JUNE 24, 2007

IF IT WERE NOT FOR BAD LUCK

All the page code has been cleaned up and the hyperlinks restored after last week's snafu. The responsible parties have been identified and suitably punished in the Island-Life Official Oublette of Manacles and Wasps. The screams have been deleted for sake of propriety.

OUR HOUSE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE BLOCK

Island-Life bids adieu to Kathleen as she departs the House after 15 years in search of decent apartment maintenance and a change of life. She will remain on the Island however.

DIEHARD BLUES?!

Just over the wire we have news that local fave, Ron Thompson will be teaming up with some unusual Big Marquee Names this summer, starting with a rocking gig in Las Vegas with that well known Blues Rocker . . . Bruce Willis!

What?

You heard that right. Ron is hooking up with Mr. Sin City Pulp Fiction himself at the Tachi Palace Hotel for a two night run. Should be interesting, to say the least.

After that, our Ron next hooks up with The Boy From Stockton, Chris Isaak for a six city tour of the West Coast.
Details about these and other gigs, such as his local show with Johnny Rawls, can be peeped at www.rtblues.com.

We picked up a copy of Ron's solo CD, "Resonator" which earns a full five porkpie hat stars for its truthfulness to the Old School.

In other news, John Butler played tonight, fronted by Kaki King, a female guitarist who is so good you think "Wow!" even before marketing makes you want to have sex with her (image). See with your ears, people, and then you will know who is really Good.

Hot Tuna blows into town on the 29th with a gig beneath the purple chandeliers at the Fillmore. Hopefully the rising religiosity gets stowed under a hat for this one.

Jonny Lang, most definitely in the profane school of the blues, will rock the house June 30th. You like the Blues? You will like Jonny.

Page McConnell is not a Name in the Big Marquee sense, but he is a spin-off from Phish, for whom he laid down many righteous bass lines, and has some tasty tracks for you and yours to enjoy on July 10th, also at the venerable Fillmore.

At the Warfield, Les Claypool conducts the Fancy Tour on June 29th to your insane edification and irrational delight.

We hear over the wire that Dave Grohl is mopping it up right now. You go guy. No more Virginia Jobs for us!

GOODBY MR. PEEPERS

Well, at least goodbye Mr. Sonneman, principal of Encinal High and an Island administrator of others on the Island for 21 years, added to his stint as a teacher making his resume end with 37 years of smelling chalkdust. To Island-Life, Bill Sonneman seemed the epitome of the Quiet Man, he who calmly and lifelong made the positive big difference to thousands, without fuss and without self-endorsement.

We remember well his baptism of fire when, shortly after he took the helm of the then troubled Encinal High, the school leapt into national news over the installation of a restored A4 Navy Jetfighter on the front lawn when opponents objected over what they percieved as a military symbol.

Reasonable heads prevailed as Sonneman indicated that the athletic teams were all called The Jets, and held the old plane more as a lovable mascot than any expression of violent military truculence.

Encinal had long held the reputation -- among certain snobs -- of being the Island's "blue collar school" on the West End (as opposed to the "better" Alameda High, located symbolically crosstown), but Sonneman turned that image around to make the place a stellar leader in test scores. No one now seriously compares the two schools in any qualitative manner.

In true retiree spirit, the 61 year Mr. Sonneman will first visit Hawaii.

ON THE WATERFRONT

Islanders please be notified that Council meetings are in session to discuss what will become of the formerly industrial area bounded by Sherman, Buena Vista, and Grand, fronting the estuary with some 110 acres of suddenly prime real estate. At present, parts of the old Belt Line railway and the old brick delMonte Cannery occupy most of the site along with a fair amount of weeds. Ship repair facilities and a few other minor warehouses occupy the area, but the 235,000 square-foot cannery is the ruby in the prize sought by a few developers here.

A court fight released the section from some Measure A restrictions, so a live-work facility in keeping with the industrial nature of the place is a possibility endorsed by councilmember Frank Matarrese.

IMPEACH GONZALES

The movement to oust our out-of-line Attorney General is growing. A Major independent group has established a fund to excise this cancer from our Body Politic. Seems Gonzales is just another failure in the long list foisted upon America.

Go to http://www.commoncause.org for more information.

THIS ISLAND LIFE

Its been a quiet week on the Island, our hometown. Various things come to mind. Summertime. The Island. Gonzales. Blues. Lake Woebegon. Dahlias. Development.

What is one to make of this melange?

One goes to the Pampered Pup to scope the news is what one does by day. By night, one attends to the Old Same Place. Eulalia still serves up dogs and buns with relish behind the counter in that diner parked a storefront down from the Old News Stand. The Old News Stand has been there at least since 1945, when even Islanders started paying serious attention to the News. No one knows how long it had stood there as a freestanding shack before that. Maybe some relative of Don Peralta set the thing there way back when the Island boasted no more than four streets connecting the hamlet of Woodstock to Brooklyn across the water, and the East End consisted largely of wind twisted oak trees.

A paper cost a nickel on Sunday back in 1945, and the Islanders all gathered around that shack first thing in the morning to track the progress in what they called the European Theatre and then the Pacific when General Patton was done with the Germans.

Lately the news is not so optimistic and the war is a far cry from that earlier one when it was easy to tell the Good Guys from the Bad Guys.

But the first dahlia has bloomed from the burgeoning bush. The last freesias are reluctantly wilting in the shade, and the fava beans hang in long strands, drying on the racks. Hummingbirds have been inspecting the progress of the hydrangeas that had been cut back last fall. All the schools have commenced their final graduates and it is safe to drive past Woodstock Middle School around three pm again without fear of hooligans and little monsters rushing into the roadway. This is not exactly news, but its true all the same.

Harlan is still putting out his signs on Lincoln Street. Last one said, NO GIRLFRIEND HERE, and for once, we believe him.

Harlan, as long time readers will know, is the madman of Lincoln and Lafayette who puts up cryptic signs on the side of his house every day. No one has ever figured out just what Harlan is trying to say, but that's okay. He is an Islander through and through.

Down at the Pampered Pup David Sanchez is trying to gather up a crew to raise a house on Santa Clara. Because of the City Ordinance forbidding new construction with special attention to height limits, Islanders have figured out an ingenious way around the rules. instead of building on a story on top of a house, they will jack up the place above the foundations, claiming "earthquake retrofitting", and add the new story underneath. Neat trick when you can get away with it.

But getting a crew together can be the greatest challenge, for everybody needs work, and no one will deny they possess the skills. Many are the houses which, upon completion lacked a few essentials, such as a stairway to the newly elevated front door. Or toilets which possessed plumbing that went all the way to the City system. This can be disconcerting for anyone living on the new ground level.

The language barrier also can be a problem on the job around here, but David has no issues with that, for he can curse fluently in several dialects of Spanish and Chinese.

A good phrase we learned recently after a bathroom job went awry is "El estante es al reves montado." The shelf is installed upside down.

We have an important addition to the currently debated and debatable "Immigration Bill" set before Congress. All new immigrants to this country must pay for and take a class on basic carpentry to obtain a green card.
And electrical work. That would be good too. Does not matter if the man or woman is a physician or a physicist, basic carpentry should be required.

In fact, we think ALL Americans should take a class in carpentry. Give us all something in common at least.
There is nothing like making something with wood to give a sense of solidity and a place in the universe.

Chicago was a fine place inhabited by genteel folk, but it is great to be back home amidst the linguistic babble of the Bay Area. Brad Pitt didn't need to visit Morocco to get lost in language. And there are plenty of kids right here in Oaktown who would be happy to accidentally shoot his wife, just like in the movie.

The Bay Area is a whirling medley of languages and peoples from all over the world and right here on this Island we have not less than thirty churches, Islamic mosques and Synagogues all cheek by jowel with one another. We even have The Home of Truth down on Grand Street with its own delightful Minister of Faith. If you don't believe, just go over there and see for yourself.

Down at the Old Same Place, Suzie ministers to a different sort of Faithful. Between drinks and dishware, she attends to her anthropology book while the mating rituals of Summer on the Island play out all around her. Eugene is there, and Bear with his Sophie. He is dressed, as usual, in a t-shirt occasionally used as a rag, pants treated the same, mismatched blue and red sneakers and formerly white socks. Various living creatures may be living in his beard. Sophie is neatly dress in a man's white shirt, slacks and loafers. Percy drops by for a quick Manhattan, dressed as usual in beige plus fours, spats, cream trowsers, waistcoat, gold watch fob and dress coat to match the upholstery in his immaculate 1929 Mandeville-Brot coupe with full running boards. His companion, Lydia, wears a red feather boa and strappy shoes. She remains a member of the Berkeley Explicit Players, but people are used to her around here. And for a naked person, she is not bad looking, which is maybe how she and Percy hooked up. She does add much to the upholstery.

Officer O'Madhauen cruises by, noting the cars which have been parked in the neighborhood of the bar for longer than one hour. There will be no accidents due to DUI on his watch if he can help it. No sir.

It is life on the Island in the Bay Area on a quiet night at the end of the weekend. And in the Old Same Place Suzie opens her book. "The Bonobo are characterized by a great joy in life and companionship between one another . . .". And Suzie sighs. Its a dark night in a city that knows how to keep its secrets, but in the Old Same Place sits one bartender still pondering life's persistent questions.

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

JUNE 17, 2007

NO BULLETS MAN

June 12, 2004 - Naked Bike Ride San Francisco. This item is from Chad on the Island.

Photos from the World Naked Bike Ride San Francisco. The clothing optional event, one of several held around the world, was a protest of oil dependency, the war that this dependency leads to, and a celebration of the human body.

The ride started at Justin Herman plaza, went down Market street, rolled past City Hall, then went on to the Castro, and finally ended up in Golden Gate park after riding through the Haight.

MUSIC DO I HEAR?

The summer season heats up with the following items of note appearing in and around Babylon.

At the Greek Theatre, we have the Goo Goo Dolls with Lifehouse on the 22nd, followed by Alison Krauss and her inimitable banjo band on the 30th. The Rodrigo y Gabriela show sold out for the 28th at the Fillmore, understandably so, within a week of the unscheduled announcement.

