnot. Down at the Strand, windsurfers and parasail boarders cavorted just offshore in the shallows. Everyone here looks to be fully recovered from that flu that went around, knocking staffers flat and sending them in queues to the loo. Poor Javier sat there with a bucket looking miserable and, well, sick as a dog, so he got no dates for his birthday. Gradually everybody is returning to social activity which nausea, flatulence, and the runs tend to preclude. Lynette and Susan returned from this year's Pride celebration in Babylon, sunburn, tired and happy as did Tommy and Toby who sailed their little ketch, The Lavender Surprise, over to the Marina there for the two day festivities. This year's theme was culled from the Constitution of the United States, always a worthy document to draw inspiration from. Even Justices Roberts and Scalia would have to agree on that one. Over at the their clubhouse, the Native Sons of the Golden West held a pre-July 4th BBQ to ostensibly plan for the annual Mayor's Parade, however it was really just an excuse to fry up some brats and down pitchers of Paul's homemade scratch margaritas. Paul and the Marin-based Mugwhump Incompetents sat out on the porch making sounds with guitars that grew progressively more discordant as the afternoon drew out its shadows and the vat of margaritas dwindled and ebbed. While Paul assiduously attended to the usual musical values of timing, harmony, rhythm and the Circle of Fifths, as usually practiced within the American folk idiom, Denby segued from all of these into something that sounded suspiciously like punk rock, nearly always an unfortunate occurrence on an acoustic instrument unless your name is Billy or Mike. While Beatrice twanged a Leonard Cohen tune, MaryBeth thumped the old washtub bass and David played some kind of blues which may have been Son House or Stevie Ray Vaughn or perhaps Bob Dylan. It didn't really matter as each one of them was playing an entirely different song and getting drunker by the hour. Tucker and Rumsey, giving up the remarkably ineffective mouse hunt, both began to howl in a key reserved usually for chalk on blackboards. The noise got so bad that the family of bacons crept out from under the floorboards where they had been living ever since the time David and Jose had tried to trap one of them, nearly destroying the meeting hall in the process. The big daddy bacon looked over his shoulder with reproach at the band before ambling off to find some quieter locale to rest. It all ended badly when Denby started to pogo, a bad move on old floorboards for a man weighing in excess of two hundred pounds. The boards buckled, cracked, then gave way with a sudden snap and Denby went right through to his waist. This must have caused some kind of sympathetic vibration, or perhaps the instruments felt they had been tortured enough, for the bullet amps all blew out such that a fat blue spark drifted through the air to set the drowsing Jim Kitson on fire. In his beard. "Idiot!" Beatrice shouted at Denby. Everyone scattered, with Jim running down to the marina through a formerly calm gathering of ground squirrels and bacons to the water where he jumped in with a sizzle. At that moment, Sue came out to announce, "Beans are ready!" The rest of the evening went somewhat cantankerously. Over at the Old Same Place Bar, Suzie was tending bar with a temporary ink "tattoo" of a black tear beneath her left eye, done in memory of Michael Jackson, when a group of Bozos trooped in and all sat at the bar to order the newly legalized absinthe. Absinthe is now made here on the Island, should anyone ask, however Suzie was curious to know what was up with the red noses, the orange hair, the baggy overalls and the big shoes with pompoms. Well, said the first one, who was named Bob, I'm a Bozo and he's a Bozo and she's a Bozo too. Squeeze Louise (many like to). Are you a Bozo too? Suzie had to admit she often felt like one. Well I guess we are all Bozos in this bar. They had come from the Pride Parade and had gotten up their outfits to mourn the recent death of the King of Pop. Or if not mourn, at least chase away the sadness. Bozos? Well, said Bob, none of us can sing and none of us can dance. But we sure can be entertaining, and Michael Jackson was the Entertainer par excellence. Here, Ralph, do a pratfall off of that stool for us. Ralph obediently slipped from his stool as if greased and then, after laying face up on the floor, moonwalked back to his starting position. Life is full of sadness and misery and nasty circumstances like all of Somalia and Darfur, incontinence, erectile dysfunction and Rush Limbaugh, as well as death in general, said Bob. Here, have a nose. He handed Suzie a bright red ball but the thing would not stay on, so Ralph presented a Groucho Marx combo mask with spectacles, nose and whiskers. Some guy is gonna see you like that and fall madly in love, said Louise. Remember when we first met? A bozo named Ray said to Bob. We were both dressed as chubby-cheeked hamsters. How could I ever forget the full moon rumba and the terra cotta fish, said Bob. The two clowns hugged one another, then brought out their rubber chickens. Hey, lets have a song! Ralph said. For the good old days. The Bozos all gathered together in front of the bar and began to warble as everyone at the tables gawked. Ben, the two of us need look no moooooooore Then they all wacked each other ceremoniously with their rubber chickens and returned to their absinthe cocktails. Don't be sad, beautiful lady, Bob said to Suzie. Someday somebody special will come along and knock you right off your feet. Probably with a rabbit punch, added Ray. And they all nodded. Right then the long wail of the late night train came ululating from the dark Jack London Waterfront across the water flecked with lights from the silent and pondering container cranes of the Port. 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 puzzling over Life's Persistent Questions. That's the way it is on the Island. Have a thriller week.
