Island Life 2004 Jan. - June
Welcome to the Year 2004. This Page covers the 1st half of Year 2004 so as to easier page loading. To return to the present time, click on the image of the boats above.
For July to December of 2004, go HERE.
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JANUARY 4, 2004
HELLO, IS ANYBODY OUT THERE?
Got the Putamayo World Music Hour on the radio for this first entry of the new year; theme is, appropriately, Peace on Earth for the New Year. For you newcomers, this space is updated every week, more or less promptly, each Sunday evening. This year marks the sixth full year for this enterprise, which began as a kind of HTML exercise at the end of 1998.
We are a loose consortium of artists and musicians, scattered around the globe; everyone is free to contribute items which are filtered through the Editor and presented with a unified Voice to maintain consistency.
According to the stats, about 8,600 individuals visited the Island Life site and spent more than 800 seconds here. The vast majority of you spent time in the Backpain area and the next majority spent time in the Camping section. Go figure.
Seems about 22 of you visited each day to check things out, with larger numbers checking in on the holidays and weekends, making the numbers really crazy at about 450 visits on the Holidays. Go figure.
A friend recently gave us a copy of Neal Stephenson's newest, and we look forward to tangos among the numismatics. The rest of you can go figure.
I HAVE MY SHIP AND MUSIC IS HER NAME
Mark Hummel brings his annual "Blues Harmonica Blowout" to Yoshis on the 9th through the 10th. Featured artists include Cephas and Wiggins as well as the Blues Survivors. Bobby Hutcherson fills in from the 15th to the 18th. Bimbos 365 hosts Pride and Joy the 9th, then Bud E Luv drags his lounge act in on the 10th. Bill Haley, fills in on the 16th. Remember "Rock around the Clock"? Buck Owens takes over on the 7th of Feb. at this increasingly important venue.
The Fillmore already launched the New Year in style with Les Claypool, but Robert Cray comes in on the 16th to show all the young bucks how it is done. Maceo Parker hauls in the woodwinds on the 24th and our personal favorites, Hot Tuna, take over with Box Set on the 28th for an evening that surely will be remembered for a long time after. Leftover Salmon jams on the 30th and Sevendust promises altrock on the 5th of February.
The Warfield starts things off with Staind on the 15th and old-timers Deep Purple with Thin Lizzy hold forth with smoke on the water on the 11th of February.
Personally, we think Jorma is on a roll, and the Hot Tuna event is the one to watch for with Maceo Parker holding out for those who just cannot get enough sax, unless Bobby Hutcherson happens to blow the roof off the joint.
Don't say we didn't warn ya.
THE YEAR IN REVIEW
On second thought, the entire idea really sucks. We had a spurious invasion of another country on manufactured grounds, whole-sale suspension of civil liberties, death of over 500 American soldiers engaged in dubious enterprise and maiming of another 2,000 to fatten the pockets of those so rich that the very idea of their wealth makes the common man physically ill, death of Johnny Cash, the 25th anniversary of Jonestown, the successful circumvention of justice through the recall of a state governor and his replacement with an idiot of no experience, massive retrenchment of freedom and the world-wide humiliation of a once distinguished nation among Nations.
On the other hand, we had Iggy Pop in a resurgence of Punk, Neil Young still punching with his radical "Greendale", and the opening of the Webster Street Tube.
On the Island, things went as follows:
The Encinal HS sent their mascot, a Navy Jet, in for cosmetic repairs, then began a flap over the propriety of retaining a symbol of the American Military-Industrial Complex on the front lawn.
In February, the City began testing the EBS systems for possible terrorist attack/disaster.
In March the City condemned the Iraq actions and demanded adherence to UN strictures.
In April, the school board cut 1.7 million from the budget and Critical Mass held its first gathering of bicyclists without incident. Officials were surprised that the activists who promote alternative forms of transportation never had any intention of disruption of City activities and always insist on civil appearances. The entire event went off without a hitch or an arrest.
The School board began a series of layoffs, followed by city-wide closures due to the budget crisis. Recall Governor Arnold removed the $$ to the localities promised by the vehicle tax, replacing those funds with monies out of the General Fund for the State, leaving a vacuity of some 1.5 billion His audit of the State expenses revealed 0 waste and the report was quickly buried.
In October, the Golden State, hit hard by beetle infestation and drought, suffered a massive series of wildland fires. The fires consumed nearly a million acres of land and were visible from Space.
On the Island, Colin Washington was slammed on the head with a stolen scooter and sent into hospital in a coma. Violent crime seemed to rise with a murder of a woman by her husband, a former Hells Angel President, and several altercations at bus stops in which victims were pushed down or beaten. Police raids occurred in the West End, collecting a few methamphetamine criminals, but the violence continued in sporadic events, indicating that the nature of the Island and the West End was heading for change, like it or not.
On the upside, the Island realized that with the fiscal crisis in Babylon, now was the time to grab the Bay Area's most valuable asset, the artists. A commission has been established and money set aside to promote and foster arts on the Island and now hundreds of talented people are flocking to the Island. Apparently many have realized that the exorbitant rents and the price gouging in Babylon, have driven many artisans to the East Bay.
Brown cared not for those not possessed of stock accounts and now Newsome winds up holding the empty bag. Hey, dude, you snooze, you lose.
LIKE THE WEATHER
The temps are plummeting and the Weatherbug is snarling with alarms again. Two days without rain and we have seen frost on the rooftops all over. Things dropped to 32 last night and tonight they are saying that the low twenties will visit the Valley and even Oaktown. Snowline is dropping to 2,000 feet, meaning the entire Oakland Hills as well as Mount Tam will show a dust of white by morning.
The cold merely broke a rain spell that hammered the East Bay, flooding the Grand Lake district to a foot and chasing movie-goers out of the Grand Lake Cinema for a redoux of the last Lord of the Rings, Part III, sometime next week. The Island was ankle-deep over the greater part while the rains kept pounding down, punching a livingroom-sized sinkhole in the street to swallow a van.
Took a wander up to the north end and found friends in Marin yet again without power, but warm enough due to a wood-burning stove. When Friday morn hit after the New Year, CHP reported 40 accidents between 8:30am and 8:45. One DOA at the scene.
Now we have the dry, but the temps is going down, down, down, in a most ferocious manner we ain't used to. Only thing to consider to the good in all this is that SoCal missed the heavy rain after the mudslides of the previous week had killed 10 people.
But up here, it is so cold that Dr. Friedrich is snuggling up like a purr-factory every night.
Down in Newark, where mad Eugene Shrubb maintains his Occupation of Newark in search of Weapons of Mass Doo-doo, the bums shiver under their newspaper blankies and curse the day of the Invasion.
We can see we just might have to explain that last one to newcomers, but let be.
We welcome the entry of foreigner, Opus, to our shores. Bloom County is about 900 miles to the right from here. At present, daisies may be somewhat hard to come by in this season of unseasonable cold, but we wish Mr. Opus all the best.
Opus is not normally a member of this assembly, but we feel a fond association for the old fellow all the same. The fact that rumors of his reappearance have surfaced in fact, indicate a certain tenor of the times. A need for penguins perhaps. And their cuddly, marvelous wisdom.
For that is the way on the Island. Have a great week.
JANUARY 11, 2004
ONCE IN A LIFETIME
Hello everybody and welcome to a kinder and gentler New Year. I live on an Island that snuggles in the middle of the San Francisco Bay. We have a Mayor, named Beverly, a City Council, a City Hall that is missing a bell tower, and the most formidable traffic enforcement police in the world.
We have a Tube, some bridges, one antiquated shopping centre and the most engaging cast of characters for a population that you ever would want to meet.
Being located in the middle of the Bay, in the middle of things, as it were, between Oaktown, Babylon, Berzerkeley, and other parts too numerous to mention, not to scorn the infamous Nimitz which is the most dangerous freeway in America and other notable attractions, we are well situated to report on all the goings on about the Bay Area. And there always seems to be something going on, all sorts of parties and concerts and political shenanigans and artists jumping up and down and all sorts of grand schemes blowing to little mouse bits while little dust bunnies are becoming great Godzilla's all the time.
Throw in the odd earthquake and fire and flood from time to time and it all makes for quite an enchanting place with all sorts of marvelous diversions and even some real life too.
GUARANTEED PRIZES IN EVERY BOX
In the coming year, returning readers and new ones will hear about Officer O'Madhaun's efforts to totally eradicate crime on the Island by issuing traffic tickets up the whazoo. Eugene Shrubb, self-elected President of the Bums, has invaded Newark under the now clearly spurious pretext of locating Weapons of Mass Doo-Doo in the form of rabid terrierists -- including the notorious Osama Bin Lassie -- and this continuing Occupation is no end of trouble for everyone concerned.
