Island Life 2001
1st year of the Invented Millennium.
(For the post-9/11 article go HERE)
OR
YEAR 2006 | YEAR 2005 | YEAR 2004 | YEAR 2003 | YEAR 2002| YEAR 2001 | YEAR 2000 | ISLAND LIFE 1999
All the Y2K madness comes to an end tonight. This past year saw the collapse of the "Dot-Com Spring" economy, a string of incredibly poor movies rolling out of Hollywood, the Stock Market churning up the waves with sharks feeding on the bearish remains of the NASDAQ, more planes dropping out of the sky than should be allowed in a decade, the dismal finish to a spectacular history-making battle for the Presidency -- which battle was to have been the yawner of the Century -- the virtual destruction of the Arts Community in Babylon through the eviction of every major dance troupe and over 5000 musicians from rehearsal spaces, ever more dispiriting news from the Middle East and other stuff so disappointing that most responsible media are skipping the annual retrospective entirely. The SF Bleakly put its final issue out covering the topic of biker babes, as if to say, nuthin' worth reporting; go party.
On the upside, even the most critical analysts have had to admit that Mayor Jerry Brown has done the unthinkable -- he has actually kept every campaign promise he made, and has actually improved the streets, the crime stats, the local economy and seems to show no sign of dropping the ball whatsoever on behalf of Oaktown.
On the Island, the height limit has been cut from 60 to 40 feet and the industrial zone pushed back from Park Street a block or so. Mayor Ralph has returned to his post from his brief fling with County Power and has been seen down by the beach in his penny loafers and chinos sitting on a park bench and talking to the ground squirrels. He'll be all right after a good drunk on the weekend.
So, as the lights flicker from the emergency generators and the ball drops silently in Times Square, consider the ground Squirrel, who cares not a whit for millennia changes or space travel or dot-coms or pregnant chads. Maybe we all should just go on down to the beach and join the Mayor tonight. That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great Year.
The seasons' folly is over, all the trees are lined up on the curb to be carted to the recycling plant and the last shreds of Y2K have been swept up. Its the post-holiday blahs and even our delightful colleague and secret amore d'lettres, the author of "Dog Bites" had absolutely nothing to report.
Too many brandy alexanders we understand.
Any rate, the music scene is entirely in the hands of bands that have almost made it for a while, with the notable exception of Coal Play, coming to the Fillmore February 12th. Coal Play has been wrecking Europe for the past few months and is sure to tear the house down as guests of Live 105. Also not to be missed will be Mark Hummel's Blues Harmonica fest, featuring himself and the extraordinarily talented Charlie Musselwhite as well as the unforgettable James Cotton at Yoshi's on the 12th and 13th. Any one of these guys has been known to rescue headliners from nights of oblivion with scorching performances hot enough to turn the coldest tire-iron soul from Minnesotta into a blazing brick house.
On stage, the news is about as distressing as the crop of wannabe contenders for the Oscars with the boards dominated by scripts that provoke the comment "I can't believe they are dragging that one out of the closet again!".
With sad regards to Broadway, we bid adieu to one of the finest, Mr. Jason Robards passed away one day after Xmas. He earned his Oscar in the film All the President's Men, playing Washington DC newspaper editor Ben Bradlee. His best work was done playing roles scripted by Eugene O'Neill.
In looking over stats for Island Life, we note that over 500 new and unique visitors have popped into this page over the past year, not including previous attendees. Stats are being collected by Hitbox.com. This is the second year of continuous weekly publication, and so this space plans to move to a more formal arrangement later this year with registered domain name and all the trimmings.
Now that the Holidays are over, the traffic is returning to its previously intolerable level. In a rough check of the census stats, we find that six and a half million souls live in the 9-county Bay Area, with the highest rate of growth at 35% registered for Solano County, and the lowest in San Francisco (1% over ten years). This does not include undocumented aliens and homeless. No wonder 880 is a parking lot from nine to eleven and then again four to six. Chart below shows projections for the year 2020. (figures from ABAG)
Also worth noting is the below-average snowfall in the Sierra as we move gracefully into what is called "economic downturn". Those yokels who have never lived through a California drought will beg for something so quick and relatively painless as an earthquake before long.
Meanwhle the ground squirrels have tunneled under the earth for the winter even as the ozone thins, the ice caps melt and the weather shifts in what is the coldest winter on record in the country. The Annual meeting of the Directionally Confused and Traffic Enfeebled has convened at the Olde Towne Square and the nights are filled with the sounds of crunching metal and shattered glass as yet another one tries to squeeze through the yellow gone pinkish. With Officer O'Madhaun in full pursuit.
Speaking of which, the Thin Blue Line recently roped in 25 drug dealers who, coincidentally were also violating parole stipulations, carrying fair amounts of firearms, and generally terrorizing the West End of the Island. Its a small island, and 25 felons of that caliber, all working at once and more-or-less independently, makes for a pretty raucous Friday evening. At least this is one story that ends well. For the time being.
That's the way it is on the Island, this first weekend in 2001. Have a great week.
THE CENSUS - GO FIGURE
The careful statisticians among you noted with the raised eyebrow that true mathematicians practice so well that last week's census data is a bit ahead of the projected 2002 release date for the official figures.
Truth is, that late release date is for the big Kahuna, the whole census package and with 50 some dimensions cross-matrixed with one another for (est.) 320 million people it is no wonder those little D.C. bean counters need some time. If you want to know how many lesbian moms with two or more kids own a sofa and vote Republican you will just have to wait. The results for basic population growth DO happen to be available with the caveat that some single digit percentages still need to be totted up, making the population density data an official estimation.
It should also be remembered that the US Census Bureau is not the only player in the bean counter department; if you think big business is going to calmly wait 10+ years each cycle for population data to plop down from that ever so trustworthy entity called the Federal Government you belong to the category of man that has been known to tender serious offers for buying the Brooklyn Bridge. There are scads of data samples from the Nielson people to the rigorously executed annual Arbitron Report that virtually every radio, TV, Cable and newspaper depends upon for advertising survival. Here in the Bay Area we have something called ABAG which is a consortium of regional government entities that does very well on its own counting beans and if you want to glance at their reports, just hop on over to www.abag.ca.gov and see for yourself.
Hey, I don't make this kind of stuff up. The politics of numbers and disinformation provides heady stuff and a wealth of business for some people who love to generalize while shuffling specific numbers under the carpet. I am sick of squabbling with generalists who deny specifics -- for now -- so you just type "census" into your little search engine and go roaming yourself among the facts. There I have even spelled the search word for you.
Since you have a mind to criticize, please admit you read this column dude, and stop trying to bypass the hitcounters please. My sponsors would appreciate it.
MARTIN LUTHER KING HOLIDAY
You should all know, unless you live someplace untouched by civilization and the modernizing advances of the last 100 years, that Monday is a Federal Holiday commemorating the life and work of Martin Luther King, a great man, a saint, a charismatic speaker, and a leader appointed by destiny.
I can remember the man's voice coming over the local radio outside of Washington D.C. and the tremendous feeling of positive change that surrounded him and gave my friends hope that four hundred years of bad history had begun to turn around and touch individuals on a very personal level. Of over 1,800 students in my senior high school, the only one for four years, the only single solitary one of all these broad-minded middle-class students to invite me into his home and meet his family was Eric Mosby, an ardent proponent of Malcolm X and a scholarship grantee to Howard University.
Years have passed, but my brief colleageal friendship with Eric, with all of its external and internal limitations, has persisted in coloring the nature of my connections with other people of all types -- I feel for the better. And I feel that King made much possible with such grace and humanity that none of us is really unaffected. We should remember that during the ferment of the 50's through the 60's, there were few paths to take other than Franz Fanon with his choice of bullets over persuasion or the point of view the other color was the Devil Incarnate and nothing could ever be done.
What King did in the face of the most implacable, deepseated, violent antipathy is absolutely amazing and for all that, even though I am not a religious man, I say, "Hallelujah!"
SUPERBOWL FIGHT
After the second quarter you could hear a pin drop from Oaktown's hills to the Island. There is no joy in Oaktown tonight, for the admittedly mediocre Ravens go to the Superbowl where the formidable NY Giants will stomp their bones into mulligan stew. Our chief quarterback took a hard tackle to his throwing arm and then a 320 pound linebacker leapt on top of him, effectively ending the game right there. The replacement QB handed away 3 interceptions. Final score was 16-3. The Raiders, who only last year had problems filling the hometown stadium for any games at all, built a pretty solid team that remains young, but plays hard and keeps eyes on the rule book on and off the gridiron. If this team stays together, next year will be a definite Superbowl
That's how it is on the Island. Have a great week.
Sometime about the Neolithic Age, shortly after the Holocene had begun, Oog, a diligent stonemason and thorough-going former-nomad-gone-cultivator looked out from what is now the site of a fireman's monument filled with primitivistic wall-paintings across the estuary and noted, far off, the movement of approaching Aag with his Mandan family through what would become the domain of Joaquin. Oog, being a passionate sort, leapt up and cursed the gods, the the sky, the rocks and the infernal Family of Man. He went to his altar of wickiwup and mud, poured dust and ashes upon his head amid loud lamentations of the most profound anguish and prayed an earnest prayer to the God of Zoning for some relief.
"God! " spoke Oog. "Seven hills and seven men dwelling upon them; it is too crowded even yet! Do something!"
The god of olden times, having fewer voices to attend to back then, heard the prayer of Oog, and so caused a triple plague of the most devastating kind to be visited upon the Area. First there was a terrible earthquake in which the ground rent open, the buildings fell down and nobody could get a decent latte anywhere. Then came a terrible fire that consumed the hills, the grass, the condos and the donkeys with great travail and wailing and gnashing of teeth, so then there was nothing left to eat for it had been all burnt up. As if this were not enough, a torrent of rain followed for 30 days and nights, causing hills to slide down, trees to topple and TV reception to fail utterly while the drinking water became poisoned with detritus.
For the Fourth Plague, everybody around got into a really, really bad mood.
Finally, when it was over, Oog looked out of the remains of his hillside hovel to see total desolation, ox-carts all smashed together, ashes in the pantry and burnt plumbing on the landscape, the economy a shambles and a veritable desert where there once had been, more or less, paradise. In short, it was all a terrible mess. But surely the interlopers would have left this awful place by now for all the trouble. Who would want to stay in a place with earthquakes, fire, floods and jaundiced neighbors? finally, Oog could have the whole place to himself. But Oog was astonished to see that Aag remained, knocking about the ruins, picking up stray rags to cloth himself and building a wickiwup not far from his own. Furthermore, this structure now blocked part of Oog's view of the estuary.
