Island Life 2003

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JUNE 29, 2003

PRIDE WEEKEND

This weekend is doubly, triply joyful for, just as the Supreme Court has indicated that it is no toady to transitory and repressive political trends, two classic symbols of Old Guard obstructionism against progress and human rights have passed away within days of one another, and, of course, there was the Gay Pride Parade.

After a long list of public disappointments and disasters in the political arena, the Supreme Court struck down the invasive and anti-American laws in Texas that allowed state troopers to invade homes and arrest people for actions performed in private between consenting adults that should never be regulated or overseen by anyone, let alone the State.

An entire Generation of Americans has been liberated from the stigma of criminality by this decision, and the joyous response in Babylon, as elsewhere, was, "Dudes! Let's party!"

Our special in-person reporters indicated that Babylon filled up with thousands upon thousands of lesbians on Saturday for the Dyke March, and added to these were yet more hundred thousands the following day. Official reports listed attendance at somewhere near one million persons in Babylon on Sunday, with over 700 of the always popular Dykes on Bikes leading the pack down Market to start off the festivities.

Meanwhile, the dissenters begin to gather steam and numbers even as the body count in Iraq rises and zero WMD get found. Slowly the tide turns.  Months yet before an election and the economy is tanking.  "You can fool some of the people some of the time, but you cannot fool all of the people all of the time."

 

THE ARTIST IS NOT PAID FOR HIS LABOR, BUT FOR HIS VISION

Spent a joyful afternoon among the company of artists and other people with more ability, soul and joy than cash.  The occasion was the open studio of Jim Kitson, Susan Laing and visitor C.B. Harris from Arizona.

Jim does mythic figures in iron, brass and wood, often working with natural and worked forms to shape objects that evoke some ancient culture that worshipped the essential and primeval forces of life through totems of extraordinary iconic power.  He likes to call it "industrial strength neo primitivism". 

His figures almost always combine an element of whimsy and lightheartedness with atavistic pre-Christian energy, as if his mythic gods and goddesses have acquired expressions of astonishment and wonder at the variety of life and the foolishness of man over thousands of years.  He quite often will incorporate discarded parts of heavy machinery to form his archetypal figures, brazing the surfaces and then polishing them to a brilliant luster.

Susan works with textiles and has come up with a delightful implementation of design and felt that remind one of Tolkein's wood elves with their ingenious incorporation of natural forms with free-flowing structures. 

C.B. Harris also works with natural materials, employing rare corals and amber to make deceptively simple creations that accentuate the wearer's attributes rather than call attention to themselves with busy detail.  Shown is a necklace made of red coral that can be seen on her website at WWW.cbharris.com. 

The Island is one place where the work of the soul continues in the workshop as well as the nave.

SING OUT A JOYFUL NOISE

The Significant Other and I managed to take in  Los Hombres Calientes at Yoshis Jazz Club in Oaktown this Saturday after several misfired attempts during the week.  We had first run across this remarkable jazz group playing in a Tower Records in New Orleans during the Jazz Festival two years ago and both of us were absolutely blown away by the music of this group, which has since gone on to gather extraordinary critical acclaim throughout the world.

The brainchild of trumpeter Irvin Mayfield, a prodigy all of 22 years of age, and seasoned percussionist Bill Summers, this band has been cracking open preconceptions about jazz right and left while pulling in so much critical praise that Mayfield is starting to get tired of the Grammies, laudatory reviews and awards.

Yoshi's is one of those nightspots that performers just love for the acoustics and the intimate atmosphere.  If you are good, then Yoshi's pulls out the best, and the best become superlative, while the superlative soar into the heavens.  Los Hombres does a heavily Latin/Africano inflected mix that had the crowd stomping on their feet, dancing in the aisles, singing in Spanish, Portugese, various African dialects and clapping until their arms were sore. 

Most definitively a "crossover" band, LHC has pulled in fans who would never have approached jazz in its chillier, more cerebral manifestations, while still holding true to the command, "make a different masterpiece every night".  They included a nice bit of audience participation on "Foforo Fo Firi".  The high point of the set might have been the longest tune: Mayfield's complex yet bluesy composition, "Creole Groove." All the soloists had plenty of opportunity to shine, including the other supporting players: pianist Victor Adkins, drum dynamo Ricky Sebastian (who replaced founding member Jason Marsalis a couple of years ago) and bassist Edwin Livingston. Adkins weaved some serpentine lines that evoked the complexity of the great McCoy Tyner. At a couple points, the players broke into a classic New Orleans second-line street-beat, bringing it all back to the place referred to as "the northernmost Caribbean city" by Summers.

There followed a playful "A Night in Tunisia", dedicated to Dizzy Gillespie, which had Summers blowing an eerie riff over the mouth of his shaker drum into a microphone before leading off into a grandstand performance that had him repeatedly tossing the drum into the air during the song.  They concluded the two hour show with a segue from  "Mardi Gras Mambo" into "New Second Line" (from their 3rd CD, "New Congo Square") evoking "The Duke" and good old-fashioned Dixieland jazz, but with the curious Cuban inflection that has been the signature for this band, the hottest to come out of the Crescent City in over 25 years and most certainly the hottest jazz ensemble in the world today anywhere.

Not surprisingly these guys have been touring all over the Caribbean, including Haiti, Cuba and Jamaica, playing and recording with some of the hottest and most legendary talents in Latin music.  The power of Calle 57 and the Buena Vista Social Club goes out and hopes to erase those lines on the world map that senselessly divide people from one another.  More power to The Hot Boys if they can even half-way succeed.

 

THE MADMAN OF LINCOLN STREET

That Harlan has been at it again, the impish boy. He's been slinging up those signs on the side of his house with so many changes that hardly two hours go by before another set of messages replaces what had come before. As always, there appears to be no relation between the various postings and absolutely no comprehensible subtext to any of them.  Which does not preclude this artworks from being absolutely delightful.

 

 IN MEMORIAM - LATE-BREAKING NEWS

she died in Old Saybrook, CT at the age of 96.  During her 60-year career, she earned 12 Oscar nominations, which stood as a record until Meryl Streep surpassed her nomination total in 2003. She won the Academy Award for "Morning Glory," 1933; "Guess Who's Coming to Dinner," 1967; "A Lion in Winter," 1968; and "On Golden Pond," 1981.

Despite her success, Hepburn always felt she could have done more.

"I could have accomplished three times what I've accomplished," she once said. "I haven't realized my full potential. It's disgusting."

But, she said, "Life's what's important. Walking, houses, family. Birth and pain and joy - and then death. Acting's just waiting for the custard pie. That's all."

 

 OH, INDEPENDENCE DAY, INDEPENDENCE DAY

The annual Mayor's parade - 4th largest in the country -- takes place for the 26th time on the Island this Friday, starting at 9:am with a 5k race and ending sometime around six pm.  This parade, which features fleets of Model E and Model T Ford automobiles plus floats of every description is an affair not to be missed.

 

OUR HOUSE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE BLOCK

In response to the recent upsurge on the Island of strong-arm robberies as well as numerous break-in attempts by unsavory characters, our in-house Ladies of Distinction have posted several admonishments about the premises.  Herewith we present the injured backdoor:

It would be good to note that Julee, who recently celebrated her (2nd) 29th birthday, owns a Glock 9mm and a 12 gauge Mossberg is on order.

On the Island, you do not mess with our women. Period.  Schick, Chick!  Hear that sound?  It means "Run you bastard!"

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

 

JUNE 22, 2003

I'M DANCING BAREFOOT

Her once raven-black, tangled hair is gone burnished pewter over the years, and time the avenger has given her face a bit more character, but on Tuesday evening she stepped on stage at the Fillmore and I fell in love all over again. As the band blasted right into "25th Floor" -- without a warm-up act --  the crowd roared alive.  Three songs into the show with Patti snarling the words to "Summer Cannibals", the control-booth strobes hit the famous overheard "disco ball" -- something usually reserved for the final crescendo of a carefully polished set. 

The 60-year old proto-feminist, proto-punker simply did not let up, playing and singing with the energy and power of a teenager.   Her voice projected with such power it reverberated over two electric guitars, an electric bass and amplified drums against the back wall.  After a crunching start, she and the band -- including sole survivor Lenny Kaye from the original 1971 group -- went into a puzzling set of covers, featuring "Jumping Jack Flash", before returning to her own material: "Paths That Cross", "Redondo Beach", "We Three," and, of course, the chart-toppers "Frederick" with "Dancing Barefoot."

One high point among many was a supremely ecstatic "Beneath the Southern Cross" with both Smith and Kaye putting out a steady drone on acoustic guitars.

Born in 1946 in Woodbury, New Jersey of devout Catholic parents, Patti Smith survived a childhood bout with scarlet fever that left her with recurring hallucinations.  She worked through college in a toy factory for two years, before dropping out to have a baby that she gave up for adoption.  In 1967 she moved to New York with the intention, she stated, of becoming "an artist's mistress."  The particular artist she found was Robert Mapplethorpe and the two of them journeyed for a while, living in the Bronx then Paris and then returning to New York where Robert's homosexuality probably put the kibosh on the "mistress" portion, although the two remained close friends until his death of AIDS.  Many of her early album covers were composed from photographs done by Mapplethorpe.  From painting and poetry, she segued into a bit of playwrighting with Sam Shepard, collaborating on "Cowboy Mouth."