We have the occasional visit from Oog and Aag, the original progenitors of the Bay Area from the Pleistocene Era who provide edification and instruction upon particular points of local history that may have fallen through the cracks in our more stolid accounts.
All of this and more awaits you in this pristine year, still dimpled with baby fat and chortling to itself over the prospects.
We just cannot wait.
LIKE A CANDLE IN THE WIND
We have been notified that Mambo, the hound made famous during the last Island Thanksgiving BBQ by his noble actions as a poodle decoy, has passed away. Mambo, we have learned possessed the true heart of a great dog who also kept his master companion for well over 12 long years of dedicated service and he is sorely missed.
We are also pleased to discover that Mambo was not a true poodle at all, but a mix, consisting largely of Llasa Apso, which granted him a level of intelligence and sophistication not often found in lesser breeds. Much of his smarts may have derived from the fact that his owner majored in physics while in college.
It is thought that Mambo passed away while in possession of a toy Moebius strip in which someone had punched a hole. The Moebius strip is a curiosity in mathematics for it is an object that appears to exist in our three dimensional space, but its singular property is that it has only one side and one surface to that side.
The fatal question for Mambo was this: If the strip has only one side, where then goes the hole?
Apparently, the paradox of this issue proved too much for the intelligent hound, who had previously worked out the last Fermat equation to everyone's delighted surprise. But as so often happens, some dog swiped the proof right off of the plate to get all the credit.
MY DADDY WAS A BANK ROBBER
in the "this is getting REALLY annoying category", someone held up Washington Mutual on Otis at gunpoint before fleeing in a lime-green 1970 El Camino. After BofA, Island Bank, and Wells, this makes WM the last bank in the row to be robbed in a takeover-style robbery on Otis. A lime-green 1970 El Camino? Oh really, of all the tacky choices to make in a getaway car! Somebody refer this loser to "Queer Eye for a Straight Guy" for some fashion tips.
Still, since no traffic ordinances were violated, the perpetrators got clean away.
PUTTING ON THE DOG
A national animal rights agency is offering a $2,500 reward to the person who helps find the yahoo that cut off the ears of Ava, a young pit bull, and burned the wounds with acid before deciding, well, might as well toss her in the out in the dumpster since the job looked awful. Call 337-8560. No extra money but special points if you kick the asshole in the nuts first.
HUNK A BURNING LOVE
Dido, they say, had a burning passion for that fugitive from burning Troy, Aeneas, but the big boy had plans to build Rome and invent pizza, so he ran off, leaving her to carry a torch. Straight to her funeral pyre. Ever since then, the great masters have been writing symphonies, plays, poems and operas about the pair.
The Crucible, the premier West Coast center for metal arts, is hosting a one-time performance of the Opera by Henry Purcell at its new digs at 1260 7th Street on the 16-17 of January. Roy Rollo of the San Francisco Opera is directing this extravaganza, featuring artists from the SF Opera and the American Bach Soloists as well as a variety of fire dancers and musicians performing to a backdrop of metal pours, glassblowing, welding, and all sorts of astonishing pyrotechnics.
Crucible performances never fail to astound and amaze, and this should be a very special evening, with the remarkable bargain of only $25 for the last performance on the 17th. Island LIfe has been privileged to view the setup prior to lights up and we can say most earnestly, grab your wife, grab your kids, grab your Significant Other and get yourselves over to 7th Street in Oaktown on the 17th (parking is never a problem over there and the site is across the street, literally, from the West Oakland BART) for an amazing evening of music and performance.
Believe me, you will be glad you came.
Opening Night Performance on the 16th is $125, of which $100 is tax deductible. The Crucible is a non-profit organization.
I BELONG, I BELONG TO THAT STEEL DRIVING CREW
After a delightful stroll in the West Marin hills we dropped into a little place with a bar and an adjoining banquet room to hear what might be going down on a casual Sunday evening in the country. Rancho Nicasio is a homey sort of place of the sort that used to dot the landscape all over California and the West in general, with a comfortable, neighborly atmosphere where parents feel quite at ease taking the toddlers and rug rats to crawl and scrawl underneath massive mounted heads of the sorts of things that haven't lived around these parts for well on forty years. Where the food is good and the bar well stocked with the best tequila found north of the border.
Nicasio itself was founded in 1830 as a waypoint for cattle ranchers in the days when antelope still bounded across the grasslands of the Central Valley. It has remained a pleasant little backwater set amid the rolling hills abutting the protected slopes of Mount Tam, and with any luck will stay that way for another one hundred years.
It so happened that we stumbled in on Loren Rowen performing on twelve-string with Barry Sless on lapsteel to a packed house and the pair, joined by locals on congas and bass, with Loren's lovely wife adding backup vocals rocked the house. Did they rock the house? Hell man, they blew the doors off down the road as far as San Rafael and raised the roof another couple of feet with the energy.
The name Rowan ought to be familiar to you, for this is the same Rowen of the Rowen Brothers and the son of Peter Rowan, known in bluegrass circles as being a mainstay of the genre with Bill Monroe and primogeniture of the Free Mexican Airforce band..
In fact, Loren performed a little number dedicated to his father that had half the women in the house in full waterfall tears.
The guy was absolutely phenomenal, blazing out incendiary licks and runs and bends on the twelve-string like it was a 6-string nylon with ease while maintaining a rich, velvety voice on the vocals, while Sless glided and picked the most ethereal sounds from his electric lapsteel. At the end, the entire crowd rose to their feet for a rousing, stomping ovation. Not bad for a bar band on a Sunday evening in the country.
Loren Rowen performs at the famous Sweetwater Cafe on the 11th of February and with any luck, Sless will be with him again. You want music? You want excitement? We suggest you go.
WALKIN' BOSS, I DON'T BELONG TO YOU
Walking down to the road from the falls, we could see the fog come boiling over the coastal range and go marching down into the trees with thick fingers. Soon, night shut down the show, leaving heaving mists to blanket the entire world. Driving back to the Warmer Side, through the wormhole of time to the present day, or evening in this case, the moon and stars busted out for a little waltz over the Berkeley tidal flats, turning like a moebius strip under ripples of water and time. Finally home again and time to feed Dr. Friederich while all the House was asleep. Now we are past the midnight hour and the fog horns are sounding out there for anyone to listen. The evening backup is firing up while the echoes of the midnight through-passing train die away across the Buena Vista flatlands.
Every Sunday evening the midnight train rolls out of the Port and steams through the empty and shuttered and dark shop fronts along the Jack London Waterfront. Where it is going, who knows. Some nights I think I will just go down there and look at the tracks one minute before the hour and see just what sort of train this is that leaves for somewhere at such an hour. But then, it may be that this train is no real train at all, but the train that has echoed down through the centuries of all our imaginings of late-night departures.
Be careful not to trust him, this man with a ticket getting out of here, in an old train station, in an old pair of shoes. Oh I think I'll 'cept your invitation to the Blues.
Had a talk with a genius the other day about space travel and the problems about going fast as the speed of light. Never managed to mention these wormholes of time and space that are supposed to exist, whereby you hop on in there and get over about 140 light years in about 40 minutes. If you went less than that, you just might meet yourself coming in.
"Howdya do?" Fine Thanks. "You are going to forget that dentist appointment." Ah yes, thanks. "No problem. Bye now."
Talk about talking to yourself. This physics can get confusing.
On the Island, we live in that wormhole between the sides of a moebius strip, always firing along a possibility of departure before arrival. Somewhere in between, there's a Mambo, gamboling after a stick you tossed or have yet to toss, and he is saying, "Hey David! C'mon here with me; Let's have some fun!"
But David has cares and a wife and things he needs to take care of right now. Time enough for that. Like for all of us. Time enough for later to venture through that wormhole of time. Who knows what is on the Other Side but maybe Mambo worrying a dogbone.
Sometimes we get that way on the Island. That's just the way it is. Have a great week.
Walkin' Boss
Walkin' Boss
Walkin' Boss
I don't belong to you
I belong
I belong
I belong
I belong to that steel drivin' crew
Traditional.
JANUARY 18, 2004
ONE TREE HILL
Monday is Martin Luther King Day. But this entire week is being devoted to issues the Great Leader lived and died for. The general consensus here is that we do not want the facts and issues of a great man's life to be digested into a 30 second sound bite that is subsequently discarded so as to sell more napkins and automobiles. While the essential horrors and legacies of horror remain with us from each impossible day to the next.
Some of us still remember, in dreams and in waking nightmares the snapping crackle of the burning cross, searing a wound in the front yard that never will heal until all principals are mercifully dead and gone to Judgment. Who here remembers being shoved down below the windowsill level, so the bullets coming through would not find target?
In some places, a simple scripture in the form of a mezuzah on the door lintel would incite the race rage that boiled down below. I certainly experienced that.
But King was not a man about vengeance or violent means. He was a preacher man who found himself in the wrong place at the right time, and he accepted his fate and walked forward with it with honest, integrity and tremendous courage.
