Island Life 2002                                                                         

Welcome to the Year 2002, second year of the Invented Millennium and first year "Post 911".

This page contains all issues written for the year 2002, set aside from the current year for ease of loading out of consideration for those of you with modems.

This site has been in continuous operation, with weekly updates, 52 times, each year, since 1998.    Consequently, the page loads get progressively longer as the months tick off. January, we start over with a new page.

To return to the present time, click on the picture of the bug. To roam about in time use the navigation bar. Click it, baby.

YEAR 2006 | YEAR 2005 | YEAR 2004 | YEAR 2003 | YEAR 2002| YEAR 2001 | YEAR 2000 | ISLAND LIFE 1999

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DECEMBER 22, 2002

WITH A SHIVER IN MY BONES JUST THINKING ABOUT THE WEATHER

The color of the sky is grey as far as I can see

I lift my head from the pillow and then

Let it fall

Again

Natalie Merchant sure got it right when she sang that song; But then, she usually does.  The Bay Area is splish-sploshing into a short period of sunshine before the next big whammy hits, which should happen on Thursday, according to our insider at the Coast Guard.  Howling winds knocked over an 18-wheeler tractor-trailer on the Richmond bridge Monday and the rest of the week just went downhill from there, with entire roads shut down under water and snow in the north counties and even exits off of I80 to Berkeley being closed due to "submerged conditions".  Trees and power lines toppled everywhere, sending our well-experienced emergency teams scampering all night long for five long nights.

Here on the Island, an aggressive vegetation cut-back program resulted in minimal casualties, and our own municipalized power company kept the lights on for just about everybody.  PiGgiE customers were, by and large, not so lucky, and there's more than a few voters in Babylon ruing the day they voted to keep the colossus in control. 

We Islanders are of independent-minded and sturdy stock and we'll have none of PG&E's shenanigans around here, thank you very much.

Sunday dawned bright and clear as the temps dropped over Saturday night, and now each Holiday night burns sharp and crisp in the clear, cold air.

AND A JOYFUL SOLSTICE TO YOU

Last night we celebrated the real reason for all the Holiday Hoopla, as the Earth, our Mother, turned in her great revolve through the longest night of the year.  Wiccans pranced, Celtics held feis an coil for Samhain, various witches in Marin cast spells, pagans jumped up and down, and a good time was had by all when the rain magically stopped for this sacred time. 

Now just what d'ya call the worshippers of Pan?  Panamanians?

We had better conduct ourselves, for the last feller who scoffed got pulled down from where he was treed in ancient Greece only to be torn to pieces.  There now: It's not nice to fool Mother Nature. . . .

'TIS THE SEASON TO BE SHOPPING

One roving reporter indicates that, although the five Embarcadero towers are once again lit up in celebration, a rather picayune lack of imagination has visited the once legendary Union Square storefront displays of Macy's and Nieman Marcus.  Feeling the pinch of meager creative thought after evicting all those artists are we?  Now Babylon, we know you can do better.

Time was we used to ride the ferry out from the Port of Babylon after dark had wrapped most of the world in sable.  During the Holiday season every able body on board would gather at the mist-soaked fantail of the catamaran to watch the golden/silver brocade of Babylon's skyline sparkle against the wave-chop smacking into the estuary.  That was a time, my friends, when the breath of life on the water stung sharp and woke you up with a whoop for all that lives, for War had been defeated and Peace reigned as the Queen she should be.   

On the Island, we are all a bit more subdued than in years past.  Yes, many houses drape with flashing lights of red and silver and blue and green, but these seem fewer and more circumspect than before.  We hold our friends a bit closer and longer in parting after the party than before, as if we all are walking from one Age into another, with no turning back and all things will become different.  And those moments with those we have known for so long become moments to be held more consciously in front as necessary memories which may be required to carry us through some terrible future involving War.  Once again.

NIGHT OF A THOUSAND STARS: THE SOUND OF SWEET GUITARS ON THIS NIGHT, THE LONGEST NIGHT

Still, there are these lights shining in the darkness giving us hope.  We still have the power of choice at the last and we have some major victories, as Nancy Pelosi now leads the House.  the NRDL, combined with several environmental groups, has halted the sheer lunacy of the Navy's attempted experiment with global sonar -- which would, in practice, have killed every living thing in the ocean around the transponders for a three-mile circumference.  Across the country, the backlash against GOP extremism and obnoxious triumphalism is causing seat after local seat to fall to more reasonable and liberal opponents who promise to oppose the most objectionable and heinous of the Regime's proposals and will give dubious battle to those criminals and convicts who have been appointed over us.

POETRY IS EVERYWHERE

With gladness and joy, we recognize the Island's first Poet Laureate, Mary Rudge.  Vates, we deem her and wish her long reign over the belles lettres of the Island.  Long recognized locally as a the informal laureate, Mary was recognized formally last week in a ceremony at the Island Point, once a Naval base reserved for war machinery and now given over to peaceful uses.  Members of the city council and Acting Mayor Al showed up to honor Mary and we find this a marvelous advancement.  For wherever Poetry thrives, there thrives also the reasons for humanity as well as its highest demonstration.

Oh, all right. We'll stop being so Victorian.  It's just something about the times seems to be driving us to Disraeli.  It all just goes to show you that we know how to get things done here on the Island. 

WELCOME MAYOR BEVERLY

Tuesday, the Council Meeting was given over to the formal transfer of power to Beverly Johnson as Island Mayor Elect.  A passel of Girl Scouts marched in the flag and from there things continued positively positive with standing ovations and all sorts of jumping up and down and raucous celebration.  Mayor Beverly is the first Mayor who presides over a post-Navy-base regime with no foothold on the past, and therefore ushers in a new era for the Island.  One we regard with hope and attention.

I HEAR THAT TRAIN A COMIN'. IT'S COMING 'ROUND THE BEND

Melissa Etheridge has a song where she mentions in passing, actually screaming at the top of her lungs, "I am trying to reach you inside this cage . . . ".  Melissa, my dear, I know just how you feel.

Here it is, approaching the midnight hour with the House of Blues blasting on the old stereo that probably saw duty around Eisenhower's time, with components borrowed and filched from various households over twenty-five years, and there it comes: the midnight howl of the midnight train traveling from the Port past the munitions/cannery by the estuary on its mysterious route to parts unknown.  I can never do anything but pause everything and sit by the window in the dark kitchen by the window and listen to that sound.  If ever I should go deaf, by the grace of the Whatever that runs things, I will always to the end of my days hear that howl echoing across the Buena Vista flats inside my head at this hour. 

Down goes the stereo.  Jorma Kaukonen singing the Christmas Blues, Baby.  Fading out a jazzy Etta James doing Walkin' in a Winter Wonderland with horn and piano to die for.  Echoing across the flatlands, the long whistle continues.  And now I am thinking of the First Californian Christmas.  With, of course, Oog and Aag in attendance.  Who else?  Yet now we see our time is up for this week.  But we promise to return to that redoubtable pair next week, for the last installment for this year of Life on the Island.

Which will put us in Year Five of this website: Five years of weekly writing, 52 times a year, each year, with special Issues on dates following vacation.  All issues still available online.  Now that's something to celebrate.

And we like to celebrate on the Island. Because that's the way we are on the Island.  Have a week filled with peace and joy and may Santa bring you much, much more than chain-store returnables. 

Oh yeah, stereo is back on and Johnny Lang is singing. . . .

DECEMBER 15, 2002

SO YOU WANNA PLAY

The last days of a truly miserable year spiral down to their glad conclusion in a smash-bang musical season in the Bay Area.  The local Beastfest went on in the East Bay from the 12th-14th.  Now, as before, the Beastfest consisted of talented artists and promoters grown tired of the ingrown and snobbish scene over in Babylon, that other city across the Bay.  And, as before, Babylon tried desperately to ignore the fact that talent is fleeing the exorbitant rents and obnoxious attitudes grown more prevalent in recent years Over There.  Time, my dear City, is not Babylon's friend in this matter. 

Still, there remains the Fillmore to host class A acts, including the raspy Susan Tedeschi on the 17th. Les Claypool will sail in on seas of cheese to usher in the New Years.

New Year's at the Bill Graham Memorial Civic Auditorium will be served by the String Cheese Incident, who lately have been trying to fill the void of wandering music noodling left by Jerry's passing. 

On the warmer side of the Bay, the Other Ones revive a tradition going back to 1969 of holding a Dead show on New Years at the Oakland Arena.  Expect Warren Haynes to make an appearance, as he is not listed at all anywhere for the end of the year.

Yoshi's, in Oakland's Jack London Square, is proud to have international  artist Taj Mahal blues in the New Year with a show that will be telecast by KPFA, upping the East Bay's street cred by several notches.  Taj, who has filled halls of 20,000 will perform in an intimate setting that holds about 75 persons at the max.  We got our tix early, dude. 

And leading into the final days, we have Peter Gabriel performing in the Oakland Arena last night and again in San Jose's Shark Tank tomorrow.  Gabriel last ran a tour about eight years ago and is most certainly worth the wait, for this consummate showman puts on a total experience that never fails to blow out the mind.  It has been over fifteen years since we saw him last at the Amnesty International benefit in Oakland -- and the experience has remained.  Talk about a stage dive from a forty-foot platform -- backwards.  And that was only one small part of it all.  We also have it on good authority, on the inside, that Peter has remained a very warm and human person amidst all the superstar hoopla.  And that is something to be celebrated indeed.  We might suggest that a very good gift this season would be any one of Peter's excellent albums.

TAKING THE LONG WAY HOME

Two teens jumped a feller and stole his wallet and Walkman this week down by Park Street.  A number of cars were stolen and numerous burglaries were reported.  Chipman High School was vandalized when someone broke in and marked up desks and walls and stole some electronic equipment.  In another case, some squinty-eyed feller cut the chain for the fence around the x-mas tree lot at South Shore and swiped half a dozen firs. As reported by the Island Sun, the nasty Grinch is a likely suspect.