Like a freight train gathering steam she put her hand to everything with frantic energy, writing gonzo journalism-style criticism, performing poetry, doing music, and painting.  Her poetry, appearing on page quite often as beat-derived self-indulgent flamboyance, becomes truly "live" and effective when heard and seen in person, when the words become filled with musical nuance and the strength of her personality.  She also allows her sense of humor to balance out the heaviness when performing, resulting in a very engaging performance which one cannot get from the relatively austere studio recordings.  Her lyrical mentors -- Rimbaud, Baudelaire, Dylan, the Beats -- informed her style of composition and of performance.

As she moved into professional venues, a half-step above coffeehouses, like CBGB, she became lumped together with others in the "punk" aesthetic.  Rolling Stone had this to say about her involvement then:

But by 1975, subcultural gravity converged on CBGB, attracted by a small group of rockers -- notably Television, the Ramones and Smith -- who had little in common besides a commitment to ignore limitations. Punk was not a single style, but a boundary-crashing attitude. You could be a punk journalist, a punk painter, a punk poet. Soon enough, of course, punk would be codified into a canon of stylistic tics, few of which Smith indulged in, but it's always worth remembering that the central motivation was to escape limits, not to invent a new musical cage. As she said once, talking about "Piss Factory," "What is punk rock, anyway? Is it like, I'm writing something just to make a bunch of people with weird hair happy? I wrote it because I was concerned about the common man, and I was trying to remind them they had a choice."
 

In 1978 she fell off of a stage and broke two vertebrae in her neck. While convalescing, she wrote a book of poetry, journeyed to Italy and the lady who would scream, "I have not sold my soul to god!" was granted a personal audience with Pope John Paul, which resulted in the surprisingly affectionate song, "Wave".

After a somewhat heady, albeit misguided and regrettable, attempt to depoliticize racial epithets, such as the word "nigger" -- claiming this title for herself as a start -- she married long time companion Fred "Sonic" Smith and retired to the Detroit suburbs to become a housewife and raise two kids.  But life and music had not done with Patti, to her continuing anguish.

Robert Mapplethorpe died of AIDS in 1989, followed by band pianist and friend Richard Sohl.  A number of other associates and friends died of AIDS about this time as well.  Kurt Cobain, with whom she sympathized and was acquainted, committed suicide in 1994.  In late1994, first her husband, then her brother, died of heart attacks within two months of each other.

She began giving poetry readings in New York again, and reformulated her band with the occasional assist from John Cale, dividing her time between music projects, book publishing and political causes, including an intense effort on behalf of Ralph Nader during the Stolen Election. 

There were some reminiscences Tuesday night, as via the song "1959", but the fire in Patti Smith refused to be doused by grief as she proved Tuesday night.  After an incendiary "People have the Power," to which the heavily produced studio recording does not give the slightest justice, she exploded with her withering version of "Gloria", in which the letters of the name become pre-verbal musical notes shouted into a maelstrom.

The audience, screaming and stomping,  brought her back for a very appropriate "Distant Fingers (Pissing in a River)" before she ripped into a very self-consciously ironic and very punk "So You Wanna Be a Rock and Roll Star", which she turned into a typically Patti political statement while banging furiously and atonically on a telecaster as Kaye slammed his strat on the top of the Marshalls behind him.  "Oh f--k the Rolling Stones!  Who do they think they are with charging $135 dollars a ticket like they're in f--king Las Vegas!"  This was especially pointed in view of Smith's penchant for calling up people for impromptu free concerts, which she had done only days before in Berkeley.  She then launched into an excoriating diatribe against the present power elite in America.  "F--k those people and their hatreds and their intolerance and their greed!  F--k Bush and their stupid wars!"

Guys half MY age where shouting from the back, "Oh Patti! Take me home with you!"  Well, we imagine that she would be more than a handful.  Patti Smith is not one to be easily contained. That is one reason we love her still.

 

DEVIL'S HAIRCUT

It's been ten years since we have been following Beck together, and longer since we have been following the career of this extraordinary musician individually.  Me and the Significant Other brought the Teens out to see Beck at the Greek just to check on the boy.  Well, he is no longer playing obscure little venues and the still-waifish guy still has the girls as well as the grrls eating out of the palm of his hand as the 10,000 strong crowd attested.

The big arena is a new experience for Beck and we could see him trying out new things in terms of performance and presentation, still with the whimsical sense of humor he always has possessed and which distinguishes him from the legion of self-important rockers.

It can be difficult to be a fan of Beck, for his impatience with pursuing formulas and his yen for trying out new things makes it difficult to describe what he does.  From dressing in a big wooly animal outfit and attacking the Flaming Lips lead singer -- in mid song -- as he did last year, to the absolutely straightforward lyrics of his most recent album, "Sea Change" Beck has remained an artist who is hard to pin down while remaining perfectly himself.  And for that we give him a great deal of respect. 

"Odelay" and " Mellow Gold" feel like post-punk emanations from a weird crossbreed of Zappa, Eric Satie and Johnny Rotten, while "Mutations" segued into hallucinatory acoustic stuff and then he moved into straightforward, no-nonsense lyrics with "Sea Change" coupled with calm but authoritative rhythm work. 

Sunday, he opened up with straight ahead Rock with heavy synth and electronica backing, while performing a series of joyous breaking and popping moves, before strapping on the acoustic for some of his newer material.  At one point he waltzed around the stage with the electronic organ.

Unfortunately, holding the concert in the lens of that bowl at 3pm meant the airless space reached well over 100 degrees and we, who had experienced the Greek for more traditional times had prepared for bitter cold.  We had to leave, regretfully, in the middle of his crossover hit "Baby I'm a Lost Cause".  Heck, I had found a place up by the fountain under some bushes that felt a breeze and was willing to stick it out, but the gals wanted to boost out of there.  So we passed by the legions of sunburned and water-bottled at least satisfied our boy has turned out well indeed.

SUMMER BEGINS

All up an down the Coast, from Monterey to the Lost Coast, the locals held summer faires to bring in the new Season.  The combined Marin-Sonoma county fair took place in Petaluma with Pat Benetar opening up the fest.  Down in San Anselmo, the immense Marin Studio fair filled that small town for a stretch of about a mile and a half with art booths from virtually every artisan from Seattle to Los Angeles. 

LIKE A BIRD ON A WIRE

The things you find in the back pages.  Now, I don't want to hear any more "only in Babylon" comments about this, but the PGE crews recently rescued a chicken that had been harnessed to over 100 balloons for flight over the City that wound up entangling power-lines endangering PGE workers, power to 11,000 customers, and the chicken.  A police officer shot about 50 balloons with a pellet gun to help free the bird.

BREAKFAST AT TIFFANY'S

You may not immediately place the name -- George Axelrod -- but he wrote the screenplays for "the Seven Year Itch," "Will Success Spoil Rock Hunter?", "Breakfast at Tiffany's", and "The Manchurian Candidate".  He also was the most highly paid scriptwriter in Hollywood for a time and he died at age 81 this Saturday in his home in the hills above Los Angeles.  As we always wish for any writer who passes to the final reward, "At last man, you get some decent sleep for a whole night and more; enjoy!"

YOU COULD BE MY SILVER SPRING

The latest flap on the Island comes from the house on Park and Pacific where the owner is currently painting the entire structure -- walls, roof, windows, trim -- bright metallic silver.  The vintage Victorian structure  with a striking second floor bay window is being painted in protest over the imposition of fines applied for unpermitted remodeling.  The owner, a Mr. Wright,  wants to keep the building vacant so as to deny the City tax revenue.  The 117 year old building was vacant for 30 years on the main drag and now offers a most imposing sight to visitors on entering the Island's main gateway.

Since no traffic ordinances are being violated, no further action against the owner is anticipated.

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

 

JUNE 15, 2003

MY FATHER'S EYES

There has been a run on cufflinks, ties, and golf-themed t-shirts, accessories and bric-a-brac lately.  They only get one day in the year, but this is it for what its worth.  It's all for the Dads.  They start off by carrying this woman over the threshold of a little love nest, then

Picture a little love nest
Down where the roses cling
Picture the same sweet love nest
And see what a year can bring

He's washin dishes and baby clothes
He's so ambitious he even sews
But don't forget folks,
That's what you get folks, for makin' whoopee.

Ah but it doesn't stop there.  Then its knee-patches, black-eyes and fights with the neighbor kids, Just Say No (and for girls, its "If you even THINK about a boy, just say, NO!"), loaning the car keys, paying for the car damage, paying for the other guy's car damage, paying for bail, paying for soccer/baseball/karate/tennis/music/football/volleyball/nerfball equipment and lessons for all of the above while fixing the porch swing, the heater for the house, the foundations, the wiring the roof and the windows yours or the neighbor's busted with an errant pop foul.  Then, before you know it, its paying for prom dresses and tuxedos while the credit card still has the summer vacation installments and before you know it, he's sitting there in the easy chair before the (repaired) TV with the golf game finally down pat, a tom collins in hand, and there comes the now strapping lad/lassie for a visit across the well-embattled lawn (now free of crabgrass and dandylions after 25 years of struggle) to say,

"Dad, kin I borrow a few bucks for this ski trip?  There's a girl/guy goin' I really really like . . .".

"It's really killin' that he's so willin' to make whoopee"

This day, hats off to the Dads.