King helped begin and lead the long road of purgation of deep guilt and sin and evil that soured this country for over 400 years and which still continues to this day. The glory of this man is that the difficult work continues in spite of many who obstructed the progress of human rights with baseball bats, bullets and fire. Of course no single man can ever shunt overnight 400 years of history that included slavery, but the astonishing effect of the man persists beyond his death. Yes, much needs to be done, but much has been done and Monday we focus on the successes and triumphs of the spirit against the forces of darkness.
Now, in this time, when the forces of Darkness seem All Powerful, its important to remember the good things that have happened and how far we have come.
In memory of Eric Mosby.
ZIGGY STARDUST
All the country is agog at NASA's little tinkertoy with a webcam trundling about land that used to be a shopping mall before global warming hit the Red Planet.
Signs that We are not the First to establish a presence on Mars cropped up in one of the rover's photographs
Rumor from Eugene Shrubb's special think-tank, The Kenmore Institute for the New American Hobo Century -- plans are to make a manned space trip to the moon with the intention of establishing a tax shelter industrial park, complete with factories and off-shore outsourcing. Just imagine a place where there is no minimum wage and the employees have to pay for air. All the global economists are so giddy they had to be fitted with catheters to avoid wetting their collective pants.
The Other Rumor: An Executive Plan to put all the loud-mouth neo-cons into a canister and fire them off to the moon or Mars and just leave them there has turned out to be unfounded, although pleasurable, speculation
SOME DEVIL
Dave Matthews just finished a 12 date tour here in Oaktown at the Arena. By all accounts, the show blasted off and sent ticketholders on a journey way past the Red Planet. The mercurial Trey Anastasio filled in as lead guitar. Anastasio, hailed by some as the best guitarist to hit the planet in 20 years, has fronted for the sorta-Dead-like band Phish but also has worked with many other artists in the biz, managing to adapt his style to just about anything and everybody.
THIS ISLAND LIFE
A new water-taxi service now shuttles people from the Island to the Jack London Waterfront. Bicycles allowed and encouraged. A Commute Hours special will begin running in April. Well, we do live on an Island after all, and every day is another working day. Makes you wonder what kept them from such a plan all this time. Mabel, we can dock the rowboat now. I got another way to get to the downtown salt mines. . . .
SHOCK THE MONKEY
Gung Hay Fat Choi to you too. January 22 marks the Chinese Year of the Monkey and all over the Bay, crackers will be popping, dragons dancing, martial artists jumping up and down, drums pounding and heung heung hoh sic drifting out of all the restaurants. Especially here in the East Bay, where the celebrations are warmer and everyone is invited, there will be tons of stuff to do over the next two weeks.
LITTLE CREATURES
In all the latest flap about MJ's trial on charges of sexually abusing a minor, there have been odd little events which signify that perhaps the influence of the former Jackson 5 prodigy extends beyond a few snappy steps and solo crotch-grabbing. Australians were outraged at the photo op which appears below.
[IMAGE REMOVED]
That is no box lunch he has cradled in his left arm, but his 9 month old son. Most curiously, the largest complaint heard was a comparison between the croc hunter and Michael Jackson, who apparently now is an international symbol of bad parenting.
Oh Michael.
THE WAR ON TERRIERS CONTINUES
Island-life secured a rare classified photo from the interrogation rooms at the notorious Guantanamera Bay Detention Center in Newark, California. Pictured is Iman Salaam AliAkbar, alleged chief of the Al Qibblesah terrier cell, who was captured during a daring dinnertime raid on Bay Street. Here, AliAkbar is being interrogated with tactics the local chapter of Amnesty International has roundly condemned.
Ali just might be a bloodthirsty terrierist, but then again, he might just be another hapless pup. And no matter what they do, he is not going to handwrite any neat confession of any type in Arabic, English or Swahili any time soon. Even if the Easter Bunny should be deployed. Even if he were guilty as sin, because he does not know now to write. Clearly, the Neo-Cons may have overstepped the bounds of decency and X-mas by employing unsavory methods.
As for the third rumor, the reason no X-mas creche was constructed on the White House lawn this year was because in all of Washington DC, no Wise Men could be found and certainly no Virgins.
THE HARD TIME KILLING FLOOR
We always get a little emo, a little weepy every MLK day. It's hard to just go to work, thinking about all the stuff that has gone down. We have friends whose bones are scattered across the country in sundry graves because of the crap Dr. King was dealing with. And every time we hear that another one of the Old Guard dies, one of those who barred the doors of his Establishment with baseball bats, we have a little party.
But its no way to continue, celebrating somebody's death. Better to think about the good things some people did and what lives on.
Right now, the House of Blues is wailing over the stereo. Michael Brooks is singing about that Other Woman. Rain has yielded to sun in the day and cool temps at night. The tattered City holiday ornaments remain hung from the lamp posts along Lincoln Street, but Pagano's has removed the stuffed Santa from its storefront display, showing only three, apparently angry, old folks staring at the buzzing TV set, which just buzzes and buzzes and buzzes.
Time enough for any of you to experience the Blues. Expect most of you will. Given the way things are going. Only suggest you appeal to Miss Mercy. She always has what you need.
While 2003 may have been the Year of the Blues by Congressional decree, 2004 may fall into the same category by default unless something powerful changes. How did you spend your 300 dollar tax rebate? Not so much? Maybe nothing? Par for the course.
Here on the Island we count our chickens after they are hatched. Anything else seems foolish.
Have a great week.
JANUARY 25, 2004
ROUND HERE
They came from the great salt flats of Palo Alto. They came from the embattled bungalows of Marin City where cars perch up on blocks for years in the front yard until they stop being cars, only homes for the birds. From the wastelands of Hayward and the freeway overpasses of Babylon where the thousands huddle each night from the freezing rain. From the abandoned warehouses on the Point they crept in the dawn and sunset gone violent with frost. Down from Berzerkeley where compassion softens the rod and even from far flung Sacto, which houses the Incorrigibles they sent their delegations. From all over the Bay Area they came, in dribbles and drabbles from the State streets of Babylon under the green Apple seed and perfect blue buildings on crutches, in wheelchairs, on railway freight cars, on hitches and rides and crutches they came.
Yes, from Texas and Vermont and Virginia and Ohio, and many others, the bums of Northern California sent their delegations to the Island Jetty, where the President of the Bums holds his annual Speech, the most famous State of the Onion Speech before the most high and mighty Congress of the Bums.
There on the Jetty, President Eugene Shrubb held forth while seated upon his throne of porcelain that was set upon a raised dais of old tires. And all about him the Legislature of Bums sat, lolled, reclined and snored.
The President began with a small encomium and a toast to the valiant warriors who were even now engaged in the dangerous task of subjugating Newark. He then went on to declare that the war on Terrierists and their nefarious Poodles was going great guns, notwithstanding a few downed warriors here and there and the failure to catch the notorious Osama Bin Lassie.
Nevertheless, since the capture of Saddam Husky, the Major of Newark's Best Friend, the world had become a safer place.
Afterward, disgruntled commentators remarked that they could not see how the devil capturing the Mayor's dog could have in any way an impact on the sort of Terrierism which had resulted in the attempted hijacking of City Hall a few years ago on the 9th of November, especially since it appears quite clear that there never were weapons of Mass Doo-Doo in Newark California and that Newark certainly has never had the slightest connection to Osama Bin Lassie.
Since questions
are not allowed during the State of the Onion Speech, the President continued
his insistence that WMDD would be found any day in Newark, but that the process
of discovery had been slowed by persistent attacks from the Resistance and the
necessity to secure the liquor supply lines.
Turning his noted silver tongue and great linguistic gifts to other matters of
importance, the President addressed the Economy of the Onion. Which is
odiferous and therefore indicative of change coming just around the corner -- if
only the lousy bums would hold the course, stay on track, abjure radical changes
(unless proposed by his StinkTank, the Project for the New American Smoochy)
and kindly allow the President and his friends to continue to make money and
booze hand over fist.
Regarding badly needed health reform, Shrubb indicated that his remedy of a pint
of booze per patient and RX's from Canada had been recently approved by the
Senate. He mentioned with a witticism that now prescriptions were cheap due to
NAFTA. While the native RX makers might temporarily object, Shrubb noted that
since all manufacturing is being outsourced beyond the borders, those objectors
would soon follow suite and thereby reap the benefits of increased
productivity.
"Imagine trusting your headache to aspirin from Mexico!" Eugene shouted triumphantly. Since everyone present was a bum and without employment in this area, and consequently had nothing personally to lose by sending jobs across the border, the entire congregation stood to applaud with admiration at this stroke of genius.
"And everyone who misses out on the new health plan will simply die and free us all from onerous obligations! More booze for everybody!" he added.
This last comment was not appreciated quite as well as the first.