Let it not be said that the Island considers itself exempt from topical paranoia or over reaction to the trivial.  The Island's  Finest were called out to  investigate a reported bomb-making factory only to discover a pair of artists making images out of clay and wire in a backyard studio.  Made the papers, it did.  No arrests were made and Officer O'Madhauen is back to "calming the traffic", which is that thing he does best.

The Island's librarians are rejoicing over the sudden boon of $15.5 million from the State for a new library to replace the very quaint but very tiny library first built by Andrew Carnegie so long ago nobody remembers.  And which has remained entirely empty for about three years due to earthquake retrofitting. 

I AM SERIOUS, REALLY I AM

Proving that the Island sees no harm in preserving traditions from a previous age, no matter how ridiculous, the Marvelous Dancing X-Mas trees have performed once again at City Hall. Invited to perform before the current President, these trees have apparently not been invited back for a reprise.  Well, we guess that Texan just don't 'preciate culture.  Scouts checking out period locations typically remark that we on the Island have an ambiance that captures perfectly another age.

We can only hope that age is not the Terrible Twos.

WISH YOU WERE HERE

Any rate, here we got Roy Rogers and Norton Buffalo on the stereo blasting away at 9 on the dial while the neighbor upstairs is poundin' on the floor with a broomstick.  Heck, your fault you got a job wants you there at four in the morning.  Rain is pouring down buckets but inside its warm and dry and the whiskey is flowing free.  Outside the evening train winds its long, lonely whistle up from the tracks through the holiday lights and the soppy trees to my window.  Travelin' tracks.  Somewhere a sleeping cargo is trundling over the expansion joints from the Port along the steel rails to some far-off warehouse while dreamers dream in these last days of the year.  In the halls of a well-guarded palace, a former street-thug, now dictator over a nation, tosses and turns on the rough bed he has made for himself.  In his beleaguered HQ, a man named Arafat also tosses and turns in dreams of a Nation deferred, while only a short distance away, Sharon dreams fitfully of a time when his people can walk the earth in a place free from terror. 

Closer to home, a man sleeps the sleep of a baby who has only simplified cares in the White Room while thieves and criminals snore contentedly all around.

Across the World, everyone is sleeping, except for the artists and musicians.  They never sleep for the world is never content or peaceful, and they are the world's conscience.  In the far distance, the channel fog horn sounds repeatedly. 

That's the way it is on the Island, this rainy night.  Have a great week.

 

DECEMBER 8, 2002

DECORATION DAY

You can tell the seasons have shifted, for the main display in Pagano's Hardware has changed once again, this time to a scene presenting a holiday dinner that goes terribly wrong.

 

What has happened here?  The table is canting, the boy about to cut the ham is flying through the air, the turkey has wound up on the floor in a pile of debris with the salad and the reindeer look at a cascade of candlesticks tumbling from above!

Well, a closer look under the table reveals just what has happened.

The look of glee on the little scamp's face tells it all. That and the saw. 

This is what we on the Island term, Poodle Behavior.

 

MADMAN ACROSS THE WATER

Harlan has also joined the festive atmosphere with contributions of his own mounted on the house at Lincoln and Lafayette.  The scheme appears to be growing amoeboid-like, with what seems to be Arabic along the white picket fence, two signs this time in front with a sort of weird drapery of tinsel and ornaments dangling from the tree.  Here is an image of the centerpiece.

Have no more idea what the Hebrew means any more than the Arabic on the fence around the corner from "PEARLS."  Something tells me Harlan has read Poe's "Mystification" and really takes it to heart.

 

 

EIGHTH NIGHT OF CHANNUKHA

About the time we all started celebrating them good old Macabees kicking butt some years ago, lights started going on all over the Island.  Makes the place look real pretty.

Across the street we have a Julia Morgan-style house where just about 10,000 parakeets live -- but that's another story.  Here is a pic of the place lit up at night, with an assist from a crescent moon and a few stars.

It's only the post-Poodleshoot calm, after all the turkey and the relatives.  Only the lights shining at night and the distant sound of the midnight train winding its way through the darkness like the horn of smoky bluesman.  Its peaceful here, the way it should be all over. That's the way it is and that's the way we like it on the Island.  Have a great week.

 

DECEMBER 1, 2002

BRIEF REPORT ON THE ANNUAL ISLAND POODLESHOOT AND BBQ

Thursday dawned clear and beautiful, ushering in a delightful day for a peaceful day of  poodle-hunting.  And just to make damn sure the day stayed peaceful, Sean "Knickers" Malone sent around an invitation to every member of the Island Dogwalkers Association to a special "Pink Frilly Fashion Show" with promised free champagne and a raffle for two majestic works of art featuring one sad-eyed clown and one kitty with oversized loveable eyes.  How tweet.  As an added bonus, the demonic genius Knickers added that a life-sized portrait of Elvis would be present.

Them dog walkers hopped into their pink RV's and just about scampered en mass to the location: Paso Robles, some hunnert 'n fifty miles south of here.

Meanwhile, we was free to roam about the preserve, shootin' up poodles wherever they may be found, and there was all sorts of shootin' and drinkin' and good old times just like the good old times.

Now there's some peoples who take exception to this all American sport a poodle-huntin', especially that French couple who had the misfortune of bringing two fine ones on this All American Hollarday, Fifi and Foufou.  Well, not even a year's supply of good quality diesel from the soon-to-be-demolished Chevron on Otis plus an all-u-kin-eat ticket for the Boston Market's Fried chicken buffet could assuage the damaged feelin's of these here furriners who just stomped off in a real hissy-fit.

Hell, they didn't even wanna taste a bit of Fifi with Marybeth Whittamore's Special Jack Daniels Sauce.

Seems them furriners are gettin' their panties in a twist all over the world cause of Bushy, Ashcroft and such.  They be claimin' that those Americans are just to darned violent, what with always taking the heavyweight champeenships, and the little things with machetes and stuff in Central America, Asia, Europe, Middle East and Africa.

Hell, they never even mention Australia!  Which I swear neither George Bush nor his daddy nor any Texan at all, has ever sullied with any violets.  You can check the facts on that, m'am. So there.  Thank you very much.

Now I know we might a misbehaved a bit with that there Noriega feller, and as for the Middle East, well, oil is oil and let it pour where it may. Gotta fill that there SUV somehow: else she gets so top-heavy she wants ta tip over all the time.  So you can see I just hafta keep 'bout forty gallons in her all the time, just to make the ballast and keep her safe.  But I swear we never, never, never had any hand in doing stuff in Beijing.  In spite of Nixon.  No sirree. Chinese rice is safe from our meddling, I tell you. 

Any who don't wanna discourse from the subject overmuch. Just to say, that poodle-huntin' is my god-given aesthetic right and they' stop my huntin' when they pull that poodle BBQ dripping with special sauce from my cold, dead hand.

So, accolades to Lynn for her ingenious arrangement in which a host of poodle pups were caught by her pseudo Martha-Stewart demo out by the Cove.  Fine job Lynn. Very stylish.  Then Chris earned himself the Devious Award for constructing a computer game that had Fifi working the controls to capture an unwinnable bowl of kibbles -- by design -- until Fifi jumped up and down in frustration and stepped on a circuit board that delivered about 80,000 volts at high resistance.  Clever use of HTML, Chris.

Frances McDermid, noted movie star and celebrity, put in a brief appearance, by making nice use of a wood chipper set at the bottom of a tiger trap near the wharf.  What a lady.

In short, it was a marvelous day and a splendid time was held by all.  Except by the French. And that couple down by the Gold Coast. Sorry about your Honda.

More apologies to Paul on his old Gibson 12-string.  Heck a bit of Elmers glue and she'll play almost like new.  If'n we hadn't forgot the damn song is in G instead of C we wouldn't a forgot our Piece out by the outhouse.  Any who, it still makes a fine club, although it tends to splinter a bit more than the old National Steel when smackin' poodles about.

It was not until the end that Padraic brought out his Special Home Brew and, as the sun set in flaming colors behind the golden gate, the lot of them sang misty-eyed songs of old Tara.

THE LACKAWANNA BLUES

Me and the Significant Other took in one of the closing shows of ACT's "Lackawanna Blues" after the BBQ and I can say we have not enjoyed such a fine performance in many years.  The show is a one-man tour-de-force glowing tribute to Miss Rachel "Nanny" Crosby, a boarding house owner in Lackawanna, New York who acted as surrogate mother and savior to hundreds, perhaps thousands of souls, including the author and actor,  from about 1950 to 1981.  In the course of 90 minutes or so, Ruben Santiago-Hudson achieved the impossible, in presenting over 20 characters, performing solo to the accompaniment of Bill Sims on guitar, sometimes flickering between two characters engaged in conversation for minutes at a time, encompassing a 230 pound auto mechanic, a one-legged mental institution patient, a battered white woman, her abuser, several prostitutes, a handful of ex-convicts, and himself as he was as a boy growing up at 32 Wasson Avenue in the middle of what was frequently total chaos. 

While creating the "atmosphere" of the time, Ruben described the midnight shindigs that featured "Doin' the Dog", and involved the entire audience to the delight of all.

"Nanny"  was apparently a remarkable woman who provided a safehouse for hundreds and regularly provided assistance to hundreds more who lacked food, clothing or shelter or all of these together.  In a typical incident she stood in the doorway facing an angry 250 pound wifebeater saying simply, "If you want to get at her now, you are going to have to go through me first.  So you just try to give to me what you done give to her . . .".  And in those cases, invariably, she would win.

Man, when that final curtain went down you never seen such a thunderous ovation at ACT with every audience member standing up to cheer this astonishing performance, making quite clear that Ruben Santiago-Hudson has demonstrated more talent in his little finger than lesser stars possess in their entire body.  For 90 minutes he enthralled an audience used to the very best with talk, song, dance and even fairly sharp mouth-harp. 

Joe Bob says, "Check it out!" Definitely.