JUNE 21, 2009 IN MY FATHERS EYES This week's headline photo comes from roving Coder and Island-Life staffer, Chad and is titled simply "Sky."
The Flemish masters live again. BRIDGE Mayor Beverly arose in great indignation at the announcement that the County is considering closing the main bridge connections to the Island. In a fairly astounding announcement, County officials mentioned a complete severance of the Island from the mainland during "selected off hours". While any number of merchants are wailing over lost business due to the minimal closures due to retrofitting work, such a draconian measure by the County would doom any number of hundreds of businesses here, including the brand new movie theatre and freeze the ferry and tunnel services into immobility. According to prior County budget reports, the cost to operate and maintain the County-owned Estuary bridges is approximately $1.9 million. The revenue sources for the bridge operations/maintenance include a special Measure B earmark of approximately $600,000, which the City of Alameda agreed to provide in lieu of funding a project to resurface local City of Alameda streets. Additional funds available to the County Public Works Agency for the bridges include $15 million in gas tax, of which Alamedans provide approximately $750,000, and $24.3 million in property tax revenues, of which Alamedans provide approximately $1.2 million. The only direct service Alameda's residents and businesses receive from the County Public Works Agency is the operation and maintenance of the bridges, and Alamedans contribute approximately $2.55 million for this service. Hanging in the background is the old assertion that maintenance of the bridges is the duty of the Army Corps of Engineers, not the County nor the two principal cities involved. Her Honor's furious response is available here:
JUST LIKE YOUR DADDY DID Video of the week comes from the UK where notorious graffiti artist Banksy is holding an exhibition at the Bristol Museum. Although condemned by some, Banksy's illicit work on public space has commanded six and seven figure prices at Southby auctions when owners of the structures had the walls removed and preserved for exhibition and sale. BIRDLAND The SunCal Saga continues with the latest revelation in what is becoming a Bay Area Opera of grand proportions, in that the RAP (Revitalize Alameda Point) group which has been collecting signatures for the initiative to give SunCal a straight passthrough for their project for the former Navy Base lands stated they were giving a by to the upcoming election, opting instead to apply all the signatures for the minor election in 2010. This little bit of snarkiness allows the group to assemble better forces to push through the initiative in an off-election year and provides for some cooling off time as a large number of islanders have become incensed at the scummy Big Business deceptive tactics employed by SunCal. It may still be the best plan available to the Island population, but this group is hardly earning confidence by their squirrely methods to get the plans approved, their deliberate burial of assumed budget costs, and their fairly obnoxious attitude that reeks of "you dumb farmers just don't see we already got it all zipped up tight", and consequently confidence in their honesty is plummeting day by day. In other news relating to this brough-ha-ha, an organized protest rally against the Suncal proposal took place on the 13th here About 100 people attended a rally Saturday at Jackson Park to protest a possible ballot initiative that could pave the way for 4,800 new homes at Alameda Point. The residents, many of whom held signs protesting the initiative, heard from six speakers who focused on the perceived problems of the development in relation to traffic, the environment and city finances. The rally was intended to help energize an opposition movement to the initiative, which needed 6,000 signatures by June 25 to go on the ballot. As of Tuesday, SunCal said it had 8,000 signatures on petitions and would plan the vote for 2010. "Our sole purpose is to defeat the SunCal initiative," organizer Reyla Graber said, following the event. "That is because this initiative is such a bad deal for Alameda at so many different levels." SunCal's plan calls for more than 3 million square feet of commercial and business park space and 145 acres of parks and open space, as well as a new ferry terminal, library, schools and a fire station. Opponents of the plan are firing at low-ball estimates for toxic waste cleanup, infrastructure costs to install city-class roads, sewage and electric services, and traffic abatement plans. Only 200 million dollars are alloted for building the ferry terminal, library, schools, fire station as well as the traffic amelioration plans in total, for example.
FATHER OF MINE The Island-Life Social Coordinator yanked us all out to far-off Mare
Island along the Delta for a double-threat Saturday. Mare Island is a
sort of curious deposit along the In any case, the place combined a Juneteenth celebration with a Pirate festival. Yeah, go figure. Juneteenth is a popular day this side of the Mississippi which recalls on that day the long time it took before news of the Emancipation Proclamation traveled from far-distant Washington DC to the furthest corners of the Texan empire and California. Freedom is always good news to learn whenever it arrives, no matter how tardy, and so the celebrations tend toward the joyous.
