Welcome to the year 2024, 27th in an uninterruped series which began in 1999. There were fewer issues in 2023 and 2024 than previous years due to health problems, death of staff members and work demands. The survivors kept up with it despite adversity.

Selected issues have been re-written for aesthetic reasons and proofed before being place in the Stories section.

To go to the present time, click on this hyperlink: NOW!

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NOVEMBER 30, 2024

ALL THE LEAVES WERE FALLING

WHATS GOING ON

We have been diverted by work that pays the bills lately and it has been exhausting since we lost so many staff members to the Adversary recently. Health problems have also intervened in an annoying way. Hopefully we can get on track for regular updates about our dysfunctional family on the Island, a place that exists coterminously and granoblastically with a real island set within the San Francisco Bay.

THE 24TH ANNUAL THANKSGIVING POODLESHOOT AND BBQ

So anyway. As per Tradition, on the day of the 24th Annual Poodleshoot, rosy-fingered Dawn arose from the horizon's dark bed and pushed back the shutters of night to allow Phoebus to mount his golden chariot and so, preceding the day, she trailed her gauzy banners across the firmament, traveling across the yard from the battered old half-moon privy hard by the weeds to the house back porch, leaving behind a sort of dew after her passage. Gently, she flushed, and gently she tugged upon the coverlet, and gently she kissed the eyelids of the sleeping Padraic, but he stirred not. Gently she nudged the man, who only mumbled and snorted as he remained held fast in the soft, woolly folds of Morpheus. Playfully, she noodged him once again, but he remained walking in that shadow kingdom of the somnolent God.

Her fingers becoming rays of sunlight, turned the dial so as to allow the sweet strains of muse Calliope to thrum the air as guided by the goddess Rosalie Howarth of KFOG, but Padriac snored and stirred not.

Dawn O'Reilly was not a woman to be trifled with

Dawn O'Reilly was not a woman to be trifled with

Then Dawn reared back with her rosy fists upraised and brought them down heavily to smite Padraic a mighty thwack, and that got him up all right, for Dawn O'Reilly was not a woman to be trifled with at any time of the day. And so Padraic bestirred himself to make ready for the Annual Island Poodleshoot and BBQ.

So it was that Padraic rolled out the barrels of the Water of Life and set up the Pit for this year's festivities under bright, chill skies, which had cleared briefly from the storm clouds for the day, once again down by the disputed Crab Cove on the Island while Bob Brown, owner of Rancho Nicasio, helped setup the Silvan Acres site with tables, BBQ drums, and all the fixin's for a great feast.

The ceremonies began with the traditional playing of the Paraguay National Anthem, as arranged by Terry Gilliam, and performed by the Island Hoophole Orchestra accompanied by the Brickbat Targets chorale ensemble. This piece has been favorably compared to John Phillip Sousa's Liberty Bell March, with which work the modality is inextricably entwined.

In Marin the Hapless Jerrykids noodled. . .

In Marin the Hapless Jerrykids noodled into Walking on the Moon, which was followed by the San Geronimo Acoustics who performed Neal Young's "Pocahontas". Ensemble then broke all their instruments and stalked offstage with a number of war whoops.

This was followed on the Island by the devilish meisterwerk composed by Marie Kane entitled, "Die Sieg der Satanische Landentwickler", an adaptable work which allows insertion of alta-contemporary chorales at the whim of the Conductor at the pleasure of any municipal governing body.

The ensemble group which has made something of a name for itself by inventing entirely new parts for voice, consisted of Mayor Izzy as soprano alla triste in the Misericordia segment and Councilperson Daysog as mezzo soprano mournful did a fair version of Iago's treacherous soliloquy, with Trish Spencer shining in her solo "You'll not get rid of me", from the esoteric work La Chambre à l'arrière Enfumee Boogie by Brooks and Dunne.

John Knox White and Tony Daysog performed a lovely duet as well as a lovely pas de deux in pinstriped pinafores with nunchucks. The two sang "Our Town" and "I got you Babe with astonishing verve.

In Marin, the ensemble performance of Le Papillion Enragee, featuring Tracy Jensen and Malia Vella playing the part of uprooted milkweed, caused a number of gentlemen to faint and ladies to resort to flasks of bourbon to revive our beloved Monarchs.