A STAR FALLS FROM THE HEAVENS

Gregory Peck, 1916 - 2003

He chose a chancy career on the stage, dropping a nearly completed medical education in favor of footlights and applause.  The boy from La Jolla bought a ticket for New York City and arrived without enough money to pay for acting lessons, secured parts in Broadway vehicles that tanked and then got discovered for the films only to return to his homestate to make over 60 films during the next half century.  He played many Oscar-nominated roles, but he always wanted to be known for his portrayal of Atticus Finch, a stubbornly principled lawyer defending an African -American in a Southern small town from an unjust charge.  His best roles were those of the quiet, determined American possessed by unshakeable ethics and sound convictions, which put him in the company of a now-vanished breed of gentlemen actors.  In later life, however, he portrayed the "butcher of Lyon", Joseph Mengele in The Boys from Brazil, to great acclaim. In life he possessed the qualities of the Good Man, performing many acts of generosity and service, filling the post of the President of Academy of Motion Picture and Arts  1967-1970 and working tireless to combat racism and inequality in America.  He lobbied for the election of Truman at a time when no one imagined Harry had a chance of winning and continued to work for liberal causes throughout his life.

He is an Actor and a Gentleman who will be sorely missed.

WILL THE WOLF SURVIVE?

His back is against the wall and the mindless hounds are baying all around him.  Savaged but yet unbeaten, Gray Davis is fighting the good fight over a costly and foolish recall attempt by Rep. Issa, a GOP Representative who has chipped in $800,000 in an attempt to buy the Governorship for himself against the wishes of virtually everybody, including his own party, who see the acquisition of stewardship of a state facing a $39 billion dollar deficit shortly before crucial Presidential elections to be a disaster. 

But the economy, certainly no fault of Davis, has many Calfornians eager for a change, especially in view of the fact that no one felt strongly about Davis' election the first time around, seeing him largely as the lesser of two evils.  And not lesser by much at that.  Now the Energygate, which sucked the vast majority of the State's surplus last year as billions got paid out to keep the lights on is causing some real pain even as the Federal government cuts back distributions to the states.

Over 700,000 signatures have been collected (of the needed 900,000) to force a recall election that analysts estimate will cost us $30 millions dollars and untold millions in campaign expenses.

But Davis is one of our own, a tough old bear who fights well when cornered.  The ensuing melee will almost certainly cost the GOP heavily and, should Issa lose, will cost him his political career.

ALL IS NOT WELL ON THE ISLAND

Recently it comes to our attention that gangs of teens have mugged over 20 people over the last couple months, frequently with violence and severe injuries.  At a bus stop on the corner of  Lincoln and Bay a group of teens attacked a boy and smashed out his front teeth at 7:30 in the evening.  On Thursday,  a man was beaten by three boys who still took very little of value.  On the previous week  a man was robbed by two adolescents, one armed with a gun which was held to the man's head while the accomplice demanded cellphone or wallet.  Our own garage was broken into and a bicycle stolen.  Three days later, the boys tried to break into the other garage, which now possesses heavy, reinforced locks.

These events have all been characterized by teens in groups of 2-10 and by extreme incompetence on the part of the violent thieves, for they frequently beat their target without taking anything of serious value.

Unfortunately, since the perps do not appear to drive automobiles and no traffic ordinances have been violated, they have been getting clean away.

Officer O'Madhauen is as furious as a hornets nest however.  "One a these days, they'll make a real mistake," he exclaimed before the press.  "They'll run a stoplight on one of these here bicycles and THEN we've have 'em for sure."

You betcha.

GOUDY KIMBLE TO YOU

Under unexpectedly delightfully sunny skies graduations and BBQ's went off all over the Bay Area.

We celebrated the "2 decade Birthdays" out at Point Reyes with a gang of old friends.  Congratulations to David for achieving his 40th and to Mary Beth for achieving her second 30th.  There was all sorts of oysters cooking and salmon eating and wine drinking and climbing up the sand dunes and falling down and a good time was had by all.  We lit a roaring campfire and watched the moon rise from the East at midnight over the dunes of Kehoe Beach and then, tired and drunk with wine we all wended our ways home and fell into beds and went to sleep and did not get up until the next morning.

That's the way it is in the Bay Area.  Have a great week.  And don't lose that receipt for the golf caddy-mounted silver-plated smoke-shifter with paper umbrella you gave to Dad.  You might need it.

(Live version: voice over, quietly, Stevie: "This is for you, daddy."

I took my love, I took it down
Climbed a mountain and I turned around
And I saw my reflection in the snow-covered hills
Till the landslide brought it down (Oh,)

Oh, mirror in the sky, what is love?
Can the child within my heart rise above?
Can I sail through the changin' ocean tides?
Can I handle the seasons of my life?
Mm hmm hmm hmm

Well, I've been afraid of changing 'cause I've
Built my life around you
But time makes you bolder, even children get older
And I'm getting older too

Well, I've been afraid of changing 'cause I've
Built my life around you
But time makes you bolder, even children get older
And I'm getting older too
Oh, I'm getting older too

Ah-ah, take my love, take it down
Ah-ah, Climb a mountain and turn around
And if you see my reflection in the snow-covered hills
Well, a landslide'll bring it down
And if you see my reflection in the snow-covered hills

Well, a landslide'll bring it down, oh-ohh
The landslide'll bring it down.

                                                                Stevie Nicks

 

 

JUNE 8, 2003

A DAY IN THE LIFE

Lots of festivities this weekend all around the place.  San Jose, once the bastion of MOR and Kiwanis with nothing more radical than the occasional Elks Lodge pancake breakfast held a Gay Pride Parade this weekend.  Also rocking, was Babylon with the Union Street Festival, where all sorts of high-priced knick-knacks and tchotchkes could be had for almost half the price of too much in the Avenues of the Glitterati.  On the other end of the rainbow, the annual Unannounced Haight Street Faire celebrated the Age of the Aquariums and tie-die.  Somewhere Jerry is humming a little tune.

Overhead the low cloud / high fog draped all in a close blanket reminiscent of those summer days down in the ave's in Babylon's Sunset.  Where we spent our misspent youth.  Ah, memories of Drunk-Faced Charlie chasing Burnt Jake down 53rd with a tree he had uprooted from the City Beautification Project sinkhole with intent to employ as a weapon upon Jake's pate for having made off with the morning's sausages. . . . oh the sight grows dim with these memories over the years . . . . Oh fergeddit.

MONEY, MONEY, MONEY

As the consequences of the "New Federalism", not called that ever since a Bush called it "voodoo economics", now take serious hold of the throats of State and local budgets everywhere, we are all looking at a period of severe budget cut-backs even as the unemployment rolls begin to rise again.  AC transit is set to ax 3 local bus lines on the Island and the City is looking to cut Police, Fire and Event Programs after letting go a plethora of teachers from the school district.  Oaktown is fairing a bit worse with Police, Fire, School and Mental Health programs on the chopping block even as the Fire Season gears up and gangland crime swings on the uprise.  Cuts necessitating the full closure of City Hall on Fridays have hit the front page.

In the meantime, increased spending for Shrubb's Army of Bums has been increased. No WMD's have been found in Newark.  Or Osima Bin Lassie.  Or Saddam Huskydog.

THERE IS NO SPOON: YOU ARE THE SPOON

Just caught the next installment of the Matrix trilogy, starring Keanu Reeves, Carrie-Ann Moss and Lawrence Fishburne.  Hugo Weaving returns as the Agent, or should we say, Agents.  Without revealing anything let us just say its a hoot of a shoot-em up with extraordinary martial arts, eye-widening special effects, and Ms. Moss careering in a Ducati 995 the wrong way down an Oakland freeway while being shot at by vampires. The film is 2.5 hours long and feels like 15 minutes, so breathtaking and non-stop is the action.  No kidding.  Includes kung fu, sai-fu, sword fu, chucks fu, spear fu, gratuitous statue-bashing, vampire-fu, Carrie-Ann Moss Fu, semi-automatics going full bore while doing 60 per on pseudo-Interstate 80, gratuitous multiple car crashes, shot of the Island tunnel during a chase with gunfire, one breast, aardvarking among the machines, gratuitous orgiastic bump 'n grind dancing to drums and Harold Perrineau saying, "Oh, Neo?  He's doing that Superman thing again."  Joe Bob says, "Check it out."

Oh yeah, the Oracle returns and reveals Herself. So does the Spoon.

I'M GONNA WAIT UNTIL THE MIDNIGHT HOUR

A voice comes to one in the dark. Imagine.

It's quarter to, and all the Island is asleep in dreams.  Just got back from Kincaid's at Jack London Square.  Man, if Jack London could see it now, he would have such a reaction.  This place where he slung boxes aboard pallets to be loaded onto ships. Now a tourist attraction where casually dressed yuppies and Elders dine at fine restaurants where dives and cranes once stood. 

Well, the place smells a lot better than it did back then when Jack loaded pallets for the docks and then went to down a few at the tavern.

Now casual daytrippers pull out from the marina on 30 footers to sail around Alcatraz and take in the sights before dining in splendor before ceiling to wall windows.   What a world has changed.

Now, it's past the witching hour and here it comes: The long wind of the midnight train, winding its way through the darkness with a red eye, and  a long wail, as if some keening for the dead comes echoing far across the flatlands and the dark and the scrub among the industrial waste.

This has been my Company for 45 years and why should it stop now?  For I do it all for Company.  "A voice comes to one in the dark. Imagine."  I had only a brief conversation with the initiator of that Voice, but no matter.  Less matter. Lost chances.  Now Nothing.  He is  gone.  In his old tramping rags meandering the trails outside of Paris no more.  Now perhaps singing praises with some section of the blest at last.  The train howl dwindles in the distance. Everything oozes to a full stop.