Across the road from the library grounds that hosted the band stage and booths, a long stretch along the water there revealed a motley crew of pirates from every corner of the globe. Every corner, it seemed, except for Somalia, where the pirates are all too real. A pirate festival is less about the realities of "stand and deliver", than fantasy and imagination, for we all are more than well aquainted with the pirates of Wall Street who recently raided our 401K's without swashing a single buckle. There is a certain amount of pleasure in imagining creatures like Ken Lay and Bernie Madhoff being made to walk a literal plank over a sea of literal sharks, but we all know that will never happen. It would be entirely too just. On the other hand, the hapless teenage Somalians with cutoff jeans and AK-47s pursuing their own individual form of Capitalism hardly seem the romantic types portrayed by the likes of Johnny Depp. Justice is not what any of them are likely to experience. The pirates of the Renaissance and Baroque periods, often employed on contract by national governments to prey on the ships of enemies, seldom ended up well. Blackbeard, Bluebeard and all the rest ended up being hung from the yardarms of their ships. In a curious and atypical instance, the only pirate to assail the California Coast, Hippolyte Bouchard, wound up dieing in his own bed in his sleep after a long and peaceful, post-pirate, middle class existence. But not after sacking and burning Monterey. This leaves the world of pure fantasy, with Tinker Bell and Captain Hook. This pirate here keeps things secure with his stuffed monkey. The pistol helps as well.
No, the pirates of the pirate festival have little to do with anything that exists or ever existed outside of Peter Pan musicals. Its an excuse to dress up and act wild and be a star on one's own stage, a peculiarly American phenomenon. That said, the festival is garish and fun and free to enter and loaded with all sorts of saucy wenches, parrot-bedecked rovers, tankards of ale, prancing Caribbean zombies and phantasmagoria straight from the condensed Id. Kids love it because they get to wack each other with plastic swords. Adults love it because they get to act sexy and dangerous in a safe manner.
Notice how in this fencing game, the foils have their customary practice buttons covered with bright orange safety foam. It must be the same spirit that motivated the Society of Creative Anachronisms, which regularly held medieval jousts, wizard gatherings and mead-fueled roistering up here in NorCal, which were less historically accurate than wildly imaginative. Just a chance to inhabit that ludic area of the mind once again, be a child but this time with better designed toys and realistic swords that hang heavy.
On the swords, we wandered over to the weapons tent to survey the pricey items there and found largely cheaply made and very light pseudo weapons of "rat-tail construction". Better not "clash" these costume "arms" for the result just might be a piece of metal flying through the air into somebody's eye when the blade snaps at the hilt.
All in all it was a fine day at the pirate's festival. Arrgh!
LANDSLIDE Its been a quiet week on the Island, our hometown set here on the edge of the San Francisco Bay. The high fogs have burned off a bit, leaving a brisk wind whipping over the Island and we can see the high frozen clouds heading eastward under the fluffy locals. All around the Bay Area Solstice time is celebrated in any number of ways. The following Monday, mysterious markings will appear at Lands End in Babylon and at the tower in John McLaren Park where covens have held their age old rituals. Up in the Hills, black scortch marks remain where offerings to Kuknu were made. On the Island, things trend to the more prosaic, as the new moon and the first day of summer is greeted with BBQ and golf. To each their own. The Native Sons of the Golden West held their annual Father's Day breakfast buffet there on Alameda Avenue between Park and Oak above the museum and the Abodanza kids ran amok among the blueberry pancakes and sterno-trays of piglet sausages. The buffet is yet another attempt to raise funds for a plaque to go out there where the transcontinental railroad first crossed over onto the Island way back when the Union Pacific had to hastily make an ad hoc terminus in lieu of the unfinished Oaktown Station. They had been all rushing so hard to make the appointment at Promotory Summit in the middle of the country they had all forgot to fix up the terminus here, so hoo boy, they all had to scramble to make a place for the train to arrive on its historic journey across the country because the official terminus was not yet built. In any case, the Native Sons had been bickering with the E Clampus Vitus chapter here as to how much either organization would pay for the plaque, with the ECV stating the exact position of arrival to be in dispute, so things had been run at a standstill for quite a while. In reality, the contact at ECV was Mr. Burbage and the contact at the Native Sons was David Phipps and the two had shared a common hedge between their houses on Grand Street for some time and this hedge had been the subject of a long acrimonious property dispute between the two landowners for some time, such that the two would communicate with one another only through the media of hired gardeners who at least shared the commonality of stemming from Sonora in Mexico. Generally their conversation began with one fellow claiming, "Mi Senior says your Senior needs to cut back the weeds." "Mi Senior says your catawba is overshadowing the hydrangea." And so on. As a result of the hedge dispute, the historical plaque dispute