In a towering rage, Oog ran up to Aag meaning to strike his neighbor upon the pate for being a dolt and not leaving, but despair overwhelmed his soul and he sat down instead in front of Aag and wailed, "Why, oh why art thou still here in spite of the four terrible plagues that sure will return again and again!"
For answer, Aag, set down a load of pilfered lumber and sighed heavily. "East Coast Mother-in-Law".
Thus began. long ago, the Bay Area's great Season of Discontent whereby it shall be found that all problems: disease, hunger, poverty, gallstones, migraines, terrible parking and earthquakes shall be resolved by the simple expedient of having everyone move away.
Except us of course.
Okay, Babylon's census runs about 780,000 by generous estimate, with a total of about 746,000 more like it, according to ABAG. That's still demands a hella lot of parking spaces for a place that's about 35 square miles in volume. Still, kudos to the man who went and altered the Highway 101 Welcome to Babylon" sign to read "Population 819,000". It may not really be that many, but it sure feels like it. Especially with the Fourth Plague still going on.
Leaving this always-fruitful topic for the moment, we note that Phil Lesh and friends will do the same thing to us that they did New Years Eve, but this time at Maritime Hall. "Dark Star" ran for 25 minutes last time; you have been warned.
On the Island a major fire at Harbor Island Apartments displaced 30 families last Monday. Harbor Island was the place raided recently by SWAT and ATF teams to try to stop the crystal dealing. Seems somebody remained at large and wanted to even a score. The Red Cross is looking for donations to provide emergency housing. Talk to Jim Franz at 814-4209.
Proving that Island criminals do not have the patent on unique intelligence, an Oaktown man, hearing police pounding next door, hurriedly gathered up bags of heroine and tossed them out the window, right onto the feet of officers waiting in back -- of the other apartment. Both neighbors were taken into custody. His neighbor was wanted for parole violations. It is not known if they even know each other.
The big news for us has been the power outages. With a foot and a half of snow dumped in the Northwest recently, there is no sign of letup or of serious resolution to the problem. PGE is threatening bancruptcy, in a most timely fashion it seems, so Republican Governor Wilson will probably authorize graduated fee hikes to please Big Power. Magically, day after fee hikes are allowed, the crisis will pass. The utilities will "discover" previously untapped power sources and will "bring online" a generator that was out the whole time for repairs. Basically, population growth is being used as an emotional lever by callous, slaveringly greedy, subhuman corporate creatures to get what they want at the expense of all of us. Not to put too fine a point on it.
The Island has its own power sources and power grid, but since the local grid is tied to the state, power blackouts are happening here as well. There is no getting away from PigGiE.
Not only that, the Raiders are not going to the Superbowl. Damn.
So it is with all of our plagues and power crisis and whatnot, in the darkest night when the blackout looms and the cold of the global warming ozone-thinning sky seeps in, that we look about and remember that no place else on earth offers nearly as good a selection of gourmet burritos.
And Aag's grunted second reply to Oog can not, and should not, be forgotten:
"Fog is good."
That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.
Okay boys and girls, this power thing is going on long enough that hysterical finger-pointing has become so dangerous we have found it necessary to put on goggles before taking our evening constitutional for fear of getting poked in the eye.
The current power crisis in California is due to makin' funny with the numbers and payments and is not due to some sudden lack of electrons. Really people; did all of you sleep through physics 101 in high school? Now I don't wanna hear no snickers in the back about Mcateer or Balboa High, puh-leeze!
WE READ LONG-WINDED, TEDIOUS STUDIES ON ENERGY USAGE SO YOU DON'T HAVE TO.
Okay, first off lets not get too heavy into math here, as i know you will be nod, nod, nodding off in two shakes of a sine wave. Lets just answer some basic questions and restate some facts for the masses. First off, neither the Internet nor the increase in computer usage at the server or the pc level has increase power consumption in the slightest. In fact, power consumption increases (in California) have, by every reputable government and private study known, actually decreased.
Huh?!
Yep. Where they went up -- marginally -- in Silicon Valley, they went down by as large a number elsewhere. Next question: Don't those huge "server farms" pull a lotta juice from the grid and doesn't anybody keep track of this sort of thing?
Answer is No and Yes. First, there are a whole scad of agencies, groups, self-interested parties and basic certified lunatics in the thousands who have been tracking exactly this subject. Formost -- among the reputable agencies --- is Lawrence Livermore Lab. Point your browser to Lawrence Berkeley Labs - LBL right now if you don't believe me. Come on back if you dont want to have to wade through tons of studies done by bean counters with nothing much to do other than count watts.
Now, those of you who dislike numbers should skip this paragraph. The average server, same as your average PC, has an internal power supply rated at 330 watts. But this unit never would, or could, run at maximum output all the time. Truth is, your typical modern PC uses, maybe 5-10 watts and cranks up to about 50-75 watts at max use; that's about the level of a decently bright lightbulb. Keep in mind that the guts of the PC, as in any server, involves voltage levels far below the static you accumulate by walking across a deep pile carpet. With the advent of "green pc's", the usage of some machines has been measured as low as 200mw. That's pretty damn low; even your pocket flashlight uses more than that. Those honking big video monitors, however, yank watts in the hundreds. But server farms dont use 21" monitors. Instead, they have up to ten machines all hooked through a switch to a single 15" monitor that is usually turned off. Yes, somebody thought about power usage already -- they had to, because all those machines with guaranteed 99.9999% uptime are hooked to a room-sized UPS with very established power ratings and licensing that must be certified and approved by the local municipality. Hey, before a single arc-lamp, burning thousands of watts an hour, switches to ON in your local football stadium, the stadium builders had to go through the same process. Remember when rock concerts used to shut down the entire sector from the Meadowlands Arena?
Electricity is the one thing that is known and quantifiable about the Internet, so of course bean counters have been measuring up the wazoo ever since the beginning. And hey, in what other industry do they have "green machines"? I certainly never saw an "energy efficient" ball-end Makuna drill press in any factory I ever worked in.
Frankly, something here smacks of lazy, uninformed, just-plain-bad journalism here. I even caught one report in a local paper accusing decorative lighting of causing the power shortage. Hey, no amount of 0.5 amp xmas lights, grabbing a maximum of 15 watts a string, is going to short out a state the size of California. How much does something use anyway? Turn the damn appliance around and the UL sticker tells you on the back. If the number is amps, just do amps X volts and you have the usage. Unless you live in Europe your volts has gotta be the same as mine: 120. You'll find that microwave of yours burns the watts equal to the usage of about twenty servers in that big bad ole server farm.
Wanna know who consumes a hella amount of watts? Take a trip down past Long Beach at, say, two a.m. and stare at the bright suns burning offshore. Hint: wear beta-blockers.
So, boys and girls, that was your informal Power Usage Update for the week. Now go away and don't bother me until you have finished your homework.
In other news, the lady who was tossed 40 feet by a speeding SUV driver down on Encinal and Lafayette is recuperating well at Island hospital, even as the Ladies Against Stupid Sucky Idiotic Egomaniacs (LASSIE) has really gotten its dander up about speeders and red-light running fools. Officer O'Madhauen is on the case.
They caught the perps who burned 14 families out of home at the West End apartments. Turned out it was a 12-year old and a 14-year old. Reason: they were bored.
The post-season post-inaugural blues have quieted the music scene -- some. But Friday had two great shows in the form of the shouting, stomping, thoroughly inspirational Sweet Honey in the Rock doing the Zellerbach in Berzerkeley on Friday, with the Vagabond Lovers sharing the Starry Plough with Chuck Prophet. The rich coloratura of Patty Spiglanin's voice has only improved over the last decade and Prophet's extraordinary talents, more appreciated in Europe than here, continue to knock 'em dead in the mosh pit.
On the Island, the sun sets with swashes of pastel to the romantic sound of car-stereo thieves smashing windows. Talking to an old-timer here, we learned that the channel between here and Oaktown used to be a fordable swamp and people used to walk through to get to work on the other side. That was in the days before electrical shortages. Now, deep-sea freighters pass over the same spot to berth below what is still, by last count, the world's largest container crane.
That's how it is on the Island. Have a great week.
CAT FIGHT !
Wow, somebody around here really has power issues. Two heavy-hitters working opposite ends of the news-desk at a local rag mixed it up together on the street in Babylon last week. Seems the newer hack said something to which the elder journalist took umbrage, leading to a heated exchange of highly-charged, intellectual epithets of disdain. Somehow the scene degenerated to hair-pulling and shoving between the former Associate Editor and the upstart greenhorn . The well-appointed crowd on Babylon's posh Union Street were treated to the charming spectacle of our City's finest wordsmiths slinging such gems as, "Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!". Finally, the award-winning half of this display busted one of her heels after pushing the younger gal off of the sidewalk into the street amid a great fanfare of horns and stopped traffic. At this point, the woman took up her damaged shoe and waving her sole in the air, crowed "I am the Winner!" before stomping off to Harringtons.
It was, as one writer would have put it, pure atavism and better than watching fat men on horseback.
POWER? POWER? WHO'S GOT THE POWER?
As the SF Bleakly pointed out, in a pretty astute analysis by Matt Smith, socializing the utilities to resolve the electricity problems appears quite ludicrous at this point. And certainly nothing the very rightist Mr. Davis will ever consider as an option. Never mind the utilities were built by us in the first place; Big Important People own the keys and they will not let go without blood and money. The more solvent municipalities will proceed with what they already had back in the planning room -- setting up their own municipal power/infotech corporations. Babylon has been debating that issue with particular attention to Hetch Hetchy's power dam for at least ten years. Now there is no more debate.
Here on the Island, Mayor Ralph is glowing over the casual decision made years ago to incorporate its own grid and the happy residents are getting mailers now, pointing out that the rates have not risen for anyone in over five years. Down in City Hall, the incumbents are positively giddy with all the triumphalism.
Darn. Left the computer on all day again.
SOMETHING OTHER THAN POWER ISSUES
The Significant Other and I took the opportunity to check out McCoy Tyner at Yoshis, here for an annual two week stint at the exclusive club where two days is considered pushing it. Tyner, one of the bastions of modern jazz, enthralled the crowd inside and just outside the area where musicians clustered around the telemonitors to hang on every note. Accompanied by bassist Stanley Clarke and drummer Al Forster, Tyner assaulted, soothed and redeemed his instrument with extraordinary passion.