Now the fable too.  The fable of one with you in the dark.  The Fable of one fabling of one with you in the dark.  And how better in the end labor lost and silence. And you as you always were. . ..

It's half past midnight now and we are into a new one. Another impossible day.  That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great week. 

JUNE 1, 2003

HERE COMES THE SUN, LITTLE DARLIN'

Brilliant sunlight finally saved the last day of the long Memorial Day Weekend, resulting in numerous successful BBQ's on the Island.  We had our own and many peoples gathered from far and wide, even from far off Livermore, to come and partake of mead and good things to eat.  And there was jolliment and and laughter on the Island and all sorts of merriment and jumping up and down and BBQ and spitting of cherry pits at one another.

JUST SAY NO

Oh what will those wacky X-ians do next!  Seems a number of parents are up 'n arms about a group that's been handing out christian-version bibles to schoolchildren at bus stops and the front doors of the local middle schools.  On this island, which probably has more churches per square mile than Ireland and Italy combined, the most recent flap about proselytizing is particularly ironic, however it must be remembered that our churches cover the gamut of everything from catholics, protestants, baptists, jews, moslems, wiccans, mormons, and hebephrenics -- just about every stripe of jesus-follower there is and then some, plus a few Satanists and Santaria worshippers.  Stay tuned for details.

 LA BELLA MUSICA

Jesus don't want me for a sunbeam.  But the month of June does shine with marvelous musical developments from Knocti Harbor down to Santa Cruz. 

Slims, in Babylon, hosts Cheap Chick, all female tribute to punkers Cheap Trick,  June 5.  We can remember the Cheap Trick Guitarist standing up on the monitor in the massive Hampton Roads Coliseum to play in 1978 and the years fade into yellow images of celluloid.

June 6-7 at the Great American Music Hall, Daniel Lanois.

At the Fillmore, punk love starts it up with the Buzzcocks on the 8th of June, followed by the very gothic Cramps.  Tracy Chapman brings some very fine guitar work June 13-14 for both Friday and Saturday and personal faves, Lifehouse wind up quite a weekend on Sunday. Hootie and the Blowfish have been selling out everywhere they go, so they earned the unenviable Monday slot with openers Luce.  Yo La Tengo will burn the house down Wednesday and Thursday and the oddly named unknown band, "and you will know us by the trail of dead" takes over Sunday. Taj Mahal closes a fantastic month on the 27th. 

Not to be outdone, the Warfield starts up with Nick Cave and his Bad Seeds June 16-17.  Grand Master Lou Reed trundles his opera based on that wacky Virginian, Edgar Allen Poe, for a stay the 21st to the 22nd.  Local boys done good, Train, steamrolls into home for the 26th in support of there third CD release.

Last night the Hoity Toity split from the Hoi Polloi to wander between seven stages in downtown Babylon, sipping champagne and dining on foi de gras over duck's breath.  Imagine the Ruling Elite is still sleeping it off.

Personally, we got tix to see our favorite waif, Beck, at the Greek in Berzerkeley on the 22nd while the Significant Other has been so magnanimous as to allow me to see and hear my old undergrad schweet-heart, Patti Smith.

Oh, I know what you are thinking, but let me tell you this.  Not for me those cashmere girls named Muffy and Violet, who are always "saving it" and who dot their i's with little hearts, who wore buckle shoes and bobby socks without irony and who eventually settled down with accountants and insurance salesmen. 

No.  Give me once again those wild nights careening in an open top BMW driven by a maniacal Christine from Jersey while the radio blasts "25th Floor", scattering sorority dates and debutantes in fear and loathing on both sides of the road.  Friend of Robert Mapplethorp, photographed for album covers wearing "beater" t-shirts inside out with unshaven arm raised high over over her tangled mane which had not seen a comb since release from detox two years previously, ah, that was the girl for me.  No one else could shout in the middle of rock and roll song, "Go, go go! Go Rambaud!" or sing quite so delightfully about "pissing in a river."  Given a personal audience on a visit to Rome with Pope John Paul, she then composed a marvelously sweet song to the holy man, called "Wave".   Am looking forward to a rare evening of poetry and music on the 17th at the Fillmore.

Finally we have the Russian River Blues Festival in Guernville - June 28-29.  First day has Etta James, Susan Tedeschi, Zigaboo Modaliste from New Orleans, Dr. Loco and the Rockin Jalapeno Band.  Second day has Robert Cray, Dan Hicks and Lonnie Brooks.  Ah do believe this may be worth a visit.

ISLAND LIFE GETS RADICAL

A friend has compiled quite a website of antiestablishmentarianism, and herewith we helpfully supply copies of artwork from the abbiehoffmanbrigade.com webpage. 

Poor old George. All he has been through, he does not deserve the present crisis.  Crumbled as he is.

NEWS UPDATE

Eugene Shrubb, who has invaded Newark with an army of bums, has failed to find any evidence of Weapons of Mass Destruction, or of the presence of Osama Bin Lassie, the notorious Terrierist.   This has not caused a hitch in the pronouncements from his press secretary, Ari bin Fleishmann, a respectable butcher of local origin.  In response to numerous and troublesome inquiries as to the justification for Shrubb's invasion of Newark, Ari has published the following photograph, clearly indicating the President's sentimental and honest origins as well as his well-defined family origins.  

We hope this lays the entire matter of the relationship between the current regime and family values to rest, for once and for all.

In other news, Eric Rudolph, responsible for bombing the Olympic Games in 1996 as well as several other bombs that killed and injured several hundred other Americans, was finally apprehended while raiding a dumpster in South Carolina, where locals had sheltered the murderer as one of their own.  Rudolph, a well-diagnosed psychopath, was regarded by locals as a "bonne comarade" and "one of our own".  Many, who consider South Carolina as a basically psychopathic community deserving of ostracism from the world, felt this entire event was emblematic. 

Any comparisons between Eric Rudolph and the Butcher of Lyon are purely speculative.  As are relations between Georgie Bush and AH.  Hey, George Bush ain't so bad: he loves ballroom dancingk (sic).

Oh its Springtime in Washington

for Bushie

The Homeland is 'appy an' gay!

THAT NEFARIOUS TERRIER STILL AT LARGE

Officer O'Madhauen has been pulling cars over right and left for all sorts of minor infractions, even leaving pedestrians stranded in the crosswalks in pursuit of his duties to preserve the speed law and dubious traffic-control devices.  Clearly he is on the hunt for that elusive Osama Bin Lassie, as well as the arch nemesis Saddam Husky from Newark.  Now, Husky never did much of anything wrong other than bite a few mailmen on the leg, however he is still wanted for harboring millions of WMD (Wet Mutt Doo-doo).  Critics have indicated that all of Newark has been overrun by now and that millions of WMD would surely have made its presence known by now as the weather has turned quite warm and these things are known to stink to high heaven.  Undeterred, Eugene Shrubb has indicated that the real reason they have invaded Newark was to free the Newark People.

As a public service we reprint a photograph of Osama Bin Lassie here.

If you see this infamous terrierist, do not attempt to apprehend him yourself.  He is known to be armed and dangerous and an expert at the Stealth Turn maneuver.  Notify the authorities and get out of the way. 

As the sun sinks slowly in the west over the Island behind the palm trees . . . oh fergeddit.  Just have a nice week.

 

 

MAY 22, 2003

MSSR. SOLEIL

Days have been gloomy with high fog out to the Altamont Pass, and here in the middle of this Marmorial Day Tallowscoop weekend, the misty cool threatens many a BBQ and all sorts of outdoor activities.  Time to check out the newly released Matrix Reloaded movie in a nice warm theatre.

DER SPEISEKAMMER

The Significant Other and I reunited for a meal at the local Biergarten on the Island.  The Speisekammer has a large entrance foyer backed by the bar and stools for those looking to dine right at the taps as well as a couple tables for the overflow from the main hall.  A hardwood bench rings the main hall with rustic sort of wooden tables and the occasional throw pillow to soften the load.  A second hall featuring a stone fireplace contains more elegant tables for four but this area was closed when we arrived.

The menu featured predominately Bavarian-style dishes, with the usual Sauerbraten, Schnitzel, sausages, and the ubiquitous southern side of Spaetzel to go with everything.  We started off with an appetizer of cured salmon on a bed of sour cream and horseradish, set in turn upon a flaky square of pastry and adorned with sprigs of fresh dill.  This was quite good, although we would have appreciated the drinks to have been served beforehand.  They were out of the featured venison medallions, so I ordered a venison osso bucco -- on a bed of Spaetzel -- and the Significant Other ordered a vegetarian dish that consisted of goat cheese, red peppers and spinach wrapped in that flaky pastry often found in strudels. Her dish arrived in a lake of orange carrot sauce that both of us agreed was more colorful than filled with flavor.  She added horseradish which spiced things up a bit reasonably well.  The stuffed pastry was quite good however, and could have used some other complement other than the bland carrot sauce.

The osso bucco was tender and the meat came away readily from the bone, which contained a savory marrow.  Spaetzel is Spaetzel of course, but the brown mushroom/orange sauce was just a bit salty to taste and tended to overwhelm the venison.

The restaurant has gotten rave reviews with a "priceworthy" mark, which might pertain to lunch or breakfast, but certainly not to the $57 tag we experienced for two entrees, a beer and a Stoli martini.  We were surprised to see some notable absences from the menu, including rabbit, more sausages, and a few other items.  In general, the place is a fairly accurate representation of a typical south German eatery in terms of atmosphere and with the assortment of beers and liquours, but in terms of value, we would have to give it a thumbs down.  Guenstig ist er nit.