THE LEAVES THEY ARE A TURNIN'

All the oaks and maples on the Island have done their thing and now the streets all have piles of stuff sitting along the curbs waiting for the green machines to come scoop them up.  Nights are a tad chillier, but, as this is California, we still got a few natives scampering about in shorts and sandals.  All along the strand you can see the distant hills of Babylon sparkling in celebration of the Festival of Lights.  After the busy business up in Berzerkeley when a feller took seven people hostage at one of the Kaiser buildings while at the same time two other fellers held up a Brinks truck, all is peaceful and an old Dead song come to me now:

Counting stars by candlelight
all are dim but one is bright:
the spiral light of Venus
rising first and shining best,
From the northwest corner
of a brand-new crescent moon

                                                                            (lyrics by Robert Hunter)

It is now official: surviving members of the former Greatful Dead are going to reinstitute the 25 year-old tradition of holding an East Bay concert.  Since Jerry died in 1995 and Brent Mydland died in 1991, the survivors will be performing as The Other Ones.  Well, you may not appreciate their music much, but a tradition is a tradition and its always a very fine thing and we wish the boys well. 

That's about it for this week.  So long and thanks for all the fish and have a great week.

"Why dolphins are the cleverest . . . ".

 

NOVEMBER 24, 2002

THE MAD ARTIST OF LINCOLN STREET.

The latest message on the wall from the Mad Sign Painter of Lincoln Street is short 'n sweet.

THANKS
EARTHQUAKE
GIVING
 

NorCal felt a shaker this last Sunday at 3.2. It was one of those short 'n sharp rockers.  Monday morning we enjoyed ourselves another and there's a long string of short-timers heading for the airport already. Thanks Mother Nature.

SPORTS SHORTS: BEARS OVER STANFOO

The Cal Bears made history and broke the 7 year losing streak against the Stanford Cardinals this weekend.  In games from 1987 to last year, the Bears managed to win only two games against their well-to-do rivals from Palo Alto.  Ah, revenge is sweet.

 

THANKSGIVING IN CALIFORNIA: THAT REDOUBTABLE PAIR

West of the Mississippi, nobody ever heard of the Pilgrims, and if they did people would rightly consider the bunch to have been a pack of tight-ass ingrates who cheerfully murdered those who had offered life-saving substance only a few years previously, and who had gotten kicked out of Europe in the first place because of their intolerant and pinched view of life.

Nevertheless we do celebrate the Thanksgiving as a way of giving a nod to the Cosmic Whatever for allowing us to get this far and to count the blessings with which we are gifted. The story of the First California Thanksgiving is a fine one, and all the better for its freedom from religious zealotry. And who should have begun this august institution here west of the Sierra but, you guessed it, the descendents of Oog and Aag.

The first "official" thanksgiving took place on November 30, 1850 at the decree of then governor Burnett, and it is assumed by many that the celebration occured largely because of the enormous contingent of New Englanders who had swarmed over the Sierra as part of the '49 Gold Rush. It seems the platillo enjoyed in the mining camps consisted largely of jackrabbit, as few turkeys are to be found up in those hills. Truthfully, deer having been hunted out of the hills long ago, and bear having become largely mythological even as early as 1850, any sort of meat at all was hailed as a god-damn god-send.

In fact, Thanksgiving in California had occurred much earlier and records go back quite a ways. Even before the Pilgrims had landed, in fact. There is record of one Spanish explorer Don Juan de Oñate, who, according to documented Spanish historical records, celebrated the first Thanksgiving day in El Paso del Norte, right by the river banks in 1598, roughly fifty years before the first Anglo Saxon Pilgrims arrived in Plymouth Rock.

Of course, that was in modern-day Texas, which everybody knows does not count unless you are Lyle Lovett.

What really happened what this: In the town of Hapless Camp, the memory of which has now dissolved from the history books, there lived 148 would-be 49'ers, two female, mostly-Chinese, cooks named Nellie and Isabelle, who pleasured the miners with food and other fine things, and their poodle, named Cheesin-Lo. About August, end of summer, a particular flea bit a particular miner, named Festus, and he subsequently expired of a terrible fever that featured these obnoxious swellings all over his body. These swellings are called "buboes" and this thing he died of is called commonly "Bubonic Plague". Unfortunately, Festus was not overly fastidious in his household arrangements and a whole host of fleas enjoyed his syrup before he went.

Well, to make a long, really sad story short, the entire population of Hapless Camp died of the Plague, leaving one, flea-ridden Cheesin-Lo left in search of poodle kibble or whatever he/it could scrounge.

Only god, or Satan, knows what it is that makes poodles free from the plague. In any case, Cheesin ambled down the road toward China Camp, dead set on getting more feed and unconsciously dead-set on infecting the entire population of the Sierra with the dreaded Plague, for China Camp was at that time the nexus of activity through which all of the Gold Country traffic traveled. Had Cheesin reached China Camp, he/she/it would have sent the contagion on across the valley to SF and beyond.

Here it was that Festus Jacinto Mariposa deOog, passing along with his blunderbuss, happened to discover the animal, a clear shot, right in the middle of the road. Keep in mind that in this time, with no deer, no bear, no cows in the hills to speak of, any sort of meat was heartily welcome. So it was that Oog shot Cheesin square between the eyes. Then, he hauled up the flea-bitten carcass on his shoulder and trudged off to find a place to skin the thing and eat it.

Now here our tale becomes somewhat questionable, we understand. Why Oog would have turned aside from the main path back to his cabin so as to find a better place to roast a dead dog, history does not record. Perhaps he noticed some secret sign on a tree now long since cut for BBQ briquets or perhaps he simply wanted to gut and clean the animal away from his dwelling. Who knows? In any case, Oog wandered from the main path and soon fell, poodle and self, into a long shaft at the end of which he landed with a thump that broke his leg.

As he lay unconscious, several fleas took this opportunity to bite him. This was not a good thing.

After he was finished being unconscious, he woke up. Then, his next step was to regret being awake for the pain in his leg was most excruciating. With his handy flintlock tinder he lit a small fire so as to see where he had ended up. In fact, he lay upon a chest, quite smashed by his fall, of thousands of gold coins. And to the side lay a skeleton. In the boney hand of the skeleton was a piece of paper. On this piece of paper were written the following words, "This be the long lost Mariposa Treasure. If'n you find this 'n me, remember me. Mah name is . . . ". Unfortunately, the rest of the note was illegible.

Many hours, perhaps days, passed before Oog heard a voice at the top of the shaft. "Halloo! Enybody down thar?"

It was Aag. Out for his constitutional after his ritual mudbath and Indian sauna. Aag, not particularly industrious by nature, had taken to earning his living by selling shovels to would-be miners. Relaxed and alert, he found this shaft at close of day, from which a strange light emitted. Oog had taken to burning pieces of the treasure chest for light and company and cooking poodle. It was the light and smoke from the burning chest that attracted Aag.

In short order, Oog communicated the essentials: That he was a miner with a broken leg at the bottom of a shaft with an half-eaten poodle on top of a veritable mountain of gold and would offer two-thirds or more to anyone who would get him out.

Sounds fair enough, but, as a Golden State native, Aag was always alert to "the Catch".

Unwisely, Oog added that he had a terrible fever going on and it seemed there were these "swellings going on" all over his body.

Now, Aag was no dummy. He knew about the Plague. He knew what it meant for the relative capacity of science in his day. And all he knew about catching it was from hearsay, which said, "You so much as breath near such an infected person and you gonna DIE  fur sure!" And he thought about the thousands of men who had swarmed over the Sierra crest now all living close to one another.

"Okay," he said. "I'll be back." In truth, he was. With the first mechanical "bulldozer" ever seen. He got two bulls from a paddock and built himself a flatboard with a backwards hitch on it so that the bulls could push this thing forwards. He then mounted the contraption on the tailings from the old mine and then drove the bulls forward, shoving about a half-ton of earth over the old mine shaft hole. Then he did it again and then went away.

The best we can say about the poor feller under about a ton of gravel and dirt is that Oog died of suffocation before the buboes really got him. And that the entire population of the Sierra survived.

The following day, Aag held a great feast to give thanks to the gods and to whatever for having saved the entire population of California from a terrible fate. And there you have it, the real and absolutely true story of how thanksgiving came west of the Mississippi River.  All the other mining camps up there took up the practice as well, for the life of a wannabee gold miner was difficult and fraught with mountain lions, poor diet, bad mud, nervous jumping up and down and, generally, very little gold. So these fellas working up in the hills thousands of miles from home dearly loved a party with drinking and carousing and good eats and raucous music.  Which brings us to the beginnings of rock n roll, but that is another story.

THANKSGIVING ON THE ISLAND

Here on the Island we have our own little rituals.  The 4th Annual Island Poodleshoot and BBQ gets underway at dawn on Thursday.  Aspiring hunters and lovers of good BBQ need to check out The Official Poodleshoot Rules Page for further info.  You can find an account of last year's event here, which can be downloaded by right clicking and then doing a "save as" sorta thing. You will need Adobe Acrobat Reader.

We all love a good feed and a jolly good time as well as that good old tradition and we are full of it here on the Island.  Everybody says so. 

Now here's some holiday advice for y'all.  Don't drive anywhere: assume every third automobile contains an incompetant boob who learned how to drive on a Hong Kong Carnival ride.  Realize there aint nothing that is gonna change Uncle Ted and Aunt Whizbang in a day; they've been going at it for years.  As for Uncle Bob who gets drunk every year and shoves his hands into the taters, we suggest purchasing two items beforehand: 80,000 volt stun gun and a pair of handcuffs.  Things will go much better after ya invite him down to the basement to "fetch a nip or two."  Believe me. 

Well, that's the way it is on the Island.  Have a grand week and try not to eat too much.

 

 

 

NOVEMBER 17, 2002

LIKE THE WEATHER

We all survived the amazing first storm of the season. And what a storm it was, knocking power lines and trees all over the place. Practically the entire tree fell on a neighbor's car across the street and it took City Hall three days to clear the debris.  Water stood in ponds twenty-four inches deep by the PO, causing the curious spectacle of SUV drivers pulling backwards the wrong way to avoid getting their vaunted 4-wheelers damp.  Hell, we just plowed through in our old trusty "Veronica", a 1977 Volvo sedan, and stuck our tongue out at the sissies.  Hell man, what you buy that fool thing for anyhoot?  Our people in Marin lost power for an entire night and the winds knocked over 75-pound weights holding down sheet plastic.