The streets down by Jack London flashed with the heat on Saturday, the first warm night of the year. With two to three squad cars per block, the scene bore an uncanny resemblence to something from Day of the Locusts. As one homeboy remarked, "Man, there's hella Ghosts on the street tonight!" No kidding. With Mayor Brown pushing for a solid shopping block from third to tenth, there was no room for horseplay under the bridge downtown. Even though Little Charlie and the Nightcats, playing Bluesville, may have come from the stripclub/gambling den circuit in the old days, the heat was there to make sure the old days remained just memories and the Blues on Saturday night were gonna stay solidly middle class.
You want genuine blues, check out Jimmies or Eli's.
Down home on the Island, news is that a 400 pound child molester was arrested for traffic in kiddie porn and certain hands-on activities. Mom, a professional "masseuse" does not appear to have been any great prize herself, for she would bring the kids during "sessions" and allow them to perform.
One feels the Island will be much lighter when the Big Guy leaves.
Times like these, one goes down to the shore to stare at the lights of Babylon across the water to wonder just what the world is coming to. Remembering red-tails over Sunol at a certain time of life and a band of foxes scampering over the San Bruno Ridge where now housing developments sprawl. Bad journalism, lying politicians, thieving public trust executives, stolen elections. Well, it's just I, IV, V, the same old thing. Or as the song goes, "It's the old same thing, mama. It's the old same thing."
That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great week staying out of the Stock Market.
If you are staying indoors this weekend, its no surprise, as the snow is general all over America, to paraphrase a famous short story. Snow came down to the 1500 foot level here in California and this morning the Island got itself lashed by a good old hail storm.
The power people here are talking about complete separation from the State power grid with the construction of two power plants on the grounds of the abandoned Naval depot. With two 49 megawatt plants the Island could not only tell Piggie to go take a hike, but the behemoth that is now crushing the state would have to pay the Island for excess power. Which is a pleasant thought.
RETURN OF THE RETURN OF MY SUCKY VALENTINE
For those of you without a main squeeze this Feb. 14th, largely because your former Main Squeeze crushed your heart like a tin can before giving you a solid boot to the door, the seventh annual gathering for the Love Stinks crowd will occur in Babylon on Tuesday at the old Victorian on 16th Street in the Mission. Readings from noted writers will feature lousy lays, two-timing tramps, and hearts dragged through the gutter stories. Proceeds benefit the SF Sex Information hotline.
For those who could use a bit of the old T&A -- that's Tease and Assume -- the Cantankerous Lollies shall be trucking out their size 8 to 14 costumes for a little burlesque show 'n tell. Full nudity is disallowed by the naughty Lolls, but where else can you take in a contortionist, can-can and belly dancing in the nudge-nudge wink-wink and thoroughly tongue in cheek style? Shows at the Odeon, also in the Mission district.
The Fencesitters Ball took place on Friday for those of you who up the chances of a date 50% by including everybody and everything on the desert menu. Best thing about this affair is that couples are by no means considered complete and everybody goes home with somebody or three.
MORE ON THAT LOVEABLE PAIR
When we last left Oog and Aag, the Pleistocene gents who settled in the Bay Area, the Bay was pretty much a deep canyon. Then came the Holocene and things changed quite a bit. The ocean rose about 330 feet, or so, and the Bay filled with water so that you couldn't get to Marin without a boat anymore. Some other stuff happened too, but mostly a bunch of families, the descendents of Oog and Aag and a few more wanderers from Mongolia who happened to find themselves where the weather was reasonable and the fishing not so bad after the land bridge from Siberia sorta slunk away.
It is true the neighborhoods went to hell, but geological epochs are known to be irresistible.
Long about the time some Portuguese lunatic sailing under the dubious flag of Spain, set out in the wrong direction to find India, a major volcanic eruption, in what is now Idaho, shook the earth, split the heavens, sent fire into the sky and swept molten rock in great lakes across three or four states-to-be and generally ruined the real estate market for the duration. Since every living thing was buried under solid rock for a thousand miles in all directions, the survivors picked up what they had and headed south across the mountains and deserts. Some of them even moved to California, bringing stories of the earth shaking and the sky burning.
Humbaba, a descendent of Aag, went to the Shaman to find out what all this could mean, for it seemed that some really bad juju was in the works.
The Shaman, a venerable old man, had been suffering from devils in his intestines for some weeks, but dutifully he spun the Magic Stick, chanted to the east, the west, the north and the south, sprinkled some ash mixed with the blood of a condor, the teeth of a bear, the claws of a wolf and the lungs of a snake. Then he sat down. Humbaba waited.
The Shaman spoke, "Shit!", then he keeled over and died of a busted appendix.
Humbaba took this to be a very bad sign indeed. He then withdrew all of his holdings in equity stocks and moved with his family down south for he could not travel any further west.
Time passed.
Sumuc, a descendent of Oog, lived over by what is now Cow Hollow. where he ran a nice little concession running a tulle-boat ferry from the peninsula to the islands in the bay, Marin and over to Oaktown. He kept his people fed and happy and everybody got along real well with no hassles living there by the water, eating holistic foods, fishing and smoking a little boo now and then to keep the edge off. They were pretty much the first California Surfer Dudes and they practiced ecology by not eating too much, killing too much or messing up the land with poisons.
Well, one day a buncha dudes from down south showed up in a boat and settled in on the worthless wind-swept sand dunes on the peninsula. It wasn't the first time jokers like these had shown up, but this was the first time any of them had bothered to settle down. The Norsemen had come and the English had come and the Russians had come and they all laid claim to the whole damn country -- they were all a bunch of idiots -- but more of these Spanish types came and these ones stayed.and that was just fine by Sumuc and his tribe for the land was worthless and there was plenty around for everybody to eat anyway. So Sumuc got together with these Spanish and they all had a party, which was Sumuc's way of doing things, inviting the neighbors in too, and then Sumuc went about his business.
The newcomers had a hard time of it settling in, so Sumac's tribe agreed to share a little sustenance in exchange for some earring baubles
One day he had a confab with a Spanish dude named Junipero Serra who had this big old nasty cut on his leg. Sumuc would have done something for this guy, who was clearly obsessional, but the old Friar waved him off angrily saying, "That's my own special wound and don't you touch it you heathen! No pain is no gain."
"I can dig it," said Sumuc, who rather doubted the man's sanity. He knew that everytime the white man came around a few of them went bat-shit crazy. "What do you call yourselves?"
"We are reasonable gents," said Serra, who then made a proposition to Sumuc and his whole tribe.
"I tell you what. I got a special deal for you, seeing you are not a bad heathen -- ignorant, dirty, ugly and misguided, but not without some hope. You come over here by us and become slaves in our stockade. We get to beat you any time we want, you must work from early morning to sundown, the soldiers can have your women anytime, and you gotta get up and pray at the crack of dawn when the bell rings and sex amongst you will be, of course, verboten. In exchange we will feed you three squares a day and give you a shirt. Which you gotta learn to keep clean. Howzabout it?"
"Since you put it that way, no thanks," said Sumuc who went away after promising that he would repeat this crazy proposition to members of his tribe.
Serra went away to think things over, for it astonished him that such a reasonable proposal to embrace civilization -- on his terms -- should be cast aside. He revised his marketing plan and went down to Santa Clara, where he had another mission, and made a slightly different pitch to the chief there named Xatophec. "We are Reasonable Gents," said Serra. "Come on and live in my house where its nice and warm, we party with the Pope every night, and we have three squares a day -- you won't want to leave."
Xatophec, who would never tell lie in his life, had he known that such an animal existed, agreed to this purely temporary arrangement as winter was coming on, figuring that in the spring, they would just walk away and gather acorns as his tribe always had done.
The rest, as they say, is history.
BACK TO THE FUTURE
On, or about, the Island, in the present day, major employer Good Guys has moved its corporate HQ to Harbor Bay from the City of the Stars. Ophelia Schmaltz, President of the Dogwalkers Association is unimpressed.
Hey, we couldn't get an interview with Hizzoner, Mayor Ralph, so Ophelia has to do, okay? Ophelia reminds us that the dogwalk has returned to Washington Square and those little yappers are down there every day, asserting their rights and engaged about their doggy business. Whatever.
Bonds are up and stocks are down and few remember the last time a Bushy was President and what that was like. Pink Slip parties are all the rage now, and you can find those clean-cut, had one job out of college types hanging out at Starbucks, idling away until it "just feels right" to go get another 80K per year job.
Yes, and my name is Napoleon Bonaparte and I have a bridge to sell you.
California, in all its rich diversity, develops, during depressed times, all of the charm and tranquility of a guardian pit bull training session . Some are just about to learn just what that is like.
All I know is, the ground squirrels down by the shore are busy collecting nuts, even though spring is sure to come, for with brains the size of a peanut, even they are smarter than some of the types around here.
That's the way it is on the Island. Have a productive week.
We spoke a little soon about the snow, for as everyone here knows, the snow dropped to 500 foot levels, frosting every major hill in the Bay Area and shutting down Route 17 entirely. Schools issued the first "snow day" in a quarter century as a foot and a half of powder dumped on Santa Cruz within eight hours. Schoolkids from Berkeley were tobogganing down Grizzley Peak Boulevard during the most extraordinary weather as CHP ordered everybody off the roads.
TURN SIGNAL? WHAT'S THAT?
In an even rarer demonstration of good sense, most would-be drivers did exactly that.
Now, its back to the Non Compos Mentis chapter of the Directionally Confused and Traffic Enfeebled drumming up more members for its quite large organization. To become a member you must drive down the road a Winnebago, occupying at least two lanes simultaneously for at least two miles. Initiates then must pass some simple dexterity tests in which they shoot for the left-hand off ramp from a stall on the right-hand shoulder, turn right across three lanes from the left-hand turn lane against the light, buzz through a stop-light on red at the count of three, exceed the speedlimit by a minumum of 25 miles per hour for 25 miles on city streets (highways do not count), use the exit ramp as an acceleration lane and decelerate exiting an 880 onramp to 20 miles per hour. The hopeful candidate then must drive 45 miles per hour in the middle of 580 and glide across lanes without signalling at least six times in 20 minutes. Survivors of these preliminaries then must do timed backup trials on residential streets at not less than 30 miles per hour without killing anyone's dog. Those who run out of gas on any major Bay Area freeway during rush hour earn bonus points.