OUR HOUSE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE BLOCK

The shenanigans of Spring unrolled  last week as We discovered several of our people up on the roof with fishing pole and verve.  Seems one of our People has taken to flying his kite up there as a means of after-work relaxation, and had managed to hook his favorite B-2 bomber in the branches of an 80 foot Sequoia that has been slowly dying in the neighbor's backyard.

Undaunted, our Fellow attempted to free the kite by sending up another so as to tangle the lines and yank it loose, but only managed to get this one stuck as well -- on the opposite side of the building.  Ingeniously, someone suggested tying a stone to some line and practicing a bit of casting.  Well, this idea was more entertaining than practical and as others up on the roof, each had his and her own suggestion to make.  Somehow the entire enterprise developed a sort of flair that we imagined was characteristic of the French, and so much bastardized gallicism was bandied about.  Alors!  Fait comme l'avion! Comme l'oiseux!.  Ah non!  Ah zut alors!  Eventually, we managed to free kite number two, but the wind had died about this time and no amount of coaxing could get the old boy aloft. 

It was a metaphor for Middle Age, it was.

As the end of the day we all descended as darkness fell upon the dying Sequoia with its captive still aloft.  Le cerf-volant refuse categoriquement tomber à les arbres. 

CRIME WAVE ON THE ISLAND

The Island Gerbil reported last week that a woman was cited for "indecent exposure" when a member of the Island Dogwalker's Association, out for a stroll with her Fifi, called in a report when she noticed two men and the woman engaged in a photoshoot for a swimwear ad.  Ms. Bluhair-Huffington was reported to be absolutely "outraged" at the lack of decency which has increased ever since the development of the two-piece bathing suit.

Just wait until Thanksgiving, my pretty.

JUST A SIMPLE LINE TO OCCUPY MY TIME

Sincere consolations go out to the owner of the once stately mansion at 1011 Grand Street, which held original works by Picasso, Matisse and many other greats as well as a priceless store of one-of-a-kind antiques and sculptures -- all destroyed by fire two weeks ago.  Rescued from the front porch was a 120 year old model of the first America's Cup sailboat winner.  The loss is incalculable.

Also missed is the famed Cunha's General Store, built in the mid 1800's and something of a local landmark.  The country store was one of the few remaining operations still owned by the original family on the west coast.  It was totally destroyed last week in a massive blaze that pulled two dozen firetrucks from five neighboring cities to the site on Half Moon Bay.  One could buy groceries, wind-up watches, cast-iron pots, oil lamps, washboards, long underwear, local fish catch and even the occasional venison, wild boar and wild turkey supplied from local hunters who live in the town of some 8,000.

An attorney from Burlingame, Mr. Joe Cotchett, has purchased the location and plans on rebuilding as soon as possible.  "It'll be there another one hundred years," he said.

LET'S DO THE STEALTH TURN AGAIN

The local  Non Compos Mentis chapter of the National Association for the Directionally Confused and Traffic Enfeebled will be holding a special Seminar on Perfection of the Stealth Turn.  Seems some of your have been forgetting yourselves, and indicating your intended change of direction from the correct lane.  Now everybody knows, who needs turn signals when you can drive a small truck!  Of course we have noticed many of you practicing out there, turning left from the right-hand lane, signaling to go left or right before barreling straight ahead, leaping across four lanes of traffic to take an exit, changing your mind in the middle of a turn to go straight or even turn 180 degrees to the other side of the street with a great deal of pleasure.  We even noticed one clever tactic in which a particularly deft lady slammed into reverse, backed into the right-hand lane and then turned left, after flashing her turn signals alternatively to go left and right.

Now that is initiative.

So, all of you dour sourpusses driving half-tons, lets see a bit more creativity from you!  None of this mealy-mouthed wandering slowly across the lanes to casually negotiate a turn as a sort of afterthought.  Let's see some bold U-turns across the median in the middle of 880.  The result will surely be spectacular and we'll all really appreciate the results.

THIS ISLAND LIFE

We are looking at another round of BBQ on this extended holiday. Even Eugene Shrubb and his army of bums have taken a rest from their Occupation of Newark (see April 27).  For its a lazy weekend by the Bay and there's all sorts of kite-flying, backyard grilling, happy jumping up and down this Memorial Day.  Even took a wander out to the USS Hornet  to think about them memorialized.  Thankee fellers.  For reminding us that War is not a fun thing and it does have its consequences. 

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

 

MAY 18, 2003

HERE COMES THE SUN, LITTLE DARLIN'

This weekend the weather finally moved into mellow California mode and the populace took to the beaches and the parks en masse.  After months of cold -- well, cold for California -- and tons of rain, courtesy of El Nino, we finally got to have Spring.  The freesias are busting out all over, the gardenias are exploding with such vehemence that our Italian neighbor, treading on a few, commented, "Ah well, they'll reseed. So what!  Enjoy the others!"

The splendid weather happened just in time for the Annual Bay to Breakers, um, Extravaganza.  Race is not exactly an accurate term for this walkathon that moves at stroller's pace from one end of the City to the other. Heard that of all the colorful costumes this year, the Naked Legion's au naturale display won hands over, well, whatever.

Down the street, Pagano's Hardware has been selling gas-fired BBQ grills by the container load.  Seems the Island is firing up for a bit of backyard entertainment this year. 

Also wish to report that the Island Ice Cream truck, a vehicle out of somebody's past beyond mine, continues to ply its trade in the vicinity. The Island, a place where children actually play in the streets and where an Elk's lodge continues to hold an annual pancake breakfast, and where the Annual Mayor's Parade remains a key Event in the City Calendar, is a shining artifact from some ideal Past of someplace that maybe never existed but surely exists now in all its multiculti splendor.

BORN TO BE WILD

Hearty congrats to Josh, neighbor and fellow Islander, for taking second place out of a field of hundreds in the first of the Corba Mountain Bike races, held this weekend at Big Bear in Southern California.  Josh headed on down with loyal mate and noted Animal Shelter volunteer, Julee -- who whipped up several meals for about twenty team-mates and hangers-on at short notice.  The CORBA races have international recognition and the presence of teams from Norway, Sweden and parts of the Central and South Americas competed for qualifying times to participate in the next five events.  Josh manages a Starbucks on the Island when not launching himself up hills that most of us find difficult to ascend by walking, let alone by single-speed bicycle.  Another piece of evidence pointing toward Island excellence.

MIDNIGHT IN THE SWITCHING YARD

Now is the witching hour when skull-ghosts scream and bats dodge in aerial combat around the lanterns.  After a nice meal with neighbors at La Pinata's, though, one just wants to sit back and let the frijoles settle.  Who cares about the ghouls right now -- go away ya gibbering idiot and get a tan or something. Leave me alone to digest.  And there it comes, wavering across the flatlands from the old cannery: the midnight train blowing that horn like some sweet sound of Satchmo or Bird calling out a riff in blue and black. Not all midnight sounds are scary.  Some can sooth your soul better than, well almost better than, that sweet honey in the rock joyful sound that you know so well, that butterscotch smooth gospel sound full of hope and praise and longing for that other world where peace, truth, beauty and justice are the norm.  It might help to make a fellow feel a little less lonely, hearing that sound, knowing that all along both sides of the Bay, from the great salt-flats of Palo Alto up along the marshes of Fremont, the circular logic of Foster City, the zig of Newark, the zag of Burlingame, the docks of Oaktown, the contested shores of airport frontage in South City and all of its acres of factories and warehouses up to Babylon itself and north to Richmond's refineries even to the shores of the Sharkland -- Tiburon -- and Marin with its infamous State Prison, all along these waterways some stranger looks up from sewing needle or swing shift work or book to hear that same sound, knowing that everyone else who is awake hears that sound too and it cannot be denied. 

That's the way it is on the Island.  Sleep well and have a great week.

MAY 11, 2003

THE LANDSLIDE BROUGHT IT DOWN

As that lovely song, written by Stevie Nicks for one of her parents, wafts through the air, lets all take pause in the hurley burley and all self-important bother to recognize that Special Someone who got you where you are today.  Vanna, the envelope please.  Ahem.  Ladies and Gentlemens of the Academy, I am proud to announce this year's winner of That Special Someone Award is . . . (drums, bated breath, tension, silence)

Mother!

Now I know this column tends to the sardonic and dark-humored from time to time, but for the space of the time it takes to read this, please will you sit back and give some consideration and accolades to that special lady who cobbled you together, wiped your nose, fed you, clothed you, and kicked your butt when you needed it while offering the gift of the goddess, that warm and secure place to come to.  Even you Eminem.  Well, maybe not Eminem, for not everybody gets so lucky, but that's all the more reason to appreciate your special Mom.  And if you be orphan, well then, consider the Great Mother over all of us, Gaia -- or Mother Earth if you will, for who else bears us up, carries us safely through cold and asteroid-laden space, feeds us, keeps us company with all kinds of living things and makes the corn grow?  When it all comes down to it, there is no way you can come up with anything bad to say about Motherhood in general. 

As George Carlin used to say, "We had every kind of take-down and insult known to man that we used on each other, but there was one subject that remained verboten and often the call would come up, 'Hey man, no mothers man!  You don't talk down no mothers here!"