Karen D'Souza of the Contra Costa Times has called it "devilishly complicated"

Many reviewers have called this piece amazingly impossible to accomplish, and quite a pastiche. The East Bay Express found "this game of smoky backrooms is too much to believe." Karen D'Souza of the Contra Costa Times has called it "devilishly complicated" and "hard to believe it goes on. And on. And on still more," while Jim Harrington has called this performance, "the most dreadful rubbish since the last time I wrote a mixed review. I never fully approve of anything, but this gave badness a new name."

The Chronicle, always more reserved due to the heavy influence of conservative ACT in the City, has commented, "It should be interesting to see how well this thing floats in the future amid this stormy time for companies. We miss Trish Spencer performing as City Mayor, a role she continued to adopt with nearly convincing theatricality. Mayor Izzy Ashcroft is far more persuasive although less a comic genius."

Of course, their theatre/music review got mixed up for that issue with the economic report and the elections special, so the meaning of that is up to interpretation.

The East Bay Express got the dates wrong on its Calendar section, as usual, so they had no review.

The Examiner, struggling under its newish stewardship (if you have not lived in the Bay Area for at least 40 years and do not have family roots going back another 120 years, you are considered New), ignored Reality and talked about the batboy who had been abducted by space aliens.

Fox News ran a piece about how the Examiner's Space Aliens had stolen the...Election

Fox News ran a piece about how the Examiner's Space Aliens had stolen the Presidential Election in 2016 and that former President Obama had never really been President and all this fol-de-rol about poodles was a LIberal Hoax involving COVID attempts to rob Patriots of their Freedoms, and so sensible people paid them no attention save for Ms. Marjorie Greene, who is insensible. Fox also accused the outgoing Biden administration of orchestrating both the lowering gas prices and rising inflation on a plot to undermine Sean Hannity, but did not refer to the event at all, having nothing intelligent to say.

This year, with the addition of the venue in Marin, featured a number of local dignitaries. There were also some modifications to the Official Rules in deference to the ongoing COVID19 pandemic.

The visiting delegation from Washington DC included Chuck Schumer and Nancy Pelosi who got drunk together under the Party Tent. Mr. Schumer fired his pistol in the air, doing some damage to the tent in the process while Nancy Pelosi wept profusely and no amount of commisseration was sufficient to console her about the recent elections.

At the other tent Marjorie Green strode back and forth wearing thigh-high stiletto-heel leather boots and snapping a whip

With a toot of the Poodle Bugel, the 'Shoot was on as the hunters spread out across the fields with many a cry of "Poodle there!" and "Avast ye furious hound!" The crisp air of autumn filled with the report of .45 and 9 mm rounds mixed with the thud of percussion grenades and RPG's across northern Marin County and the Island.

Elon Musk rode a Tesla armored jeep outfitted with an M2 Browning machine gun mounted on a swivel that his Bro', Mark Zuckerberg, employed with great zest.

Ann Coulter jogged along in a tight mini-dress and furs, spitting epithets and firing her AR-15 at anything that moves with random violence. She splattered a Russian silver-haired poo against a brick wall within minutes of the start of the 'Shoot.

a blast of hot air and blantant lies provided by Donald Trump

Jared Kushner and Memet Oz opened a canvas bag and unleashed a blast of hot air and blantant lies provided by Donald Trump that bowled over a whole bevy of poodlewalkers. They were so discomfited that Pete Hegseth and Tulsi Gabbard easy dispatched a number of Poos with sabers which they swung in wild abandonment until Hegseth, seeing a female commentator from Fox walking by, ran after her to hump her leg.

even a whore must have some self-respect

Trump did not appear in person but a hologram of him wearing a golden crown and a fetching tan pantsuit with high heels projected on the main stage. His obvious Bromance with Elon Musk and the the recent focus on things like transgender and non-binary have convinced him to finally come out and enjoy his true self. Now we all know why Mar Lago is decorated the way it is in a fashion no red-blooded American male would tolerate for a second: lots of plushy divans, gilt filagree, gay cupids cavorting all over the place in naked abandon. And of course Melanie refuses to sleep with him any more and has moved out with good reason. She may have slept and screwed her way to riches, but even a whore must have some self-respect.

In short the Poodleshoot of 2024 proceeded with its usual organized atavistic violence

A commotion spread from the corner of Washington Park which made even Hegseth pause even after he had ripped off the knickers of the Fox commentator and had her on the ground.