Skinny Puppy returns from the dead with industrial noise aplenty to welcome Summer on the 21st. The considerably smoother Australian band John Butler Trio follows up for two nights 6/23-6/24 with the phenomenal Kaki King opening, one opener you do not want to miss for all the virtuosity of this amazing artist on the acoustic fretboard. Expect soundboard tapping aplenty.

Hot Tuna slide into town for the 29th -- Jorma has a new CD out, so expect some covers from that one. And Jonny Lang closes out the month with John McLaughlin for a bluesy seque into July.

Les Claypool sails on seas of cheese into the Warfield with his bass-heavy attack on the 29th, for those fans of the wierd and wonderful. On a jazzy note, Ani diFranco, the pint-sized powerhouse, will rock the house on the 14th of July in that same venue.

Just missed due to illness: the Russian River Jazz fest with Buddy Guy and Roy Rogers and E. Bishop. So much Blues, so little time. We sent up a contingent to report, but seems the good times and the tequila have resulted in delayed transmissions back to the news desk.

SWEET HOME CHICAGO

It was only a matter of time before we paid tribute to the City that launched a thousand hips. Took in part of the annual Chicago Blues Festival down in Grant Park this past weekend.

Beginning in May, the Mayor hosts a series of free open air events in the parks that border Lake Michigan, including the Blues Festival, which draws the old timers from all over the place back to the Source. This year, the main event heralded the 92nd birthday celebration of Howling Wolf, with family members and former bandmates all congregating for a shoutfest at the Petrillo Bandshell.

After a dubious period of weather shenanigans, the skies opened up to sunny, pleasant weather, albeit more humid than Californians are used to.

Island-Life staffers got pinned down by Severe Weather in Wisconsin as that state suffered seven tornados, upping its century-held record of one by as many times a twister touched down to make people miserable, which had us rolling into town late Saturday for the Festival.

We did manage to catch Cephas and Wiggins out at the Front Porch Stage, Little Howlin' Wolf, and the festival closeout jam with James Cotton with Hubert Sumlin at the Bandshell, followed by the raunchy roadshow of Bobby Rush, to whom Blues means nothing other than Sex, Sex and more Sex. That guy did more hip gyrations than Elvis Presley on Eveready batteries and his backup dancers could have supplied an entire city with electricity on their booty-shaking energy alone.

Cephas and Wiggins are probably the only surviving artists who still perform the Piedmont Blues style, a form that developed in the Appalachian mountains in response to local limitations. Each performer in the PB style must be prepared to supply the melodic line, comping, and basic rhythm for one never knew if all band members would be available to play. In addition, the mountain districts featured few piano instruments, or players who could use them, so the guitarists developed a style that attempted to duplicate the popular two-handed sound of the roaring-twenties barrelhouse. The result is a complicated thumb-roll combination with finger-picked melody lines that distinguishes itself from the spare Delta arrangements most people are accustomed to hearing. The Carter family picked up on this style most notably and employed it heavily in their country arrangements.

Little Howlin' Wolf stepped on stage in 1947 and has not stopped performing since that time. He, alone, has earned the fairly honorable sobriquet referencing the grand master by marrying into the family and carrying on the tradition. He is a reminder that the Blues is more than just an artform genre, but a warm, human, family and friend oriented community that is all about experience and real life. You can't just make a big noise and make musical pyrotechnics to get into the Blues. You don't choose the Blues, the Blues choose you. Anyone else calling themselves "Little Howlin' Wolf" had better check their credentials at the door.

Jessie Sanders (Little Howlin Wolf) was born and raised in Florence, MS, along Highway 49. He lived in Chicago most of his life, during which time he spent many hours in blues clubs and on the road with the late great Howlin' Wolf. Jessie first took to the stage with Howlin' Wolf in 1950. Wolf took Jessie under his wing and it wasn't uncommon for him to be heard referring to Jessie as his "son". Out of respect and admiration for his long time friend and mentor Jessie began performing as "Lil Howlin Wolf".

He performed on weekends with Blues greats such as Howlin Wolf, Jimmy Reed, Hound Dog Taylor, Albert King, Magic Sam, Freddie King, and Little Junior Parker. They did shows at Silvio's Lounge on Chicago's west side. During a visit home in 1947 while at WDIA in Memphis he met BB King and Bobby Blue Bland while they were there doing a radio spot. A decade later he would share the bill with not only BB King and Bobby Blue Bland but also the likes of Little Milton, Chuck Berry, Bobby Taylor, and Jimmy Reed. He's also shared the stage with (sat in with) legendary greats, James Brown, Aretha Franklin, and Millie Jackson.

The Festival ended after dark at the Petrillo Bandshell in Grant Park. A limited number of seats were available, but the vast majority of folks gathered on the grass to listen to the music and watch on the big projection screen set up at the fence.

In the true style of the City, the ensemble gathered for an old time Chicago blues jam featuring James Cotton and Hubert Sumlin on stage with Eddie Shaw, Jody Williams (vocals) and Willie Smith doing amped up versions of Howling Wolf tunes with members of the "Wolf's" family attending at stage left bleacher seats.

James Cotton just seems to increase in size everytime we see him. The man looks immense from any sort of distance, but that may be a function of reputation. Hubert Sumlin, lead guitarist for the original Howling Wolf, just keeps on playing as if he has made some pact with Another Power never to age.

Together the two tore it up for 90 minutes, getting a sizeable throng dancing in the side aisles.

Bobby Rush closed out the evening with a rollicking risque show evoking James Brown with a healthy dollop of high energy raunch and roll. When those backup dancers started shaking their booties, one after another, Bobby acted like a little kid, delightfully non-PC, as he spoke to the crowd. "Guys! Will you look at that! I know your wife doesn't want you to look, but . . . look at that!"

In the spirit of the Festival, the Blue Cross building that sits on the edge of the park lit up selected floors for the show.

GOT THE KEY TO THE HIGHWAY

Chicago turned out to be a fairly pleasant experience, with the people there unfailingly polite to an extent from which we here in the Bay Area could learn a great deal. With ten times the population density and surface area, the folks of Chicagoland consistently demonstrated fine manners, from the lowest streetperson begging for change to the most urbane of officeworker.

Still, after the humidity, we were glad to be breathing dry air again. One would think that with the fogs roiling over the coastal range that this place would be just as moist, but the prevailing winds coming down over the dry hills keep the air down to the 10% level.

Sure enough everybody came down with the summer flu on return, causing us to miss out on the Russian River Blues Festival with Buddy Guy and Roy Rogers. Bummer.

Must have been hot here, as all the spinach in the garden got toasted. Aint no cure for the summertime blues.

But summertime is not the time for despair, not even in Minnesotta. We had some walleye on our visit up there during the tornados. It's fine, very fine indeed, and we acknowlege the healthfull sedative traits of the toothsome pike, but we must remain jingoistically in favor of our own brookies.

The rainbow trout is quite possibly the most beautiful fish in the world as it leaps with a scattering of diamond sundrops after the strike. In California, we hike the banks of the Lost Coast, quaking aspens shaking their hands in the breeze under summer dappled skies, while the trout move slowly in the deep eddies, fins barely moving. So it has been for at least one thousand years. Summer time is the dreamtime of Notime and Alltime. That is why baseball flowers in summer, for in baseball, there is no Time.

Summertime is the season for planting and growing. It's the time of hot sizzles and BBQ grills, pale beer bottles stuffed with lime wedges, and sandals worn to business meetings. In Chicagoland, it was the time of the 17 year locust, fat buzzing bodies cluttering out of nowhere to fill the trees with astonishing hums, like every oak and maple have turned into power transformers. And the time of Lakeside festivals, with everyone coming down to the shores of the great inland sea of Michigan to enjoy the breezes.

Here on the Island, we don't have locusts, but we do have groundsquirrels and summertime is the time of groundsquirrel joy.

The salmon have finished their run, but May initializes the Season of the Trout. Due to the low snowpack, all the streams are down, but that means the trout are clustered together in those eddies, engaged in troutish confab together. Perhaps next winter the snowpack will return. Maybe the Democrats will learn some sense. The bushy dahlias appear to be making things down there in the garden and the cut hydrangeas have all come roaring back.

And maybe, just maybe, the Cubs will make it to the Series this year. Hope springs eternal in summertime.

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

JUNE 3, 2007

THEN CAME THE LAST DAYS OF MAY

Look upon the Sign that speaks unto you and weep, for the time of the Beast is upon us.

Well may you wonder how such things have come to pass. From correspondent, Chad, we have this image of the Editor in Thief on Earth Day, demonstrating his sincere committment to replenishing the earth's resources.

Of course, you can just sit back, watch your TV, and pay attention to the advertising like good little boys and girls.

THE GARDENER, PART II

We have this hyperlink forwarded by a considerate Islander, which connects to a blog that features a weekly garden photo from the Island and all sorts of ways to get things growing in harsh sandy soil with poor light, which pretty much describes the Island garden situation fairly well.

www.alamedagardens.blogspot.com

Claire managed to reveal to us the name of the mystery plant growing out by the trashcans behind the IslandLife offices. It is called "Four O'clock" by its common name, and Mirabilis Jalapa (Peru Wonder) by the more technically inclined. It grows all over the place here, and some people even plant it, although if it finds its way by accident into your garden you had better learn to love its brilliant flowers, for it is nearly ineradicable.

The flowers on the Island are primarily crimson, but it can take any number of other hues, sometimes with three or four different colors on the same plant.

YOU MUST NOT HEED THE CALL-UP

This news item was reported here in September of 2005, however recent events have caused us to reprint the document associated with the refusal of Sharon Olds to read and speak as an invitee of the White House in the Capitol.

Here is an open letter from the poet Sharon Olds to Laura Bush declining the invitation to read & speak at the Natl Book Critics Circle Award in Washington,DC.

Sharon Olds is one of most widely read & critically acclaimed poets living in America today.