After reciting the Declaration of Independence from any turn-signal or traffic control devices, the joyful plebe then becomes a full-fledged member of the Non Compos Mentis chapter with all rights and perogatives to maim and kill at will on the highways and byways of the State of California.
After a period of mayhem, the new members become eligible to apply to purchase an SUV.
On the Island, the College kicks off a free concert series with a visit from Senegal dancer/drummer Khatab Cissokho, followed by portions of the infamous Babylon doing chamber music by safe composers such as Beethoven and Schubert. Still, we are getting up in the world, now aren't we!
Rumor mill has it as true that Mr. E himself, Pete Escovedo, shall be moving down to sunnier climes to be near his daughter, so the future of Spotlight on the Square remains in doubt. 'Twas ever thus for that trouble spot in place, which has, on this run at the very least, avoided murder as the means of its demise. There are those hoping for a continuance of Friday nite salsa with his Master's hand ruling from afar.
Les Claypool sails in on seas of cheese to the Warfield with his Frog Brigade on March 3. The Insane Clown Posse does whatever they do at Maritime Hall on Wednesday. Overhearing one of their works, a mestiza eight-year old was heard to remark, "I don't understand them and I don't like them!" Out of the mouths of babes.
Jeff Beck, the erratic guitar genius who shifts directions like a leaf on a windy lake, is experiencing something of a revival and will perform at the Warfield on the 20-21st.
At the Fillmo', we had Eve 6 on Friday -- no word on how it went yet -- to be followed by a solo performance by Richard Thompson, darling of the acoustic set, on March 15. His "1952 Black Vincent Lightning" in C tuning is still required learning by anybody who pretends to finger the fretboard. The following weekend will bring Suzanne Vega with her butch hairstyle and her dry observational lyrics to the stage. Since becoming happily married and giving child, her output has slowed in recent years, but deepened in experience.
Jazz seems to be infecting the former land grant of Peralta these days with Yoshis putting in a string of solid performers through the month and August. Then there is the lineup at Bluesville - headed by Big Bill Morgenfield -- in Oaktown and Elis with its ever-ready blues and BBQ meant to ease the soul. So many notes, so little time!
Which in this pre-recession time is very much needed. On our way to work we noticed a line-up of red heart-shaped signs stating
I LOVE YOU KATHRYN !
heading towards the chunnel. Yeah right. We got home from our own soul-sucking job at nine pm and left a message on our Significant Other's message machine to cover things. Love is for those who have money and can afford the View.
When we heard Dog Bites columnist Laura Wellman of the SF Bleakly was seen scouting condos we wished we too could be among the hoi polloi with thousands to spend and scads of stock options. But we got into computers at the low end before there ever was a dot-com and we fix broken machines on our hands and knees every day while high-society columnists rub elbows with the High and Mighty and sip exotic cocktails in wildly extravagant bars. We shall just nurse our poor grievances with our greasy wrenches among the chaff at dark bars on the edge of town whose motto goes "Warm beer, cold women, go away." Sniff.
HOW CAN THEY EVER GO AWAY?
As mentioned previously, the descendents of Oog and Aag were living by the Bay, with Aag having moved south to sleepy Los Angeles. Eventually, the descendent of Aag's known as Marky hooked up with a guy named Estanislao and busted out of the mission there to great acclaim and there was lots of stampeding and yelling and general carrying on with jubilation. Marky went on to form his own band, seeing as the cholo rock n roll lifestyle suited him more than the settled approach and he and his merry pranksters roamed about the Sierra foothills, doing a gig now and then at one of the big rancherias and nabbing the occasional stray bessie for hamburger.
Tilacse, a descendent of Sumuc, rebuilt the old ferry enterprise after the place got trashed by a bunch of red-neck Yakuts from the Valley. Even back then the valley-types caused trouble every time they came to town. The padres put a damper on things for a while, locking up everybody in barracks and flailing people right and left for no good reason. But somebody figured out that the missions were killing more people with disease and slave-work than were being converted so they put a stop to all that.
With the Missions gone, things mellowed out for everybody and Tilacse lived a good life running his ferry from the Yerba Buena trading post over to Rancho de San Antonio and chillin' with the homeboys and a bottle of aguagardiente in the off times. Of course there were those who just couldn't leave well enough alone with their talk of progress and stuff, but tomorrow is always another day and let us all wait to see what tomorrow brings, my friend.
On the Island, present day, Pagano's has shifted its famous window display from the Mad Hatter's teaparty with Alice to a tools display on hay bales, complete with full menagerie of chickens, dogs, and rabbits whooping it up for a spring party. There is even a group of mice performing a rondele on the sideboard while a monkey hangs from the ceiling. The only critter not enjoying himself is a bulldog cooped under a glass belljar.
That's the way it is on the Island, where even hardware has its lighthearted side. Have a great week.
A bit late, but still here...
Not yet a hundred days and the Bushy/Baggot/Green crowd in the White House has already tried at least a dozen concepts redolent of those times of yore when the Black Plague roamed the earth and physicians were called "leeches". Launching immediately into a truely objectionable unification of Church and State, Bushy has followed up with scads of cutbacks on virtually every worthwhile program set in motion by precessessors, while herds of well-heeled "think-tankers" scurry about refashioning history to make it look good. This from the administration that came in on dubious credibility and doubtful majority, whose very legitimacy is in question.
Well, we all remember what happened the last time a Bush was in office -- even the Republicans shudder at the aweful memories of soup kitchens and long unemployment lines.
After 100 days, what has been accomplished? Cutting aid to African countries and a spurious urge to Americans to endorse Dubya's idiosyncratic X-tianity.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY MELINDA !
The Significant Other and I took the freshly legal teen to Babylon for some Adult Entertainment at Asia SF, a charming SOMA eatery and . . . and well, what else is hard to say. At least in mixed company. Down they came along the bartop runway, dishing and swishing and lip-synching like nobody's business to the sounds of Tina Turner, Ella Fitzgerald and Brittany and rave applause. It was a flaming Tranny Karaoke!. We got the Tina Turner look-a-like for our waitron and drank strangely blue curacao margaritas called "tarantulas". The aging teen got a cell phone for her Day and immediately made a phone call to her best bud. At least three other birthdays were celebrated that night, but our cake was so exquisite, the party-gal just had to share a slice with Tina. A huge time was enjoyed by all and so there you have it.
RETURNING TO THAT HALYCON PLACE IN THE BAY
On the Island, where all the women wear dresses and all the men, pants, much as they used to in days of yore, the IPD is handling the first murder in 15 years. All they can say down at the West End is, "Well, its about time!"
Seems a jilted feller took exception to his ex doing quite well without his drug-peddling carcass hanging around, so he took a pistol and shot her in the head, before driving off into the night. Prince Charming here had a long record of leading the Vallejo Hells Angels as chapter president, doing time in the slammer for selling crystal meth and assorted infractions for acting like a brutal, violent bully. His ex only wanted to be a school teacher.
WELL, MAYBE NOT SO HALYCON
Perusing the weekly rags up in Snore-homa and Palo Wallow in Silly Cone Valley, we note a seeming focus upon the "It cant happen here, but it did" kind of murders. In Palo Alto, where the stiff chin of the intransigent obdurate rich -- more on that phrase later -- pushes through the air with self-inflated rectitude like an ice-breaker cutting through the fog, they're still puzzling over the axing of a music teacher -- not exactly your most provocative profession -- and the shooting of a garage mechanic.
The local free daily down there included a neat little essay on California's power usage as compared to the rest of the Union, finding that the golden state ranks 47th in per capita use, but is second in overall use due to the large population. The truth is, we have always been energy efficient, with intense focus upon conservation, matching Western Europe for economy of use. Texas, on the other hand, with its huge swamp coolers, ranks miserable 4th.
The energy crisis continues -- with our stupid Governor pushing off all decisions until the weather improves, hoping that massive declines in use as the weather warms will ease his pain.
Fat chance.
THEN, THERE WAS THIS WACKY GUY NAMED JESUS
Meanwhile, up in Snowhoma county, an organization going by the innocent name of Westar is meeting for a week at the Red Lion Inn and why should you care about a business convention out in the stix? Well my friend, the Westar happens to be the North American King of thinktanks for Western Christianity. It contains virtually every significant biblical scholar in America and their agendas provide the guiding light, as it were, to millions of demigogues. And sometimes the fire and brimstone too, for these people pretty much consider Old Tyme Religion to be in serious trouble from people like Pat Robertson. Among other things.
Seems attendance is down and its getting harder to find wannabe saints these days. In addition, a few of these industrious scholars came up with the astonishing revelation that fewer than 10% of the gospels involve the character known as Jesus in any way that can be authenticated, or even repeated by other sources. In short, much of the Christian Bible is pure fiction.
This is causing some debate among the pulpits with all sorts of maledictats being tossed about like hand grenades with great zest.
THOSE OBDURATE RICH
To give them their due, you will notice that no wealthy person gifted with taste ever drives an SUV. Those tanks are designed for middle-class wannabes.
Down in Palo Wallow, while waiting for my sandwich at a downtown deli, one particularly obstinate fellow tugged, then pulled, then yanked my daily out from under my things on the counter, while I was so astonished, all I could say was, "Hey!" as he tugged (my hands were on the paper) then "Hey! Hey! Hey!" The fellow then sat down to read next to a pile of fresh, unenfolded papers to virtually everyone elses astonishment.
"Hope you enjoy your paper, duuuude!" I said and grabbed one from the stack next to him, at which point the tenuous light of incipient intelligence began to ray across the man's face at the suggestion that other human beings existed other than himself in the world. But the awareness is too much for some people -- which is why one part of Palo Alto insulates itself so assiduously from its poorer sister city east of the freeway -- and the dull appearance of stupifaction returned to the face of the boor.
THE WARMER SIDE OF THE BAY
Returning to the simple joys of hootchie mamas and low riders with some relief from places where sophistication has a name, but is unpracticed, we plunked ourselves down to a warm bowl of donburi with our SIgnificant Other at the only sushi place on the island. We might not be well-travelled. We might never have fallen drunk into the Thames or spent a summer in Majorca and we don't have wildly extravagant eateries where men dressed as women parade down a chrome-topped bar, but we do have soul food, the best people in the world and a view of the hills sometimes when you stand on the hood of your beatup car.
If there's one thing that I need
That makes me feel complete
So I go to Christie Road
It's home
It's home
That's the way it is on the Island. Have a genteel week.