LIKE A ROLLING STONE

Another Rolling Stones concert has been scheduled for Feb. for those that missed the first three, making it an estimated 152,000, plus a few thousand "comp" tickets, who have seen the Stones just for this one tour in this area.

The band, named after a Muddy Waters song, first performed some thirty years ago and were told by a record company exec, who will go nameless here, "You guys are gonna be really BIG.  But I gotta tell ya, you aint gonna go nowhere unless you get rid of the guy with the tire-tread lips.  Your lead singer is gonna hold all of you back."

Well, thirty years later, they still have their lead singer, who still tends to understandable effusiveness.  Here's a picture of Mick in LA.  People think he's singing "Brown Sugar," but really he was complaining about the 50% tax bracket.

 

HEY JOE

On Thursday evening, November 14, 2002, our good friend and neighbor, Joe Bailey, collapsed during a phone call. The person on the far end called 911 and the paramedics responded within minutes, but could not revive our friend and so Joe passed away. He was a talented photographer who had posted the results of his work on his walls. He was, as well, a capable carpenter in high demand in the area, and he spent his days restoring many a rich person's kitchen or whatever. He freely loaned his equipment to neighbors and was a well-loved figure on the island for his generosity and greatness of spirit. This loss will be well-mourned.

Lately I have been listening to old Social Distortion tapes.  Couldn't afford CD's or LP's in those days, so tapes is what I got.  Couldn't get much further than "Could of Been Me."

Then, of course, being a Gemini, we go pull the Phish and the Greatful Dead.  Solace for bad news.  Shameful, I know.  The one tie-dye shirt remains at the bottom of the drawer, never worn, we might add.  Don't know how we managed to be the only guy who has never "tripped" at five GD shows.  Must be the sense of responsibility that comes with always being chosen as "designated driver."

A fellow neighbor once called Joe "one of those old, aging hippies."  Don't really know if he ever did LSD, but suspect that his basic nuts and bolts common sense would have carried him through.  Going thin on top with no apologies or pretense, Joe seemed the essence of practical resolutions.  His photo darkroom was his kitchen with a plywood board stuck over the window. In his photographs, the subjects stared out with simple, unadorned humanity. He was not one for fancy dodging and burning, preferring the major work to be done at the moment of composition.  Because he was not famous, not a Mapplethorpe or a Dorothy Lange, his images are destined for someone's attic, eventually to be discarded some ten years hence, lifelong work forgotten. Such is the fate of many of us among the Community, remaining unmarried and childless -- or ending up that way -- with no access to Fame.  Our Work is the continuation of the Community, unheralded and unremarked except in footnotes to someone else's life.  "Joan was heavily influenced by XYZ . . .".

Well Joe, wherever you are, I will do what I can to make sure that footnote gets printed in boldface or enters the text body, for you were a good man as well as a good artist and that combination is dear and hard to find in any time.

THE RETURN OF THE WATER WARS

In the late 1880's, a fairly visionary naturalist by the name of John Muir got various members of Congress to agree to preserve a sizeable chunk of real estate that is part of the Sierra mountain crest, The result was the creation of Yosemite National Park and the surrounding Sequoia and King's Canyon National Parks. Now, Muir was a man motivated by aesthetics, but it turned out that this preservation included the main watershed for just about all of California, and had he not pursued his quest on behalf of beautiful waterfalls, the vast majority of California would now be an arid desert akin to Nevada's Great Basin.  At the time, lumberjacks were slicing down all the big stuff and sheep were conspiring with cows to denude large expanses of the small stuff, all essential to preserving the snow runoff that becomes the drinking water for 35 million people.

Recently a pipeline break revealed the slender link that exists between the teeming millions and the snow-stored water at Muir's hated Hetch Hetchy reservoir. 

Recently, voters approved a multi-billion bond bill to revamp the existing water system, but the Hetch Hetchy line was not included.  Why?   Because the line itself is illegal, as is the dam that supplies it.  Over 45% of the Bay Area water supply comes from the Hetch Hetchy system, which centers in the middle of Yosemite Nation Park and against which Muir fought bitterly for years, forming the notable Sierra Club in the process.

In a ferocious political battle that involved the shifting of millions of dollars, the result really could never have been doubted.  Muir, a non-powerful eccentric was shunted aside.  The City of San Francisco was granted rights by Congress to build a dam in Hetch Hetchy valley, square in the middle of a national park.  The dam was built, an entire valley destroyed, and a 155 mile aqueduct was built up to  the Mount Diablo Mountains, where the world's longest tunnel was bored through.  So far, so evil.  Then, through backroom deals, the dam and rights to supply power were yielded to private interests, and the notorious PGE arose like a shadowy Melmoth from the mists of the once pristine valley to capture the majority of electrical supply contracts throughout California.  This is the reason Bruce Brughmann of the SF Guardian gets his nose so out of joint about municipalizing the city power: By law and act of Congress it already belongs to the City and should never have been released, for such release was contrary to the wishes of the entire Nation, not just California.

Well all that's fine and good, but at least we had water.  Well, the pipe done broke and there is no money for fixing it. It's a pipe that supplies several millions, keep in mind.  And any attention in this direction causes a heap of embarrassment.  It's getting close to a return of that redoubtable pair, Oog and Aag.

UNDER THE BOARDWALK

Down on the strand the scudding clouds splash a Thiebaud sky with colors.  The storm-torn beach shines clean under the swelling moon while across the water, the spangle of Babylon's jewels shine against velvet.  The Raiders battle the NE Patriots tonight and the 9'ers went down earlier in the day.  All clear after the storm.  Except  the twin contrails of a navy fighter dissipate slowly across the sky.  Over at the Ace Hardware, a new seasonal storefront has replaced the gory Halloween scene. Pics on that later.  Later this week we get to enjoy the Annual Island Poodleshoot and BBQ. The results of which we shall relate in good time.

That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.

 

NOVEMBER 10, 2002

POST ELECTION BLUES REPORT

Not blue at all is new Island Mayor-elect Beverly Johnson, who won with a convincing 47% of the vote while the remainder got divvied up among the 3 runners-up.  Johnson has served long and well on the Council and we welcome her as the newly crowned Mayor Beverly.  We also welcome Tony Daysog on his return as incumbent to the Council seat and to Frank Matarrese, the urban planner who has been active in the community.

Spiraling outwards, Alice Lai-Bitker took 70% to take the coveted Board of Supervisor's seat at Alameda County, home to 1.5 million people in the largest county in the United States.  Wilma Chan regained her title as representative for this district to the State in Sacramento, and Barbara Lee, sole dissenter in Congress to George Bush on his first Iraqi campaign, won handily with over 80%. 

Most California elections ran similarly, with the winner taking between 65-80% of the vote in their respective districts, with the Democrats coming out pretty much solidly on top.  Turnout was well above expectations in all areas, surprising the troubled SF registry once again, and causing foul-ups and snafus in Babylon they'll be arguing about for years.  With a 52% turnout, there were not enough paper ballots printed, so many voters roamed from precinct to precinct trying to hunt down extras.

Babylon, narrowly this time, defeated the measure to sink the gluttonous PG&E and establish a municipal public power utility once again.  The difference was a matter of hundreds of votes.

Nationally, the results were somewhat of a disaster for the Democrats, with the GOP taking control of the House and the Senate, giving Bushy, Baggot and Green an imagined mandate to proceed with War.  And a number of other very questionable issues.  We can feel Alaska cringing from here.

ALL IS NOT LOST

Post-election day we went down to the chaotic scene at Papoon's headquarters by the strand.  Papoon, if you recall, was the of the ground squirrel contingent that dared aim for the highest office of Mayor of the Land.  Among the bonfires, the faithful were laid low as if in a lake of burning fire, wretched and most abused.  Then He rose up. And there, the noble Leader was seen to be rallying his troops among the ashes of defeat for yet another assault.  Here we  are privileged to report to you part of the text of his speech, from this most illustrious squirrel:

" What though the field be lost?
All is not lost--the unconquerable will,
And study of revenge, immortal hate,
And courage never to submit or yield:
And what is else not to be overcome?
That glory never shall his wrath or might
Extort from me. To bow and sue for grace
With suppliant knee, and deify his power
Who from the terror of this arm so late
Doubted his empire, that were low indeed;
That were an ignominy and shame beneath
This downfall: since by fate the strength of God
And this empyreal substance cannot fail,
Since through experience of this great event
In arms not worse, in foresight much advanced,
We may with more successful hope resolve
To wage by force or guile eternal war,
Irreconcilable to our grand foe,
Who now triumphs and, in the excess of joy
Sole reigning, holds the tyranny of State."

Wise words indeed from a most Miltonic squirrel.  For in disputation persists Democracy, and in acquiescence persists Tyranny.

THE MINISTRY OF SILLY WALKS REPORTS

It's been reported to our desk that England, that odd little country over there, has lately suffered from a "squirrel terror" in Knutsford, Cheshire.  So sorry such a concern should pass in any place, let alone Knutsford.  It was reported that an "American grey squirrel" had taken to biting people on the ankle and finally resorted to leaping upon a child to embed its "fangs" in the poor baba's forehead, only to be wrestled loose by two muscular gentlemen.  And then subsequently shot by the child's grandpapa the day after.

Now really.

There are a few problems with this furry tail, and we feel it is required of us as responsible journalists to set matters aright.

It could not have been an "American grey squirrel" at all.   American grey squirrels do not inhabit any part of Europe and certainly not England and furthermore are frisky, playful fellows who mean no harm to anyone and who would never muster resources to go leaping upon a creature that outweighs it by 60 pounds or more.

American squirrels are far more sensible than any other kind, you see.