Laura Bush
First Lady, The White House

Dear Mrs. Bush,

I am writing to let you know why I am not able to accept your kind invitation to give a presentation at the National Book Festival on Sept 24, or to attend your dinner at the Library of Congress or the breakfast at the White House.

In one way, it's a very appealing invitation. The idea of speaking at a festival attended by 85,000 people is inspiring! The possibility of finding new readers is exciting for a poet in personal terms, & in terms of the desire that poetry serve its constituents--all of us who need the pleasure, & the inner & outer news, it delivers.

And the concept of a community of readers & writers has long been dear to my heart. As a professor of creative writing in the graduate school of a major university, I have had the chance to be a part of some magnificent outreach writing workshops in which our students have become teachers. Over the years, they have taught in a variety of settings: a women's prison, several NYC public high schools, an oncology ward for children.

Our initial program, at a 900-bed state hospital for the severely physically challenged, has been running now for 20 yrs, creating along the way lasting friendships between young MFA candidates & their students--long-term residents at the hospital who, in their humor, courage & wisdom, become our teachers.

When you have witnessed someone nonspeaking & almost nonmoving spell out, with a toe, on a big plastic alphabet chart, letter by letter, his new poem, you have experienced, close up, the passion & essentialness of writing. When you have held up a small cardboard alphabet card for a writer who is completely non-speaking & nonmoving (except for the eyes), & pointed first to the A, then the B, then C, then D, until you get to the 1st letter of the 1st word of the first line of the poem she has been composing in her head all week, & she lifts her eyes when that letter is touched to say yes, you feel with a fresh immediacy the human drive for creation, self-expression, accuracy, honesty & wit--& the importance of writing, which celebrates the value of each person's unique story & song. So the prospect of a festival of books seemed wonderful to me. I thought of the opportunity to talk about how to start up an outreach program. I thought of the chance to sell some books, sign some books & meet some of the citizens of Wash, DC.

I thought that I could try to find a way, even as your guest, with respect, to speak about my deep feeling that we should not have invaded Iraq, & to declare my belief that the wish to invade another culture & another country - with the resultant loss of life & limb for our brave soldiers, & for the noncombatants in their home terrain--did not come out of our democracy but was instead a decision made "at the top" & forced on the people by distorted language, & by un-truths. I hoped to express the fear that we have begun to live in the shadows of tyranny & religious chauvinism--the opposites of the liberty, tolerance & diversity our nation aspires to.

I tried to see my way clear to attend the festival in order to bear witness--as an American who loves her country and its principles & its writing--against this undeclared & devastating war. But I could not face the idea of breaking bread with you. I knew that if I sat down to eat with you, it would feel to me as if I were condoning what I see to be the wild, highhanded actions of the Bush Adm. What kept coming to the fore of my mind was that I would be taking food from the hand of the First Lady who represents the Adm that unleashed this war & that wills its continuation, even to the extent of permitting "extraordinary rendition": flying people to other countries where they will be tortured for us. So many Americans who had felt pride in our country now feel anguish & shame, for the current regime of blood, wounds & fire. I thought of the clean linens at your table, the shining knives & the flames of the candles, & I could not stomach it.

Sincerely,
SHARON OLDS

As a postscript, the following year there was yet another controversy about yet another refusal, this time from winners of the National Design Award, given to exceptional graphic designers in the publishing field. It is not exactly an art form that normally is associated with manning the barricades, but, as Ralph Caplan of the AIGA said " The National Design Award that includes graphic design carries the far roomier rubric, Communications Design. Which is precisely why five of last year's finalists or winners declined one of the accompanying honors: an invitation from Laura Bush to breakfast at the White House."

Here's what they wrote:

Dear Mrs. Bush:

As American designers, we strongly believe our government should support the design profession and applaud the White House sponsorship of the Cooper-Hewitt National Design Museum. And as finalists and recipients of the National Design Award in Communication Design we are deeply honored to be selected for this recognition. However, we find ourselves compelled to respectfully decline your invitation to visit the White House on July 10th (2006).

Graphic designers are intimately engaged in the construction of language, both visual and verbal. And while our work often dissects, rearranges, rethinks, questions and plays with language, it is our fundamental belief, and a central tenet of "good" design, that words and images must be used responsibly, especially when the matters articulated are of vital importance to the life of our nation.

We understand that politics often involves high rhetoric and the shading of language for political ends. However it is our belief that the current administration of George W. Bush has used the mass communication of words and images in ways that have seriously harmed the political discourse in America. We therefore feel it would be inconsistent with those values previously stated to accept an award celebrating language and communication, from a representative of an administration that has engaged in a prolonged assault on meaning.

While we have diverse political beliefs, we are united in our rejection of these policies. Through the wide-scale distortion of words (from "Healthy Forests" to "Mission Accomplished") and both the manipulation of media (the photo op) and its suppression (the hidden war casualties), the Bush administration has demonstrated disdain for the responsible use of mass media, language and the intelligence of the American people.

While it may be an insignificant gesture, we stand against these distortions and for the restoration of a civil political dialogue.

September 2007 is coming up. Think anybody in the Administration is finally getting it?

INSPIRATION! MOVING BRIGHTLY

Those jolly ladies, Terpsichore, Calliope, Clio, Erato, Euterpe, Melpomene, Polyhymnia, Thalia, and Urania have been seen capering about the Island and East Bay in general for the annual East Bay Open Studios began its first weekend this Saturday. Pro Arts (proartsgallery.org) lists some 400 artists in its handsome 2007 catalogue. In addition, we note that the newest art venue to the Island, The Rhythmix Cultural Center flung open its doors in the old Clamp Swing factory on Blanding Avenue after a years-long battle against all kinds of odds. When you are done visiting over there, get on over across the water, having paid respects at our Frank Bette Center on Lincoln, to the Jingletown district in the middle of the fruit and vegetable warehouse area of Oaktown bounded by Fruitvale, 29th Avenue, East 7th Street and Glasscock, with attention paid to Ford Street Studios. Some of those artists have established relationships with some of our own folks here.

East Bay Open Studios is always a cheery event with lots of exciting stuff happening and tons of great treasures unearthed to look at, and perhaps take home for your very own.

If you drop in on Jim Kitson's studio on Santa Clara Avenue, you will be able to place your hands on the belly of "Generative Matrix" (pictured above). Feel something move?

SWEET HOME CHICAGO

Its been a quiet week on the Island. Still no word from the authorities regarding our standing application to become a Sister City to Lake Woebegon. The Dispatch Department has followed all the usual channels of communication: three carrier pigeons, two encryption hamsters, and a marching band that includes Gropius on Hardart and Inflateable. The engineers are all scratching their heads, as somebody usually says something at some point.

The last time the pigeons came back from their mission a bit woozy with shreds of what appears to be rhubarb adhering to their beaks.

Meanwhile, all along the coastal range, the fogs are surging over the crest and down through the trees in some Tolkein fantasy. Babylon, having enjoyed its Spring -- lasting some 36 hours -- is now settled back into its usual briskly chill habitude of fog and shivers which so put off Sam Clemens more than one hundred years ago. But so entrenched is the San Franciscan in his sense of superiority over Los Angeles, he stalks about his business in tee-shirt, bermuda shorts and sandals no matter how frigid the temperature, absolutely denying the weather as it is, for the season is summer and for summer he will dress, will he, nil he.

Max calls up from Burbank to say how they are all basking under sunny skies and everybody is at the pool and, heck, must be all overcoats and galoshes up there in that fog, guy.

No, we are all wearing shorts and sunglasses here. Thanks for calling. And Max? Please stay in L.A. Please.

That North-South rivalry has been going on for some time here and shows no sign of letup.

Sure, we have our summer rituals. The groundsquirrels all come out to scamper along the Strand and between the BBQ's at Crab Cove. We do have baseball and other dangerous sports. The parasails and windsurfers all congregate at the end of 8th Street and jollify the sky with their colorful kites. A few people bring real kites out there and among the simple diamond-backs from Walgreens are the fabulous dragon kites from China, looping and swirling right above. Over at John McClaren the Samoan Islanders set up the posts for their summer cricket tourney and there they go, big pony-tailed guys hurtling across the pitch like locomotives.

Fishing, of course, remains a popular sport, and one often will see anglers angling around the breakwater and bridges, often with apparent success. There to trundle home with their perch or whatever to toss into the seasoned frypan.

These people are idiots. Nobody but a fool would eat anything out of the mercury and cadium-laced bay. The entire reason the Island is an Island is that Oaktown used to dump so much sewage into the Bay it backed up around the occasional peninsula of Bolsa Alameda, so the Army Corps of Engineers cut a channel and turned the occasional peninsula into a permanent island.

No, fishing is what one does in freshwater lakes and streams, just about as far from the Bay and fertilizer-packed Delta as one can get. From the Russian River, there is the salmon run, followed by bass and steelhead with a few channel cat thrown in there. Up in the High Country one goes for rainbows, brookies, and the increasingly elusive Golden. The Golden Trout is so elusive that you can't even find a decent picture of one on the internet. Here is one.

They can only be found above 10,000 feet elevation and cannot compete with any species. Nowadays, few longer than 10 inches can be found at all. Sometimes they are called "pink trout" because their flesh is reddish on the plate next to brookies.

California trout, once teaming the streams so thick the natives here needed only to stand straddled over a weir to spear one among a dozen passing underneath to fetch dinner, now have become decimated to the point that every one of them trout out there has developed a critical eye towards feeding, with cautious approach and studied apprehension. Eugene Gallipagus is known, after prepping his rod, to crawl on his belly up to the riverbank to crouch behind a bush, and from there to cast up stream to allow the fly to drift down past his location and even then, sometimes they get the word somehow among themselves what the boy is up to.

"Hear Eugene is fishing up there again."
"Oh, that boy with the hat."
"Yep."
"Here comes something . . . "
"Oh I don't think you should go for that. Looks like a badly tied hare's ear to me."
"Yep."
"I aint fooled by that thing. Let's just sit here a while."
"Yep."
"Them young'uns can have it."
"Yep."

And the rest of the day is ruined for fishing.