had reached a standstill. As it was Father's Day all over, Tipitina, Suan and Sarah all took their fathers out for brunch at Mama's Cafe on Sunday for a House Excursion. If ever a brunch was destined to end up in a blues bar, this was it. But when the arrangements first got made, it had seemed like a really good idea. Suan's father, a distinguished Ivy League professor who entirely disapproves of Suan's every life decision and manner of being -- and never spares moment to remind her of such -- sat with his glasses on the edge of his nose peering at the menu while Sarah's father, who arrived at nine am already drunk, slouched beside him. Tipitina's dad, Adolpho, refused to speak English to anyone at the table, including his daughter, even though he could speak and understand it perfectly well. Instead, he spoke his own version of Louisiana Creole. Bonkers and Wickiwup banged their tails on the ground outside while tied
to a magazine kiosk. "You are not a whore like that other one." said Adolpho courteously, indicating the innocent Suan. "Nous sommes Cajun, mais nous avez the pride of the Bayou." He spoke his own version of Cajun French with careful Louisiana inflection. Glomming on the word "Cajun", Sarah responded, "I don't know much about Cajun music -- we do roots blues. Name of the band is 'In Memory of Sister Rosetta Tharp." "Ah, Rosetta Tharp is good name for your mother." said Adolpho, who also did not understand more than a word of what she had just said. "She must be proud of you. If she is still alive that is. Or even if she isn't, still proud." Tipitina was asking Suan how the tip thing got handled in a practical manner since the nature of Suan's work precluded pockets. "Well, sometimes there is the French Maid outfit with the apron as the last thing to go," Suan offered, never really having been queried on this line before. She worked as a stripper for the Crazy Horse and so was the major rent-payer over at the house on Otis Street where twelve people shared a two bedroom place. "And there is the feather headdress." she added. Her father did not know what she did for a living, but disapproved of her lifestyle on general principles, much as stern fathers often do, working largely upon suspicion and general conservative attitudes. She clearly had not married and had not become a stockbroker for Mason Tillman in the City. If she had become a stockbroker in the City, all the questions and suspicions that nagged him between lectures would be put aside. And so his fatherhood was one of boundless regret. He hailed from that generation which maintained that in a world run by stupid People, the best way to handle oneself was with firm rectitude and stiff belief in one's own solid character, back ramrod straight, for if you get lucky, you have luck and yourself to thank, and if the mob comes and beats you and knocks you down, at least you have yourself and your honor, and this set of values had born him well through a lifetime witnessing too much adversity and suffering in others. Anyone could rise above it all, just as he had done, for he had done well, working his way through college, acquiring Professorship, buying a house in a good neighborhood, getting married and having at least this one surviving child. As for Claude Barrows, his regrets directed themselves largely at himself. An odd-job man, he had turned his hand to music to make a few dollars, using that trade pretty much as he had done cabinet-finishing, house painting, ditch digging and carpentry, with a desultory and half-finished attitude of "why bother", since it will probably all wind up a wrecked mess turned out wrong and nobody appreciates good work anyway. The world had set itself against Claude from the very beginning, or so he felt. Against himself and against all the people like him. There was no use in trying, as the System had it all rigged up for the Fortunate Ones. Might as well just sit there on the stoop with a Colt 45 in that old paper bag. Get by making this or that sort of thing in a half-assed way. Every once in a while he gets up the gumption and really sets to it with a will, but then something always happens in the end. Wife runs off with the bass player or the earnings lost in the first roll of dice on the corner. The one thing he had made, well, helped make, was Sarah whom he taught the guitar when she was just six years old. How she looked then with her little brown arms barely getting around the body of that old Martin dreadnaught. Suddenly, in the middle of conversation about poetry, Claude burst into tears and all conversation stopped as people looked at him. Claude looked at his daughter and said, "You are the only beautiful thing I ever made." "Dad, you are drunk again." Sarah said. Mr. Washington commented that it appeared brunch was over and he called for the check. How on earth had Suan collected such a group of friends or ever heard of this place. He strongly suspected Mama's of being a hotbed of Lesbianism, a lifestyle about which he had yet to form a firm opinion. If he had known with certainty that Suan's current lover was the fetching and intelligent Jamaica Jones, it is quite possible he would throw a fit. Never mind her employment status. But as she stood up he noted the grace in her body and check noted to