No, we believe that we know precisely who was at fault here. What sort of animal that would
stoop to biting defenseless babies we well know. Non other than that nefarious Yemeni
Silverhaired Poodle, Osama Bin Lassie!  Observe how vicious is the demeanor of this noted terrorist.

Now gaze upon the look of the common American grey squirrel and note the differences.  How calm is the brow, how serene the gaze, how confused the outlook, how placid the disposition!

Quite clearly, this is a case of mistaken identity and some poor innocent squirrel has already paid the ultimate price. Yet another argument against Capital Punishment proven without a doubt.

ITS ONLY ROCK N ROLL

Friday night the world's Greatest Rock N Roll Band, and the longest lived, held court at Pac Bell Park and managed to hold the faithful despite torrential downpours.  The open-air concert was sold out to 38,000 souls and every soul rocked while Mick and crew did their stuff.

The 59 year-old Jagger galloped and strutted like man a third his age while the ever-steady Richards rocked solidly on his 5-string.  This is the first tour during which all members come to perform entirely "clean" with no drugs or booze to cloud the inspiration.  Sorry to say the mostly 50-ish audience didn't quite measure up to the same standards as a number of ladies achieved falling-down drunk status before opener Sheryl Crow even left the stage and the pleasant aroma of green stuff wafted here and there over the soggy but joyous crowd.  Oh well, it's only Rock n Roll. But I like it, yeah.

The boys are in town for two more sold-out gigs -- one more at Pac Bell park and another on the warmer side of the Bay at the Oakland Coliseum.  Mick is doing the high-life party circuit while Richards, typically, is spending his free time doing a couple benefits for local charities and giving away free stuff, like a signature guitar, to benefit the local schools.  A life-long devotee of Muddy Waters and the blues in general, Richards also will be found hanging out at some of the places where good blues can be found.  Since the John Lee Boom Boom Room enjoys its fifth anniversary this week, you might expect to find him there.

Speaking of opener Sheryl Crow and good acts, the busy lady is spending her free days firing down to perform with survivors of the Jefferson Airplane in LA as part of the "Love Ride" motorcycle gathering that benefits SoCal schools on Sunday.  She's a beautiful lady, inside and out.

BULLET THE BLUE SKY

During my salad days, I used to work in a valve factory up in the industrial town here called Richmond.  I knew a fellow named Tom who worked as a machinist operating one of the huge ball-end mills made by Okuna.  It was an amazing thing about as big as a tank and standing ten feet high.  His job was to lower the tungsten bits, each weighing some one hundred pounds, to then drill hunks of metal to within a micron tolerance.   You couldn't hold a conversation too well with this and the sound of the saw slicing off chunks from a twenty-foot ingot in the same room.

During our breaks we would go out and talk and he would tell stories of his two tours in Vietnam, where he worked as a post-drop ordinance sapper.  Basically, his job was to go in with a team, or by himself sometimes, and defuse all the stuff the air force had dropped but which had not exploded. Yet.  So that the army could then come in with people and take the positions or do whatever body counting needed to be done.  Assuming the ground was clear of enemy by then.

You have to imagine what it was like, day in and day out, for years.  Going up to something damn near big as a Caddilac and loaded with stuff that would pretty much vaporize you and everything else in the vicinity for about a quarter mile in all directions. Then doing that little wire-arrangement thing suspense film makers were so fond of dramatizing a few years ago.  The seconds ticking by.  And, of course, with the added detail of somebody shooting at you from time to time.

"Yeah, one never went off on me, so I guess I was lucky.  Some of my buddies weren't so."

I asked him how he dealt with it afterwards, and, predictably, coming back to civilization as we know it turned out to be somewhat difficult. So he signed up for another tour. 

"Yeah the marriage didn't last when I came back," he said.  "Wife couldn't take me wakin' up an' screamin' in the middle of the night.  Took a while, but I am better now.  Don't drink so much and got a new old lady."

There he was, just a rolly polly sorta guy with a beard sitting in the sunlight before going back to the howl of the machines for another four hours or so and quitting time.  You would never think of it from the man, but then, that's the way with most vets to finally get it all together.  When people start thinking about having wars and beating up some bully in a far off place, it might be good to keep in mind that wars are sort of like this.  After all the bombs have dropped and the fighting is done, somebody always has to come back in and defuse the situation in the worst way imaginable.  And there always are casualties.  In one form or another. 

Tom, wherever you are today, I salute you and wish you well.  Tomorrow is Veterans Day and many of us will be remembering those who wore a uniform.  

On the Island, a little group gathers each year over by the model airplane field. Taps are tooted and some words spoke and people remember stuff that should not be forgotten.

That's the way it is on the Island.  Have a peaceful week.

 

 

NOVEMBER 3, 2002

THE SEASON OF THE WITCH

As the brave musicians ventured into the Palace of the Voodoo Queen in Blues Brothers 2000, the eerie drone from Dr. John's tune came wafting through the Spanish moss-draped cypresses.   Through dread and danger passed the intrepid crew -- only to find Queen Latifah, who commenced to put on a party to end all parties. 

Of course poor Elwood had to suffer through a hex or two, but that's the way of voodoo blues.

The Bay area concluded its most intense holiday period with what is variously called Samhain, All Soul's Eve, El Dia de los Muertos, and Halloween this week with its usual bevy of parties and shindigs up the wazzoo.

Of course, there was the kids dressing in costumes, importuning friends and relatives for "trick or treat", but that was a small part of this two-week long festival.

On the Island, we had our usual "Designated Safe Homes", usually indicated by the decorations laid about the place. Here is one located at 333 Central Ave.  Each "leg" is approximately 10 feet long, to give you some idea of the scale of this relatively small-scale setup.

DON'T YOU EVER GET ELECTED

Or you surely will go to hell.  Or so the song goes.  Well, it appears there is no shortage of those longing to share space in the hot place with Old Nick this time around.  As a public service to aid those going to The Other Place we include here the official county instructions for voters this Election Eve for the new Touchscreen system, soon to be coming to your town, if you don't have it already.

You can download this image and print it on your own trustworthy inkjet by right-clicking on the image and doing a "save as".  Please remember, Deutschland, 1936 had the lowest voter turnout the nation had seen. And we all saw the results.

On election night, the results will be spit back to the Registry by modem lines -- in most cases -- and will be trucked back after polls close in the form of the hard drives contained in each polling device.  Tom York, the IT man in charge, and Elaine Ginnold, Asst. Registrar, have both assured us that "This County is not Florida. We will conduct a scrupulously honest election above reproach".

Okay y'all over there; you hear that? 

SPORTS SHORTS

The most exciting baseball series in history went down with dismal view ratings across the nation as the entire country shrugged off the California show between the Angels and the SF Whatevers.

Hey, you win the series and we give you a name.

In what was only the sixth series in history to go to seven games the Angels finally wrestled the title from the Giants in spite of Barry Bonds.

In Sunday foosball, The Oakland Raiders and 9'ers met today in the Battle of the Bay. Most NFL fans are not aware of the intense rivalry between the teams, and the intense hatred between the fans.  The 49's came out on top in OT 23-20 in a close fight on Oakland's home turf, nailing a 0-4 losing streak to the Silver and Black.  You could hear the "Arrrgh!" across the island.  Shortly before the game, the Raider's official Rally van was seen cruising over the Fruitvale bridge with all flags flying.  Raiders fans are definitely a breed apart and inclined to perform some of the bad boy antics for which the pre-Gruden team was famous.  Notably, every 49'er had their family members stay home for this battle on enemy turf.  The van was impressive, but the decidedly partisan crowd had an effect on only one kick, causing a 9'ers attempted field goal to sail wide of the mark amid thunderous cheers for Oakland, but failing to weaken the red and gold defense a single yard.

They are probably celebrating their civic pride over there the way they usually do: by overturning the Muni buses.  How charmante.

THEY'LL NEVER MAKE A SAINT OUT OF ME

The Rolling Stones blow into town next weekend and our Teen has gotten tickets, both of which events causes some concern.  "But Mom! I wanna see 'em before they die!"  Now really. Mick Jagger is only, what, 55 or so.  But still, by all reasonable calculations he should have been dead long ago from something.  We still are not sure if Keith Richards is dead or not, except he keeps on moving and seems to be more gifted in the intellect than his bandmates.  This is a man who refused to sleep for three days because "life was too interesting".  Having committed most of the sins found in all the major religions on this planet, its a wonder an angry mob has not lynched the entire pack.  When the Devil comes to claim both of their souls, we wish them all the best, for to be both evil and entertaining for over thirty years takes some talent and there is no doubt that Mick and crew have significant talent.

As for being 55 and near unto death, here we must heave our girth above our levis 501's "with just a scosh more room" and make our position clear.  Now then, now then, now then . . . !

In other music venues, Roy Rogers teams again with cellmate Norton Buffalo at the intimate American Music Hall later this month.  The venerable Fillmore hosts Yonder Mountain String Band for the bluegrass fans, followed by Blondie on the 16th, and acoustic wunderkind Leo Kottke on the 17th.  3 Doors Down follow with a "superman"show midweek on the 19th.  Tower of Power ends the month on the 23rd followed by the cult legend band known simply as X on the 26th, to include all original members as well as DJ Bonebrake.

Also happening this month, but SO are the annual KFOG Concerts for Kids, featuring Johnny Lang, Jackson Brown, Indigo Girls and the soulful Nora Jones.  One moment: word is in that tix for Indigo Girls with Johnny Lang still available.  Bring an unwrapped toy for donation should you go, for these concerts are true benefits and well worth the price of admission.  The Indigo Girls, that pair best known as the Harley Davidson's of the acoustic world, always put on a fantastic show.  Last we saw them, about 10,000 women sang on cue and in tune backup to one of their best known tunes.  Not bad for a single miked Larrivee and a Martin 00.

PAPOON FOR MAYOR: NOT INSANE

 Tuesday is Election Tuesday, and a big one for California, the Island and the Nation as well.  In the Golden State, we choose our next punching bag for Governor who will have the pleasure of handling the energy crisis, a renewed set of water wars and the dismal economy.  Nationally, we have the balance of power at stake as the President attempts to draft up a majority in his favor in the House and Senate.  Our own Barbara Lee, sole dissenter against the Gulf War is up for reelection -- it does appear she is heavily favored to win. 