(Curtain closes as She takes bows, arms gathered about bouquets of roses.  Confetti falling.  Applause and fade out.)

A FINE WEEKEND

This Muthuhs Day weekend a number of activities took place to delight the Hoi Palloi.  Over in Babylon, the annual KFOG KaBOOM! went off smashingly well by report with Susan Tedeschi, "newgrass" pioneers Nickelcreek, Keller Williams, and Steve Winwood delighting the huge crowds that turned out for food, music and the most spectacular fireworks display in California.  Steve Winwood has been performing since age 15, giving him a respectable 30-year music career highlighted by his stint with the jazz-rock group Traffic. Heard a track of him doing "He's My Man (and I love you so)"  last night that really rocks and seems destined for next year's Live from the Archives #10.

Catching the wave of good weather, the first Island Spring Faire took over Park Street for two days running and there was all sorts of tchotchkes for sale, BBQ chicken on a stick, and tacos at the marvelous and very rare price of $1 each.  Noticed only one single, solitary, and sometimes silent music stage however and a singular lack of balloons, face-painting and DIY crafts, so hey, what's up with that?  Howzabout a little glitter on the empty storefront windows next time fellas.

"I  AM DOLL PARTS . . ."

Took in the new traveling production from the Canadian company that calls itself Ex Machina, produced in collaboration with Cabildo Insular de Tenerife, UC Berkeley, UC Davis, UCLA, Wiener Festwochen of Austria, the Theatre de Quat'Sous of Montreal, and Pilar de Yzaguirre of Madrid, Spain.  The play was an original work call La Casa Azul by Sophie Faucher, who also performed the lead role of Mexican painter Frida Kahlo. Director Robert Lepage provided innovative staging and stylized visuals to exhume layers of meaning from the text, drawn largely from Kahlo's own writings.

Frida Kahlo, subject of a recent movie starring Selma Hayek, lived the sort of white-knuckled artist-in-pain existence upon a life-canvas slathered with such violent broad strokes as to give any prospective wannabe artist the blue-horrors just thinking about it, and the sort of mythic scope as to inspire a legion of "Frida-maniacs" for the next half century, including one group of "Kahloists" that worships Frida as the One True God. Where other artists claimed, sanctimoniously,  to "suffer for their art" or derive "art from pain," Kahlo had them all beat in the pain department hands down.  Nobody but nobody wants to compete with what she went through, creating this eternal "art from pain schtick that just will not go away, no matter how much reasonable living enters into the picture.  Which is unfortunate, as the lady could actually paint well.

Briefly: Frida survived an early childhood polio attack that withered one of her legs (not mentioned in the play) and then, at age 18 survived an horrific tram accident in which her pelvis was crushed, her leg broken in seven places, and her spine in three.  A handgrip bar impaled her through the abdomen, emerging through her vagina and, thus impaled, she held on for about six hours before rescue.  Not expected to survive, she was placed in a full-body cast after being freed and so taught herself to paint with a kit supplied by her mother while in the hospital.

In 30 subsequent operations upon her legs and spine, she entered into a world of eternal pain without end. Eventually one of her legs -- the polio-stricken one -- was amputated below the knee.  Despite these obvious problems, the always scrappy and tomboyish Frida cultivated a flamboyant and life-loving lifestyle, well-fueled with demerol and liquor, that featured passionate affairs with numerous men and women, including a notable marriage to the internationally famous Diego Riviera and to one Russian in Exile -- Leon Trotsky.

"I suffered two grave accidents in my life. One in which a streetcar knocked
me down.....The other accident is Diego."

The extent of carnage inflicted on her body would have shoved just about anybody into a sanitarium, but she continued up to her death in 1953 to produce a series of vibrant self-portraits as well as a handful of gory surrealist curiosities.

Usually she is treated as "Suffering Artist Wronged by Everybody".  This has led to the further victimization of the woman by every special-interest group with a grudge from here to Seville.  While the Art part has often been overlooked in favor of the Cult of Personality so well known here.  In truth, Frida minimized her efforts in painting self-portraits, preferring the notoriety of the Personality Cult as her avenue to fame.  Her peasant dresses and bright scarves were more intended as calculated diversions to hide her withered leg and her operation scars than any addition to the native Mexican aspect of her painting.

Nevertheless, as portrayed in the play, and as realized in real life, Frida Kahlo did possess genuine talent and her work does contribute significantly to the history of western art.  Likewise, her paintings, rooted in 19th-century Mexican portraiture, ingeniously incorporated elements of Mexican pop culture and pre-Columbian primitivism that, in the 1930s, had never been done before. Frida Kahlo, in this area, was the first. Usually small, intimate paintings that contrasted with the grand mural tradition of her time, her work was often done on sheet metal rather than canvas, in the style of Mexican street artists who painted retablos, or small votive paintings that offer thanks to the Virgin Mary or a saint for a miraculous deliverance from misfortune.

Nevertheless, the Cult of Personality grinds on long after the artist's death.  And in the case of female artists, the result is the sad switch of the Woman as Author to Female as Subject once again.  In this reversal, the Female becomes the Object, not any different from a 4-color spread in Playboy or Penthouse.  And in this sad switch the feminists take such a gleeful part, portraying Frida as Victim, instead of highlighting the value of the woman's work, which Frida valued above all else, as she stated in her Diaries.

"My painting carries with it the message of pain.....Painting completed my
life.....I believe that work is the best thing."

The play works as a simplification of ideas to stark visuals and the translation of the events and facts into a dialogue between the Frida character and a figure that has accompanied her lifelong and only realized in the last year of her life as the Figure of Death.  In the production, when Frida realizes this life-long discussion has been a kind of courting by Death, which she has desired with equal measure to Life, the stage became intense with vibrant antagonism.  In a punk moment, Frida shouts through a mirror frame at the figure of death, a bald-shaven and enigmatic Lise Roy,  Oh fuck you Death! Just fuck you!  Fuck you!" It was a moment entirely in keeping with the earthy product of an Hungarian Jew and a Mexican-Indio as well as a great moment of theatre. Who else could say such a thing to Death so convincingly and be in such character?  It was also the production's high point, other than the introductory description of the primary colors and their basic correlatives in terms of emotional states. 

There were some additional high points, in which the scrim, behind which all action took place, variously hosted video, fresco projections and animated works in progress, and in which lighting projections filled a bathtub with smoke or blood, evoking the famous painting of Marat's murder while simultaneously presenting the events of the streetcar, however the best moments took place with simple, old fashioned dramaturgy and use of physical props.    A nice scene evolved when Lise, portraying Leon Trotsky, removes the moustache and beard and glasses and toupe, applying them to the sugar skull given Trotsky during the annual El Dia de los Muertes, while becoming in the same process -- once again -- the figure of Death.

It is interesting to note, that not mentioned in the play, Frida repudiated her affair with Trotsky in favor of her lifelong attachment to the figure of Joseph Stalin, whom she continued to extol long after it was commonly known that he had casually murdered millions of people.

The play is not, ultimately about the "real" Frida Kahlo, but a take off from factual events into a place where the human spirit contends against an all destroying power and needs to be seen as such to be appreciated.  Real people are far too thorny and conflicted to be used as convenient symbols or predictable characters for theatre.  Critics have stated that actress Selma Hayek looks "too pretty" to represent the real Frida with her scars and deformities.  Well, that is the nature of film these days in what it does.    To some extent, that is also what happened to this production, which became the presentation of an Ideal Frida that is not "real", so as to present this conflict between the death and promised release that is longed for and the urge to fill all that is with the color of life. 

If the dynamism of this conflict is Frida's legacy, then it is a worthy legacy indeed, and transcends as such all the pain that went before.  Rather than think about an innocent lamb led to slaughter time and again, I would rather consider the fiery rebel shouting in face of Death, "Oh fuck you Death!  Just fuck you! Fuck you!"

Perhaps the most meek of us should take heed to this: What is remembered is the defiance, and not the surrender.

THE WITCHING HOUR AGAIN

Across the flatlands of the Island comes the howl of the midnight train.  On the stereo Ani Di Franco's band is "Reckoning" with jazz horns.  Segue into Beck's Mutations.  All across the Island sleepy eyes are sleeping. Except I am not sleeping.  Not fade away.  Except the sound of the train sound at the crossroads now fading across the flatlands.  If you know I could / You know I would / Let it go. And let it fade away. /  I'm not sleeping. . . ".

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

 

MAY 4, 2003

LIKE THE WEATHER

El Nino continues to send lashings of rain under these globally warmed skies.  This past week everyone has had the terminal "sleepies" with people staying embedded in dozing traumerei while the skies boil overhead.  One day, however, "these sleepers will awake and flee to another America."   Ah, Genet, today our sleepers dream the miracle of the rose over and over, but there is no end to this new Occupation. 

Meanwhile, the rain falls steadily upon the great salt flats of Palo Alto, the alluvial marshes of the Bay and circular streets of the Industrial Park of Foster City.  The rain sluices among the stars of Brisbane and pings upon the roofs of the dingy factory sheds of South City.  It washes the gravel pits that scar the insulted side of the San Bruno Mountain where foxes once hunted among the long gone ferz.  Over the sea-washed and fog-shrouded Pacifica the rain mists down, bridging effortlessly the long wind of 101 along the cliffs to the ticky-tack of pastel Daley City clapboard and pseudo-adobe concrete walls.  Over sleepy Babylon the rain washes indiscriminately the grubby houses of the Sunset as well as the glittering chandelier-lit palaces of Pacific Heights, of Glen Park and the Richmond.  Without paying toll, the rain marches north to the well-matriculated hills of Marin as well as the industrial wastelands of the Port of Oaktown and its warehouses, body shops and methamphetamine factories., now silent beneath the same susurration of constant rain.  Onward to the massif of the Altamont Pass marches this rain, hushing all in its path, bringing all under its dominion, a kinder and gentler Empire than the one that it now brushes with washes of grey. 