An army of kids on e-bikes rode into this dignified party, tossing M-80's and insulting old ladies and knocking over old men on canes and riding up and down the aisles of the stores while screaming obscenities that caused sailors to blanche.

Several of them got off their bikes to surround a few dogwalkers and tear at them with teeth and nails, snarling and growling.

It was the Feral Children of Fairfax.

It was the Feral Children of Fairfax.

People like to think of Marin as an effete place with uber-rich lolling in hot tubs and aging hippies gadding about the unicorns.

Nothing could be further from the truth in this Post-Truth world. Trump has made all Truth valueless anyway.

East Marin is infested with gangs of feral kids who exhibit all the symptoms of syphilis dementia, sociopathy, and rabies combined. You cannot blame the lax upbringing of the hippies any more, for enough time has passed that this generation would be the next generation after the grandkids of the hippies. These are really the kids of the Reagan generation kids. They are the product of the Me Generation.

No matter from where they came, there they were, causing ordered atavistic violence to descend into Lord of the Flies atavistic chaos.

Of course, seeing all this, Trump approved, because he likes chaos.

When the kids starting upsetting the BBQ setup and causing fires to spread while Padraic and Dawn took refuge in the Old Same Place Bar, which has bars on the windows. Steve Bannon approached a couple of them with a genius idea. Genius for him that is. Bannon, newly out of prison, was in the good graces of the soon-to-be Administration and had some significant pull. Having jail cred seems to add a lot to ones standing with these folks.

"Hey! You guys want a job in Washington!"

In response, the kids bit him. They then tore his clothes off and pissed on the weeping felon.

All seemed lost. In the post-Truth era; law and police mean nothing. Order means nothing. Dignity and probity mean nothing. Sanity and reason mean nothing. Nothingness is exhalted and accountability has vaporized.

The situation looked dire

The situation looked dire. Until a little van with a revolving yellow light appeared. On the side were the words Island County Animal Control. Out stepped a handful of determined men with capture cages and nets and pepper spray. Lots of pepper spray. And tranquelizer guns.

In a short while the area was cleared and all the feral kids were taken to the pound and their e-bikes confiscated by the police when they felt it safe to approach again.

County Animal Control is used to dealing with rabid skunks, racoons, wayward deer, cougars (regardless of amount of makeup), mountain lions and bears. Feral kids were just another control job for them, whether from Fairfax or from Rossmoor.

sometimes . . . it is productive to sit down with your adversaries and talk peacefully

Padraic and Dawn came out to restore order to the BBQ pit area and everyone sat down for a daycent Guiness and shots of Usc-qe-bah, the Water of Life. Even the Democrats sat down among them even though none of them had been to jail and slowly, out of the shadows crept the dogwalkers, cautiously and even they were welcomed to the table as the light faded on that raucous day. For it may be said, sometimes, not always, but sometimes, it is better to sit down with your adversaries and talk peacefully, for something good may come of it. Because if you stop looking with animosity at your adversary and your adversary stops looking at you, then both of you can look forward.

And there just might be a common adversary facing both of you.

So the Liberals and the Neocons and the Poodlewalkers all sat together and talked about all kinds of violent, nasty sorts of poodlekillin' sorts of things and remembrances of the fallen and injuries suffered and injuries done and all had great fun eating what came off of the BBQ and there was Ahi for the mild and veggies for the Vegans and a fine time was had by all.

So ended the Poodleshoot of 2024, which might be variously the 24th or the 28th of the name as time shades off into an obscuring mist so long this thing has been going on and the official historians always end up getting schlockered on Wild Turkey every time so it becomes darned difficult to remember.

As the hours ticked by to the witching hour, the train horn keened from Oaktown across the estuary to echo off of the embankments of the Island breakwaters and ricochet its way off of the abandoned Navy base buildings, following the old, forgotten Beltline that once led past the cannery and the munitions factories, echoing along the Oaktown Embarcadero and shuttered produce warehouses as the train itself trundled outward through the darkness to an unknown destination.

That's the way it is around the Bay. Have a great week.

NOVEMBER 24, 20024

CONVENIENT PARKING

This sign was along the walking trail on the bayside part of the Island where there are picnic tables and amenities that are part of a green recreation strip that leads to Crab Cove. Also it turns out a lot of people besides Joni Mitchell have written songs featuring parking lots.