California never does well under the GOP leadership, for a variety of reasons, hence it appears that nobody is bothering to stump here with any seriousness.

As for the Island, we have, of course our Mayor's seat left vacant prematurely by the death of former Mayor Ralph.  Bill Withrow, a former mayor, is running against a solid field of contestants with no clear favorite in view.  Personally we favor, with some prejudice, the Rodent Party candidate Sam "Whiskers" Papoon, whose election slogan is quite simple: "I am not insane".  Quite clearly, this is a ground squirrel with a difference.  When asked about the obvious physical limitations in a candidate who stands no more than nine inches in his socks, giving rise to some question as to whether he will be able to sit in the Mayor's chair at Council, Papoon has remarked that, if elected, these situations will be a sure test of the extent to which City Hall has complied fully with ADA requirements.  As for the chair, Papoon lets it be known that ground squirrels can climb with the best of them and he promises nuts for everyone.  Also part of his platform are stricter leash laws, a Zero Poodle Ordinance, and various energy concerns.  Whiskers points out his long service to the Island Power and Telecomm as mascot as proof of his qualifications.

PAPOON: NOT INSANE

Well, that's the way it is on the Island.  Have a great week. And don't forget to vote for Whiskers Papoon on Tuesday.

 

OCTOBER 27, 2002

BLACK CAT BONE

Indian Summer ended abruptly this week, ushering in scads of foggy chill winds at night.  The days went from sunny, to overcast high fog in hours and now the Change of the Seasons is upon us. Also heralding great changes, are the holiday installations cropping up everywhere around the Bay.  "Decorations" does not a whit of justice to this sometimes extensive arrangements that may cost thousands of dollars.  But, hey, a party is a party. 

MUSIC

Heard that Paul McCartney's show went over rather well at the Coluseum.  Sir Paul performed over 37 songs in a four-hour concert that never flagged.  Ani Di Franco performed at the Paramount, or so we heard, and was very well received.  Tom Petty, our favorite bad-boy, executes a one-two punch with Jackson Browne at the Shoreline on the 30th.  Browne, who is the only rocker ever to have won an award for literature has proved a surprising complement on his comeback trail with the raucous Petty who basically has written the book on garage-style rock 'n roll. 

The mysterious Residents will haunt the Warfield Halloween night, in all likelihood performing again with those eyeball masks.  Another Bay Area secret treasure, the Residents have remained anonymous for about thirty years of stage performing. That is no small feat.  They have never been photographed and are commonly billed as the World's Best Known Unknown Band.  Here is a promo shot for their 30th anniversary:

At the venerable Fillmore, neo-goth punks The Cramps will hold fort on Halloween.  Gov't Mule already performed on the 24th as Warren Haynes continues his steamroller streak of high-viz performances. 

BOFA HEIST

The Bank of America branch on Otis was held up during a daring bank takeover robbery.  Three men took over the bank for about twenty minutes, forcing customers to lie down on the floor at gunpoint while they made a teller hand over a bag of cash. The cads hopped into a stolen auto and, because no traffic violations occurred, they got clean away.  The car was found later splattered with the red dye used by banks to mark stolen cash.

LIKE THE WEATHER

Its perfect weather for the beach.  Walking along it at night, of course.  The winds blowing in across that chill bay have cleared out all the detritus, making the strand a great place to stroll and view the distant string of pearls that is the Golden Gate, hooking up to the undulating gold and silver glitter of Babylon stretching south to the San Bruno hills.  Think about Life during these times. And all the Big Issues.  Like, what kind of mechanic works on the Popemobile.  And what keeps Sheryl Crow looking so good at her age and in her business.  Existential stuff like that.  Solve the world's problems there on the beach.  Then come back for a bracing hot toddy.  Commune with Friederich the cat on these things and the Big Answers.  Got plans for a 40mpg SUV all figured out.  Cut our oil imports by 75%.  Take the world by storm it would.  But not tonight.  It's enough to ruffle F's ears and gaze out at the chilly moon scudding among the cloud bracken.  It's warm inside here, yes.  Then to the typewriter while Friederich curls up at our feet.

That's the way it is on the Island.  Have a great and spooky Halloween. 

 

 

 

 

OCTOBER 20, 2002

FLEET WEEK

At the end of the day, it all turned out to be relatively uneventful. Oh, the Blue Angels flew overhead and there were concerts and bands and all sorts of hoopla, but no terriers crept up on deck to blow themselves up in front of the Mayor.  Last year, the big event was cancelled, you may recall, due to "unforeseen circumstances and necessary contingencies".  Meaning everybody steamed, flew, swam and ran to the Middle East to show some muscle.  Neighbor next door did a 20 hour shift protecting the populace as part of the Coast Guard and then fell exhausted into bed.  Pretty much sums it all.

A VISIT TO THE OES

You may not know what the OES is, but you have one in your town.  That's the bunker where the government will go should Saddam go wacky with his smallpox grenades or when the Big One hits California.  For east of reference, the OES is the Office of Emergency Services, and in our County, it resides near the charming upscale town of Dublin. It features several miles of barbed wire, a rather imposing edifice called Santa Rita Jail, and numbers of weird official buildings with antennae and official warnings to keep out or your ass will be shot off.  But in more official-sounding language.

You must keep in mind that Alameda County is one of the largest counties in the United States in surface area and hosts some 1.5 million people.  So, these people have a budget somewhere above that of a few European countries and a strong sense of having something to protect. For should anything happen, by god, they are going to make damn sure the budget is well protected.

Well, they may phrase it differently, but that's really what its all about.  And when the other shoe drops, this is the place where the laces will all get tied together again.

On entering the complex, we passed by the joint Sheriff-Army shooting range, so the first thing that greeted us was a volley of gunshots.  Then, of course, the signs saying, "YOU ARE IN RESTRICTED TERRITORY. AUTHORIZED VEHICLES ONLY! TURN BACK NOW!"

We were truly gratified to know that our Harley was, for once, fully "authorized".

Then we passed along the lines of barbed wire, a charming monument to a long-dead sheriff whose name we forget and the entrance to the county jail, easily 400 acres in size beneath a hill upon which the federal penitentiary sat with august aplomb.  Every blade of grass had been cut to exact size.

Then, entering the halls of the County Sheriff we passed by the Boys in Blue practicing takedowns and jiu jitsu holds. 

Witnessing this spectacle for five minutes we can only say we earnestly entreat you, should you be of such a mind, not to resist arrest for your own good.  Resisting arrest against these guys would be a really, really, really bad idea.

We went there to resolve some relatively minor computer issues in the conference room, but we must say, when the Big One comes, in whatever form, "We Are Ready Now".  As spoken by Dewey Back Then.   

ANOTHER ONE BITES THE DUST

Guns and bunkers and stuff are not our usual cup of tea, so we return to the relatively sane world of music, where unsane things happen all the time.  Word is Kinos, the bastion of alternative sound in Babylon, has been slated for closure.  The owners and promoters continue to fight the good fight against the relentless smothering of local music that has been choking the life out of the Babylonian Way for some years now.  One particular group, termed by a local newspaper as "that group of bastards" has been particularly onerous in its virulent, non-stop series of attacks upon local clubs. 

ON THE UPSIDE

Famed torch singer Patti Griffith did the Fillmore on the 17th and we heard very good things about the show.  But then, we have never heard any bad things about a Patti Griffith concert anyway.

10/24 sees Government Mule, headed by the indefatigable Warren Haynes, assume control of the venerable Fillmore.  Warren has been playing non-stop with GM and several other bands for the past six months, including elements of the reforming Greatful Dead, and we are seriously thinking about getting a "Save Warren's Health" group together.  Don't work so hard, Warren. On the other hand, go for it.

M'Shell N'Gegeocello hauls her bass into the Fillmore on the 26th for some serious funk, followed by the teaches of Peaches the next day.  Peaches has been shocking the Booboogeosie with her blue flavor of pro-sex rock for a short while now.  Goth punks, the Cramps do honors on the 31st.

At the Warfield, the Bay Area's own special Residents will usher in Samhain, Day of the Dead or whatever on the 31st.  Keep your eyeballs peeled for this one.

Alonzo King winds up the 20th Anniversary of the Lines Ballet tonight with jazz giant Pharaoh Sanders.  Sorry you missed that one. But Alonzo is not going away any time too soon.

AND ALL THAT JAZZ

Although not as prestigious as Newport or Monterey or New Orleans, the SF Jazz Festival has started to earn some renown in later years for comprehensive covering of all the bases while maintaining a tight focus on the heady aspects of intellectual jazz. The 20th anniversary kicks off this week on Wednesday. This year the lineup features some decidedly hot swing, kicking off with some Big Easy boogie, leading to Charlie Hunter, followed by the latin jazz of Ruben Blades at the Regency. Quartets headed by Wayne Shorter and Branford Marsalis elevate the level to Grammy status. Then follows a week of excellent local groups and newbies capped on the 3rd by the billed "Meeting of the Masters", featuring Ellis Marsalis, Bobby Hutcherson and Bruce Forman. Ornette Coleman ushers in the new millenium at Davies Hall on the 7th, followed most improbably by Merle Haggard at the Masonic on Friday. Bobby McFerrin stands in for the absent Los Van Van and our very own Lavay Smith with her Red Hot Skillet Lickers polish up what's left for brunch on board the San Francisco Spirit, docked off of Pier 9. Kurt Elling will cool your school with Mark Murphy on the final day, Sunday, at the Herbst Theatre.

SF MUSIC AWARDS

Remarkably low-key and underplayed this year by the media in general and symptomatic of the continuing interest malaise in Babylon, this year's Awards went largely unheralded at large.  A sign of a scene that has grown ingrown, allowing for no fresh air from outside and reflected by mass fan abandonment for the sterile honks of techno and "house".  Any musicians who have survived up to this point are quite talented and scrappy. Notables up for awards are the Rova Saxophone Quartet and Scott Amendola in the jazz category.