Northern Californians can be emotional, but not as effusive as Southern Californians. When Southern Californians get emotional, they cry and mess up their clothes. Like Phil Spector, they occasionally shoot their guests at home. When Northern Californians get emotional, they break things or each other in strange places. The public bar fight was invented in Northern California by Jack London, who spent a lot of time here writing about workers rights and so forth. And getting into fights in bars. To the end of his days, he bitterly regretted making money on dog stories, and often would start a fight in a bar on the subject.

He may not have been the best exemplar of leftist thinking, but he sure wrote a good dog story when he had a mind. We can say that now, because he is not around to break anybody's nose.

Back to Eugene. One day he was fishing for trout at Lake Martha, which is the lake where, according to myth, golden trout first diverged from rainbows in evolution. The lake is some 11,500 feet in elevation and has a gravel place there which had been lake bed at one time far in the past people call Wotan's Parking Lot. If you have ever been there, you would know what I mean, for that is just about as flat and barren a spot for yards as you could ever find with Mount Goddard looming over the spot like some castle. Needless to say, the entire place is a four-day hike from nowhere with no showers, dancing girls, or trail for days.

Eugene went out in the morning from the shelter down below to the lake there -- no trees or bushes for miles in all directions, so you got to camp down below -- and he threw in his line. Now as it happened Eugene had a flask of that special brew Padraic had done up a couple of Thanksgivings ago and he was drinking this stuff instead of water. Seems this special homebrew involved the leaves of the rhubarb plant, which may account for its distinctive hallucinatory properties.

Eugene had not meant to take this brew up in his water flask, intending to use it at night for medicinal purposes, but Wanda had filled the sucker up at base camp, thinking she was doing a special service.

So come late morning there was Eugene at high Lake Martha, surrounded by shadeless Wotan's Parkinglot, the sun starting to beat down and not even cover for the damn trout along the lake shore. All the trout can see perfectly well the man is up there -- not a rock to hide behind, and not much is happening.

Eugene gets thirsty, pops the top of his canteen and downs a swig, realizing at once what it was. Oh, well. Damage done. So he keeps on tossing out his line, getting more and more leisurely as he takes a swig and another. Soon he plops down right there on the bank -- there is a place where the Parkinglot is high enough above the lake to make a sort of bank there and Eugene nestles against this embankment with his line sort of idly floating on the surface.

Soon enough it seems he has a strike and, after a brief struggle, an immense golden head appears above the surface of the lake. It's at least three feet wide, the largest fish of any kind Eugene has ever seen. It's a rare King Californian Golden Trout and it speaks to him.

It speaks to him in the language of Trout, which only true trout fishermen can understand. Those who fish for cat or steelhead or salmon know not the language of mountain trout. Just ask them. For they are interested only in size of catch and not the glory.

Do you speak the language of trout?

But Eugene understood, and unto him was imparted the wisdom and the scriptures of the Great Golden Trout. He was to drop his earthly trappings and go among men and spread the Word of Trout. For of field and stream we are born and into the field and stream we shall return. Glory unto the Trout! Glory unto the Brown! Glory unto the Rainbow! Glory unto the Golden who is first among them!

Eugene arose as if awoken from a dream and he cast forth his rod and descended from the mountains not unlike the Israelites of old, and he spoke the Word of Trout and all were amazed, not the least the Unitarians, who had never conceived of such a thing. And the Lutherans spake of walleye and smallmouth and knew him not for they are a prudent folk and not inclined to speak of such things. Of the Catholics, who fish not unless for sole, he was shunned and they abjured his talk for they like not that which causes Fuss and Bother preferring shame and humiliation and the exile of the rhubarb.

Among the Bhuddists he sewed confusion for they are verily Vegan.

Any whose way was the sword and violence were struck dumb with dismay and scattered like chaff in the winds.

If you come to California, wear flowers in your hair -- and carry an Ultralight, for the trout of the Sierra are fine and small and like not immensity. And consider the Word of the Trout, who saith, Be not asshole upon the Earth but do as little evil as possible and practice joy all the days of thy Life. Thus, I say unto the Great Golden Trout. Peace.

Eugene was put on three day hold at Villa Fairmont, about which place we shall speak anon. After Chicago.

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

MAY 27, 2007

IN A WORLD FULL OF PEOPLE ONLY SOME WANT TO FLY

After a great deal of work cleaning up broken and damaged HTML and much running back and forth with the staff diving into the coffee at all hours of the night into early morning and the Chief Editor tearing out his remaining white hairs, the Big Move is done save for some wrap up.

The Past Reviews project is moving ahead at a great clip and hyperlinks to the best concert and theatre reviews 2000-2007 will be finished in June. Hopefully.

Some multi-media clips, because of their large size remain to be forklifted up during the wee hours, including the tsunami videos.

Recent reports indicate large numbers of people rechecking their hyperlinks to all sorts of places with the myspace.com folks returing to their favorite discussion pages on the Iraq war for years 2005 and year 2003.

We anticipate some 30,000 folks next month doing a flyby, and double that plus some doubled each following month to the end of the year.

Some of the staff headed up to the Russian River to BBQ and chill once the DNS records replicated, so there will be little to report this week as far as news goes.

IS THAT THE POOLBEG FLASHER BEYONT, FAR? FAR?

IPD is warning female joggers in the West End to be alert for a serial groper who has been picking on women who jog wearing headphones, probably because this means the victim may be already distracted. The perp usually rides a bicycle from which he engages the victims in conversation before grabbing them and riding off.

As of this point, no traffic infractions have been committed, according to Officer O'Madhauen, and so the perpetrator remains at large.

EVERYBODY DESERVES MUSIC SWEET MUSIC

IslandLIfe will be sending a team to Chicago to cover the annual Blues Fest at Grant Park, so there will be no update 6/9/07, but -- as always -- we will provide IL extras following so that all of you may still obtain your Island-Life weekly requirements. Means we will miss both Johnny Winter and M'Shell N'Degocella at the Independent.

We've got folks in studio right now working on the Xmas Holiday Treat. From the antics of the soundman in the control booth, it should be, at the least, quite distracting.

Also am going to miss Garisson Keillor again! ARRRG! He is coming to the Greek on 6/9 in what is very likely to be a very interesting and unusual show because of the venue's unique qualities. We also will miss awarded and decorated David Elias at McGrath's 6/9. David operates at a rather stratospheric level normally, with grammy-award folks typically sitting in on his sessions, so an opportunity to capture the man in any version in a place like McGrath's is a definite Heads Up! sort of item. Ah, but Peter, the proprietor, definitely has his way with the Music Industry Insiders. O Peter.

Second show for the Goo Goo Dolls with Lifehouse has been added by demand for the 6/19 date.

So much music, so little time. And if you don't like the music, go out and make some of your own.

HUNK A BURNING LOVE

Got a 1st person report from our SoCal correspondent on Catalina Island which suffered disastrous fires we reported on last issue. This is the report from Julee:

"Avalon survived the fires. My family refused to evacuate, the menfolk stayed
up all night hosing down their rooftops, the womenfolk had rosary vigils on
the beach. Only one home was burned, a fella who is new to the island, but
neither he or his family was injured. 10 structures (garages, storage spots,
etc) were burned in the hills above town. Thank goodness nobody was
seriously injured, save for a few firefighters who were treated for minor
burns and smoke inhalation.

While growing up I hope and prayed high school somehow be destroyed (I
wasn't a very good student back then.) Well my hopes were answered, only
twenty years too late! Part of Avalon High School burned. The school was
closed for a few days, and some classes are being held in the casino, the
famous circular white building on the bay. . . ".

ON THE ROAD

The last Maze connector shut down by the fuel truck disaster reopened Friday, and an Island-Life driveby revealed full traffic going under and over the freeway overpass sections damaged when a tanker truck burst into flames one Sunday night, causing a major Bay Area freeway connector to collapse from the heat. Scorch marks remain on the lower deck but the upper deck appears solid and brand new despite concerns from some engineers the hasty fixit job was not substantial to handle the extreme flow of traffic over this section of freeway, among one of the busiest in the nation.

WILLKOMMEN, BIEN VENUE ETRANGER . . .

Since the Big Move we noticed Yahoo boost us to the top of its rankings. Not a surprise, since we are and have been the Premier site for Bay Area Culture and Life, reporting the news and items of interest regarding music, dance, theatre, food and the arts for some ten years. Long before Blogging, in fact.

So we imagine some of you are newcomers here to this space. Hopefully, you do wind up here after checking out the stuff on backpain -- which badly needs a reorg and update out of the files, and all the old stuff on past years, which is constantly undergoing reorg.

This particular page is updated each week on Sunday night, or Monday morning -- depending on the ration of booze available -- and we always welcome corrections and updates from anyone out there.

We do not charge, foist no advertising, and ask only that readers continue to support local music and art in any small or major way they can. We try to cover things that do not get Mainstream Press and hope our meager words help some struggling artist out there make an honest buck. Buy the albums and go to the concerts.

The interstitial tissue sometimes contains some satirical content among the factoids. Be prepared to meet Osama Bin Lassie, Shriek of the Terrierists. Notice the snarl of evil and the turbaned aspect of malevolence.

And know that we dutifully cover the long Occupation of Newark by President Eugene Shrubb and his Army of Bums. Which has been frustrated by the Insurgent Grammas armed with Weapons of Improvised Cast Iron Device, in the form of frypans.

There is, of course, a cast of characters assembled over some ten years of 52 issues per year, such as Officer O'Madhauen, dutiful traffic law enforcer, schoolteacher Ms. Morales, Eugene Gallipagus (a wannabe hunter of poodles), and the bevy of Island regulars whom you surely will come to know. The Island, that golden jewel, is set within the many-storied San Francisco Bay, and has its application for Sister City to Lake Woebegone in the works, which only time and bureaucracy may satisfactorily resolve.

And that is the precis to the main thesis.

DAMN RIGHT I GOT THE BLUES

It's been a quiet week on the Island. Spotty morning fog has come in to hold the temps down until past ten when the sun cuts through and makes the rows of lettuce glad. Lifers straggling in from the Russian River report similar behaviour up there and they have not yet completed the annual fish dam for the salmon run, so the water there is all still two to three feet deep. The dam is half up on the dry side, and the roadbed is in place, so we expect they will get around to that later completion in June.