To hell with the going to hell dot-coms; Sunny Beans just went out of business! That's right; another victim of Starbucks has cashed in the chips in these days of corporate foldings and packings and pink slip parties. Sunny Beans, founded by someone just looking to get a decent cuppa joe gave in to pressure as two Starbucks have invaded the Island.
Meanwhile, the energy crunch shows no signs of ending as vicious weather is forecast amid the drizzles and downpours here, further extending our hapless governor's pain. Now the power pundits are saying that it has gone on so long that even the warmth of spring shall bring no ease, for the mess is truely gargantuan in its colossal failure to implement a purely Republican -- and quite simple-minded -- plan to deregulate the utilities. Might as well try to deregulate the appetite of a bull mastiff. When the swamp coolers of 110 plus Palm Springs kick in the power drain shall surely continue. Try telling the residents of Barstow amid 130 degree weather to "ease up on the thermostat a tad". Not to mention the sweltering millions in the LA basin, some 100 by 55 miles in volume of solid humanity.
We would like to remind everyone that we have a Texan idiot about to implement nationwide the same sort of disaster that happened here on a myriad of programs.
Meanwhile, on the Island, we have our own problems with wanton SUV drivers careering through crosswalks inhabited by elderly citizens and children and Officer O'Madhauen is about to slam the gavel to the bench on anyone who dares to drive recklessly. After one driver knocked a local grandlady 30 feet down the street, the locals got up in arms and now the Force is about to come down swift and hard. There will be surveillance and patrol cars and guard dogs and electronic devices of every description, not to mention "decoys" and undercover pedestrians posted at crosswalks everywhere.
And whoever busted into the public library and stole the janitor's walkman radio had better start running for Mexico for Officer O'Madhauen is now pretty damn mad.
For those of you seeking relief in these crime-laden times, the prestigious Alvin Ailey dance group is rolling into town at Zellerbach until the 11th. If you can't afford the tickets, former members of Idiot Flesh are known to be hanging out in the usual venues, doing wierd stuff with noise that will gratify your soul. We fondly recall in the days of the old Stork Club, when it resided on 12th Street, the band members coming in on roller skates while performing on kazoos, dressed in gorilla outfits and outlandish pinafore outfits that gradually dissolved as the music set progressed.
On the Island, where monkeys are relegated to the dubious theory of evolution -- and even that is taken with a grain of salt -- The Societe des Amis de Alfred Jarry, a division of the famous College du Patephysik de Paris, will be meeting in the Old Towne Hall next Friday after the Absinthe Hour at Chevy's. The noted speaker, Dr. Faustroll, will deliver a lecture open to the public on Locomotion of Propeller-Driven Sieves upon the Atlantic as it Relates to Bay Area Traffic Planning. Attendance is encouraged for all ages.
That's how it is on the Island. Have a great week.
APOCALYPSE -- AND HOW!
Long-awaited Spring opened up blue skies with moderate temps over the energy-starved Californias this weekend. You could almost hear the "Whew!" from the embattled Governor as he flings the sweat from his brow over this brief respite. We'll have a couple months before 100 degree-plus weather slams the southern half and millions of coolers flick the "on" switch.
At home, we've been minding the conservation with our green sticker flourescent bulbs and darkened computer screens. As we huddle with the heat off by our guttering candle, scanning through the Comical and the increasingly tabloid-like Exasperator for news of the latest big layoff, its hard not to take an apocalyptic view of things. With Cisco's pinkslip party of some 8,000 persons and the trashcanning of a new facility, the numbers of newly unemployed -- just in Silicone Valley -- easily top 50,000 souls this year.
And all of those folks made easily 60-80 thousand dollars a year. They now face the prospect of paying last year's tax bill while on the dole. Bushy's response has been to offer a tax cut to resolve things. Let's see: Bush in office, Voodoo Economics, deep recession. Sounds awefully familiar. Sounds just aweful.
SEND ME A NOTE; DON'T SPEND 'EM ON THE BLUES, BOY
It's in times like these the tough go dancing. And if they are like me and can't maneuver those tricky wheels on the dance-floor, we go listening and watching. For those of you who liked the Eagles, Don Henley plays this week, and if you didn't, stay away from the Paramount on the 18th. Our old friend Ann Crowden's school of accomplished young musicians perform at the Jewish Music Festival at Berzerkeley's Julia Morgan Theatre with guests Joel Ben Izzy and Ella Weissberger. Ella is a survivor of the "model" Konzentrationslager at Theriesenstadt. The piece to be performed is "Brundibar", composed and regularly performed at Theriesenstadt under the Nazis. The show is Sold Out under SRO. Members of the Berkeley Symphonic will accompany under the direction of Benjamin Simon. Other events of this Festival continue at the Berkelely Richmond Jewish Community Center on Walnut.
Country Joe McDonald performed Friday and Saturday at the Live Oak, also in Berkeley, promoting his new CD, which is available from the internet only. Go to www.countryjoe.com.
Pharoah Sanders, onetime associate of John Coltrane, blows out the stops at Yoshis on Monday night, while Richard Thompson does the Fillmore in a solo show.
THE CONTINUING SAGA OF THE REDOUBTABLE PAIR
You may recall the descendents of Oog, continued to live by the Bay, running the old ferry concern between Babylon and Rancho San Antonio, while Aag's people headed for the hills, came down and became the first cowboys some fifty years before Texas started peddling its bull. Since the term cowboy didn't exist and Aag's people didn't know or want to know hardly any English, they called themselves vaqueros and that suited them just fine for a while. Since being a cowboy was dirty, dangerous low-paid work, most white peoples stayed away from the profession, so instead of John Wayne, you should imagine someone like Crispin Glover, Denzel Washington, or Cheech Marin playing the part.
Tiburcio inherited the ferry business and was making a fine living as the various trading posts developed into towns and changed nationalities like hats until one day he was met on the wharf by a feller named Horace who told him in no uncertain terms that he was heretofore and hereafter not to set foot on the dock himself or any passengers as the newly formed Public Gain Endeavor (PG&E) corporation setup by himself now ran the place under the auspices of the new village of Oaktown. When Tiburcio objected and brought his ferry to a place a little north of the dock, Horace slapped a half-dozen suits of the legal kind upon him and whupped him upside the head with ex post facto arguments of the most authoritative kind.
In court it devolved and evolved that the whole ferry thing had been "deregulated" from unlawful monopoly and so Oaktown had signed exclusive rights for ferry stuff to Horace, who, it turned out, now owned all the waterfront and had become chief councilperson to boot. So now Horace's ferries went back and forth across the deregulated Bay to the exclusion of anyone else.
In exchange for all this pleasant stuff Horace got, he used his lawyering skills to basically deregulate the owners of Rancho San Antonio of all their land, which Horace sold in generous lots to squatters. Then it turned out Horace had no right to do that, so he made the original owners pay him a few thousand bucks to get the land back, but the squatters stayed put.
In the meantime, Horace's PG and E set precedents that later entities would follow by building a bridge between Oaktown and the hamlet of Brooklyn, then eliminating all access to Brooklyn except over the bridge, then set a toll on passage over it. He then stuffed the ballot box with fake votes from the forceably absorbed Brooklyn and became Mayor of the combined city, which he then made build even better docking facilities on the waterfront and then turn over to PG&E to run the ferries. He was happy to see so many people going over the water on his ferries to SF, for he obtained land over there as well.
When Tiburcio tried to once again re-institute the ferry business, he claimed he had been born into the ferry business on the land and had every right to make passage. Horace stopped him at the new docks, stating he was from Harvard and Tiburcio's birthright made no difference, cause the people had voted the deregulation and the contracts and there was nothing he could do about it and this was the land of Golden Opportunity Manifest Destiny and Free Enterprise. Get offa my land, repeated Horace.
So Tiburcio got off of the land and gave up the ferry business and needing some form of income went up to the hills to try his hand at gold mining.
He was met by fellers coming down, who were heading back to Sonora down south as a new regulation rule had been passed tossing out all the foreigners and they informed Tiburcio that especially included any mestiza born in country.
So Tiburcio, needing a way to make ends meet and seeing the way of capitalism at last, changed his name to Joaquin and took up the old and honorable profession of land agent, sometimes called Highwayman. He lived a long time, made lots of money and many friends. Meanwhile Horace got tired of making so much money and returned to New York City where he died at age 92 in his bed of natural causes.
It has been said about Horace that he was the sort of man who, were he to be stranded on a Pacific Island, would sell maps to the fellow castaways and if the natives should kill and eat him, no one would have minded a bit. Let that stand as his epitaph.
IN CONCLUSION
The old man of Rancho San Antonio sold what is now the Island to a couple of guys who were among the few to successfully frustrate Horace, who tried to seize this land as well. These fellows were stern and upright puritans who built a lot of churches. Squatters took their land anyway. Any coincidence between events of then and events of today has been remarked upon; but nobody can do a damn thing about it anyway.
That's the way it is on the Island. Turn out the lights when you leave.
We have to apologize for the low level of about-town items lately, as our vehical's alternator has rested in various pieces about the garage, and this has put a serious crimp in our style. But now everything is put back together and the mistakes of the previous "professional" mechanic have been rectified and even the weather has improved.
THE ONION FIELD REVISITED
The SF Bay Curmudgeon ran a doubtful piece on the shooting death of a tramp in the Beltline area, and did a fine number on missing much of the facts in the case in an effort to pin another one on the Thin Blue Line. Babylon cops in hooker basements and LA cops on a Ramparts rampage and even Oaktown with the Riders, sure, but IPD practicing Dirty Harry? Most of the time those guys chase nothing more harmless than a treed kitten. In any case, turns out the tramp, billed as a non-violent type, had been sent to Villa Fairmont on three-day 5150 holds several times and had already been stopped while threatening people with a butcher knife more than once. While this does not excuse the slipshod investigation of a cop who has already dropped two others under questionable circumstances, we think shoddy investigation should not be duplicated by even shoddier journalism. Shame, shame.
If the City besides the Bay needs to pick on a small town PD, they could always look up how the Island lost its only jail because the wardens couldnt learn to behave and keep it in their pants. Now there's a story . . .