himself the way she resembled her mother. They ended up walking hand in hand, him thinking, well, she is what she is and no matter about lifestyle for she is of flesh and blood of her mother. Can't deny that. After all she did not turn out so badly. Meanwhile Sarah had a few drinks together with her dad at the Top Hat Lounge, a place with lots of red vinyl upholster and lighting set considerately dim so as to help smooth out the features of whomever one had encountered there for mating purposes. He talked about missing her mom, as bad as she was, and about early days when jazz was bopping all over the place in Oaktown. After the bar, she put her father to bed and sang softly to him "Where is my good man?" by Memphis Minnie. As he drifted off on the sound of his daughter's voice, he thought to himself, now what dad is so lucky as to be able to sit down and have a few drinks with his daughter. What a voice she has . . . . As for Tipitina and Adolpho, they returned to the Island and after a brief visit to the playground at Washington Park, where she submitted to being pushed in the play set swing, they did their own beachside walk there along the Strand not far from the house on Otis. He wanted to know if Tipitina had found a nice Creole boy yet. Dad, you know me and Roger been together five years now. He come from good family? Skipping to the chase, she said he was from Minnesota. Good Catholic? He's Lutheran, dad. From San Leandro. He sighed. At least he is not from Wisconsin. She did not know how this could be an improvement, but she let it go. Adolpho had come with his father and mother years ago from the bayous during World War II, along with so many others out of the Southlands, who came to help build the immense warships that helped defeat the original Axis of Evil. Most of them stayed, at least the ones who did not experience the terrible Port Chicago disaster, but Adolpho had returned to kin in Metairie to knock about there and New Orleans, working odd jobs and trying to build up a Cajun sense of himself, even though those few years by the Bay had changed him and put a mark upon him so that everybody there knew him for something different. So it was he eventually returned to the Bay to take care of his ailing mother after his own father died of some kind of toxic consequence from the alphabet soup of chemicals involved with building things like ships. His mother died not six months later and he just stayed and married Marybelle Jennifer and pretty soon with a house full of kids, the years passed and there was no returning to Metairie. All of the kids turned out fine, including this one. But still, the Bayou water was in his veins, undeniably so. As he sat there on the strand he started singing a little French blues to himself and his daughter put her arm around his shoulders. Fathers and daughters. There is no summary long enough to encompass a life and all that is in it, she thought to herself. I know this man and yet I will never understand him. And so the sun set with flaming rooster tails of crimson and gold as the fog billowed in through the Golden Gate far across the water. And far across the water came the eerie ululation of the night train passing through Jack London Waterfront. That's the way it is on the Island. Thank your dad one time and gave
a great week. (sotto voce: This is for you, daddy) And if you see my reflection in the snow-covered hills
JUNE 14, 2009 COME SAIL AWAY, COME SAIL AWAY This week's headline photo comes from out on the Strand where windsurfers took advantage of suddenly clear, warm skies.
ONWARD XIAN SOLDIERS This week's video won Week's Best Of among quite a crowd of contenders, including a grandma mouthing off at a cop getting tasered, Riki "Garfunkel" Lindhome and Kate "Oates" Micucci singing about sex with ducks in a bathtub, and a gay Jesus lip synching "I Will Survive" who eventually gets hit by a bus. Winner comes from America's Best Xian, Betty Bowers, who takes time to explain to less informed Christians the curious details of the Lord's concept of marriage with specific quotations from The Book. See www.bettybowers.com for Betty's interviews with famous folks, helpful pew styling tips, and really spiritual commentary right from below your own Bible Belt. Now isn't that special. FILIPINO BOX SPRING HOG Over 150 daring chalk artists, young and old, greenhorn and professional, showed up to decorate the sidewalks of the Gourmet Ghetto in Berkeley this past Saturday during the 13th annual Chocolate & Chalk Art Festival a couple weeks ago. For the second year in a row, the first place winner was Imad Obegi who drew “Swine Flu Over the Cuckoo’s Nest” which was still able to be viewed near 2113 Vine St. a few days ago. Commenting on his piece, Imad Obegi said, “the idea of the “Swine Flu Over the Cuckoo’s Nest” came to me when I was having fun with the thought that the day has come when pigs can fly – ‘Swine Flu.’ A week or so later…during a meeting, the phrase “Swine Flu Over the Cuckoo’s Nest” came to mind. The more I thought about it, the funnier it sounded. The fact that the world went crazy over the possibility of a swine flu epidemic and the fact that the H1N1 virus strain is a combination of the bird flu virus and the swine flu virus needed to be conveyed as a comical image. I added the dots to represent viruses shedding from the pig’s body but not to be so explicit as to ‘downer’ the humor of it. The pig is happily flying, oblivious to the fact that he is targeted to be terminated despite the fact that it wasn’t all his fault. . . .