It's approaching the Dead Hour on a long Memorial Day weekend. Evocative, that. Suzie sits pondering over her textbook in the Old Same Place, pages lit by the barlights. Eugene nuzzles his drink. Bear is watchin Netflix with buddies in his cave of sorts while Sophia makes popcorn. Officer O'Madhauen is parked down by the old cannery at Paru and Buena Vista, watching for violations of the Yellow Light. Mayor Beverly is playing Yahtzee with grandkids in her granddaughter's livingroom, Her Honor, shoeless, on the floor in her stocking feet. Two recently removed hedgehogs nuffle and muzzle about their new den on the grounds of the College. Soon it will be time to gaze at the moon from their new abode.

Had a confab with a couple of Rangers - enlist voluntary '62 and '65. Many reminiscences and many memories of comrades fallen in the foreign wars. LRP is a kind of duty experienced by few in any age and honored are those who rest. But a soldier's lot is to obey and to do, not to question why. And our age has been especially poignant with questions why. For, given that the soldier is not allowed to question, those of us who can, should do so and loudly and often, for too often the soldier's life is expended like some renewable supply of ammunition. When that happens, we notice, Empire falls inevitably into decline.

We don't question the designs of Empire here. What is the point? Countries conquer and subdue simply because they can and empires arise because it is possible.

Empires collapse because people who can collapse them do so. There is no real morality in any of it.

Knew a buddy who went on these camping trips with Boy Scouts trying to work out things inside himself all the while these Baden Powell clones imagined that this camping thing was just like tenting with buddies in Viet Nam or some such bullshit and very likely to heal wounds those assholes could never imagine.

Sorry to get pointed.

Well, nice to know somebody cared, but pitching a tent on the side of Old Nag is not like seeing your buddy get his spleen blown out in some tropical rice paddy. It's not like lying on a mat in the dark wondering just when your number will come up next. It is simply not nearly enough.

So this Memorial Day, give a thought to the soldier who had no choice really. Other than be there or somewhere else on that day when the flashbang went off, when the .50 cal round zipped by.

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

MAY 20, 2007

CHA CHA CHA CHANGES

Well, it had to happen and we should have seen it coming. Island-Life now really IS the premier website for Bay Area Culture and Arts. As of last month. When we experienced 27,000+ visitors. Seems a few folks on Myspace.com have started a lively discussion about the Iraq war with reference to our 2003 photos and this has led to an extraordinary number of hits numbering some 38,000 per day -- and some special attention from .mil and .gov addresses.

O U guys. Sneaking around with wires in your collars.

Sooooo, since Earthlink is rather miserly about bandwidth we decided to go to a more liberal host that understands the requirements of a professional website. At less the cost.

Do you think some fool dings Microsoft.com for "excess bandwidth"? I think not. Some Hosts understand that a site printed in Chinese just might get a good deal of Asia visiting in any logical fashion. Earthlink does not understand or care that there happen to be any fraction of a billion people on the internet at any one time and these kinds of numbers are real.

During this change End of Month, the usual Island-Life content will be unavailable for 72 hours during the DNS replication.

Sooooo, coming month end, we will switch to that more liberal host with some 1000 times increased bandwidth, allowing any number of folks to come and look at past years of Island-life without hassle so that they can continue to have intense discussions that we encourage, for our main goal here is to promote free speech and common discourse. Free Speech enhances life, stirs the blood, promotes freedom and democracy everywhere, expands ideas and critical thought, and revivifies the Body Politic. Besides, its good for you.

MUSIC DO I HEAR?

Coinciding with the Host move, Island-life staffers will be going to Chicago to report on the annual Chicago Blues Festival at Grant Park. This will be during the first and second weeks of June. We also will be visiting a view places north of Chicago at the Wisconsin Dells.

The early Summer Season is shaping up. MaryAnne Faithful returns to the Fillmore on the 26th. Glad to see the gal is still hoofing with style and grace. OAR comes to the Warfield on the 16th of June. They do a sort of Jamaican-inflected rock that is purely their own and have a number of very well crafted lyrics.

With a great deal of pleasure we note that Rodgrigo and Gabriela return to Babylon for an unscheduled tour-addition to the Fillmore on 6/28 where they are sure to sell out and then procede to blow the goddamn roof off of the place on nylon string guitars no less. Tix went on sale this morning. Maybe a few left as their entire formally scheduled US tour is entirely sold out already.

LIVE 105 holds its BFD at the Shoreline on 6/9, unfortunately while the music reviewer is out of town. Anyone want to volunteer for a piece on Bloc Party, Social D, Queens of the Stone Age, Sum 41 and others?

Smashing Pumpkins come to the Fillmore for a dominating 8 show run 7/22 to 8/1. That's right, eight shows at the Fillmore under the purple chandeliers.

At the Independent, Johnny Winter will slide in with little fanfare on 6/6, again while we are out of town. Bummer, as we have longed long to see the pale bluesman. The not-so-pale M'Schell Ndegeocello thumps that bass 6/9 in the same venue. Also an artist on the Must See list.

Some tix still available for the Indigo Girls at the Greek. Sorry, lesbians pay same price as everyone else. the I.D. are democratic that way.

DING DONG THE WITCH IS DEAD

Virginia, a basically benighted State with more than its share of assholes infesting the woodwork there for no fault of its own, recently enjoyed the extirpation of one of its really obnoxious denizens.

Another Evil S---t-head expired this week, adding to the pile of excrement in Hell. Jerry Falwell popped his nut, and hopefully fully awake as St. Nick came to haul his rotten soul down to that Other Place.

A miserly handful believe that Falwell unified various factions of the Extreme Fundamentalists and did much good thereby.

Victoria Kidd of Winchester, Virginia, believes the exact opposite: "The damage he has done to the Christian faith is immeasurable," she wrote to CNN.com

Most would prefer to think that he has no legacy at all.

"He should be erased from every history book and media story," wrote Brian Pippinger of St. Petersburg, Florida.

Jerry Falwell was the evangelical minister who founded the Moral Majority, the radical Christian right political movement, in 1980. He died Tuesday at age 73, and it's clear from the differing assessments of his legacy that he was a controversial figure.

Matt Foreman, head of the National Lesbian and Gay Task Force, calls Falwell "a founder and leader of America's anti-gay industry. His lasting legacy will be the polarization of the American electorate and the rise of Christian evangelicals as a nasty political force in American politics."

Susan Friend Harding, a professor of anthropology at the University of California Santa Cruz, studied Falwell and his movement beginning in the 1980s, culminating in a book published in 2000, "The Book of Jerry Falwell: Fundamentalist Language and Politics."

"I see him as a major figure in American political and religious history," says Harding, who considers him the principal leader who forced fundamentalists back into the pop culture of society. "Jerry Falwell led fundamentalism out of political and cultural desuetude in the 1980s. He did so most famously as the leader of the vindictive Moral Majority in 1980s, but also through his national radio and TV ministry, Liberty University and countless sermons, campaigns, rallies, speeches, publications, broadcasts and debates over his 50-year career as a preacher. Under his leadership, fundamentalists transformed themselves from a marginal, anti-worldly separatist people into a visible and dangerously vocal force and reintroduced harsh and intolerant religious speech into American public life.

"Fundamentalists had been a separatist movement," Harding says, "which was stigmatized even by other Protestants" for three-quarters of a century, ever since their "self-imposed exile" after the Scopes Monkey Trial of 1925, which was ostensibly about the teaching of evolution in the schools, but in effect put fundamentalist intolerance on trial.

"True fundamentalists didn't have friendships, even with other fundamentalists who associated with non-fundamentalists," Harding says. "Falwell said this was wrong; we're going to stop having religious tests. He included you if you supported his agenda -- an agenda that involved attacking other groups."

To many critics, this paradox is what makes his legacy so lamentable. "He made it comfortable for churches to get actively involved in politics," says the Rev. Barry W. Lynn, executive director of Americans United for the Separation of Church and State. "His strategy will be continued by his would-be successors -- a focus on hot-button issues like gay marriage (rather than significant moral issues like child poverty and health care), and an eagerness to make outrageous statements to the media, in order to build a religious-political empire."

Many now remember him most for outrageous statements he made after leaving the Moral Majority -- in 1999, his house organ the National Liberty Journal warned parents that the Tinky Winky cartoon character was secretly gay and morally dangerous; in 2001, he blamed the September 11 terrorist attack on "pagans, and the abortionists, and the feminists, and the gays and the lesbians who are actively trying to make that an alternative lifestyle, the ACLU, People For the American Way, all of them who have tried to secularize America."

Mark Morford, SF Gate Columnist, after a brief intro, summarized the demigogue's life and work with a simple list of quotes. Allowing the reader to decide for him or herself just what the man represented.

"But in the case of the late Rev. Jerry Falwell, the grandfather of the fundamentalist religious right and the foremost champion of the creation of a brutally homophobic, mysogynistic Christian theocracy in America, perhaps it's better to let the man's most insidiously famous quotes speak for themselves, and let time and karma be the judge of whether Falwell left the world a better place than when he found it. (All citations are available at wikiquote.org and elsewhere.)

"AIDS is not just God's punishment for homosexuals; it is God's punishment for the society that tolerates homosexuals."

"The abortionists have got to bear some burden for [the attacks of Sept. 11] because God will not be mocked. And when we destroy 40 million little innocent babies, we make God mad. I really believe that the pagans, and the abortionists, and the feminists, and the gays and the lesbians who are actively trying to make that an alternative lifestyle, the ACLU, People for the American Way -- all of them who have tried to secularize America -- I point the finger in their face and say, 'You helped this happen.'"

"If you're not a born-again Christian, you're a failure as a human being."

"Christians, like slaves and soldiers, ask no questions."