DOG IS MY COPILOT
You know your life has lost meaning when your favorite weekly columnist fails to deliver on time. The SF Bleakly showed up in newsracks conspicuously missing Dog Bites this week. Even though Laurel Wellman might be a fiction along the lines of Max Headroom, we find that missing her winsome voice puts a crimp in the week, it does. The columnist, who has received numerous marriage proposals -- certainly to be a shocker if it comes out the voice has no body to back it up -- has developed quite a large cult following. Don't worry guys; she's probably hanging out with Thomas Pynchon up in the north woods somewhere.
WHAT ELSE COULD GO WRONG?
The stocks are diving deeper than Jaques Costeau, the energy crunch shows no signs of letting up and the Texas Idiot continues to make pronouncements that are as effective as, well, as Ronnie Raygun's memory. The tab for the energy bailout -- up to this point for what has already been spent -- stands at somewhere near 4 billion dollars.
THE OLD SOD
St. Paddy's day - fergeddit they don't do it in Ireland and they don't eat corned beef. I've got a diploma from Oilscoil na Eiranne to back up my statements.
ADIEU TO THAT WACKY PAIR
We last left the Ferry system in charge of the dastardly mastermind of Public Greedy Enterprise twirling his moustaches as he lorded over the helpless Bay. Aag had become a vaquero, and Oog had become an outlaw. Enough of that for now, for History, as we all know, is a pack of truth shuffled so many times it comes out as lies. Besides, way back in PolyHigh days, we paid no attention, but flung spitballs during class. Ah the nostalgia. Never the less, here is a true story. I swear I am not making any of this up for I never have told a lie in my life.
Even as Oog rambled about the mountains with his band of merry men to the chagrin of the Wells Fargo stages, there resided in the neighborhood of Brooklyn one Jackass by the improbable name of Tallulah Bankhead, who went by Tally for short. Now Tally was owned by one Festus Jacinto McFergus, who hailed from the the wilds of Virginia, but whose father had obtained a desueno from the old government for some land on what was thought at the time to be an Island, before learning Spanish and becoming a solid citizen. Festus managed to lose the land when it turned out the place was fully landlocked and full of gold that he could not hold onto so he settled down by Brooklyn to run a livery stable and wagon repair shop.
Now Tally worked hard -- for a jackass -- for her oats and had few faults common to the species except for one and that one proved to be the undoing of both her and her owner. For Tally had been owned by the Franciscan Friars before coming into the hands of Festus and the Friars had treated Tally with their customary liberal use of the lash at every whim and fault. Furthermore, the particular stable where Tally had been housed -- the Franciscans in those days could not abide any living thing to roam free without sticking it behind bars or a wall -- had caused to be painted on each stall the image of that holy and revered saint amongst them, Father Junipero Bippy-Huragh. One day, old Tally took it into her head, in the way jackasses sometimes do, that she could not abide this insult to her feed and so kicked the painting in her stall to pieces. Then, taken out through the corral, she ran over to the statue of Bippy-Huragh standing in the middle of a fountain and kicked that one clean over the pool.
The response from the flagellant friars was as predictable as it was ineffective. Even as Tally went through the entire east side of the church, kicking out any stained glass that bore an image of a tonsured man wearing a robe she was pronounced an heretical Medodist and full of Lutheranism and would have met her end right there except for the cook, who had taken a shine to her and pled for mercy. Now, anyone who knows friars knows that for all the self-denial and self-whipping in closets, the friars cannot abide anything to come in the way of a good feed, so the cook held particular sway, Nevertheless, something had to be done and done quickly. Before the place could be rendered a shambles by one jackass -- the official dissolution of the missions had already passed and things were bad enough -- Tally was put on the block up north (where no one would know of her peculiarities) and so Festus came into ownership of one peculiar jackass of whose history he knew nothing.
Now the days past in honest labor as troupes of idiots ran up to the mines to hunt for gold and then trouped back broke and hopeless past just as many rushing back up again. Eventually people realized that gold does not "grow" in water, that it is a mineral and that just as much labor must be spent digging it out of the earth-- and usually more -- as working in a comfortable office, and so everybody who was not making a killing selling shovels and placer pans went away to mine for silver in Nevada in places where the nearest drink of water for hundreds of miles might be in the form of a lizard crawling across a rock -- if you were so inclined to eat one alive -- but not before the miners really screwed up the land and killed each other with appalling frequency.
So that was the end of the Gold Rush.
But notwithstanding Yellow Fever, highway robbery, backbreaking work, rabid double-crossing, outlandish avarice, unrestricted gambling, wholesale destruction of the watershed, poor diets of beans and salt beef, racism of the worst kind, murder, land grabbing, and whoring of every description, when it was all over, there remained a few -- there are ALWAYS a few -- who began to wax nostalgic about the "good old days" and they wrote about the tough yet sentimental 49'er and all the the pleasant whatnot in the rustic days of yore -- even though those days of yore were barely a decade past.
Anyway, this was not to be a history lesson but a story about a particular jackass named Tally and times in which she lived. Let the story continue.
Along came the annexation of Brooklyn to Oaktown and what should follow from the founding of great city but parties and galas. The founder of the famous Black and White Ball was not, as commonly believed any 20th century matriarch, but one Beatrice Jacinto Lapunta. BJ, as she was affectionately called, set the first BW ball not in rough and rowdy Frisco, but in pleasant Oaktown, America's Family City. You can still see this sign commemorating Oaktown from the subway, ensconced amid picturesque body shops and acres of Pick-yer-Part yards.
Any rate, BJ had it in mind one year to hold a festive ball propelled with a nostalgic history theme. Just as today there would be several stages decorated according to theme, between which the gaily decorated participants would throng back and forth. She invited representatives from all of the major powers of Europe, Asia and Africa.
Now I just know you can see this coming already, so we'll spare the suspense.
Festus, now a venerable 70, decided to haul his wagon into town pulled by the, by now very antiquated Tally and assisted by a couple more capable steeds. So it was that the night of the Centennial Black and White ball, Festus pulled up within sight of the particular stage that honored "Preconquest California", and disembarking from the cab was absolutely astonished to see Tally break loose from her traces and go galloping off god knows where. Much put out by this strain of events, but determined to make the best of it any how, Festus left his man in charge of the wagon and went off to enjoy himself among the celebrants, Dame McFergus upon his arm.
Not an hour had passed when his man came running to fetch Fergus to come rescue his prime jackass and furthermore save the city from certain disaster.
Now, it should be imagined that Tally was no ordinary jackass but one of gifted intelligence, and exceptionally astute perception, albeit somewhat stubborn. When the near 40 year-old animal perceived her arch-nemisis Bippy-Huragh -- in the form of a statue standing at the gate to the arena -- she must have realized that with so many people about she could not possibly stand a chance. So, the jackass kicked free, ran back home, fetch a number of other jackasses and ran back. Together the herd of them invaded the courtyard and began kicking the holy hell out of every image of the old conquistador friar that they could find as well as any image of any man wearing a robe, for 70 years puts a certain patina upon things such that no poor jackass could remember just how the man really looked. In addition, any man or woman so foolish as to try to intervene got sent sailing half a block for his or her pains, including the Potentate of India and the Ambassador of Ethiopia.
Now it so happened that BJ had commissioned in her fancy numerous life-sized alabaster images of the saint to be placed all over the plaza and it was these that the jackasses commenced to demolish with great thunderous kicks of the hind hooves, which must have sounded like a battalion of bazookas had anyone at that time ever heard such an appliance. From there, a few of them got loose and ran over to the Oaktown cathedral -- which had not yet burnt down as it was to do in 1906 -- and began wrecking the place thoroughly.
Into this melee strode Festus, who, of course, could do absolutely nothing, but who could and did recognize the brand on his own jackass.
To bring the matter to a close, the matter which became known as "The Jackasses Who Destroyed the Priceless Statues", lived longer in infamy than did Tally, who ended up as several moderately priced bars of soap. Festus was charged with unlawful assembly and parading without a permit, among other things, but was released with the stern injunction to keep his fool jackasses in line or hell to pay. BJ became the First Matriarch of California, and there are many who say even today that a particular Jackass was to blame.
At the end of the day, let it be said that if any jackass out there makes of himself an international nuisance, committing numerous improprieties and insults to decent people, then it just might be that he shall be turned into several bars of moderately priced soap. If not in the present, then certainly in the hereafter.
MARCH 30, 2001
Something about working 14 hour shifts through the weekend puts a crimp in one's deadlines.
The latest news is of PiGGiE getting what it wanted all along -- massive rate hikes to cover the "unrecoverable" costs of decommissioning the cracked and broken atom power plants. So what else is new?
Bushy is cloaking himself in ermine mantles of religiousity even while a very devout group somewhat east of here is blasting holy hell out of priceless two thousand-year old statues of Buddha.
Local news is the filming of parts of Matrix II here in Oaktown and on the Island. Crews were treated to a block-long feed on Wednesday before shooting in the Posey Tube, built in 1928. If you think Mayor Moon wasn't beaming about this delightful publicity for the city that vied with Washington, D.C. as Murder Capitol of the World you are swimming in a lake of delusion. Oaktown has gone from bad ass body shop site to Yuppieville during hizzoner's reign. The other Brown on the other side of the Bay hasn't been so lucky, as one-bedroom apartments are now advertising for something like $4,000 and up, plunging Babylon by the Bay into a white-flight crisis as anybody who has abiltity and sense bolts out of there for reasonable pastures.
Locally, the news is that about 70% of the renters are planning on leaving town -- for where is pretty unclear as the rental malaise appears to be endemic all over. Fortunately, the streets will be safer for casual walkers for Officer O'Madhaun has implemented a "pedestrian decoy" program to catch those notorious felons.
That's the way it is on this overworked Island. Have a great week.
APRIL 1, 2001
THERE IS NO SPOON; YOU ARE THE SPOON
Big wind in town is the crew filming the sequel to the Matrix, which brings back teen idol Keanu Reeves to reprise his starring role as the feller who chose the blue pill and became saviour to the humans in a world run entirely by machines. The star cast for the Sci Fi thriller, also featuring Lawrence Fishburne, held a Buddhist ceremony in front of City Hall followed by a block-long BBQ feed out of the Social Services building down on 400 Broadway close in proximity to the Island tube, where traffic was halted for a day to shoot chase scenes complete with simulated crashes and gunfire. Hey, old stuff for Oakland, okay?
If you have not seen the original, check it out, for the 1999 sleeper featured a host of CGI effects and unexpected acting surprises. The edge-of-the-seat plot has producers planning Matrix III even before Matrix II is out of the can. The cast and crew will work here for 12 weeks before heading off to Australia to wrap up the world tour that began in London.