More artwork and other winners are posted at www.anotherbullwinkelshow.com THE THRILLING THREDNODY OF THROBBING THREE-DOTULISM TAUNTS THE TERRIBLE TAURUS OF THE TIMES For over 36 years, the Webster Pharmacy has greeted folks with old tyme wisdom, simples, powders and classic photographs in a store that always felt like a Rod Serling time machine episode, but no more. Owner Ed Clark has shifted operations to the new modernized Safeway at Southshore Mall so that the 67 year old pharmacist and his wife can spend more time with the grandkids. In fact, the Webster Pharmacy's history extends way back to the nineteen twenties when the site provided, besided "medicinal spirits" phones for bookies to place bets in a sort of speakeasy environment. It was only when Ed Clark took over that the place took on its Norman Rockwell charm... The SunCal saga continues with a group threatening lawsuit over the initiative, which the group feels was placed on the ballot under false pretenses. About 160 people have asked to have their names removed from the ballot initiative due to claims of deceptive practices by signature gatherers. Another group has indicated that although some 4,000-5,000 housing units are listed on the proposal, the plans actually allow for a full 10,000 more to be built in subsequent projects on the land. Which oughta be an eye-opener for some folks around here . . . The "Save Your City" campaign run by the League of California
Cities (estab. 1898) has nothing to do with the Save Our City group which
is fighting the SoCal project, but is a program to fight der Governator's
plan to snag some $2 billion worth of local funds to rescue the Golden
State from its present financial troubles. Because of Arnold's plans several
cities, including Oaktown across the estuary, are seriously examining
bankruptcy contingency plans. ARS LONGA VITA MALA ET BREVIS The ProArts East Bay open Studios wound up its two week run and our own happy group of makers and dyers concluded a largely successful run this time as folks realize that, artwork is far better than stock as an investment for future appreciation during a downturn.
The revivified "Jingletown" section of Oakland began its planned monthly artquake series of events as well, while the upncoming Temescal District held a street fair this weekend. With Jack London Square now holding weekly film, dance and Tai Chi events, the East Bay looks to have firmly set its cap on at a forward looking angle. Over at the Kitson-Laing collaborative project on Santa Clara, Ms. Laing performed what was interpreted as some performance art improv. Turned out the lady was flat out exhausted after several days of schmoozing.
Notice the tasteful felt scarf. Available from Feltworks for only $94.99 . . . . IF WIND WAVES WERE SAND WAVES Went out to the Strand for the annual sand castle contest there, a delightfully marketing and fee-free event in which one and all were invited to cast their temporary creations just ahead of the advancing tide. Here are are just a few of the many dozens of animals and fanciful worlds
created for the moment, certain to be destroyed within hours, if not by
sun, then by the advancing salt bay.
I COVER THE WATERFRONT. I'M WATCHING THE SEA. Its been a quiet week on the Island, our hometown set here on the edge of the San Francisco Bay. The high fog and chill temps gave way on the weekend to glorious sunshine and well marbled skies. The glads are still spiking up to heights well over five and a half feet tall, and the beans have started flowering by the Old Fence. Tiny greenish swellings on the dahlias forcast summer glories to come and the tomatoes are all showing promise. It is 2009 and deep in the heart of the Second Depression, with folks out of work everywhere, stores closing up, and the population of the Golden State actually declining for the first time anybody can remember. Still, the red poppy created by Luther Burbank blooms wildly in the field next door, for the flowers of the field reapeth and soweth not. Over at Andre and Marlene's household, Marlene puts the finishing touches on the weekly bread soup for dinner. This time the reddish stew is complemented by day-old bread from the Mastic bread drop. Later in the evening, after everyone has had their fill and the pots have been wiped clean with bread rinds, Occasional Quentin pulls out his harmonica and Andre lugs his battered Martin from its equally as battered case and they put on a blues number there on the porch, paying mind to keep clear of the hole where Javier nearly burned the house down on his fiftieth birthday last year. Oh let us pause in life's pleasures, and count its many tears . . . Suan leans up against the porch post while Mancini and Rolf and Sarah drape a ragged blanket over themselves with Bonkers and Wickiwup keeping them warm as the fog rolled in from across the Bay. In the distance, the twinkling lights of Babylon draped themselves from the old Candlestick Park up over the hump of San Bruno and down into the vales between Potrero and Telegraph Hill. Down in front, Jose and Pahrump played fetch with the bounding Johnny Cash. Many times you have lingered around my cabin door Its a cold, hard life sometimes, but in the household on Otis there was one more meal and the warmth of community for now as the sun gave up its last rays from far beyond the Golden Gate. From the other side of the Island, the long wail of the throughpassing train ululated from the Jack London Waterfront across the estuary. That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.
JUNE 7, 2009 BROTHER SUN, SISTER MOON
This weeks' headline photo is a shot of the moon over the Jack London marina. VIDEO OF WEEK Everybody likes a little non-PC silliness once in a while. Especially when the subjects are manifestly more stupid than anybody you know. If you remember the BTO (Bachman-Turner Overdrive) you will like this takeoff of "Taking Care of Business".