Then there is the new category of "Lifestyle music", created largely to encompass, well, the rather strange. Chief contender here is "Extreme Elvis", a 300 pound ball of pure cheese whose act is built on the premise, "What would Elvis be like now if he lived and continued to push the envelope?" This includes the envelope of pills, booze, public urination, overeating and sex with whomever, whatever whenever.  Elvis has been known to command his band to strip naked, play Anthrax tunes on a whim, to pee on his audience and to strip naked himself, then leap, all three-hundred pounds, into the mosh pit.  The concept is frightening, but apparently the man really can sing.

Also bridging this category to some extent, but really pure punk at heart, is the band Angry Amputees, headed by John Dalton who came out of a severe meningitis infection in 1989 with no legs and no fingers. Surviving entirely on sheer willpower, the bassist put together a snarling punk rock band that has been getting accolades. You gotta admit, this is one feller who has more than paid his dues.  Man, you think you have it tough.
 

AS THE WORLD TURNS

Latest in the soap opera that is the Island Hospital, which goes fully public November 4, is the report that the budget will not hack the coming year unless more Islanders get sick.  Or Moderately Injured. And then pay for services.  So, boys, it is now your civic duty to haul your behind down to the Hospital and fork over some dough for treatment.

Heaven help us if the poor and indigent start using the public hospital.  For they were always turned away before.

This is the hospital that threatened to close unless it got 6 million in public monies, then went through a long public process of becoming a LafCo.

I told you six million was not enough.

THE POLICE REPORT

October is always an interesting month to look at.  To begin with, we had our coach at Island High subject to arrest for a scuffle with a student who flicked the bird at the coach, cursed loudly in language that shall not be repeated here, made rude and inappropriate comments about Sept. 11 and physically fought being brought to the principal's office. 

Hell, in my day, they made the boy do 100 pushups, then suspended the jerk and put a shoulder around the fellow who had to deal with it. How times have changed.

In other news, a man was arrested for knifing his wife.  Surely an excess of matrimonial abuse.  In another case, gunshots were fired from a balcony in the West End.  Police confiscated firearms and took in a parolee who should have known better. Such an image of the Island this gives.  Really.

CAR SHOW ON PARK

We heard of a car show on Park, the 9th in an annual series.  There was lots of chrome and bumpers and fins and wretched excess from the Filthies decade. You know, that time of Eisenhower, button-down sexual repression, overt racism, Red scares, McCarthy witch hunts, duck 'n cover responses to atom bombs, and so on. Well maybe it was not such a great time after all, on thinking about it some more.

But, everybody had fun.

THERE'S MORE TO THIS STORY

In other news, a car struck a pedestrian  in a crosswalk and broke his leg. The victim managed to hobble off to the hospital for treatment. Although found at fault, the driver walked without arrest or citation. Officer O'Madhauen reportedly said, "Once in a while, if there's a blatant violation, a driver may be cited."
 

Now, breaking a man's leg may not be the worst thing that can happen, but you have to wonder just how bad it needs to be for some kinds of people to be cited in this town. Especially given that citations are issued right and left to people who just happen to not belong to the right social club.  Lets talk about getting tickets for crossing through yellow lights and for turning left on the wrong street at the wrong time of day on the wrong day of the week.

And then some people nail somebody in the crosswalk, breaking bones and get scott free way.

The moral of the story: be very careful when you come to the Island unless you come from "good family".

MEET YOU ON THE DARK SIDE OF THE MOON

We just had to end with this shot of the latest offering from the Mad Artist of Lincoln Street.

I'll have you know I drove my bicycle down the road for two miles in the dark to get this picture.

And I still don't know what it means.

In front and somewhat difficult to photograph, is a four-foot diameter clock-face mounted on a seven-foot high stake. The numbers, instead of being oriented to the horizon, creep along the outside diameter.

Vikings? Birds? Clocks? Perhaps the mysterious ironies of an unstated history; who knows?   All I know is that a blessed lunacy prevails upon this sanctified Island set in the emerald sea between the unruly shores of Babylon and the parched lands of San Antonio.  All I know is that we are a blessedly demented folk.  Demented but kind. 

AUTUMNAL REVERIES

This is the best time of the year, with the fog beginning to swell over the hills. Leaves don't exactly turn here -- they go sort of grey and some drop off, but the sunsets are spectacular.  It's long been a secret pleasure, this changing of the tides and seasons.  I have always felt a secret guilty pleasure in the cooling breezes, for hot weather does not agree with me. Never had a use for it.  And unlike the East, cool weather means only a little more cool weather, as opposed to icy freezes, dangerous roads and wildly unpleasant biting cold.

Down by the strand, the strollers and the joggers taper off in the season, until there is only the soft susurration of the sea against the sand against the jeweled backdrop of Babylon's chain of lights.  For this we came and for this we stayed.  In the soft wrap of night, pleasant anonymity cloaks us.

The other day, we pulled ears of corn from the plants so carefully tended by The Significant Other.

Meanwhile, in the East, the skeletal ice fractals across the ponds and River, beneath which the trout move slowly with slowing fins.  Soon, the world will lock up in a freeze of white beneath which all life beats with a slow, hidden rhythm. Above, the dead world breaks twigs in the harsh snap of frost.

Here, the Canadian geese will lift off for their final jaunt to Chile and Argentina, leaving this place calm under the glittering stars.  The ground squirrels will huddle together underneath the modest cover.  And we will have our own rituals, borrowed from places we have come and places we have been.  From the great white salt flats of Palo Alto, along the backbone of the Peninsula which breaks the wall of fog, up past the flats of Berkeley and on upwards to the occasionally snow-dusted top of Tamalpais, this land we love and which gives us life revolves with its own beat of drum to another season, another harvest.

This is what no outraged terrier-ist can take away. This is what defeats the most vicious of adversaries.

And that's the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.

 

OCTOBER 13, 2002

THE BEST REVENGE IS LIVING WELL

This past week many of us were well revenged.  The Significant Other took on a powerful yearning for something European -- and as one who preserves her enviable girlish figure by eating only once a day, the Hofbrau Haus and Der Wienerschnitzel down on Fast Food Alley did not cut the cheese. So to speak.

We found ourselves down in the West End shopping center where a new tenant has finally filled the spot left by a sushi bar some six months previously.  Angela's features Italian cuisine with a difference.  Perhaps you might find a tomato sauce or two, but the homey staples of spaghetti Bolognese and lasagna will not be obtained here and don't dare ask for them.   Even the house salad (does not come with meal, costing $2.00) turned out to be a marvelous collection of assorted exotic greens mixed with three kinds of grapes and drizzled with an homemade dill sauce and a zesty European vinaigrette.  The Significant Other had a spinach/feta wrapped in strudel pastry that was dabbed with a light tomato sauce.  I had tender lamb kabobs served over a bed of rice with green beans,
slice of onion and a stewed tomato flowerette.  We each had glasses of pinot grigio and California zinfandel from the capable wine list. 

The place was neatly arranged and well-lit for parties of four or more and clearly is aiming directly at the well-heeled and well-traveled inhabitants of the new developments across from the shopping center.

The place is so new that no listings are available for it anywhere on the web and recent customer attendance has been quite low, but the attention to detail and focus upon the more delicate aspects of fine Italian cuisine should turn the place into a long-term good bet for success.

ON THIS HARVEST MOON

It's not a full moon, but we like the song anyway.  And the weather has been gorgeous.

There is no joy in Mudville, for the A's are out of the running, after the Angels broke a 20 game winning streak, but the SF Giants are in play for the pennant as of this moment.

In Babylon, the Giants, on the fussball end, begin the season and Earthdance fills the Park with music.

THE MAD ARTIST OF LINCOLN STREET

Harlan has been on a roll lately, with all the antics going on in the Middle East, practically anything that doesn't involved shooting or bombing somebody smacks of welcome rationality.  Our man of the signs has posted the following 20-foot note on his backyard fence.

Anyone who can assist us with translating this will get a special pass to this year's Annual Island Poodleshoot and BBQ.

Turn the corner and the viewer will read something relatively more comprehensible, if not a bit more understandable.  Or vice versa.

Um, okay Harlan.  Whatever.

On the other side of the house, abutting a  gorgeously painted Victorian two-story the view observes the following painted on a twenty-foot high wall.

This one has been up a while, but we are still not sure if it is a reminder or an exhortation in the manner of, say, "Free Mumia!"

There have been quite a number of Yiddish, Hebrew and Arabic signs up, especially while Arafat's digs were being torn down about his ears.  There have been also a number of pointed references to the US Constitution. 

Always nice to be reminded that the old scrap of writing still exists. 

NAUGHTY AND NICE HALLOWEEN

Everybody's favorite party, hosted by Perry Mann at the Cow Palace comes to Babylon next weekend.  Its the sort of party that has given Babylon is rep for sinful shenanigans of the worst kind, but it does raise over $120,000 each year for worthy causes.

With the remarkable powers that come from the Digital Age, we bring you the family magazine advertising-version for the 23rd Annual Exotic Erotic Masquerade Ball.

Our in-house censors added some strategic airbrush so as to present a relatively wholesome image for the kids.  Still, any party that invites Dennis Rodman must be hard put to keep a damper on things and this is clearly one party for adults-only.  Costumes are optional and cameras are welcome.  One year a bevy of ladies showed up wearing nothing much other than hats and well-placed body-paintings.  Every year several thousand-thousand swingers, players, strippers, voyeurs and basically good-times randy souls show up for this fifteen-hour extravaganza of flesh and sin.  If you want to play, be prepared to pay: tix typically run in the $80-$100 range.

Another "only in Babylon" kind of event.  And they don't do nothing like this in Baghdad or Riyadh.

Here in the milder climate of the East Bay, we celebrate the Days of the Dead with fabulous lawn installations and altars, some of which we hope our roving camera crew will document for you.  And over here, kids are welcome.

That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.