The rain falls endlessly through the universe, bringing together all, the Bear flagger and the Native Species Defender and the Shrill Radical as well as the Stolid and Loudmouthed Republican.

MUSIC UPDATE

Jimmie Vaughan delivers Blues you can use with John Mayall May 20 at the newly reopened Avalon Ballroom.  Same night sees Gillian Welch at the Palace of Fine Arts Theatre.  Michelle Shocked lights the campfire at the Fillmore on May 9.  We have always had a soft spot reserved for Michelle, ever since she threw over the rock 'n roll in favor of making music -- what a concept.  She's come a long way, she's come a long way, she's gone 500 miles today . . .".  Bet she has left LA by now.

Everclear  follows up May 10 and Charlie Hunter smoothes out the vibes with le jazz hot May 16.  But we are saving ourselves for our dear high school shweet heart, the ever lovely and thoroughly punk Patti Smith on June 17, unshaven pits and all.  June 13 sees Tracy Chapman telling stories in the same venue.

At the Warfield, Trey Anastasio comes back from a daddy-break May 31, ready to jam and jam and jam some more.  Nick Cave sows his Bad Seeds June 16-17 for you depressed bad boys out there.  Just come that greasy ducktail just right for Nick and wear black.  No stranger to bad behaviour, Lou Reed takes over June 21-22 in a literary vein, pushing his latest project: an operatic opus focused upon the work of that famous bad boy Virginian, Edgar Allen Poe.

Just picked up -- belatedly -- Buddy Guy's "Sweet Tea", wherein he went down to Oxford MS, to work over the Old School with some local boys who had to have been tickled black and blue to sit in with the man who showed the Rolling Stones how to do it some 40 years ago.  Gotta say the disk rocks.  Word is the latest project from 65 year old Mr. Guy is a really sweet all acoustic disk due out July 3rd.   I am on Amazon.com's "notify list" for that one, my friends.

Too late to warn you: Extreme Elvis did the Stork Club on the 3rd.  Apologies to anyone who got bodily fluids on their party clothes that night.  EE is a concept devised by a perverted and somewhat demented guy who postulates what Elvis would be like today had he lived and continued to push the envelope -- past the Rolling Stones, the Sex Pistols, all of punk rock and beyond even Marilyn Manson (shudder!).

The one thing we can be grateful for: his kind of madness does not commit itself well to CD or vinyl.

Down, down on the docks of the City -- what's left of them -- KFOG's annual Kaboom celebration holds forth next weekend with tons of food and music and the most exciting fireworks display known to man -- supposedly inspired by a mysterious UFO visit to the technical engineer.  Highlighters will be that phreaker by the speaker guy, the extraordinary Susan Tedeschi -- who beats the pants off of that wimpy Grammy-winner, Nora Jones,  in every category including talent, skill, and pure chutzpah -- and Steve Winwood, he of Traffic fame. 

Big Names, Pearl Jam and Coldplay open June at the Shoreline, the huge outdoor venue in the East Bay.  Big crowds and open spaces are an unwelcome mix for us so be sure to see us check in to the Beck show at the intimate Greek in Berzerkeley June 22.  Tix are a hefty $40 per, so "flip your finger at the rock 'n rock singer / as he dances upon your paycheck."  Still, it's nice to see the waif we followed from age 18 has done well.

THAT NEW YORK KIND OF FEELING

This is a report from a correspondent from the Big Apple. Not a word has been altered.

Patriot Raid
Jason Halperin
Saturday 03 May 2003

"A month ago I experienced a very small taste of what hundreds of South Asian immigrants and U.S. citizens of South Asian descent have gone through since 9/11, and what thousands of others have come to fear. I was held, against my will and without warrant or cause, under the USA PATRIOT Act. While I understand the need for some measure of security and precaution in times such as these, the manner in which this detention and interrogation took place raises serious questions about police tactics and the safeguarding of civil liberties in times of war.

That night, March 20th, my roommate Asher and I were on our way to see the Broadway show "Rent." We had an hour to spare before curtain time so we stopped into an Indian restaurant just off of Times Square in the heart of midtown. I have omitted the name of the restaurant so as not to subject the owners to any further harassment or humiliation.

We helped ourselves to the buffet and then sat down to begin eating our dinner. I was just about to tell Asher how I'd eaten there before and how delicious the vegetable curry was, but I never got a chance. All of a sudden, there was a terrible commotion and five NYPD in bulletproof vests stormed down the stairs. They had their guns drawn and were pointing them indiscriminately at the restaurant staff and at us.

"Go to the back, go to the back of the restaurant," they yelled.

I hesitated, lost in my own panic.

"Did you not hear me, go to the back and sit down," they demanded.

I complied and looked around at the other patrons. There were eight men including the waiter, all of South Asian descent and ranging in age from late-teens to senior citizen. One of the policemen pointed his gun point-blank in the face of the waiter and shouted: "Is there anyone else in the restaurant?" The waiter, terrified, gestured to the kitchen.

The police placed their fingers on the triggers of their guns and kicked open the kitchen doors. Shouts emanated from the kitchen and a few seconds later five Hispanic men were made to crawl out on their hands and knees, guns pointed at them.

After patting us all down, the five officers seated us at two tables. As they continued to kick open doors to closets and bathrooms with their fingers glued to their triggers, no less than ten officers in suits emerged from the stairwell. Most of them sat in the back of the restaurant typing on their laptop computers. Two of them walked over to our table and identified themselves as officers of the INS and Homeland Security Department.

I explained that we were just eating dinner and asked why we were being held. We were told by the INS agent that we would be released once they had confirmation that we had no outstanding warrants and our immigration status was OK'd.

In pre-9/11 America, the legality of this would have been questionable. After all, the Fourth Amendment to the Constitution states: "The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures, shall not be violated; and no warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause, supported by oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched and the persons or things to be seized."

"You have no right to hold us," Asher insisted.

"Yes, we have every right," responded one of the agents. "You are being held under the Patriot Act following suspicion under an internal Homeland Security investigation."

The USA PATRIOT Act was passed into law on October 26, 2001 in order to facilitate the post 9/11 crackdown on terrorism (the name is actually an acronym: "Uniting and Strengthening America by Providing Appropriate Tools Required to Intercept and Obstruct Terrorism Act.") Like most Americans, I did not recognize the extent to which this bill foregoes our civil liberties. Among the unprecedented rights it grants to the federal government are the right to wiretap without warrant, and the right to detain without warrant. As I quickly discovered, the right to an attorney has been seemingly fudged as well.

When I asked to speak to a lawyer, the INS official informed me that I do have the right to a lawyer but I would have to be brought down to the station and await security clearance before being granted one. When I asked how long that would take, he replied with a coy smile: "Maybe a day, maybe a week, maybe a month."

We insisted that we had every right to leave and were going to do so. One of the policemen walked over with his hand on his gun and taunted: "Go ahead and leave, just go ahead."

We remained seated. Our IDs were taken, and brought to the officers with laptops. I was questioned over the fact that my license was out of state, and asked if I had "something to hide." The police continued to hassle the kitchen workers, demanding licenses and dates of birth. One of the kitchen workers was shaking hysterically and kept providing the day's date -- March 20, 2003, over and over.

As I continued to press for legal counsel, a female officer who had been busy typing on her laptop in the front of the restaurant, walked over and put her finger in my face. "We are at war, we are at war and this is for your safety," she exclaimed. As she walked away from the table, she continued to repeat it to herself? "We are at war, we are at war. How can they not understand this."

I most certainly understand that we are at war. I also understand that the freedoms afforded to all of us in the Constitution were meant specifically for times like these. Our freedoms were carved out during times of strife by people who were facing brutal injustices, and were intended specifically so that this nation would behave differently in such times. If our freedoms crumble exactly when they are needed most, then they were really never freedoms at all.

After an hour and a half the INS agent walked back over and handed Asher and me our licenses. A policeman took us by the arm and escorted us out of the building. Before stepping out to the street, the INS agent apologized. He explained, in a low voice, that they did not think the two of us were in the restaurant. Several of the other patrons, though of South Asian descent, were in fact U.S. citizens. There were four taxi drivers, two students, one newspaper salesman -- unwitting customers, just like Asher and me. I doubt, though, they received any apologies from the INS or the Department of Homeland Security.

Nor have the over 600 people of South Asian descent currently being held without charge by the Federal government. Apparently, this type of treatment is acceptable. One of the taxi drivers, a U.S. citizen, spoke to me during the interrogation. "Please stop talking to them," he urged. "I have been through this before. Please do whatever they say. Please for our sake."

Three days later I phoned the restaurant to discover what happened. The owner was nervous and embarrassed and obviously did not want to talk about it. But I managed to ascertain that the whole thing had been one giant mistake. A mistake. Loaded guns pointed in faces, people made to crawl on their hands and knees, police officers clearly exacerbating a tense situation by kicking in doors, taunting, keeping their fingers on the trigger even after the situation was under control. A mistake. And, according to the ACLU a perfectly legal one, thanks to the Patriot Act.