APOLOGIA Due to Javier's abrupt absence due to Birthday Avoidance and various other internal disturbances, this week's issue comes late and truncated. We also are getting ready for the Annual Island Life Mountain Sabbatical, an event many of you look forward to, as we remain silent for at least two weeks. Also we are preparing for substantial format revisions here to including more multimedia. SHORTTAKES Theatre season is now into post-season, but Season holders can expect to get their tix in August for next year's run. In the meantime, there is always Cal Shakes, Shakespeare in the Park, and Stern Grove for the hotter months. Fine things coming up at the Shoreline, just so long as it is not Hip-Hop which is getting some bad cred lately due to concert violence. Expect more frisking at the entrances from here on out. Counting Crows are returning with Augustana, certainly not ever a threatening event of any kind. In a rather thin Spring Season, BFD is standing out with an always stellar lineup, also taking place at the Shoreline. In late July, the Wakefield Jazz quartet will play during a benefit for the Island Animal Shelter here, which is primero uno on the chopping block for upcoming cuts, so we really urge you all to attend. We will provide more info as the date approaches. Neko Case is in town until the 10th at the Warfield. Many like her, a few are afraid of her. She is a Power and she will not be a waste if you go hear her. Femi Kuti coming around end of June. That is pretty much all there is until the Greek kicks in during July. Go out and sample the local Unknowns in this time. Good opportunity to do so.
ANOTHER TURNING POINT A FORK STUCK IN THE ROAD It's been a quiet week on the Island, our Hometown set here on the edge of the San Francisco Bay. The uncertain weather has been up and down with clouds and occasional rains all week, but the weekend turned out fairly fine with spangled clouds and bursts of sunshine. All along the strand you could see the kite-flyers with their machines and out on the full tide the wind surfers scooted along with their bright colorful parasails. Heard that Garrison brought his road show to the Golden State down their in LA, which is a place very similar to California. In fact many people actually believe Los Angeles is all of California, but don't you believe it. Those people are loose cannons in the Church of Our Lord and none of us decent Catholics and Lutherans up here will have anything to do with them. For the longest time we had two governors, one for NorCal and one based in LA for the SoCal set and that was fine by us until the gringos came and confused everybody with the United States, a concept nobody can agree upon to this day. By now all of the graduations have taken place, the athletic fields littered with streamers and program notes all cleaned up, the joyful grads all gone off to find jobs or travel. Hard by the Island-Life Offices proud parents stood by as the kindergardners advanced to the next levels at the Island Pre-School. Over at Mount Diablo College, Island-Lifer and musician, Kenneth, celebrated his own victory after some ten years or so on the long range plan for his Bachelor's. Hard times, divorce, poverty and the usual Life Troubles couldn't hold back excellence, so we congratulate him. The Editor sat back muttering to himself with a stiff one over ice, complaining about "that execrable Elgar." The Editor, of Irish extraction, cannot abide the sounds of Elgar, whom he vilifies with hot language virtually every year around this time. "Why not Mozart? Why not Beethoven? Think of the marvelous Mendelsohn! But instead they chose that pompous windbag, Elgar!" All the new grads from Washington Middle School trouped by, sheparded more or less by Tipitina and Sarah at the House on Otis, while Jose lay there groaning with his leg in a cast after last week's unfortunate incident abord Mr. Cribbage's boat, "The Indomitable." Far from being heartily thanked by Mr. Cribbage for averting a catastrophic nautical disaster that surely would have entailed significant loss of life, Jose was fired from his position and dumped upon the docks -- after the Coast Guard came along to tug the stranded ship from the Angel Island shoals. They were only trying to help Jose feel better, but Jose called out for more Vicodin. Each year the "middies" hurl their caps into the air at Annapolis and the infectious enthusiasm rolls like a wave westward in countless highschool venues draped with bunting in the school colors in a tidal surge of young exhuberance of change and excitement with that wave splashing up against the Pacific Coast in a multicolored spray of caps and ribbons and shouts of freedom for here in the Golden State, everything seems possible. But for some the years pass, the spirit gets heavier as the ernestness of aquiring wealth takes over and one day, there you are, wacking the errant dandylions with a weedwacker and a heart problem complicated by recalcitrant kidneys in front of your big house stuffed with geegaws, the mansion of a California King, and even though you own the largest yacht in the marina, like Mr. Cribbage, and you are convinced you have made the right choices, all the children see with gaping mouths is a sad, unhappy, bitter man weighed down with cares and nostril hair, something they never want to grow up to be at all. But as the kids troup by at Marlene and Andre's household, Jose rouses out of his stupor and makes a kind of Peruvian flute out of straws from the fastfood Booger Thing and plays a little tune that makes them laugh. Then they go off to help with Andre's band, No Future in Real Estate, rehearse songs from other bands with names like Rancid and Garbage. And all of this was far more pleasurable than Go to Work Day when they all had observed the wretched of the earth laboring in the cubicles of the firm run by