The song Convenient Parking by Modest Mouse begins

Soon the chain reaction started in the parking lot
Waiting to bleed onto the big streets
That bleed out onto the highways
And off to others cities built to store and sell these rocks
Well, aren't you feeling real dirty sitting in the parking lot?

NOVEMBER'S GOT HER NAILS DUG IN DEEP

So anyway. the atmospheric river has returned to the Bay Area, dumping loads of rain and snarling traffic and causing PiGgiE blackouts here and there.

This is the time of dank morning mists shrouding the hills with protective coverlets. The heat wave has come and gone and the buckeyes are all gone sere with battered, bare limbs. Mornings and evenings the pogonip drifts in over the hills. All along the streets and byways, the aspens and oaks flame with autumn colors of red and gold, creating piles of multicolored rakeable detritus clogging gutters and drains.

Yes, that special season has come upon us when the air turns brisk with scents of apples and chimney smoke and thoughts turn to traditions and season rituals. Dick and Jane go gaily scampering through the fallen leaves with ruddy cheeks and panting breath hand in hand, leaping over babbling brook and fog-damp fallen tree, each dreaming of popping a few rounds into a Fifi, blasting the stuffing out of a silver-haired poo with a brand new, polished thirty ought-six.

God! It is such a magical time! It is glorious America in Fall! Praise the Goddess for the Red, White, and Blue and shiny brass hollow-points!

Yep, that much anticipated Island event is nigh upon us once again, the Annual Island-Life Poodleshoot and BBQ.

We will be posting the official rules presently in the sidebar. For now, last year's rules are up there to give you an idea of what this dreadful celebration is all about. What is the Annual Island-Life Poodleshoot you may ask. This year marks the 24th year that the 'Shoot has taken place and the 3rd time it will be held in two locations, after it moved to Marin where the infernal species abounds in great numbers and so provides splendid opportunity for Red-blooded American Sport and also returning to its original locations on the Island. To commemorate past glories a small ceremony will be held on the Island which still holds the Old Same Place Bar that funded much of the beverages. It is, in short a Tradition, and around here we are big on Tradition.

Each year avid gun-nuts and hunters have gathered in the Bay Area for the Poodle Hunt, renowned throughout the world as having few events of such magnitude and utmost serious rivaling NASCAR races and the Victoria's Secret Fashion Show and representatives from both events are expected to attend along with the usual delegation from Washington DC, and it is expected that the incoming Administration shall return with a strong contingent of representatives.

This year the hunting promises to be very good as Marin is a haven for misapplied sentiments and distracted emotions applied to a scurrilous creature rather than fellow humankind. Herds of the repulsive animals are seen daily cavorting on pampered booties with atrocious pompoms and bowties while NIMBYS protest the building of homeless shelters in a nearby neighborhood and the incoming Presidential group is known for its love of big guns, the bigger the better.

Eugene Gallipagus has taken delivery of some new camo impermeables, expecting some wet weather this year. Denby, who never takes part save to help Dawn and Padraic setup the BBQ pit and the whiskey dispensers, prefers to practice PA, that is Poodle Avoidance. Besides he is still recouperating from the last Crossing on the Dia de los Muertos and the even rougher than usual drawing of straws at the Offices. He shouldn't have tried to hide in that derelict COVID isolation shack. The Elections were a hot mess anyway as Baby Booby basically made everyone so nauseated by the name calling and booger flinging they mostly stayed home, handing control of the Tree House to the most immature, disgusting, rude and unreasonable candidate that ever held office.

Meanwhile a bunch of Magats raiding a homeless encampment for the fun of it accidentally knocked over a barrel being used as a toilet. A few of them started rolling around in the offal under a drenching downpour -- Magats really like filth -- and then started chasing off the remaining unhoused people who were thoroughly revolted.

The Editor watched this from under his umbrella and then walked slowly back to the offices, put the umbrella to dry in a wastebasket and sat heavily in his chair at his desk which was lit by a pool of light coming from his desklamp.

What in the world have we come to? What have we done? What on earth is going to happen to us?

As the hours ticked by to the witching hour, the train horn keened from Oaktown across the estuary to echo off of the embankments of the Island breakwaters and ricochet its way off of the abandoned Navy base buildings, following the old, forgotten Beltline that once led past the cannery and the munitions factories, echoing along the Oaktown Embarcadero and shuttered produce warehouses as the train itself trundled outward through the darkness to an unknown destination.

That's the way it is around the Bay. Have a great week.