PAY NO ATTENTION TO THAT MAN BEHIND THE CURTAIN
The Significant Other checked out the Mad Scientist's Sale over at the Crucible foundry works in Oaktown. The Sale of exotic and antiquated equipment serves to fund the industrial arts oriented Crucible works, where people come to learn casting, welding and other artistic forms of mayhem among like-minded souls. Where else can you get a tube-driven optical Occilloscope for under a c-note?
BANGING ON THOSE BONGOS LIKE A CHIMPANZEE
We've been a little abstracted from the music scene, what with recalcitrant alternators, attacks by killer bees and through-the-weekend-shift work, but its noticed that Pete Escovedo has closed his venue on the Island and is giving farewell concerts before moving down to EllAy to be with family. This space is not the only one to notice that folks are increasingly drifting over from Babylon to checkout what's happening here on this side of the Bay and its all to the good. From the 5th Amendment to Larry Blakes, the East Bay is happening and coming, finally, into its own.
Babylon still has the venerable Warfield, however, where Bela Fleck brings banjo sound to the ultimate on April 7, and Joe Jackson rocks out on the 10th. Shane McGowan of The Pogues fame sloshes into the Fillmore 4/13 and we must all wait patiently until 4/29 for Iggy Pop.
If you kept awake, you knew Branford Marsalis performed today at Davies Hall Faure's Pavane and Milhaud's La Creation du Monde, plus others.
With the Starry Plough and Gilman Street continuing to host the usual suspects, your musical life should be delightfully complete and fully satisfying, not unlike an oatcake from Higher Grounds.
ALL I CAN SAY IS THAT MY LIFE IS VERY PLAIN
On Saturday, the Ace Hardware folks on the Island were startled by a swarm of not less than 30,000 bees, by estimation of a local beekeeper. The bees took roost, or nest or whatever, just adjacent to the main customer parking lot, leading to a fair amount of curses and threats for wrongful injury suit from customers. This caused, as you may imagine, a fair amount of disruption in the daily routine until the recalcitrant bees were captured and vacuumed up by the whitesuited beekeeper.
The beekeeper, a New Jersey native named Vernon, enjoined people not to swat upon any circumstances. "That'll just make the whole swarm really mad and believe me, you don't want that on your hide."
The sidebar to this story involves the original bee owner -- if someone can be called that -- who came by looking for his errant bees with a desire to have them back. "They just took off without permission", the man said. But by then the bees had been disposed of, sort of speak.
Somehow we had to get our window-less vehical through this comedy and get to work each day.
That's how it is on the Island three days into Spring. Don't forget to set your clocks ahead.
APRIL 9, 2001
By now it is common knowledge that the third largest bankruptcy ever seen by this country is now busily ensuring that this State and this Union now go through yet another deep Depression and that the political career of Gov. Gray Davis is now over and finished. Hours after handing huge bonuses all around the management offices, PGE, or PiggE, filed chapter 11. The situation is so aweful that even the Democrats have forgotten to rub their hands together with glee at what will result certainly in the ouster of two decades of GOP dominance in the Governor's seat of this 35 million-strong State. The utility, which served 17 million people had investments extending around the globe, and its own stocks were considered at one time to be solid blue-chip values by S&P. The shock waves from this one are going to pound shores far distant from here for some time.
CENSUS - WHOSE GOT THE NUMBERS?
Sole trend-bucker of the area, the Island lost 4,200 persons since the Base closure, notwithstanding the rabid development building that has been wrecking our mornings with jackhammers. Somewhere near 72,000 souls puts the Island square in the Bay Area minor leagues. As a correction to previous columns, we learn that Babylon has grown by 7% -- resulting in somewhat less than 1% growth per annum over 10 years. By contrast, Solano County has swelled by 35% and Silicon Valley by 35-50%. Of course, the events of the last three months may invalidate all these figures entirely.
THE RICH ARE NOT LIKE YOU AND ME
Speaking of Silly Cone Valley, we chanced upon the PA Daily News, where your "modest one bedroom cottage" runs for about $750,000 and learned that several priceless Rodin statues were reclaimed from a "garage sale". For about 200 thou a piece, it seems. Some garage. In other news, a gentleman, loosely termed as such, was arrested for planting an "electronic tracking device" under a former girlfriend's car, also in Palo Wallow. The man also is suspected of sending a bomb to her present boyfriend which nearly tore off the man's arm.. Sounds like this is one relationship with hella baggage.
DODGERS LEAVE NEW YORK: DECIDE BIG APPLE TOO CROWDED
Well, something on the same scale anyway. Pete Escovedo, East Bay Resident and Native, has given his farewell concert here before departing for Ell Ay. Pete has been an institution here for decades, but the problems with music support that have afflicted virtually every band, from evicted rehearsal space to closed venues have convinced the world-famous congolero to take his business elsewhere. Also departing this month is the vibrant Ramona the Pest, taking at least two more quality musicians away. Okay you greedy landlords, NOW are you happy? Meanwhile, we note that the collapse of the dot-com economy has left the big former Downtown Rehearsal building shuttered and empty after thousands of paying musicians were forced to vacate. There it stands as a monument to folly and greed, still.
KEEP IT STUPID, SIMPLE
You might have missed the annual St. Stupid's Day parade on April 1st. Maybe you didn't. This march of the world's largest religion, easily beating Islam and Christianity by miles, takes place in Babylon each year, and is the only event at which the SF Tac Squad has been known to smile. Provided you can prove you are an idiot, membership is automatic, and hence free.
WHY IS THIS NIGHT DIFFERENT?
Let the Stranger enter, for in his robes, perhaps the Prophet walks. All of us have baked salt bread in a hurry, moistened the adobe with blood and sweat, walked over the ocean with dry feet. Each of us has been a slave to people and things we could not have imagined. Tonight the child asks questions and looks for the missing piece of the gift and we lean on cushions as if in our little squats we become Kings and Queens over everything. We eat mutton and haruset, remembering the pyramids. Once we were delivered from chains; perhaps if we remember these things we will be delivered again from the hard times to come. This year in fear and doubt; next year in Hope and Truth..
That's how it is on the Island. Have a great week.
APRIL 15, 2001
As the State's power troubles -- soon to be national ones -- continue to spin out yet more troubles to an administration gone entirely into helpless shock, the Island has quietly arranged for two 3 megawatt mobile power plants to be delivered on lease with option to buy. Plans are in the works to removed the Island entirely from the state power grid by a variety of means. There may be a temporary boom at the stock market, but the power problem is not going away any time soon.
We've been busy lately with the shifting of operations to a new and more expansive server, so haven't had much time for getting about, however we were pleased to see that the madhouse on Lincoln continues to display its dadaistic slogans. The latest being:
PLANES JANES
We suppose this to be a reference to the captured US spy plane still in the hands of the Chinese, but looking for rationality in these cryptic messages painted on the side of a fence facing the Island's busiest street takes the joy out of things.
The Significant Other and I took in renowned jazz vocalist Flora Purim with Airto and others at Yoshis. The pair brought down the house after opening with a scorching latin-inflected version of Brubeck's "Take Five". Far from the cool school detachment of academic jazz, this pair had the house rocking on their feet to the back of the room with their special brand of latin scat and jazz samba, returning jazz to its roots as a dance vehical. The remarkable percussionist Airto performed an astonishing narrative piece with only a tamborine, whistle and pre-linguistic vocals. The ensemble did two works written by guitarist Sandro Albert -- armed with a Gibson semi-hollow body. Gary Meek performed well on sax and clarinet. Bill Cantos provided keyboards and vocals, while Gary Brown did very well with six-string electric bass. Jimmy Brandy filled in for a couple numbers on drums. A good time was had by all, and the quality of the musicianship gave the reason that more and more visitors are coming over from the other side of the Bay to hear quality sound.
That's how it is on the Island. Have a great week.
APRIL 21, 2001
WHAT CAN YOU DO? WHAT CAN YOU DO?
The music world morns the passing of Joey Ramone, age 49 and one month shy of his birthday. Joey fronted the seminal band the Ramones which established the 2 minute furious energy of the punk rock movement in the mid-seventies and blazed the way for hundreds of spin-off styles characterized by short, to the point, take-no-prisoners rock as America slid into the awful depression times of the Reagan-Bush years and England sank beneath impoverished Thatcherism. Eventually punk passed through the hands of bands like the Sex Pistols , who took punk esthetics to the ends of self-destructive extremes while the more vital elements developed into what became the Pacific Northwest "grunge". Attempts to perpetuate punk in pure form rose to heights through bands like Social Distortion, but the pure idealism of punk often led to self-parody and the Ramones found it difficult to keep together for gigs in a world where any suburban teen could go down to the shopping mall to get a "crazy do" in spikes and fluorescent orange while getting another piercing in the name of fashion.
Nevertheless, the raw energy of the early days is what the Ramones are remembered for, as well as their frequently successful effort to yank music from the sloth of mechanical disco and boring, self-involved arena rock. Joey's musical legacy continues to this day in the form of the many "alternative" bands and their use of the hard-driving downstroke rhythms as well as the demolition of the stultifying "guitar-god" solo that so many inadequate musicians felt a need to pursue. The current popularity of Green Day attests to the value of gold found by the Ramone in a mountain of "white trash". In terms of the punk aesthetic, the irreverent socially-aware realism that pulled self-respect out of an amorphous oppression against an entire class of people still continues. RIP Joey.
EXCEPT BEAT ON THE BRAT WITH A BASEBALL BAT. OH YEAH! OH YEAH!
By now even East Coasters are hearing about the Bay Area's music troubles. This Saturday saw the farewell appearance of the increasingly successful Ramona the Pest before they head off to the more affordable climes of Arizona. In the last four months, that leaves Chis Isaak evicted from his rehearsal space, Pete Escovedo moving to LA, Ramona moving to Arizona and several thousand unsigned bands pulling up stakes as well. Its getting so that even those in Babylon are coming to the East Bay to hear music. The in-crowd is much a-buzz over the California Bammie awards being shifted out of Babylon to Oaktown this year. They say that His Most High Holiness, Willie Brown, has taken to stalking the corridors of the Mayoral palace late at night, humming little songs to himself and wringing his hands. Didn't know "Out Out damn spot" could be set to music, but as the much cherished Big Businesses drop Babylon locations in droves even as ever more, shock!, liberals overwhelm the Board of Supervisors to dismantle the Brown apparatus Hizzoner has begun to feel the real weight of that fedora that rounds the mortal temples of the King. In one contentious BOS meeting, one of the young upstarts had the effrontery to turn to Brown and call his proposition a "sack of shit."