"I listen to feminists and all these radical gals -- most of them are failures. They've blown it. Some of them have been married, but they married some Casper Milquetoast who asked permission to go to the bathroom. These women just need a man in the house. That's all they need. Most of the feminists need a man to tell them what time of day it is and to lead them home. And they blew it and they're mad at all men. Feminists hate men. They're sexist. They hate men -- that's their problem."

"When you have a godly husband, a godly wife, children who respect their parents and who are loved by their parents, who provide for those children their physical and spiritual and material needs, lovingly, you have the ideal unit."

"The ACLU is to Christians what the American Nazi party is to Jews."

"I am such a strong admirer and supporter of George W. Bush that if he suggested eliminating the income tax or doubling it, I would vote yes on first blush."

"I believe that global warming is a myth. And so, therefore, I have no conscience problems at all and I'm going to buy a Suburban next time."

"It is God's planet -- and he's taking care of it. And I don't believe that anything we do will raise or lower the temperature one point."

"I truly cannot imagine men with men, women with women, doing what they were not physically created to do, without abnormal stress and misbehavior."

"It appears that America's anti-Biblical feminist movement is at last dying, thank God, and is possibly being replaced by a Christ-centered men's movement which may become the foundation for a desperately needed national spiritual awakening."

"There's been a concerted effort to steal Christmas."

"I hope I live to see the day when, as in the early days of our country, we won't have any public schools. The churches will have taken them over again and Christians will be running them. What a happy day that will be!"

"The First Amendment is not without limits."

"Someone must not be afraid to say, 'moral perversion is wrong.' If we do not act now, homosexuals will 'own' America! If you and I do not speak up now, this homosexual steamroller will literally crush all decent men, women, and children who get in its way ... and our nation will pay a terrible price!"

"If he's going to be the counterfeit of Christ, [the Antichrist] has to be Jewish. The only thing we know is he must be male and Jewish."

"The argument that making contraceptives available to young people would prevent teen pregnancies is ridiculous. That's like offering a cookbook as a cure to people who are trying to lose weight."

"The whole global warming thing is created to destroy America's free enterprise system and our economic stability."

"You'll be riding along in an automobile. You'll be the driver perhaps. You're a Christian. There'll be several people in the automobile with you, maybe someone who is not a Christian. When the trumpet sounds you and the other born-again believers in that automobile will be instantly caught away -- you will disappear, leaving behind only your clothes and physical things that cannot inherit eternal life. That unsaved person or persons in the automobile will suddenly be startled to find the car suddenly somewhere crashes. ... Other cars on the highway driven by believers will suddenly be out of control and stark pandemonium will occur on ... every highway in the world where Christians are caught away from the drivers wheel." (from Falwell's pamphlet "Nuclear War and the Second Coming of Christ")

"God continues to lift the curtain and allow the enemies of America to give us probably what we deserve."

"You know when I see somebody burning the flag, I'm a Baptist preacher I'm not a Mennonite, I feel it's my obligation to whip him. In the name of the Lord, of course. I feel it's my obligation to whip him, and if I can't do it then I look up some of my athletes to help me. But, as long as at 72 I can handle most of the jobs I do it myself, and I don't think it's un-spiritual. When I, when I, when I hear somebody talking about our military and ridiculing and saying terrible things about our President, I'm thinking you know just a little bit of that and I believe the Lord would forgive me if I popped him."

"The Bible is the inerrant ... word of the living God. It is absolutely infallible, without error in all matters pertaining to faith and practice, as well as in areas such as geography, science, history, etcetera."

"The National Organization for Women (NOW) is the National Organization of Witches."

"God doesn't listen to Jews."

"Tinky Winky is gay."

THEY PAVED PARADISE AND PUT UP A SHOPPING MALL

A much anticipated showdown between ardent supporters of a density-limiting ballot measure and those open to changing it ended Tuesday night with a whimper, not a bang, according to the official word, but we see the result as a definitive rebuttal to attempts to Manhattanize this Island.

After hours of public debate, the City Council unanimously struck down an appeal of a decision by the Planning Board to create a three-person committee to plan a public forum on the benefits and drawbacks of Measure A.

The 1973 ballot measure banned anything other than single-family homes and duplexes in Alameda's residential development.

The council took its vote only after insisting that members of the group that challenged the Planning Board's decision be included in organizing the forum. The council also insisted that committee meetings be held in public.

Members of both the Planning Board and the seven-member group of residents who challenged it said they were satisfied with the outcome. "I'm fine with it," said Anne Cook, who sits on the Planning Board. "We need to involve all sides."

Barbara Kerr, a former council member who was part of the group that filed the appeal said, "We don't mind discussion of Measure A. We never have. That wasn't the issue."

Measure A is sometimes called the "third rail" of Island politics, with many crediting it for saving the Island from overpopulation and crowdedness.

Others would like to see the measure amended for Alameda Point, on the former Naval Air Station, where developers are planning on building new residential and commercial communities in the next 10 or so years.

The council's vote Tuesday - which, essentially, amounts to allowing people to talk about talking about Measure A - is just a micro-step in the debate about whether any changes will ultimately be made.

Officials stressed that, as a charter amendment, Measure A can only be altered by a vote of the people - not the Planning Board and not they City Council.

"People can talk about it," said Council member Marie Gilmore. "People can talk about it until they're blue in the face, but it's still the law . . .".

The Island is NOT Manhattan and needs to stay that way.

I'LL BE ALL RIGHT SOME DAY

The opening of fishing season has none of the resonance here as in some places. Salmon and steelhead begin their run early and trout may not be taken until later. There are rules about these weighty matters. The dams on the Russian River remain down this time of year but the steelhead have finished their business, so there is little point going out there. The main show here is trout and always has been. Among trout in California, you may encounter brook trout or golden trout. The increasingly rare and hard to find brown trout is not to be trifled with.

We don't have walleyes here, but a few have proposed importing a few against significant objections.

The golden trout are thought to originate from Lake Martha, main source of the Joaquin River. Lake Martha is way up there around 12,000 feet and surrounded by a gravel basin they call Wotan's Parking Lot. We have stood there and it is quite a desolate place. The fish are found throughout the High Country but seldom on the plate in restaurants and never in groceries, for they are rare creatures with a bright yellow belly and a red streak along the body. They are colorful on the string but fade rapidly after gutting.

Brookies are multi-hued, like rainbows in their diversified colors, and will leap a great distance when hooked in a stream. They argue strenuously about coming to shore and often will shake loose right there on the bank only to flop back into the water, pausing momentarily as if to say, "this is what you could have had, were you only more worthy". Then they dart off with another "the one I almost had" story.

They, too, appear to be an argument for the existence of god while alive in all vibrant color, but fade quickly after death as most of us do.

In the High Country, where we at Island Life do the fishing, we do not encounter the bass, of any size of mouth. Bass do not inhabit regions above 11,000 feet, for that elevation is considered bass-verboten.

Jim and Mike went out to Bear Lake, fishing while Agnus and Susan remained on shore, hiking and talking about rebuilding carburetors - girl stuff, you know. Eugene went with them, the boys in the boat, and he caught a nice two pounder right away. Pretty soon he caught another, but neither Jim nor Mike got so much as a nibble. Pretty soon Eugene had caught his limit but he kept right on fishing and every time he caught another, he threw it back.

Meanwhile Jim and Mike sat there in the boat with Eugene catching one fish after another. Might as well have been tossing a string to the cat in the livingroom.

A gentle breeze blew across the lake. Spring had come to California some weeks ago, and after the initial hot spell, the weather had settled into morning fog along the coast and a moody archapelago of clouds further inland.

Eventually the boys headed back to shore where they cleaned Eugene's fish and had them for dinner. Susan wanted to know why there were so few, but they had rice to go along with it. At the end of the trip Jim and Mike had caught a crappie a piece, but Eugene's luck remained with him and so he drove back in his pickup with an ice chest full of trout.

While they were driving back in the van, Jim felt something crawling up his leg inside his trousers, so he pulled over. Sue asked him what was the matter and Jim cursed.

Wood tick.

Of course Sue wanted to know where it was. Jim pulled the van over onto an old unpaved logging road. He got out and unfastened his belt. The wood tick was on the inside of his left thigh, rather high up.

Well, said Sue. Let me see about it.

So Jim dropped his pants there while Sue got some vaseline and tweezers while images of Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever ran through his mind. This had not been a good fishing trip.

As Jim looked down the sun glanced off of Sue's hair and he noticed the flecks of gray -- they had been together some eighteen years. He noticed that she had kept herself well for those years -- must be the dance lessons. Then, of course the inevitable happened and Sue commented, do wood ticks and vaseline always have this effect on you?

Golden poppies nodded, smiling, in the warm breeze beside the logging road in the dappled sunlight. It was Spring after all.

Eugene got back home and smoked some of the trout, and fried up the rest. Mike and Agnus got back in good time and went out to the Island Grill for dinner.

Jim and Sue did not get back until very late, and besides flecks of grey, there were leaves and twigs in her hair.

The wood tick died.

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

MAY 13, 2007

WORLD'S ON FIRE

The Chief Editor has been pacing a trough in the carpet after the latest news across the AP wire: Fire on Catalina and our SoCal Correspondent, Julee, not heard from, despite urgent emails.

Firefighters struggled early Friday to protect Catalina's main city, Avalon, from a wildfire that forced hundreds of residents to flee on ferries as ash fell from the sky like snow.

One home and a few small businesses in the canyons outside the city burned, but the weather helped firefighters keep most properties safe, Fire Chief Steven Hoefs said. Some 1,200 homes were under voluntary or mandatory evacuation orders.

"The risk has been reduced significantly," Hoefs said. "Most of the structures have been protected."

The blaze broke out Thursday afternoon on the island more than 20 miles off the coast, caused by construction workers using an acetylene torch to cut cables.

The orange inferno loomed behind the quaint crescent harbor, landmark 1929 Catalina Casino and homes, restaurants and tiny hotels clinging to slopes above the waterfront.

As flames threatened the city limits of Avalon, hundreds of people lined up at the harbor Thursday night to board ferries to the mainland. Many covered their faces with towels and bandannas as ashes fell.