Mr. Cribbage. Because it had got to that time of year again, Javier had been confronted with the immanent possibility of Birthday Celebration. As he had no desire to risk his life, destroy property, or endure another catastrophe in any way similar to last year, he managed to secure himself safely this time well away from trouble and People Who Earnestly Wish to Do You Well. Mark Twain commented on these sorts of folks, which perhaps may be found in other places other than California and Mill Valley in particular, but that is all beside the point. MT stated quite emphatically, "If ever you observe someone approaching you with the obvious intention of 'doing you good", you should run as hard and as fast as you can in the opposite direction." Javier's expedient was simple. He located Eugene Gallipagus's Poodle Blind that still sat out there in the marsh and hauled down into that pit a case of very good, well aged Glen Morangie with several boxes of sterno and MRE's, which have improved significantly since his memories dated circa 1974. Not all that much, but decent scotch was never part of the original Grunt food program. There he embedded himself while the leggy Joanne headed north to Modoc with her Poet, the lovely Leona headed south to San Leandro with its wild fandangos, and the rest of humankind did whatever it did during the early weeks of June, for Javier hunkered down there with his scotch, the MRE's, a battery-driven TV, and a small parlor guitar with a t-shirt stuffed into the soundhole. Javier's aversion to contact needs, perhaps, some explaination. For Javier, love was always a life-threatening enterprise. Dianne, or her friends, had run him down with her car, Amy had assaulted him with heavy concrete objects dropped from the roof, Roberta had tried to set him on fire, more or less successfully, and Marina had shoved him down a long flight of stairs with his arms full of iron fantods. As a consequence, this falling in love business had resulted in a brisk commerce for the emergency room and Highland's Trauma unit, where they all had got to know Javier quite well. Spring was a time especially hazardous for Javier, for Spring in California is notorious for wanton couplings. One of the interns there wanted to know just why Javier could not pick women who were, perhaps a bit less incendiary than, say, Sharona, who had destroyed his car, his record collection, and his apartment. "Well, Dianne had seemed at first like a plain gal from the Midwest prairie, as simple and as pretty as a cornflower, but we did not find out until later her relationships with coke dealers was so intimate . . .". That explains one, but that fails to account for the others, such as Vicki with the knives . . . . Ah well, exciting women are always so interesting, Javier said, not letting go of his Latin heritage . . . . It was a weekend of Full Moon and High Tide, with streaks of magenta glowing through the sunset clouds like banked embers longing for release, all of which means Trouble when the weather gets that perfect temperature of sun balanced by breeze stirring the ardent magenta bougainvillea. Javier got wind of a plan by Sharona to throw him into some kind of oubliette or wind tunnel, so thats when he decided to just check out this year into the hunting blind. Works for ducks and poodles. Maybe might work for other species as well. Certainly for Interesting Women. Almost certainly. At the end of the Dangerous Period, Javier climbed, or staggered, out of there and checked in to work at the Island-Life Offices, smelling of marsh, sterno and booze. The Editor wisely sent him home, where he crawled into his sleeping bag on the floor at Marlene and Andre's and slept the sleep of the blissfully damned. Meanwhile, the Writer, who does not love or who will never be loved, sits over the white oval drawn by the desklamp upon the even plain of the desktop while all around the darkness extends beyond to the limits of infinity. In the far distance, the Editor sits in his glass cubicle lit within an oasis of light. It is nighttime in the Island-Life Offices and all of the copywriters and subsidiary personnel have left for the evening. In a dungeon, down below, Chad is laboring over some new marvel of code that will delight the kiddies, his own lamp pooling an island of light around him. All through the darkness that surrounds the Island, here and there sit souls hunched over their endeavors, each a miniature monestary during this dark time. Each hoping beyond hope that somewhere out beyond the darkness resides a like mind. Suzie, working in the Old Same Place Bar, turned with barcloth wiping the sweat from her face to suddenly encounter on the bartop, in lieu of a tip from some unknown patron, a perfect, dewy, long-stemmed rose, an apparition out of nowhere. A line of sour men ranged down the bar into the dimness and the hazy jar of pickles, each looking into the shallow lilypad pool of himself. A few people sat in a cluster at one table, immersed into themselves, and others strewn at various points of the compass seemed likewise occupied, whether alone or together. There was no sign of the donor. She lifted the rose and inhaled its scent. There are few things more beautiful than a lovely woman with jet black hair holding a perfect red, red rose. Somewhere, some place, a stranger was imagining this very moment, a perfect setup for the eye of the mind. Right then, the long howl of the throughpassing train ululated across the choppy water of the estuary from the Port of Oakland and the Jack London Waterfront, as the train headed south to places unknown. Its a dark night in a City that knows how to keep its secrets. But deep within the Old Same Place bar stands one bartender still puzzling over Life's Persistent Questions. That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.
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