The Patriot Act is just the first phase of the erosion of the Fourth Amendment. From the Justice Department has emerged a draft of the Domestic Securities Enhancement Act, also known as Patriot II. Among other things, this act would allow the Justice Department to detain anyone, anytime, secretly and indefinitely. It would also make it a crime to reveal the identity or even existence of such a detainee.

Every American citizen, whether they support the current war or not, should be alarmed by the speed and facility with which these changes to our fundamental rights are taking place. And all of those who thought that these laws would never affect them, who thought that the Patriot Act only applied to the guilty, should heed this story as a wake-up call. Please learn from my experience. We are all vulnerable so speak out and organize, our Fourth Amendment rights depend upon it."

After this, we would expect another "Night of Broken Crystal" and teams of thugs wearing brown shirts and black armbands.  For this is all too familiar.

LIFE IN WARTIME

Here on the Island, the latest flap has been the rebellion of the Island HS against the reinstatement of a retired F-16 Warbird upon the school lawn.  The plane, which flew sorties in Vietnam through the late 70's and early 80's was decommissioned and placed on the the school lawn while the Navy still maintained a large military base here.  The base itself was decommissioned and the property turned over to the City, loaded with soil contaminants and pools of murky and dubious liquids as it was.  The plane remained perched there on a post in front of the school admin building for years until its removal for a bout of seriously needed repairs against the effects of corrosive salt-air and Bay area industrial air-quality index.  Turns out that a bevy of parents and students rejected the return of the school mascot on account of its clear warlike nature. 

Of course there are always some who insist on Tradition, no matter how recent the past, and so the flap continues.

Anybody in need of an unwanted, decommissioned F-16?

Things have gotten so damned awful -- with every indication of things getting even worse -- such that the atmosphere here is turning to hilarity as a form of coping with the impossible.  After all, we still have to deal with the new public library here and what to do with the old building, as charming as it is, and as earthquake-susceptible  as it remains.  We still have the school system and the property taxes to deal with, besides all of these grander things.

There goes the midnight train, its horn echoing across the Buena Vista flats.  While Tuck and Patti play in the stereo background.  While Tuck's effortless fretboard work flow out and mingle with Patti's jazzy vocals: "Everybody dream / turn our dreams into reality  / Dream that peace Dream / Dream that healing Dream / Dream that justice Dream / of a Loving Dream / Dream of a Spirit Dream / Dream that Glory Dream /... Everybody dream / turn our dreams into realty . . ." .

One day our sleepers will wake and flee to another America.  One that is governed by peace, justice, truth and freedom.  Until then, in the night, let sorcery burrow in every direction, from thousands of senders to thousands of unsuspecting recipients. And this writer will continue to open windows into that other world where truth, justice and beauty are the norm.

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

 

APRIL 27, 2003

HERE COMES THE RAIN AGAIN, FALLING ON MY HEAD LIKE A MELODY

It's the witching hour and the rain is lashing down while the midnight train to Georgia goes howling on by far down by the old cannery. Shades of Humphrey Bogart slouching under a streetlamp. All the cats are huddled under porches and cars and the lo-riders are perched in front of tubes.  Even Officer O'Madhauen has stopped issuing spurious tickets to the unwitting, in favor of warm donut shops and coffee. All is quiet this rainy Sunday evening.

UN SAISON D'ENFER

Spent the last week on a business trip to the Imperial Valley -- what there is of it -- in a town called Calpatria, which is located about 15 miles from the Mexican border, about 200 feet below sea level, and no less than -2 miles from Hell.  This is a place featuring average daily temperatures of 135 degrees, miles of scraggly weed tufts embedded in sand, and an immense lake filled with water so caustic that it blisters the skin on contact.  The fish swimming in this murk have become so filled with poison that birds who eat them will die. The soil is crusty with alkali salts and nothing will grow in it without assistance.  The nearest movie theatre is 90 miles distant and the only entertainment consists of running up and down sand dunes.  Motion picture companies come there to film desert scenes, such as the one in "Star Wars," with the huge stilt-legged machines and the Jawas.  Work is work, they say, but the best part of the trip was turning left on the last day coming out of the parking lot.

Kiss the ground on our return to the Bay Area we did.

PICTURE A BRIGHT BLUE BALL SPINNING SPINNING FREE

Saturday bloomed most promisingly with gorgeous weather as the Island celebrated Earthday in typical Island fashion, with a fair and all sorts of dancing and jumping up and down over alternative energy sources that will reduce our dependence on terrorist fuels.  Go ahead you SUV driver: drop a few more pennies in the till for the likes of Osama yo' Mama next time you fill up.  Fill 'er up deep and good 'cause grenade launchers ain't cheap my friend.

Our roving reporters, they of the Greens, came back with blessings for the Department of Parks and Recreation who put together an excellent festival in honor, celebration, and preservation of our dear Mother. 

Mayor Beverly came out for a speech -- what politician can resist that -- and there were kids and families running about and a fine time was had by all.  You will notice in the photograph the slide and playset that featured so prominently in the Island Thanksgiving Day  Poodleshoot and BBQ a couple years ago.  The blue and tan memorial seen to the left of the speaker's podium  is a commemoration of those who fell on that day during the infamous Battle of the Bog.

INVASION UPDATE

Failing to discover any Weapons of Mass Destruction, or that nefarious character Osama Bin Lassie, Eugene has taken his army of bums in Newark to the outskirts of Hayward, where several hundred troopers armed with tear gas, riot batons, face shields, pellet shotguns and doberman-poodles persuaded Eugene that Hayward was not Syria-ous.  Eugene then turned back to wanton looting and pillaging of liqour stores in the name of freedom.  Rumor has it that the populace is getting restive, even as much as they enjoyed the paddling of the City Council in the nude and subsequent enforced performance of Swan Lake by all members -- none of whom is known to have even the slightest knowledge of the foxtrot, let alone classical ballet.

Many have called this institution of "freedom" at the point of the sterno can and the imposition of such an absurd congress as a total charade and a debasement of democracy as we know it.

Eugene Shrubb's chief advisor, Newt Green-Grinch has indicated that anyone who disagrees is anti-America and that settles that.  All is not well, however, within the Administration, for the Plate Department -- in charge of Pawn Shops and Quik Cash Outlets -- allowed that  a senior official declared over the evening round of MD 20/20 that Newt was, quote, "A goddamn idiot not worth listening to."  End quote.  Much is amiss between the Plate Department and the Executive Branch these days.

Meanwhile fires rage unchecked down Mission Boulevard and the looting continues unabated, as mentioned before.  As a measure of consolation and to indicate a bright spot in this otherwise dismal picture, Shrubb's Press Secretary, Ari Toad, indicated that the flow of decent ale has been restored to 90% of capacity and the hard liquor pipeline is once again flowing. 

Shrubb has indicated that the bums will leave "when stability is assured."  Whatever that means.

A red glow hovers over Newark tonight, despite the pouring rain. Stay tuned for updates.

FALLING LIKE A NEW EMOTION: IS IT RAINING WITH YOU?

The midnight train winds through the wet dark, far off like an old melody.   Somewhere a world away  our boys are learning hard lessons in politics and reality.  Each time a rocket grenade thumps on the outside of the turret, the gunner wonders, "This time it held. How many more?"  In another country, supposedly freed some time ago, vicious firefights claim another American boy's life.  Along the ridgeline of the Sierra, the treecutters sharpen their axes, looking forward to another Gold Rush in the form of a massive cut of trees along the Sierra foothills.  And yet another Great Marysville Flood as a consequence.  A dream of disaster to hold in check rebellious California. And that is what they want: a California held in check by Disaster.

Meanwhile the rain falls as it always has.  It falls down on the roofs and turrets of the Island, upon the ribbons of the estuary, upon the Oaktown hills once forested with sequoia,  upon the sweet headlands of Marin and down to the salt flats of Palo Alto along the swerve of shore and bend of bay to Hercules and the biker bars of Martinez and the boxing gyms of Stockton and even to the parched fields of the Great Valley that extends for four hundred miles to the Tehachipi Pass.  Softly it falls, swooning slowly through the universe, the rain such a beautiful rain.

Such a beautiful rain

Such a beautiful rain

I'm an alien

You're an alien

Such a beautiful rain

Such a beautiful rain

                                                                        Gavin Rossdale, Bush

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

 

APRIL 20, 2003

THE MADMAN OF LINCOLN STREET STRIKES AGAIN

Harlan has been at it with brush and paper again.  For a time the cryptic message "REMEMBER ME" showed up on the artwall he has been maintaining for some fifteen years or more.  Today we saw the following sign with the word "old" obviously scratched out above the rest.

 

NEW

IRONSIDES

Harlan has been posting these signs for uncounted years on the side of his house facing the main artery that cuts lengthwise through the Island. Typically they are painted or applied with magic marker on plain butcher-block paper which is then affixed to a picket fence about his yard.  His signs almost never make any discernable sense and for this we grant him much honor.

YOUR EASTER BONNET WITH AN EGG UPON IT

Took a gander this morning at a six-foot tall rabbit riding a BMW convertible -- top down -- with a dubious carrot streaming green cellophane down Lincoln way this morning. Went back inside and poured myself another stiff one even though it was ten o'clock in the morning.  The rabbit waved to all and passed on to whatever rabbit hole these creatures venture down.  There was no Alice and I do not know if his name was Harvey, but I will go and ask the door-mouse presently,  I don't remember what he said, but I think he'll