The scene was in stark contrast to the idyllic image of the island cultivated in its 1930s and '40s heyday as a playground for movie stars, and in The Four Preps' 1950s hit song, "26 Miles."

Avalon has a population of 3,200 that swells to more than 10,000 on weekends and in summer, according to the Catalina Island Chamber of Commerce and Visitors Bureau.

At least 160 firefighters, aided by four water-dropping helicopters and three retardant-dropping air tankers, battled flames through most of Thursday and into the night.

Dozens of fire engines from as far away as Fresno arrived through the night aboard giant military hovercraft from the Marine Corps' Camp Pendleton. The high-speed hovercraft can carry 60 tons over land or water and are often used by the military on humanitarian missions.

Overnight, Black Hawk and Chinook helicopters ferried in firefighters, 32 at a time. Hand crews were positioned at the city's edge to protect homes.

In Avalon, authorities used a bullhorn to urge people to evacuate and head to the beach. Visitors were directed to the historic art deco Casino until it lost power, while residents were sent to another harbor site.

The Catalina Express ferry service added several night departures of 400-passenger vessels from Avalon. Hundreds of residents and visitors boarded the ferries to reach the mainland at Long Beach.

Despite being well offshore, Catalina has been left parched by the lack of rainfall that has made the rest of Southern California particularly susceptible to wildfires like the one in Griffith Park. Only 2 inches of rain have fallen on Catalina since January.

A long, narrow island, Catalina covers 76 square miles and is served by helicopters and ferry boats from Los Angeles, Long Beach and other mainland harbors.

We are all glued to the news and hoping for the best for our corespondent on the island there and our dear Editor has just about torn out the remains of the white hair that flies about his head like an aureole. Julee, wherever you are, phone home, phone home . . .!

HYMN TO HER

Sunday is Mother's Day, and if you haven't figured out by now you are an orphan and an ingrate. On this day scads of women who would rather sleep another hour get their rest interrupted by beaming boys and girls bearing trays of burnt toast, dry waffles, and overdone eggs for the Breakfast in Bed thing.

O Ma.

But mothers have a special place in pop culture. No less than George Carlin invoked the "No Mothers" rule regarding insults and jabs on the street. Jimmy Cagney portrayed a hard-boiled mobster with a soft spot for mom, abraded roughly as the word got passed all along the Cell Block.

Even rocker Chrissie Hynde penned a tender anthemic ballad to her ma titled, "Hymn to Her."

Got a friend, who happens to be a Mensa-level certified genius who's mother recently passed away, and she was, although not a Mensa genius a most extraordinary woman worthy of deep respect. She took Life, seized it, and shook it all about to shake the most out of it and be the best example possible. See, boys and girls, THIS is the way you need to be.

Mothers. Everybody has one, comfortable or not. Whether living or not, well, here's to Mom. Maybe she didn't do everything promised by the TV illusion of June Cleaver, but she did put you together as best she could, and all the rest afterward is happenstance and luck.

In the savage night that eternally inhabits the alleys of the City, in those places where the drug dealers have shot out all the streetlights, where the idea of Hope is a cynical joke, there are moms who spit out birth and then proceed through their own lives like a swallowed piece of barbed wire or a razor blade, causing as much blood and damage along the way as possible to themselves and everyone around them.

The troubles of the world are not their fault for women are biology's optimists. Despite all the shock and horror all around, they present life and then go their own way. For every life is another chance to make the fucked-up world perhaps a smidgen better.

Had a talk with a lady the other day at a Biker's Rally up North, leather-clad Dudes all around. Beards and potbellies and lives, well, not as well lived as one could wish.

This lady rode an '06 Dyna. Owned properties here in California and other states, and was distressed over some moral decisions regarding handling property in Texas. You might say, she, who had started with nothing, had done rather well.

Turned out she was Croatian, and had come out of a kind of Hell the worst of us can barely imagine. Some say, metaphorically, they had nothing at start, but few can claim, as this woman, they started with less than zero. "Visiting home" for this woman involves passing long lines of bombed out homes.

Well, you see, someone's mother might not be fully appreciative, but seems this lady had done all right and her mother done proud.

So those of you who may have endured a raw deal right from the start, and especially those of you who started out well enough, think of your mom with a bit of forgiveness and gratitude. She did the best she could, whoever she was, and she had her own life to live as well, after all.

Along these same lines we at Island-Life thought it would be a real nice token to drop a line in on a mom who outta be rather famous right now. Yes, we phoned Mrs. Hilton. Now, we understand there are problem children and there are Children who are Serious Problems. Mrs. Hilton happens to have a daughter who is facing some serious jail time for misbehavior and we thought we ought to offer some consolation, as it seems not a single tabloid, amid all the hoopla about Brittany's panties and other misadventures, has taken the logical investigative path toward asking what Paris Hilton's mother thinks of all of this.

Mrs. Hilton, as one would expect, was distraught.

After all, there was the Internet video of her girl and then the bad things said about her in the papers and then this episode, one among many, about her drinking and driving -- a behavior she certainly never learned at home by any means.

We offered commiserations. Clearly, a decent upbringing had been pulled awry by bad companionship and dire influences. Paris, really, was still that chubby gal in an Easter bonnet who did caca unexpectedly in the lap of the Archbishop. O how they all had laughed at that, even His Excellence!

So, Mrs. Paris, here's to you and moms everywhere who feel, well, perhaps this Sunday will not feature a Breakfast in Bed or even the possibility. If your baby is in jail, at least she is still your Baby.

MACARTHUR MAZE UPDATE

First, the positive news: The westbound Interstate 80 to southbound Interstate 880 south connector, reopened to traffic early Monday (May 7th) morning. Meanwhile, replacement of the connector between eastbound Interstate 80 and eastbound Interstate 580, which was destroyed by the blaze, is scheduled for completion by June 27.

EASTBOUND I-80 CONNECTOR TO EASTBOUND I-580 Remains Closed - Scheduled to Reopen by June 27 (Affecting travel between San Francisco/the Bay Bridge and Pleasanton on I-580 & Walnut Creek on Hwy 24).

This concerns traffic coming East from SF to 580 or Walnut Creek.

Motorists are advised to use one of the following two Caltrans' approved detour routes from 80E (the Bay Bridge) to 580E and Hwy 24:

Detour Route Option 1, West Grand Ave.

1. From 80E (the Bay Bridge), take I-880S
2. Take the West Grand Ave exit
3. Continue east on West Grand Ave to Northgate Ave
4. Turn left on Northgate Ave
5. Take the 27th Street on-ramp for 980N
6. Watch for signs for Hwy 24 or 580E.

*Note: To help reduce congestion on city streets, emergency towing service is available on West Grand Avenue between 6:30-9:30 a.m. and 3:00-8:00 p.m., Monday-Friday. Click www.511.org for detailed up-to-date information regarding towing services and maps for alternative routes.

The unofficial word is that traffic heading Real South on 80 still hit a massive backup from Albany to the Maze divider proper, where people hit the road changes, then take off at pretty near 80 MPH once clear. The overhead ramp still hangs imposingly over the interchange with no connection, but the lower one that scooted along past the Army base is now open again.

ARS LONGA, VITA BREVIS

Ambled up to Marin's Open Studios, with our own region coming up, just for comparo purposes.

One difference stood out right away: wine and melon balls are served at all the galleries in Marin, where the East Bay serves up apple juice and cheezit crackers at best.

The well-matriculated slopes of Marin host a more sophisticated colony than most. The hallways of the old shipyard warehouse echoed with a plethora of languages and the art there is subject to more experienced scrutiny than in any other Small-town in the USA. The workspaces are enviable with light and clean walls and high ceilings. Open studios takes place over two weekends this Spring as well as the highly intensive period of December.

Naturally a more discriminating populace which has traveled well throughout the Louvre and other European sites will demand a higher level of attention to technique. This is not the locale for the paper mache amateur and the casual dauber, as the entire world will file through during Open Studios here.

Among the more notable artists we remark on Aiko Morioka, who provided the cover art for the well-appointed catalog, and Dana Draper, who does interesting things with copper cuts, employing acids and patinas to achieve a remarkable subtle effect. His wife, Ingrid, who owns a neighboring studio, assists with the creations, while continuing a viable industry with textured papers.

Draper's work cannot be photographed well, as the burnished copper will throw back blinding light from any flashbulb. As hung, the pieces express an uncanny dimensionality and unusual soft subtlety.

Morioka has done expressive abstract work for the County of Sonoma (pictured above)as well as detailed representative work in bronze.

Among these hard sculptors, resides Ms. Joanne Fox with her multidimensional works laid in layered Lucite so reminiscent of memory. Her most interesting work consists of "sampled" images laid into layers of Lucite so that each image allows those underneath to appear like palimpsests. Evocative, but damnably difficult to photograph.

She comes from a bookbinding background and so she has also a body of work which employs paper as medium, including several one-off whimsical books, such as "A Photo History of the Human Body" -- we had to drag sister Beatrice away from the sexual organ fold-out. O Bea.

But there were also cleverly designed boxes that unfolded ingeniously and a colorful interactive set in which visitors could write either Regrets or Fantasies and we observed several patrons grinning as they stuffed the Fantasy box.

We regret we could not stay longer as a fine time was had by all.

DARK CHORDS ON A BIG GUITAR

It's been a quiet week on the Island, our hometown placed within the many-storied San Francisco Bay waters. Census reports some 770 new folks among us with more to come but nobody is talking about that at the Old Same Place or the Pampered Pup or Pat's Cafe. We are some 74,000 strong and the Census Bureau is beside themselves with counting since the ouster of some 640 folks when the Harbor Bay Complex took place. Causes all sorts of complications for Census folks these mass evictions it does.

Idiots pursue the doomed cinema multiplex, blocking traffic along Central and San Antonio Avenues. Nevertheless the tulips have bloomed their brief glory. Furthermore, trout-fishing season is now open. Yes! The end of April and the beginning of May is regarded as the start of trout season and they are all agog over the possibilities at the Pampered Pup downtown. Steelhead have ceased their runs and the Russian River will not close the dam gates until June.