On quite a roll, and well into his second bottle of Tokay, Shrubb continued on the jobs theme, remarking that the loss of more jobs in one period than has been seen since the Great Depression is actually a boon, for when three people are laid off, a single employee then must do the work formerly done by the three as well as his own. Any idiot can see that productivity per capita then goes through the roof and the sun shines down on all with increased profits.
Shrubb apologized to those who had experienced a bit of trouble at the entry points: the state of heightened security necessitated heightened measures, including strip searches -- especially of suspicious and comely individuals -- appropriation of contraband booze and confiscation of weapons and good boots.
"So what is the surrender of a few liberties over the increased security of our Onion?" Shrubb said.
"Consider the Onion, small and odiferous that it is, but entirely ours, a perfect metaphor kept in my side pocket like the world surrounded by the infinite vastness of Space, space which we are presently on the verge of colonizing with strip malls, fast foot joints and body shops. At times, when life seems hard, when the pawn shop just will not take another accordion and the credit is all gone down at the Local on the corner, when your main squeeze has run off with the keys to the car you been sleeping in for the past six months, consider this: in this age of marvels, our best minds have found that there is enough water and ice on Mars to make ten million highballs! Don't worry: be happy!"
Standing now, Shrubb rocked up on top of his throne set on the quivering pile of tires as he waved his bottle about in the manner of the great orators of old, calling in mind Socrates, Julius Caesar, Albert Speer. "I say hold the course and get behind the mule! Lets invade somebody else again for we really showed them we can wreck a State and mess up a dictator's hair really bad. They'll have more respect for us bums now we are on a roll. I propose nothing less than a total Revolution in Society that will make everything go Our Way! We do what we please, account to nobody and we even got the judges now on our side. But society ain't finished being changed. not everybody has been hooked on Jesus . . .".
Here his wild gesticulation led to the kipping over of the throne sending Eugene plummeting down from the mount in a hail of tires and toilet parts.
The Assembly rose to applaud and everybody got really drunk. Thus ended the State of the Onion Speech of the year 2004.
DON'T WORRY, BE HAPPY
The economy looks
like a horror picture made by Ridley Scott, with millions out of work and
dreadful silences all up and down the 101 Corridor from the Golden Gate to Santa
Rosa, but here on the Island at least the local fence is doing well. Robberies
are up 50%. Officer O'Madhaun attributes the rise to the larger employment of
juveniles who are too young to get a drivers license.
"Without a traffic infraction to pin 'em, the little cads scamper off scot
free," stated the Officer.
The seasonal decline in summer is attributed to the fact that so many juvies
managed to steal an automobile successfully, resulting in a higher arrest rate
for speeding, shuffling the stop sign and weaving across lanes on a Tuesday.
ANOTHER ONE BITES THE DUST
Some of you who are patrons of the Chestnut-Encinal Market may already know that the place has been sold as the owner, Mike, has decided to retire. The result is that most of the people there will be leaving and this is a sad thing for all of us who have gotten to know them.
The market has been a delightful place to run into friends and neighbors while shopping for stuff in the best meat market on the Island.
BEFORE YOU ACCUSE ME
The George "Old" MacDonald Hall of Justice is a remarkable place to spend one's time, edifying and entertaining at once, and an hour spent there is often better than a movie by Stephen Spielberg. Wednesday, a criminal trial began which has captured the hearts and minds of soft-shoe dance fans everywhere, for on Wednesday, the Case of the People against Michael Johansson began, presided by Commissioner Rasch. The charge: Molestation of Turtles.
Johansson is the youngest member of the hysterically famous barbershop quartet plus two in soft shoe, The Kinsey Six. Most recently, Johansson won an award for his music video, "Spiller," in which the entertainer pours a pitcher of beer slowly over the head of his ex-lover.
We have transcripts of the trial on tape and in typed form and would like to share a few gems with you.
Apparently, everyone except the long suffering Commissioner arrived 20 minutes late due to Officer O'Madhaun pulling people over at the entrance to the courthouse parking lot for failure to stop before a turn.
After a fair amount of courtly business, we can hear Commissioner Rasch scolding each of the parties in turn over coming late to trial. Eventually, he turns his attention to the Accused.
"Sir do you understand the importance of this trial which just might send you to the slammer for the rest of your natural life and the nature of the charges against you . . . . Hell, I am not sure I understand myself. Where is the arresting Officer?"
O'Madhaun stepped up at this point.
Commissioner: "Oh Christ. you again. Is there perhaps some form of traffic violation involved here perhaps?" Here, the Commissioner indicated his familiarity with the Officer.
Officer O'Madhaun: "Transportin' reptiles without no license and parkin' in the blue zone!" O'Madhaun shouted triumphantly. "Plus jaywalkin with a box of turtles! Besides the main charge."
Commissioner: "But we have no ordinance specifically referring to reptiles on this island, and certainly not of turtles that I know of."
Officer O'Madhaun: "Ah, this molestin' is hurtin' the animals. Sure cruelty it is, yer Honor."
Commissioner: [sighs] "All right then, cruelty to animals it is. In the form of, er, turtle molestation." Turns to address the prisoner. "Says here you are African American, Mr. Johansson. And five foot eight in height. You appear to be six three, very blond and Swedish."
Johansson: "Had an operation, your honor."
At this point, yet another lengthy bit of court business ensued in which the identity of the prisoner was firmly established. This involved viewing several music videos, presented both by the prosecution and by the defense as well as a mini concert performed by the defendant with the bailiff keeping time by tapping his truncheon on the banister.
Commissioner Rasch was heard, several times, attempting to regain order in the court. Rasch finally came to brass tacks after several exasperating episodes in which visitors, apparent fans of Michael J., threw themselves over the desk used by the Defense.
Commissioner: [somewhat exasperated] "We'll find out later just how it is possible for a man to molest a turtle, but why in god's name is the man in chains?"
Officer O'Madhaun: "Flight risk, yer Honor."
Commissioner: "You think the man is going to run away for jaywalking with turtles!?" [Here the Commissioner put his head in his hands, then raised up after mastering himself.] "Bail is set at fifty dollars. Bailiff, unlock the man. Do it now."
Officer O'Madhaun: "Ah, let me issue an objection here, if I . . .".
Commissioner: [holding up his hands] Now stop. Stop. [pause] Just. Stop. Bail is hereby set. And before we have any more objections, Court is recessed until tomorrow. [Bangs his gavel and exits shaking his head]
As the shackles were removed from the Defendant in the Court, per instructions, Officer O'Madhaun was heard to remark, "I'll be watchin' your driving, me bucko!"
Recess.
Stay tuned for further developments in this trial of the century.
DARK NIGHT IS FALLING
It has been a most rambunctious week with all the goings on around here and elsewhere. Even the Democrats have started to look interesting. Here on the Island several large issues became resolved all at once. The long dormant Bridgeside Shopping Center -- kept dormant by grocery market chains which had blocked development there for fear of competition -- finally was sold to a developer that will raze the entire complex to build a new shopping center that will include a high-end grocery store as well as retail and office space.
The Island Fire Department was awarded 286 thousand dollars in federal funds under a FEMA grant project. Money will be used to enhance and repair the various fire stations and replace safety equipment that is badly in need of replacement
Demolition of the Linoaks residence hotel, long an eyesore on the edge of Park Street, began with a festive champagne party during which guests were allowed to tag the walls with spray paint and tack a whack or two with sledgehammers. For the minor cost of the $125 entrance donation. The building will be replaced by a new library.
Where Longs now owns an open parking lot, a 504 space parking garage is slated for construction. Also moving forward to approval are plans for a movie theatre downtown between Oak and Park on Santa Clara. The Island has been without movies for some eight to ten years, since the South Shore complex boarded up and was torn down. There once was a drive-in near the entrance to the Tube, but a housing development now occupies the land.
Well, our plans may not be Big Plans, but they mean something to us all the same.
Midweek was driving over the San Rafael bridge into the change of season fog and got to thinking about the place in which we live here. The big old bike just rumbled along as first the shore, then the ocean, then the bridge itself glided into that other world where forms have no beginning or end. The immense cables and high suspension towers reached up some twenty feet or so, then vanished like something in a science fiction movie or a pencil drawing that experiments with perspective. A pearl grey, luminescent emptiness filled the world beyond the bridge barriers and the road itself dissolved some quarter mile ahead, as if some science fiction monster had eaten Mt. Tam and all of Sausalito.
This was a place of pure interiors. In that fog, there was nothing and no one to remind you that anything exists at all.
Here, you might expect some profound and very deep philosophical thought, like that guy talking in the movie The Matrix. But no, we'll just say that it was just really really neat, one of those moments you live for. Which is as much any of us can expect, I guess.