This, Mr. Willie Brown, Mayor of Babylon, did not take well. Neither with grace nor with pleasure. And so he stormed out.
Over in Oaktown, where the BOS meetings may be contentious, but where even Hagarty keeps a civilized tongue and there is no profanity, Oaktown can boast the worlds tallest container crane, the worlds third largest container port, the host site of the Bammie awards, screen location of the Matrix II together with London and Sydney, home to Zoetrope studios owned by August Coppola, a rapidly declining crime-rate, and where the people still know how to talk politely to one another.
ROCKAWAY BEACH
Clutching the tattered remains of shredded culture, society matrons with moth-eaten hats pull their shedding faux furs about themselves this week at the SF International Film Festival, which has done the most obvious and most flamboyant symbol of its irrelevance by honoring The Man with No Name, Clint Eastwood, for lifetime achievement. Now, sure, the guy did some capable adventure and western flicks, more notable for Serge Leone's direction and cinematography than shades of fine acting by any standard, and the guy got to be Mayor -- but being elected is not part of movie business, although acting plays a large part -- but lifetime achievement? He has been a director, sure. At least two films he made were good ones: the Charlie Parker biopic starring the very talented Denzel Washington titled Bird, and Straight No Chaser, a Thelonius Monk vehicle. But two fairly decent pics do not a career make. It's like giving Arnold Schwartzenegger a Pulitzer for the Terminator series.
Yeah, you can like the guy, personally. You may or may not adhere to his NRA positions and far rightist ideologies, but still. Is all this enough? Hollywood has always directed a curiously blind eye towards the genuineness of the human soul. Witness the recent public honoring of Kazan, one of Hollywood's most objectionable human beings -- and that is saying a mouthful about a pool loaded with piranhas and pond scum -- but Kazan at least did something, besides act like history's cheapest asshole during the McCarthy witch hunts.
The Bay Curmudgeon seems to be the only paper that has called attention to this disparity in the Eastwood honorarium, making a perhaps unkind comparison to the great John Ford whom Eastwood in no way resembles in stature, style or quality. The other person honored this evening, should anyone wish to attend for the price of a $500 ticket, is Stockard Channing. Enough said.
BRUCIE WAS A PUNK ROCKER
Speaking of the BC, looks like the SF Bleakly and the Curmudgeon have started a little journalistic tiff between themselves, as the Bleakly accuses editor and publisher Bruce Brugman of concealing contributions to MUD, a local non-profit that has been seeking to seize city power from PGE and put it in control of City-owned government. Bruce, in riposte, has published quarter-page ads detailing the amounts contributed and reiterating his unequivocal stance on public power. Stand back folks and place your bets.
GABBA GABBA HEY!
We are somewhat gruntled, semi-gruntled if you may say so, that the Bleakly has resurrected Dog Bites in the form of a sidebar by various contributors, absent the brilliant voice of Laurel Wellman who abruptly disappeared from the masthead several weeks ago. She, with her eternal search for the just the right nail polish to go with the couch from Nordstroms gave the City a much needed boost in the humor muscles, even though this Laurel Wellman probably was a fictional concoction. C'mon guys, we all miss her. It's not like being in bed with your beloved; you know, you can still fake it or something. Or can't you just find Laurel wherever she is hiding and give her a charge card for Macy's?
On the Island, where things like Film Festivals and Ikea take a backseat to critical issues like the downtown Dogwalk, City Hall is in an uproar by the abrupt closing of Lyons Restaurant by the Beach. Appears that the attempt to market the place as a "luxury restaurant" met with dour looks everywhere, and positioning the big booth windows to face the parking lot away from the beach 100 feet away proved to be an unwise architectural decision. Some people never learn.
Any rate, there will be no column next week as me and the Significant Other will be downing Hurricanes in the Big Easy while exploring the Circle of Fifths and how to square it. That's how it is on the Island. Have a great couple of weeks.
MAY 6, 2001
And a happy Cinco de Mayo to you all. Me and the Significant Other just got back from the New Orleans Jazz Festival, which even now is finishing up its final day at the fairgrounds. Record numbers packed the Crescent City for this musical extravaganza that pulls well over 1000 musicians from all over the world to perform on 12 stages plus the hundreds of venues after hours. Several airlines booked well over 5,000 seats beyond the scheduled flights to push the hotel vacancy rate to under 1%. The rooms to be had needed to have been booked 9 months in advance and some restaurants had reservation cards going back for three years. It appears, the Big Easy has something going on and people know about it in numbers. First weekend pulled well over 210,000 jazz fans to the fairgrounds to hear BB King, Richard Thompson, Buckwheat Zydeco and a host of other stars.
The Significant Other and I attended the first day of the Fest among record-breaking crowds to enjoy the cornicopia of music. There was so much of world-class playing that we found ourselves wandering back and forth across the fairgrounds from stage to stage all day, pausing for a bowl of cajun-style gulf prawns. We did stop long enough to enjoy most of renowned folk-singer Richard Thompson who delighted the capacity-filled field with brisk, tight solo playing and whimsical humor. Who else can sing a song about King Tut's son and hold the interest of 70,000 jazz afficiondos?
The Festival was practically owned that day by BB King, for whom fans packed the Acura stage area so tight that hours before his brief set, the location experienced people-gridlock. No one could enter or leave.
Outside the Fairgrounds, the 1000+ musicians and fans had plenty to do, and it was not necessary to stand in the notorious Louisiana sun to hear most of the Greats. We took a stroll through the Storyville District and sat through three extraordinary sets in the venue that shares the name with the former redlight section of town.
There we took in the astonishing energy of Marcia Ball, whom I mistook from the promo materials for a lounge-act diddle-bop chanteuse before she took the stage. Ball walked up on stage wearing a homespun dress and foundation makeup and then proceeded to tear the house down with galloping barrelhouse rocking piano backed by a very hot band. After ripping through a signature piece called "Keep My Fingernails on When I Play", she stops the set and told everybody to go next door to hear Hentry Butler, "If you wanna hear a real master of the keyboards."
With no place to sit in the SRO packed room, we sidled and elbowed our way through the crowd to the Storyville's second room to catch Hentry Butler launch into one of the most amazing demonstrations of piano every heard, with echos of Bo Diddley, Keith Jarrett, Elton John, Chopin, Dr. John, Fats Waller, Mozart, Franz Lizt, Little Richard and god knows what else played in sequence and sometimes simultaneously. If Jazz has anything to do with taking what has gone before and dweezling the melody with swing, then this cat definitely fits the bill as he, apparently effortlessly, combined classical, pop, contemporary jazz and good old fashioned rock 'n roll. Joe Bob says, "Check him out."
Escaping the maelstrom that is Bourbon Street, where five bands in one block failed to join with the engines of the Texas Hells Angels to bring down the noise of several thousand thoroughly drunk revelers, we headed down to Decatur, where the noise settled into a dull roar. Inside the Palm Court Cafe we were lucky to hear, after plates of savory gumbo the "house" band led by Clive Wilson, who began with traditional dixieland material, worked through Preservation style jazz, tossed in a few swing numbers, passed through the blues, and, continuing the history lesson got joined by international trombone luminary Steve Turre for a set. Fellows passing through with various instruments had to step aside as one famous light after another took a seat for a few songs, finally ending with the incomparable Michael Weiss on Piano for an extended Monk-inflected version of Ellington's classic "Caravan". The patroness of the house practically got on her knees to thank some of the stars that showed up that evening. Wouldn't you?
New Orleans is a large southern city, mostly below sea-level, and virtually islanded by branched of the Mississippi delta. I tried jogging in that sealevel 99% humidity funk exactly once, and found that the hotel treadmill had more controlled an atmosphere. As for the food, in the common creole cuisine very little French influence is to be found -- virtually no white sauces of any kind found anywhere except at the very exclusive Hotel Sonestra Sunday Brunch, where you can gain 20 pounds just by looking at the food. As for the famous Red Fish Grill, this party says emphatically, "Skip it!". Wildly overpriced, moderately flavored and highly pretentious equivalent to mediocre Chinese on Telegraph Avenue; no way world class. For a redfish surrogate tossed in a broiler too long and dished with tastless sides of rice and greens any teenager could steam up you pay an even fifty bucks my friend.
We were more fortunate with Le Bistro, a miniscule attachment to the Hotel De La Ville, where Patrick van Hoorebeek oversees chefs that go on to staff the country's most prestigious five-star establishments. There, everything, from the excellent service by Donna Meyer, to the exquisite spinach salat dressed with European-style vinagrette and chunks of blue cheese complemented by first-rate wines from an intelligently created wine list adds up with the delecately-prepared entrees to a true 4-star experience.
We enjoyed the meal so much at this eatery recalled by my companion for over 10 years, that we returned for lunch the following day and were rewarded with bottles of the limited-issue Langiappe beer, issued by the proprietor on the house.
Let us say that if you go to New Orleans, do not plan on sticking to the diet, for the place -- even in the most touristy parts -- supports hearty, belly satisfying food. It tends, unless it is the aforementioned Bistro or Hotel Sonestra, to be a kind of toss the newsprint on the table and get your elbows up kind of place. Also, although we noticed a fair number of kids in strollers, this is primarily a place for adults and adult entertainment and there is not a whole lot of provision for kids under eighteen on Bourbon street. As for Mardi Gras, you would have to be thoroughly insane to bring kids into that madness of intoxication and public nudity. Be real about it.
Also, I was pleased to travel with an informed companion who told me that New Orleans hosts one of the largest mental hospitals in the South and this became quite evident on Sunday, as the wilder crowds thinned out. The Crescent City has been around a while and like all older, large cities it has its problems with crime and homelessness and the folks sleeping in doorways and eating garbage can not be denied. Word is: keep the kids under very close supervision if you bring 'em.
Also, keep in mind that the native population is strongly roman catholic with strongly-rooted beliefs in conventional morality and "good behavior". Yes, they like to have a good time, but Bourbon Street is not New Orleans is not Louisiana. Outside of the Quarter, you best behave yourselves.
Musicians: of course you will go. The question is not if, but when. When you do, keep in mind some of the rules are different there. If you get invited to sit in, you will note the postage-stamp sized stages and the annoying flash of pocket cameras, which are not discouraged in the slightest. The idea is that everyone is a bit uncomfortable and the camera st