 

OCTOBER 6, 2002

THE LONELINESS OF THE LONG DISTANCE RUNNER

Sunday dawned bright and clear, pushing to a brighter and sunnier -- and hotter -- day all over the Bay Area, even in foggy Babylon, where the annual Bridge to Bridge run brought out all the runners to loop through the northern hills of the City from the Ferry Building to the Great Highway, where Joe Bonamassa performed for the weary thousands.  The run featured fewer "loonies" than in previous years, but was all the same for the packed thousands needing to turn the "race" into a long walk under sunny skies that scorched other parts of the bay.

Mbarak Hussein of Kenya won the 12K in 36:39, leading a well-spaced front pack.  Morro Bay's Christian Hesch followed in 36:58 with Kenya's Fred Getange coming in at 37:21. 

Our own John Collin, of the UC Berkeley track team, took first in the 7k with a time of 22:17.  Babylon's famous hills undoubtedly are to account for the slow 5 minute pace times in the leaders. 

Sara Day and Chris Lundy, both of Palo Alto took first and second in the woman's division with times of 43:46 and 44:14.  Babylon's own Katie Evans and Leslie Kothe took the top slots for the Woman's 7k on a pace of 6:39 and 6:40, ordinarily not seen except at the high school level on the East Coast.

NIGHTTIME IN THE SWITCHING YARD

The most serious labor conflict to flare up in over twenty years continues into its third week as the lockout continues at ports all up and down the west coast, halting commerce dead just as the retail economy attempts to gear up in the face of a critical recession for the Holiday Season. 

Now, Oaktown has a port and not just any port. It is the defacto third largest port in the world behind Hong Kong and Singapore, hosting the world's largest container cranes, of such immense size they inspired George Lucas during his filming of the Star Wars epics. If you got anything, anything at all from Japan, Singapore, Taiwan, Mainland China, Thailand, Vietnam, Burma, India, Pakistan, Hawaii, Alaska or any of the small countries in-between, the chances are that thing passed through the port of Oakland. 

Any traffic from those places that does not go through Oakland, passes through Long Beach and that port is locked out as well.

Down at 3rd and Embarcadero, there are some serious all-night sessions going on with many billions of dollars at stake while Bushy considers sending in the troops, for every day of stoppage costs the country about a half-billion dollars. 

Those figures, my friends, are antihistamine numbers; i.e., they are nothing to sneeze at.

THE TIMES ARE A CHANGIN'

All along the waterfront, on the Island and in Oaktown's sanctuary, the flocks are a gatherin' for that annual pilgrimage down to Rio.  The air turns cool in the evening, despite the day's blasting heat, dew forms on the car windows and the city lamplights overnight.  Must mean a cold wind is about to blow down from the North.  A sphinx moth takes shelter in the warm kitchen, trying to eek out a few more days or hours of life before the inevitable while the catfish fries on the stove.  He's way up there and bothering nobody, so let him be.

In the midst of all the hurly-burly, strange tales of crowds beating solitary strangers to death on someone's porch, the weirdly-painted pale choppers flying over head and distant wars consuming our youth with terrible inevitability, the economy heading for a sure time of sorrow similar to the last time we had a Raygun-Bushy situation, but worser by degrees, the laws of time persist and the changes scheduled many millions of years ago carry out their appointments as usual.

Perhaps, as we spiral down with sure certainly to another Great Depression, that its time to let go, sit back, and restock with what's important and really continues from one year to the next long before we were here and long after we are gone.  Or perhaps it is simply to consider these things that are healthy, continuous, and true in themselves as signs on how to be.  Soon, the Deltas in the East will freeze.

Personally, I'm gonna take my rockin' chair down to the river. And I am gonna rock my blues away.

Until it gets too cold. Then I am gonna get myself inside and have a nice hot toddy.

UPCOMING BAY AREA HOLIDAY

We are heading into that most prized and cherished of all holidays in the Bay Area, and I do not mean that Pagan celebration called X-mas.  Halloween is the time for the big, major blow-out when everybody lets it all hang out and the place becomes wilder than New Orleans at Mardi Gras.  Well, maybe close.

If you have never lived through a Bay Area Halloween, you are really missing something.  Here on the Island, Pagano's Hardware starts it off with a storefront display that has been ruled by the polls as The Most Fantastic Bay Area Display Window.

As you enter this perfectly functional hardware store, for example, you see Smiling Sam to your right, surrounded by loose limbs, snarling black cats and the occasional skull.

Turning from this sight, perhaps an aberration caused by those spectacles, you encounter the butler, shadowed by an eight-foot spiderweb.

In terror, you flee past the seven-foot tall witch casting spells over the paint department and step outside.  But the usual store display appears to have changed.

Instead of the usual period knick-knacks and vacuum cleaners, the window is filled with skeletons, panthers, rats, bats, witches and hanged men.  As Poe would say, "Oh horrible, horrible, most horrible!"

Well, he might not have said exactly that, but you get the point.

Each one of the figures, by the way, is for sale.  And you better be ready for a four-figure bill, because we take Halloween quite seriously here.  There are some famous Bay Area installations that take weeks to setup, and feature hundreds of these figures.

In a world of all-too-real horrors, these kinds of things render with imagination those shadows we dare not otherwise express, and by doing so, make them what they are: harmless shadows of what could be, but is not.  The grotesque and feared becomes comical, and so easily dealt with.  And perhaps that is not such a bad thing after all.

Down the street, the seasonal shop has changed its banner, and now features themes in orange and black with yet more bats, cats, rats and skulls than you can shake a stick at.

For in a time of the horrible, we must laugh at the horrible.  Because we are Americans.

That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.

 

SEPTEMBER 29, 2002

MAYOR RALPH MEMORIALS

Flags flew at half-mast all week for the former Mayor Ralph Appezzato. . .

We had kinda hoped to imagine this scene wherein Mayor Ralph sets up with ex-Mayor Corica in a joint barbershop venture and they would be found there any day, cutting hair, dispensing wisdom and talking about the good old days of running the town.  It was not to be.  A special commemoration service with 21 gun salute from the marines took place on deck of the USS Hornet.  By all accounts 'twas quite moving.

WHERE TO GET ORANGE-FLOWER AOLI FROM FINLAND

The big buzz is the opening under pressure of the new Trader Joe's at the struggling South Shore Center.  South Shore, the Island's only read shopping center, has seen the closure and demolition of the big movie theatre four-plex and the loss, as well as demolition of the Lyons Restaurant.  The Lyons was a symptomatic and typical case in many respects.  Given a prime location fronting the water with views over the Bay toward Babylon and the Golden Gate Bridge, the place built its windows  to face the parking lot so diners could keep eyes on their automobiles.  It never worked and so the place folded up.  And the cars got broken into anyway.

But the new Trader's had lines out the door past the brand-new rows of palm trees and with the only other Traders in the excruciatingly crowded Emeryville, this place stands a good chance for hauling in the out-of-towners from across the water.  For it is quite true that it is now easier to cross a body of water than it is to get into and out of the Little City that Grew.  E'ville has developed itself into quite a monster and people now are known to drive half a century now to get around the mess.

Shopping at Trader's, if you have never experienced the pleasure, is quite an international experience for gourmet cooking.  Hey, pick me up one of those Chilean seabass stuffed with Alaskan crabmeat while yer picking up your smoked walrus. 

 

MISSISSIPPI SAXOPHONES

Under gorgeous skies and moderate, sunny weather, Babylon hosted the 30th Annual Blues Festival out at Fort Mason.  Me and the Significant Other took a cruise out there to catch some of the illuminaries of the Blues on Sunday, arriving in time to hear Robert Lockwood Jr., sole remaining survivor of the Old School perform songs written and recorded by his stepfather and guitar teacher, Robert Johnson.

Yes, that Robert Johnson.

Born in Turkey Scratch, Arkansas in 1915, Lockwood began performing with his stepfather at juke joints and parties until Johnson's murder in 1937 by a jealous woman.  From then on he pursued an increasingly illustrious career that continues to feature extensive public performances at the age of 89 and for which some of the best musicians in the world vie for stage participation.  Winner of the first 1980 and  2001 WC Handy award for Best Traditional Blues Album, 1995 awarded the National Heritage Fellowship Award by Hillary Clinton, Honorary Doctorate of Music by Cleveland State University are among of the few of his many accolades.

Another blues legend taking the stage after this admittedly hard act to follow, was James Cotton, who has turned the humble mouth harp into an extraordinary instrument and is credited with rescuing the career of Muddy Waters with his scorching solo at the 1960 Newport News Jazz festival.

Band-mate of Muddy Waters for 12 years, he has performed with virtually every major blues performer, past and present, since his birth on a plantation in Tunica, Miss. 1935.  He got his first fifteen cent harp for Christmas and worked fetching water for the field hands.  During his breaks, he would play his harmonica in the shadow of the foreman's horse.  Both of his parents died when he was just nine years old, and so  Sonny Boy Williamson raised him from there as part of his traveling band, abandoning the entire band under Cotton at one point to go live with his estranged wife.

Without experience, the fourteen-year old could not hold the band together. Once again cast adrift, James found a man by the name of Howling Wolf, scammed his way into the nightclub and impressed the man so much he was taken on for another four good years, recording several singles and even managing a daily fifteen-minute radio spot at the age of 17.

Staying out of trouble and keeping off drugs paid off well for the bluesman, who went on to play with Muddy Waters, Janice Joplin, Grateful Dead, Led Zeppelin, Carlos Santana, Steve Miller, Freddie King, B. B. King and many others, always putting on a very energetic, high-voltage show.. After operations for throat-cancer in 1994, he was forced to remove vocals from his set and slow down a tad, no longer performing full back-flips in mid song.  Sunday, everyone on stage clearly was in awe of the man, and his vibrant take on the blues still punched through with remarkable power.

Continuing the trend of super-powerhouses, Otis Rush took the stage.  Here is an excerpt from the official bio:

"One of the greatest guitarists in the history of the blues! Dozens of albums. Architect of the famed Westside Chicago guitar sound. Hypnotic guitar and hypnotic voca