Here's another: the fog lays heavy tonight over the Oaktown Hills and foghorns calling far off in the straits drift in through the open windows. The clock just ticked over to 00:00 and here comes the sound of the midnight train echoing across the Buena Vista flats from the Jack London Waterfront. The lines come out from the Port and cross over through the streets of the tourist area, so the engineer lets out a blast when passing through. This cannot be independently confirmed, but the sound does seem to last longer, sound more emphatic and maybe a little bit mournful at midnight.
On the Island we have our moments and then some. Because that's the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.
FEBRUARY 1, 2004
THE POUPER SOUL
By now its all over except for the champagne and the orgies executed by the lurid fantasies of ad executives and the wet dreams of CBS VP's too far gone in fear and trembling anxieties to let anyone have so much as a sip of malt cider on this night of nights. Yes, the rabid wolves of finance will be rogering whores and drinking themselves into torrid excess in some atavistic deluge of filth and joy, while the CBS people will pass through this night as any other, in a golden haze of self-righteous purity, for they have cast aside the venal desires of truthout.org, shielding their sensitive viewers from sights of working children and questions of national deficit.
Oh joy to the CBS executives who feel that lingerie models playing football and viagra ads are far more wholesome and palatable to the Nation.
Here is a public statement regarding the halftime show from the NFL regarding the halftime show
Statement by NFL Executive Vice President Joe
Browne regarding the Super Bowl halftime show:
"We were extremely disappointed by elements of the MTV-produced Halftime
show. They were totally inconsistent with assurances our office was given about
the
show. It's unlikely that MTV will produce another Super Bowl halftime."
Oh yeah, the Patriots beat some team from one of the Carolinas, but the Raider's weren't there so who gives a damn anyway?
CRIME SPREE
Officer O'Madhauen managed to capture a diligent, and rather stupid, burglar who robbed five sites from the 26th to the 29th by waiting outside a forced window until the perpetrator emerged with hot goods in hand on Park Street.
The suspect forced doors and windows for five nights in the same area and always took the same types of items.
In another series, a robber has been holding up shops at gunpoint on Lincoln within a one block range with amazing efficacy. The robber always orders the clerks to turn about so as not to see in which direction the perp walks away. In succeeding nights, the Dominos Pizza, the Market Spot, and El Caballo have been hit and Island-life is immensely distraught, for we obtain buffalo wings from the Dominos and carne asada wraps from El Caballo and we feel this crime wave must stop immediately or we shall die from malnourishment.
Unfortunately, since no traffic laws were affected, the perpetrator got clean away.
COHABITING SQUIRRELS CAUSE NEO-CON FLAP
Appears that in the dead of winter a pair of ground squirrels were found cohabiting, or hibernating, together in Crab Cove down by the strand . Problem is that the pair were both males and this has caused a major flap downtown in the Catlick Church, so called because it is cheek by jowl next to the SPCA. A neo-con minister by the name of Father Dingus Brimstone has taken this as a cause celebre fulcrum on which to lever a variety of attacks against Island iniquity. Seems Father Dingus feels that cohabitating squirrels threatens the sanctity and morality of his own flock, although, to the best of anyone's knowledge, neither squirrels nor cohabitors have the slightest thing to do with Father Dingus or his flock. Certainly not by admission from any party involved.
Father Dingus has taken to shouting on street corners that cohabiting squirrels of the same sex demeans the Institution of Holy Marriage, insults the Tax Code, and tweaks the Christian Gravy Train. "Hell, if they get to marry, same as us, we''ll lose the benefits of taxing the little buggers to death! Which is our God given right!" Father Dingus has been heard to say, with great indignation.
Some may say, a bit cynically, that marriage law is a matter of financial convenience to the State and really has nothing to do with Religion of any stripe or even any morality to speak of.
By all means, state the Squirrel supporters, let the Churches restrict whatever they want within their purview. After all, did not the Great Man state quite explicitly, "Render unto Caesar those things that are Caesar's and render unto God those things that belong to God."
When queried directly, the respective ground squirrels had this to say, somewhat sleepily, "Go away please. We are just trying to sleep."
RECOVERY? WHAT RECOVERY?
Latest headlines from the Island Fun and the Island Gerbil tell the tale about the supposed "recovery" of the economy which crashed, apparently, on month two of King George's reign. "City Leaders Review Grim Budget" and "Services, staff face threat of city budget cuts" appear to stand out. Appears that there is a present disaster in the making in the form of funding cutbacks to the cities and counties as a consequence of Arnold's austerity program. Turns out that his independent audit found no waste of any kind in civic government - largely as a consequence of severe cutbacks from previous budget slashes -- and that Arnold was left holding the bag of a major problem without an easy release. Seems this audit has been swept under the table as this year's budget fully duplicates that of his predecessor, who was recalled from office.
Arnold, I do not think you will be back.
WATER WARS REDUX
Long time readers of this space will remember the various issues involving Oog and Aag (the redoubtable pair that founded the Bay Area 20,000 years ago) which revolved around the importance of water to the Golden State over the course of history. Let it be known that the water wars continue and here the Island plays a small part.
The island city council voted this last week to withdraw from the litigation over water diversion from the Trinity River. The Island has a small part in this case, but the vote means a great deal to environmentalists and American Indians of the Hoopa and Yurok tribes who have been fighting to return the river to somewhat its natural state for a number of years. Allowing the river course to return to something near its natural flow will assist the restoration of decimated salmon runs.
The river runs directly through the Hoopa and Yurok reservations located up north, and the restoration of the fisheries would be an enormous boon to the tribes concerned.
Since 1963, a quarter of the river's water has been diverted to power a hydroelectric dam and supply irrigation projects in the Valley. The Island has gotten only 3500 megawatts from the supply and it was felt by the City Council that it was better to go green than pursue the lawsuits against the tribe-environmentalist coalition as a matter of civic conscience. Now, where else on earth do we have a civic government this concerned with ethics and doing the right thing? Kudos to Mayor Beverly and the Council.
"Forget it Jake, it's Chinatown."
Special prize to anyone who recognizes that line, where it's from, and why it fits in a column about California water rights.
IF YOU WANT TO GET TO HEAVEN, AVOID THAT BLOOD-STAINED BANNER
A miracle of circumstances put us down in Babylon's venerable Fillmore midweek for Hot Tuna and Box Set.
We will skip the complications, but let it suffice that the evening was well spent.
We had heard of Box Set for some time, although some obnoxious reason had always intervened when a show came up, and we had enjoyed one particular recording about the troubles of living for music for about 12 years, so it was a particular pleasure that we took in listening to this homegrown band of Jeff Pehrson and Jim Brunberg.
Box Set put in a fabulously energetic show even before Jack Casady appeared, his head surrounded by a corolla of white hair. The duo is remarkable for their ability to harmonize vocals in a way that has not been seen on stage since CSNY. And Jeff manages to sing quite well while punching in some remarkably complex fingerstyle fretwork. This is a band to watch for the future and Island-Life recommends full devotion and attention.
Casady, hair gone snow white and figure still the rail-thin physique of thirty years ago, has finally put out a "solo" album, but this bassist is no ordinary bassist. Over 15 friends contributed to making this opus, including Warren Haynes and Jorma Kaukonen and Paul Barrere. Casady is unusual among bassists in that he can easily comp the melody as well as solo on a four-string better than many jazz artists can manage on a 5-string instrument. He can also do this fluidly, without the usual staccato delivery of many "funkmeisters" out there.
His addition to Box Set, with an f-hole semi-hollow bodied Gibson, added a nice funky feel to the mix, as well as an informal sound.
When Jorma came on stage, around nine-thirty, the atmosphere changed to something a bit more raucous, albeit more Gospel. Its no secret that Jorma and Jack have both gone "born again". Some of this "Xian" flavor may have chased off a few would-be fans. Its unfortunate that the 12-step programs that the two have been through have led to this "religiousity," but listeners have to recall that Jorma's origins began at the feet of Reverend Gary Davis and the roots of the Blues reside in Gospel music.
One of the best songs from the set was, surprisingly, "Weight of Sin", which turned religious sentiment into the familiar ache of your good old-fashioned road song containing a very tasty acoustic jam. Also memorable was the lovely ballad "By Your Side", which Jack composed for his wife who sat just out of the range of the footlights on stage.
Jorma performed a mind-bending version of "Good Shepard" that spanned a good 13 minutes by the stage clock, and Barry Mitterhoff on mandolin scorched the fretboard with solos, pulling amazing performances from Jack and Jorma, who appeared to be really enjoying themselves after 40 years of performing together. They went through several numbers from Jorma's recent Blue Country Heart CD, including "Big River Blues" and "Prohibition Blues". After a number of floor shouts, Jorm obligated with his "Genesis" and "Embryonic Journey", complimented with interesting additions by Barry Mitterhof. He also put in quite a tasty version of "Nine Pound Hammer," and a sinuous "Dream Snake". All of it was informed by a nice sense of musicianship absent from the efforts of several more immanent bands.