Speaking of which, two dog bites have been reported this past week which doubles the number of like events on the Island.

After that spate of hot weather, things have settled into a rather pleasant Spring. Hear that the lilacs are all in bloom again all around our Sister City, Lake Woebegon. Good. Good. The ice is gone from the lake and those pesky flies haven't come out yet. In a few weeks Island-Life will be heading over in that direction to cover the Chicago Blues Festival and poke around Wisconsin's waterways. The whole point is to give the Island-Life Psychologische Abteilung a well-deserved break from handling madness.

Meanwhile Spring has sprung and sister Beatrice has run off to find something better than a paper fold-out to handle and the hummingbirds have returned to sample the jasmine. Commencements are taking place all over the place around here, and fresh-faced boys and girls are clambering into and out of sedans, wearing their robes and mortarboards, and at night they do the same, most definitely NOT wearing robes or mortarboards there in the back seat. O Spring.

It's really killin'. They're so willin'
To be makin' whoopee, whoopee, whoopee.

Sympathies for Garrison; sounds like his Prom was much like ours. Show up, hang out, leave before ten with nobody noticing. Prom night is a big deal for some of the kids. The boys all in rental tuxes and the girls in fabulous floor-length gowns, all walking into the Grand Ballroom of the Regency -- if you were from Lowell -- or the well decorated basketball court -- if you were from MacAteer.

Just kidding about the basketball court guys.

Speaking of which, our local baskeball equivalent to the Cubbies seems to be quite on a role and all the fans have put away their big "We are # 13!" signs to go raving about the Warriors who seem to have actually learned how to play the game well. Will wonders never cease.

We were never very good at those games involving balls. Calculating the tragectories just took too long and by the time we had it, the man had dunked his shot and stolen for home three times over. Yes, we were Kings of the Bobble. As for batting, well the one time we actually connected the wood with the ball properly on a solid throw -- the pitcher got lazy that time -- the ball shot out right past the mound with a crack still echoing, dug a divot out there past second base and rolled past the outfielder like a scampering bunny rabbit as we tore out there rounding second, rounding third with Jimmy Patton standing there dumbfounded, knowing the little red-headed girl was watching up there, coming down to home. Here comes the ball there from outfield to baseman and there we go sliding into the plate most satisfactorily well in advance of the solid thwack of the ball into the catcher's mitt and there we stood as the catcher casually touched his glove to our right arm, as we thought in appreciation of such a fine play with everybody screaming there in the stands, everybody except the little red-headed girl who had covered her face with her hands -- why is she doing that? -- until the Ump tossed his thumb over his shoulder and shouted,

"Yer out!"

Seems we had neglected to touch First first, doing a beeline in great excitement right from the plate to Second. Its a lot faster to get back that way, but not especially legal.

In baseball, there is no Time. And that day, Time stretched out inexorably as we sat under the bleachers until everyone had gone home and then we threw our Babe Ruth sigature glove in the trash, never to play ball again. Or look the little red-headed girl in the eyes.

The Island-Life offices are located next to the Mastic Senior Center, which occupies the site where the school behind there used to have a baseball dugout. Where the field used to be is mostly a parking lot now. And that is just fine by us.

One time a client gave us box seats to a Giants game. Suppose those things are pretty fancy up there with the Press Corps and filet mignon served up instead of hotdogs, champagne instead of beer, and the game watched on closed circuit TV. In baseball there is no Time. The game goes as many innings as it needs to and every game is like the one just before or the one played half a century ago, ghost infielders keeping company with shadowy pitchers of the Past, firing fast ones down the line to batters long gone but still there somehow.

Years pass and we do other things, some heroic, most not. Never got to be a great Author, wise and respected, hosting a weekly radio show. Yet we did other things. But the cries still echo across the Field of Dreams.

Gave the tickets to a room-mate. Go Warriors.

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

MAY 06, 2007

MACAUTHUR MAZE UPDATE

We have had the dubious opportunity to traverse the broken section of the Maze several times. While travel times are not as bad as predicted, the place is still a route to avoid for the duration. Coming up from 80W to 580W you pass within 30 feet of the destroyed overpass, and the sight is so awe-inspiring that traffic slows to a crawl even though only fifty yards beyond the lanes break loose to a free and clear 80 MPH possibility.

Not that any of us would do that, of course.

Talked with a Novato-based CHP who lives in Atherton, and he said that cutting way out to 680 and then down was easier and faster than taking the direct route.

Traffic is now backed up constantly from the Maze to the Ashby Exit, and so we say, take BART my man.

LIKE THE WEATHER

The Bay Area abruptly abandoned Spring as a wild sirocco brought hot winds into the area, pumping temps and cloudless skies into the 90's with an unaccustomed heat wave after a week of cold rain. Sunday the whole island reeked with BBQ fumes and folks rushed for aloe as the sun crisped long sheltered flesh.

MUSIC MUSIC MUSIC

Summer schedule is shaping up. Live 105's BFD has posted the prelim lineup at the Shoreline with Bloc Party and Social Distortion headlining with Queens of the Stone Age and Interpol filling the main tent bill. The Lovemakers and Sum 41 own the side stage and all that is June 9th.

More on a soulful note, Lauryn Hill testifies at the Paramount on June 27th. This vibrant gospel/soul/blues rocker is one not to be missed.

The weird Grand Ballroom, where we caught Rodrigo y Gabriela, has a stellar schedule lined up, starting with 5/18 and Wavy Gravy's 71st birthday bash -- also a fundraiser for Seyva -- and headlined by Mickey Hart wtih friends.

Indigo Girls are returning as part of the KFOG series and this time they will own the Fillmore. The official word is "Foghead Favorites Indigo Girls return to the Bay Area for a KFOG show with Brandi Carlile at The Fillmore on Monday, June 11". Tix now on sale.

On the main theatre stage we have the following items of interest:

David Mamet's "The Water Engine": An American Fable
Off-Market Theater (San Francisco, CA)
Full Price: $25.00

David Mamet's play is the Depression-era story of Charles Lang, a laborer who invents an engine that uses water for fuel. First, Lang struggles to prove his machine exists. But when the truth comes out, those threatened by a machine that doesn't run on oil or gas intend grave danger for both Lang and his invention.

"Blackbird"
A.C.T. (San Francisco, CA)
Tuesday, May. 8 @ 7:00pm
Wednesday, May. 9 @ 2:00pm
and 6 more dates.
Full Price: $25.00 - $72.00

Steven Culp (Desperate Housewives, The West Wing) stars in the west-coast premiere of Olivier Award-winning "Blackbird", a controversial drama reminiscent of Nabokov's "Lolita". It's the story of a man confronted by the young woman with whom he had an illicit affair more than a dozen years earlier, when she was underage. The characters clash as they try to come to terms with the past.

Composer-Singer and Arts Pioneer Meredith Monk
Jewish Community Center of San Francisco
Wednesday, May. 16 @ 8:00pm
Full Price: $28.00

A pioneer in extended vocal technique and interdisciplinary performance MacArthur "Genius" Meredith Monk has alternately been proclaimed a "magician of the voice" and "one of America's coolest composers." Her wordless music combines the technical virtuosity of classical music, the poignancy and directness of folk, the freedom and flexibility of jazz, and the excitement of rock & roll.

Leonard Nimoy's Hit Play "Vincent"
Academy of Art University 79 NM Theater (San Francisco, CA)

Friday, May. 11-20 @ 8:00pm
Full Price: $25.00 Our Price: FREE - $12.50

"Vincent" is based on letters written by artist Vincent Van Gogh to his brother Theo. Leonard Nimoy ("Star Trek") spent years researching and writing this tour de force one-man show that would eventually star Nimoy himself. Actor Jim Jarrett has been touring with the show all over the world for the past decade.

Learn more: http://www.academyart.edu/vincent

Lastly, we could not forget Rev. Gary Davis' pupil for the following engagement:

Hot Tuna
Fillmore, San Francisco
Fri, 06/29/07 9:00pm

DOS ERIZOS

Once upon a time there lived an hedgehog beside the field that bordered the Old Beltline facility where the maintenance buildings used to be. The Beltline had basically ceased regular operation some twenty years ago and now weeds occupied the yards and the siding and even the gutters of the sheds. A tree grew from the roof of the flat-topped one and the yards themselves were strewn with the casual ironmongery of this and that item laying just where it had been last thrown to rust away into unrecognizeability. The security fence was in poor shape and in need of mending, grasses choked the old siding, and unkempt fields within the boundaries of the fence, itself in significant disrepair such that earthworms and bugs slithered and clittered under the stones.

The only train that came through was a weekly donkey engine that ran between the Cannery at the far end of the Island where this place lay, and the warehouses by the water. Each time, the train tooted, came to a stop at the old gate, and huffed as the engineer climbed out to release the padlock and so allow the little yellow engine to cross the road, where it stopped again so that the engineer could walk back across and refasten the padlock. Save for this brief interlude, the train did not stop there any longer.

One time the engineer noticed the eyes of the hedgehog peering from under a lumber pile there and he threw the remains of his lunch out onto the concrete of the old yard before going. There was a bit of carrot and a celery stalk among this and that was good.

On the whole it was a perfect heaven of a spot for an hedgehog.

There, in a burrow snug and lined with dry grass, the hedgehog kept his bachelor apartments, safe from the rain, the clumsy human footstep and the errant poodle. And he lived there many a day plus a few years, happily munching that which scampered within reach or the occasional peanut from trash thrown over the fence. The occasional vagabond squirrel passed through, and one time a family of rabbits, who settled down the tracks away from the sheds, but that was all for company this hedgehog had, and he preferred it that way. Plenty of room and no one to tell him what to do.

Contrary to popular belief, hedgehogs are neither pigs nor porcupines, being far less aggressive than either. This particular hedgehog was retiring, modest, not inclined to violence, a great lover of personal freedom, and was especially appreciative of his privacy.

After the Cannery closed down, the men there all found work somewhere else, if work could be found, and the passage of the donkey train became more infrequent, otherwise life continued pretty much as always.

But this country in which he