As Jorma mentioned at the beginning, "I was thinking backstage, you know, its been 37 years since we first performed at the Fillmore. That's a scary thought."
At exactly 11:59 pm, the duo of Jack and Jorma walked offstage after their encore, leaving a heaving and energetic crowd. As one visitor mentioned to me, "That was not Hot Tuna, that was Very Hot Tuna!"
Not bad for middle of the week music in Babylon.
THE EAGLE FLIES ON SUNDAY
It's gone to the witching hour here at Island Life and from all signs, a nasty nor'wester is setting itself up to drench the area. The wind is rattling the casements and all the raccoons and possums of the Island are huddled in their dens, chirring to themselves and their furry children. Even Officer O'Madhauen is hunkered down in a coffee shop while the first drops plash down beyond the steamy windows.
Michael Johansson of the Johansson Six is dreaming in his bed of a fantastic gig at Playland on the Beach, surrounded by cartoon characters and wearing one black glove. Osama Bin Lassie snores in a high mountain cave. Saddam Husky snores in a jail cell, a prisoner of Eugene Shrubb. The Congress of Bums tosses and turns in cots and ricks and fly-by-nights and Shelters all over the Bay Area. The Bearded Fat Man snores quietly in his wheelchair at the entrance to the mens restroom in the parking garage at Jack London Square.
From the Great Salt Flats of Palo Alto to the foggy warrens of Babylon's inner city streets to the dripping slopes of Mount Tam and across the rain-pocked bay to the chemical dreams of Richmond and the homelands of Berkeley's Christie Road and so down to the jewel of Oakland, Lake Merritt -- which dreams itself of being free once again to join its mother, the Sea -- and so over again to the Island with its marina masts all glistening and clinkering under the storm clouds, all dreamers and dreamed this night of nights.
For tomorrow is another working day.
That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.
FEBRUARY 9, 2004
THE GIPPER'S BIRD DAY
He reached 93 the
other day, living in posh wealth in the state which he punished repeatedly for
dumping him as governor and voting solidly against him for President. His reign
brought on an age of avarice, brutality and public venality of shocking
magnitude that persists into today. While the stock market bubbled, millions
lost their jobs and many struggled in low-paid, substandard half-time
employment. Long were the free soup lines during his reign and even his
successor claimed that all his ideas about trickle-down theory were "Voodoo
economics". Many suffered during his time and many friends died cold and lonely
deaths due to inanition that could have been prevented.
He was a hate-filled man who had a Pollyanna view of the way things work. The
jar of jelly beans on his desk was a typical sop against the liberals, which he
enjoyed taunting in all manner of ways. Jelly beans, as every Nammie knows,
were the napalm cylinders dropped on helpless villages and forests during the
Vietnam war and his tweak here was to consciously trivialize the weapons of
death so as to infuriate the humanists whom he hated.
Yet, those close to him invariably found Ronald Reagan to be an affable, likeable fellow who exuded a sense of warmth. One of his best friends was the recently deceased Edward Teller, who persuaded Reagan into adopting the now discredited "Star Wars Defense System" -- a system that Teller himself discredited before his death with the simple statement, "Oh yes, it never would have worked. We never had the technology."
Reagan demonstrated all the classic hallmarks of a psychopathic personality with no conscience to such an extent that the APA once used him as a textbook clinical example of the condition. Like all psychopaths, he was eminently likeable and personable and thus able to lure all sorts of people into his orbit. And like all psychopaths, such as John Wayne Gacy who butchered dozens of boys in his basement while spending his days as a Rotarian and an amateur clown for children's parties, he pursued horrific and violently insane policies while executing vicious vendettas against anyone opposed to him.
Some cynics claim that he used his actor's training to deceive people and present the calculated front of "Mr. Goodman", but the truth is that Ronald Reagan was a lousy actor with almost no natural ability whatsoever. He could not remember his script lines and towards the end of his Presidency, could barely remember how to hold a fork in his right hand, let alone execute the lines of a speech, due to the ravages of that terrible disease, Alzheimer's.
The truth was, Reagan actually believed, at the moment he said it, in the goodness of his actions. Much as any good Hitler Jugend would have considered himself to be one of God's own disciples. And then, because there was no connection between the thought and the act, there could be no shadow of remorse on a conscience which did not, and never had, existed.
And in this respect, he was an all too willing tool for those interests that controlled the American Government at the time.
Now the man is 93, and his spends his days gaggling in a terry-cloth robe before a television set that plays an endless round of Hanna-Barbara cartoons. It's a horrible disease, this Alzheimers, for it turns the brain into a useless mushpile of cottage cheese, excruciatingly slowly over the years, removing the complex thought processes, then short term memory, then long term memory in a constant erosion of the mind. And in a damaged mind such as Reagan's, it is all the more terrible.
At his party, 101 schoolgirls in skimpy outfits paraded like harlots before him while he drooled into his sidestand cup and they sang "God Bless America" in high tinny voices while the hired musicians did what they could to fix up the noise.
John MacNamara, who has been skulking about in the Reports lately, was present to give him a large vase filled with his beloved jelly beans, which he began sorting into color groups on his food tray, along with the battery of drugs designed to keep him safely quiet. For the Designers of the Neo-Con Revolution wish that, now that they have chosen Reagan to be the Symbol of American Triumphalist Republicanism, the referenced symbol kindly keep the fuck quiet until safe in the grave so they can build monuments in revisionist histories about the way RR destroyed the Evil Empire and exploded the Dark Star.
Which plan a very
real gabbling idiot chasing after nurses in short skirts might cause some
difficulty. Hence, MacNamara's real purpose at the Birthday was to ensure that
His Holiness keeps himself properly doped up on opiates straight from the labs
of George Tenet. And says not a damn word to the Press.
Meanwhile the death watches continue ticking in the wall and everybody can hear
them. One thing is certain: Ronald Reagan will spend a long season in hell.
Probably in company with that other crook, Richard Nixon.
All the Bushes were conspicuously absent.
THE RETURN OF MY SUCKY VALENTINE
It's coming around to that time of year again. You know, the time of year when we all commemorate the murder of 12 mobsters in a barn outside of Chicago. What else all this dripping crimson and red hearts does symbolize?
Every year an host of restaurants and venues try to capitalize on this memorial, but by twisting it into to some celebration of happy couples bonded fortunately into the image of some 14'th century troubadour's concept of ideal perfection.
Most of us know this is as far from reality as it gets. We all got suckered and nobody is happy these days except for the real assholes.
For those of you who have been through the emotional ringer, who have been "done stomped upon mah heart", who have been left cold and sobbing in the rain while the ideal he/she of your dreams has scampered off in a red convertible Mercedes with someone who makes, and always will make 20k more than you, we proudly reintroduce the traditional Return of My Sucky Valentine. The details of this event will be communicated to you in next week's column, but we encourage you to seek out the Valencia Street area and the possible attendance of Ms. Lydia Lunch next weekend.
To the losers go the spoils.
AND ANOTHER ONE BITES THE DUST
You had better stock up on Dreyers, for soon, there will be no more. The last local factory for ice cream has laid off its workforce and consolidated its assets. Dreyers, formerly of Oaktown, late of Fremont, has laid off its manufacturing staff and shuttered the doors of its 100,000 square foot warehouse. Administrative offices remain, but the facility will be sold to the highest bidder.
LIKE THE WEATHER
There is ice on the roof next door each morning, but suddenly the skies are clear and there are signs that we are about to segue into that most warlike of seasons. Buds are bursting out of all the barren tree limbs while bees are dive bombing the poppies exploding from the ground. Suddenly, squadrons of finches are practicing maneuvers and swallows start to strafe the eaves. Here comes Tommy Tucker being chased by a big-leg girl in a short skirt and before you know it, he's down for the count. Got him. Right in the heart.
And now we are wondering when Bear will emerge from his den of machine parts and oily chamois cloths, for we dearly would like to have a beer with Bear. Bear, long-time readers will recall, was last seen in this column last Spring, wearing an uncharacteristically clean sweatshirt, hair combed, beard free of lint, and in the company of the touseled, formerly neat-as-a-pin Mary. What could this couple have been up to during the cold and dark of Winter? We wonder.
REMEMBER ME FOR A WHILE
The windows are all beaded with cold condensation and the street is empty of wanderers on this night while winter keeps a couple relentless fingers of cold wrapped around the air. The midnight train passed through some time ago, its long wail trailing off into the darkness beyond the Port. The last strains of Warren Zevon's last song drift off into the air and its time to shut down all the little glowing dials for the night.
Out on the avenues and wrinkled warren of narrow streets, a little wind tugs at the campaign posters promoting this or that Proposition for the Primary Election yet a month away. By the time we get to vote, the Democrat who will duke it out with Bushie shall have already been decided, but we have a 15 billion dollar rescue-the-state bond issue to decide in March. And if it does not pass, Governor Arnold and the legislature will need to cut that much from an already savaged budget where the Governor's own personal audit found absolutely 0 waste.
Goodness, must be a window open somewhere which made everything a bit colder.
Dr. Friederich lies curled up on the cushy chair under the glow of the reading lamp. Food twice a day, clean litterbox, warm place to sleep: life is good. For the moment.
That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.
FEBRUARY 15, 2004
EARTHLINGS, TAKE ME TO YOUR SNEAKERS
Those jolly eggheads over at NASA are all a-twitter over their Martian videos. Seems that scientists have discovered that Brigitte Bardot really IS an otherworldly creature. And the reason those space probes keep failing is that the girl petulantly kicks them over while taking her walks along the Martian canals. All those machines. Ruins the ambience.
LOVE IS IN NEED OF LOVE TODAY
And judging by the long lines of happy couples eager to get hitched over in Babylon's City Hall, somebody is well on the way to getting what they need. With a new mayor at the helm now, the doors were opened for single-sex marriages and hundreds flocked over to tie the knot on Valentines Day. Well, it may just be symbolic, pending some kind of legislative decision at the state level, but all the brides and grooms and whatevers looked just splendid dressed to the nines and gushing. You have to admit, even if the whole thing is largely a contractual arrangement with financial issues addressed to the State, a wedding is a fine and beautiful thing after all. And if the churches want to restrict things, they can just go ahead and do so on the basis of any morality that they wish to apply to their own.
Just don't apply YOUR morality to me and try to legislate your brand of ugliness. If you please.
Another sunny honeymoon
Another season, another reason
For makin' whoopee
A lot of shoes, a lot of rice
The groom is nervous, she answers twice
It's really killin' that she's so willin' to make whoopee
Picture a little love nest
Down where the roses cling
Picture the same sweet love nest
And think what a year can bring
She's washin dishes and baby clothes
She's so ambitious he even sews
But don't forget folks,
That's what you get folks, for makin' whoopee
THE RETURN OF THAT REDOUBTABLE PAIR IN WARTIME
We last left Oog and Aag knocking about the Water Wars of the 20's, but in the process had done an unseemly bound over the theatre seats with our dickie a-flap and our cravat askew, totally ignoring the proper etiquette of Lady Time, for which we should be soundly rapped upon the knuckles and denied the Pleasures of the Dance an entire year for the crime of bypassing the actual circumstances of California's induction into the Union.
Let us make amends here, by hearkening back to the days of the Bear Flag Revolution and certain events we were surprised had been bypassed entirely in the school curriculum that supposedly covered State History. Well, the schools here are not what they were, due to budget cutbacks, but we shall see what we can do in recounting the one and only serious battle fought by forces belonging to the Republic of California against the U.S. Army.
Then, as now, NorCal and SoCal were so contrary of opinion that NorCal, with Aag among them, enthusiastically banded together militarily to join the United States, while SoCal, featuring descendents of our proud forefather Oog, gathered together an army so as to see what may come of it. How this all came about is as follows.
By 1845, California hosted a population of about 25,000 souls, of which 15,000 were the surviving Indians from the original 250,000 inhabitants. Some 10,000 Californios, or descendents of the Spanish/Mexican conquerors filled out the bulk of the rest, leaving about 1200 white-boys of various stripes, including Russians, Germans, British and what the Californios called "Bostons." It was the Bostons, or Americans, who formed the bulk of the foreigners at the time.
Mexico had wrested independence from Spain in 1822, taking Alta California with it, to its immense disinterest. For the next twenty years, other than the occasional tribute ship and a new governor or two, Mexico cared little for its northern part, other than to terminate the brutal Missions and grant sundry deeds of immense land tracts. Life for the Californios pretty much went along unchanged and unhurried for the next 25 years, with only the occasional insurrection or half-hearted claim to Independence. These early attempts at revolution usually ended bloodlessly with both parties meeting to discuss what would have happened had things come to blows, and then things would go sensibly back to normal for a while. In fact, this habit of practicing common sense appears indigenous to the land of California.
Give or take the occasional outburst of insanity.
WELCOME TO PARADISE
Any hoot, while Californios lived and worked peaceably as they had come to live over the past 150 years, in a sort of edenic isolation, various external and internal events and processes were leading inexorably toward a mountainous shift in their way of life. For one thing, the economy was built at the time entirely upon the production of hide leather. This meant vast acreages of land got put to pasture for immense herds of cattle to graze the native grasses down to the roots, much as the landowners had learned how to do in Mexico further south, and in the hills of Andalusia.
But the grasses of California are not perennials as those of Mexico and Andalusia. They must seed themselves each year or die out. The cattle would crop the seed-heads off, leaving a patch of barren land. So when the ranchers noticed that a patch of land grew sterile, they simply shifted the entire herd over about ten miles and started afresh. What the heck, there was plenty of land. Right? After fifty years of shifting the herds, the cattle were feeding well over fifty miles from the original farm -- hence the cattle drive developed so as to bring them all back to slaughter. Well, after 150 years of intense grazing by millions of head of cattle the Californios were heading, without realizing it, into an immense financial and ecological disaster. But in 1845 nobody knew that. They would by 1853, though.
This is something the dewy-eyed sentimentalists tend to forget. It was a wonderful time of rancheros and fandangos and local freedom and such. And it was progressively destroying the Earth.
AND YET ANOTHER THING
The Governor of Alta California up to February of 1845, Juan Bautista Alvarado, had not been appointed by Mexico. He had set himself up as ruler in 1835 so as to put a halt to several year's worth of insurrections and basic confusion following the breakup of the Missions and the natural death of his predecessor. Things went on well enough until Mexico finally got around to sending a new governor in 1842. The new governor, grumpy and disliking the job, raised a ragtag army to face off against Alvarado and a couple other revolutionaries -- Mexico failed to provide him with one -- and the usual sort of California resolution ensued when all four of them met at Cahuenga Pass where they had a discussion as to who would win should a bloody and unnecessary battle really be fought.
Proclamations and cannons were fired into the air, two mules died of confusion and not a drop of human blood was spilled.
The new governor was sent packing back to Mexico, Alvarado was made Chief Delegate to the Mexican Congress and two men divided governorship of California into North and South, with Jose Castro, the official military commandante, taking Monterey as his seat in the north, and Pio Pico assuming governorship of the south where he had been capably running things anyway for about 20 years. The two governors squabbled over who got to own the treasury and both issued land grants like mad in an effort to raise revenue. California had become a defacto pair of Republics, but without officially declaring independence from Mexico.
DO YOU REMEMBER THE ALAMO?
Meanwhile these pernicious settlers kept crossing the mountains to fill up Oregon and more up north even as wagon-loads trundled foolish across the desert and even more sailed around the Cape into San Francisco Bay.
So these Bostons, or whatever you call them, come traipsing over the mountains and elect to settle in the non-pasturable land. Muy bueno, go ahead and let them. They, at least, will help to kill more Indians, never an occupation far from the settlers in the State. That's how Sutter, a Swiss, came to get an immense land grant up in the forested foothills of the Sacramento delta, which were useless to the ranchers for any imaginable purpose.
Another event occurred in 1845: the Republic of Texas whipped the pants of the Mexican army and then set out industriously joining the United States of America, then ruled by one highly efficient and pragmatic administrator named Polk. With this wild-haired maniac named Madison waving his Manifest Destiny in hand around Washington, Polk saw clear enough what was going to happen. He allowed a couple adventurers to go "exploring" to the west with military guard and vague instructions of "charting the west coast", then sent a secretary to Mexico with well-intentioned offers to buy California at a good price.
Unfortunately, California proved to be the most reasonable party among a gaggle of hotheads in the bloody events that transpired. The secretary was sent packing back to Washington, and Mariano Paredes marched north to take back all of Texas, including something called The Alamo -- with results reported elsewhere -- and Zachary Taylor marched south to whup Paredes even as one of these adventurers, by the name of Charles Fremont, crossed the mountains with a little "protective" militia into California, much to the irritation of then Governor Alvarado, but to the great pleasure of Aag, who offered his services as guide and consultant-for-a-fee.
Knowing war with Mexico was immanent, but being so far from the center that he could not possibly have known what was going on, Fremont, together with a formidable force of Delaware warriors and US Marines wandered up and down the northern reaches of California, fighting and killing Indians while getting himself into scrapes and generally making a nuisance of himself until eventually ordered to leave by the Governor, who had gotten heartily sick of people wandering into his backyard for any purpose and without permission.
Shortly after war between the US and Mexico was declared in May, a group of ragged, and rather drunk, revolutionaries self-called Los Osos, instituted a vague sort of uprising. Vague at first, until Fremont joined them. But only as a "military advisor." Fremont was a civilian contractor to the military and had as his orders the command to "chart and explore the West." But this, he told no one. The escapades of Los Osos and Fremont in this time must await a later telling, for this chapter is all about the one and only battle fought for California and the general stupidity of war in general, no matter who is right.
Our attention turns to the south, where Commodore Sloat, who had fallen in love with California -- as men are wont to do now and then -- was busy capturing all the seacoast towns without a shot. Eventually, proceeding methodically and logically as any trained military man, he arrived at Monterey where Fremont joined him, expecting to pursue the remnant of the Mexican force in Alta California then heading post haste south. Sloat, moving ponderously and surely toward retirement, made a number of rational decisions and then handed over command to an officer by the name of Robert Stockton, who commenced to issue inflammatory proclamations, announced the annexation of California to the US, and accused the former Mexican governor of "rapine and murder." This governor, by now one General Castro joined up with his former political opponent Pio Pico in Los Angeles. There they, too, issued inflammatory proclamations, pronouncements of fidelity to Mexico and exhortations to fight. About 100 Angelenos reluctantly signed up, seeing the obvious in store.
Stockton headed south with an armada and, posting outside Los Angeles sent a reasonable request for surrender to Pio Pico, who responded in classical Californio terms with a counter-offer of "discussion contingent upon cessation of hostilities."
Stockton, a typical Marine flat-top, responded with the message that Pico was a "department of Mexico" and that "I will war against you until it is over. That is my duty."
Pico, outraged at this flagrant dismissal of the usual course of reasonable action, speechified and exhorted and finally fled south with Castro to urge the indifferent Mexican government to defend its "department." It never did.
THE END OF MAJOR OPERATIONS HAS OCCURRED
The Mexican war was over, in California at least. And Stockton set about making himself Commander in Chief and Governor of California with many more proclamations. Things would have ended there, but for the usual Situation Normal sorts of events.
To begin with, Stockton appointed a total idiot to govern Los Angeles while he headed further north and Fremont trailed back to the Sacramento delta. This idiot was named Archibald Gillespie. Stockton's next error was to commission Kit Carson to send word to Washington that the conquest of California was fait accompli. Before all targets had been secured. It was sort of like saying, "End of major operations has occurred," in a different and more modern set of circumstances.
THE WESTERN CAMPAIGN
Up to this point none of the principals in the California campaign had the slightest authority for doing what they did. Fremont was a civilian, charged with exploration. Sloat was a naval Commodore and Stockton was a Commodore charged with securing the coast and only the coast, not the entire state. The only fellow with clear and unequivocal orders to conduct a campaign to secure California was struggling over the mountains and deserts of the Great West during all of this stuff going on. That man was Stephen Watts Kearny, appointed as Brigadier General, and leading 1556 wagons, 459 horses, 4,000 mules and 15,000 head of cattle to fuel six troops of Dragoons, 1 infantry battalion, two companies of light artillery and a volunteer force of another 650 men to total some 1,500 soldiers, in comparison to Stockton's 350 sailors. His task was clear enough: conquer the entire West, from St. Louis to the Pacific Ocean.
In essence, Kearny did conquer all of what is now New Mexico. And it was in Santa Fe that he ran into Kit Carson, with his dispatches for Washington.
Kearny sent back the vast majority of his force and ordered Carson to lead him to California where he assumed he was to assume the command over the entire territory.
One month underway, with the majority of his armed force heading home, Kearny got word that California was in a state of insurrection.
ALL SHE WANTS TO DO IS DANCE, DANCE DANCE
Stockton was an average military mind, meaning that he was very good at beating the pulp out of sea-going enemies and really, really bad at interpersonal relations. He also was possessed of several grandiose dreams, which the calm pacification of California had irritated. He went up and down the rivers, firing his guns and issuing proclamations and left behind in Los Angeles a perfect martinet, Archibald Gillespie, to run things, while he, Stockton, would sail down to Mexico City in a grand pincer movement so as to greet Zachary Taylor in august style. Gillespie publicly regarded Mexicans with contempt, instituted harsh military rule, enforced rigorous curfews, outlawed liquor and, absolutely the last straw, forbade the heart and soul of Californio culture, the fandango.
In short, the man acted like a complete, gung-ho idiot, and it was our old friend Oog, together with a man named Varela, who gathered together a number of rebels to try and lift this obnoxious curse -- garrisoned by only 46 men. Varela was joined at La Mesa by one Captain Jose Flores -- a career soldier -- and one Captain Andres Pico, brother of Pio Pico and one with a grudge to bear. They had put up with one outrage after another and patiently sat out all sorts of rules and regulations, but as for a prohibition against having a party! Might as well tell a modern Southern Californian to forgo the suntan and swimming pools.
Pico put the garrison under siege after many declarations of independence, and Gillespie fled with his men to a barren hilltop and was forced to surrender to one of the commanders. He and his men were put on a ship to remove them from California with the exhortation never to return. A lone messenger arrived in San Francisco to inform Stockton that Los Angeles was lost. Stockton sent his own messengers to fetch back Fremont with his trusty Delaware warriors and 350 armed men, and then set sail south where his fleet encountered the same ship carrying Gillespie. Who was freed and charged with the task of kindly please retaking his command post. So it was that Gillespie participated in an abortive attempt to reinforce a garrison that no longer existed. In a minor skirmish, the "reinforcements" were beaten back with 15 casualties. Four men died.
In San Diego, a letter from Brigadier General Kearny awaited Stockton. It said, to the effect, "I am here. How are things in California?" Kearny had with him a bare 100 dragoons of his original force, plus a couple howitzers.
Incidentally, the month was December and December is known in California as being rather wet. In fact, it thundered and stormed as if all hell had broken loose practically every day through November, no doubt breaking all sorts of records had anyone bothered to keep them back then.
Gillespie, who had participated in the abortive attempt to recover the Los Angeles garrison, and who should have been court martialed a dozen times for his nonsense, rode out with the magnificent force of 35 men to reinforce Kearny. He met with Kearny near the village of San Pascual, where Pio Pico also happened to be spending the night with his own force of mounted lancers. Pico, who detested Gillespie, was there solely to make sure the Marine did not cause further harm with his small force to any of his relatives. He did not know about Kearny and he did not know that Gillespie had had the forethought to bring along a four-pounder fieldpiece.
In the usual muddled fashion, a couple officers proposed and executed a "surveillance raid", which consisted of wandering into the village and querying several inhabitants. This informed Pico that the enemy was at hand. This also informed Kearny that the enemy was at hand as well and knew that he was there.
Kearny, perhaps the only sensible man -- other than Pico -- involved in the whole lamentable enterprise responded with a fury at this bungling that can only be suggested. The element of surprise had been entirely removed.
The men were ordered to break camp and make advance, even as the rain stopped, on December 6. So, in the early dawn 100 very cold, wet, tired dragoons who had just crossed 1,000 miles of nasty territory advanced on the handful of useless mud huts known as San Pascual. Their rifles were, owing to the damp, entirely useless.
In the village itself, Pico waited with his small army of men armed with lances and single-shot muskets.
True to all the foolishness that had preceded this engagement, the battle began in error, when an officer misheard a command by Kearny and unleashed a full-on charge, followed by a more cautious Kit Carson, who nevertheless had his mount shot out from under him. Johnston was the man's name and he was killed in the first and only volley from the Californios, who then wheeled about and uncouched their lances.
Well, one could go on about tactics and maneuvers, but at San Pascual there was none. It all degenerated within seconds into an atavistic snarling and horrible carnage in and among the mud huts. The Californios were expert horsemen, but armed with seven-foot long lances that became useless in close combat. The Americans were largely on foot, but extremely well trained in the use of the cavalry saber and the two sides took to hacking and jabbing at one another with primitive ferocity with everyone using their useless rifles as clubs. Gillespie arrived in the midst of things and got himself gashed by a lance and literally impaled to the ground. He managed to free himself, fight off six attackers and got himself to the fieldpiece. Kearny, at 52 hardly expecting to find himself ever in such a situation, was surrounded and fought off attackers flailing his saber like mad. Gillespie fainted from loss of blood but his second, Edward Beale stoked up the two four-pounders with grapeshot and let fly right at the Californios.
Pico, realizing that the situation had changed quite radically, retreated and the entire useless, unnecessary Battle of San Pasqual was over in about 30 minutes. 23 Americans had been killed. No reliable record is left of the Californio casualties, as Pico never ever gave an accurate account of the numbers involved, while also claiming to have killed Gillespie -- who, incredibly, lived on long after that episode.
As for San Pascual, all the huts have long since been torn down and nothing exists there now but for a meadow.
Well, one could go on about the various maneuvers after this event, but the outcome was as inevitable as Pico must have realized. Fremont was heading south with 350 well-armed -- and very well experienced mountain men, plus artillery and his army corps "protectors" as well as several of the notably effective Delaware. At the same time, a furious Commodore Stockton was heading