November 3, 2024

I LEFT MY HEART

When at a loss for an image there is always a friend getting one while riding the ferry. This is SF en Bleu. Or maybe Bluesville. Who knows?

ANACRUSIS

The horrific three digit temps have yielded to days of scattered cloud and the occasional dewy morning. Now is the time of late dawn in the morning as the construction workers put on their boots beside their trucks before the workday starts at seven and the appearance of longer shadows in the afternoon, with the buckeyes now all sere and drooping with poisonous fruit.

You may have noticed an Election is coming up, one very Presidential and otherwise significant. Babar, the perennial Conservative, sat in the Old Same Place Bar with Papoon (Not Insane!) the somewhat Liberal candidate as the races by now were all decided and the next few days would determine whether comon sense or radical extremism takes hold of America.

Saying that is not so partisan, given our deep Divide, for each side considers the other Extremist nowadays.

I AM WALKING WITH A GHOST. PLEASE DON'T INSIST

So anyway. The time arrived to prepare for the Crossing. Denby put on sturdy boots that deal well with walking on sand, jeans of course, and a plaid shirt for the cold on coming and going. Lastly he took up his Indiana Jones fedora and a walking stick to compensate for the years of injuries he had suffered, and so set out to the San Geronimo Station. Pretty soon a train arrived down SFD, horn tooting and blowing steam.

Some of you may say with astonishment, there is no railway there anymore and tracks along Sir Francis Drake were torn up many years ago.

We have only this to say, in the time when the veils between the worlds are thinnest, most unusual revenants will appear.

The time came for Denby to make the annual crossover, which had remained as a Tradition even though the offices and the Household had been transplanted by force during the Night of Shattered Fires. Tradition has its own powerful force as some of you may know.

The sun descended and shadows grew long across the little avenues of Silvan Acres. Because of the creek passing through, and then the long absent train line and now the road, this place had been a traveling place for many hundreds, if not thousands of years.

The Editor said, "Go now," and so Denby took his walking cane and went out to the uplift where the earth was embanked higher than in other places along the road.

A train came trundling along the way beside the Sir Francis Drake Boulevard, even though the tracks that once had gone to the coast had been torn up long ago.

The machine heaved to a stop with steam and groaning and Denby climbed aboard and took his seat in a cabin with no other passengers in the car. The train proceeded down Sir Francis Drake, stopping at Yolanda Landing and various points not known to Denby and then proceeded south and east through a dense fog that made identifying landmarks difficult. For a long time everything outside the windows was entirely black and Denby assumed they were somehow crossing one of the bridges.

"Endstation! Endstation!"

At one point the train stopped and the conductor, a gaunt man wearing a robe, came down the aisle announcing in a foreign accent "Endstation! Endstation!"

Denby disembarked to find he was on the Shoreline Road on the Island. He walked along the path there that bordered the brightly lit condos and the seawall until he came to the Iron Gate, the gate which appeared only for a few hours each year. He undid the latch and was greeted by an owl. "Who? Who are you? Who?!"

An iron bell began to clang and then he saw the vast expanse of bonfires lit upon the beach. Those bonfires lit by the souls waiting passage to redemption or eternal fire.

A distant dog or set of dogs set up a jarring sound of barking.

He used his cane to push open the gate and so step through a veil of mist to the Other Side where a long reach of strand with bonfires extended to north and south, broken only at this height by the extension of a stone landing.

As in years past, as he approached the Portal, the Voice bellowed to him from some echoing deep cavern.

"Lasciate ogni speranza voi ch'entrate!"

"Lasciate ogni speranza voi ch'entrate!" and the words flamed inside the skull as if poured in molten steel. Just as it had for the past 22 years.

For pete's sake. As per Tradition, dammit, Denby muttered.

A large owl, about two feet tall, perched on a piling scolded him with large owl eyes.

"Hoo! Hoo! Hoooooo!"

Okay, okay. Poor choice of words.

"Hooooo!"

On the other side the ground sloped down as usual to the water for about thirty yards, but he could not see the far lights of Babylon's port facilities or the Coliseum. A dense, lightless fog hung a few yards offshore, making it appear that the water extended out beyond to Infinity. The sky above was filled with black cloud and boiling with red flashes of lightening and fire although not a drop of rain had fallen.

All up and down the strand he could now see that countless bonfires had been lit, as is customary among our people in this part of the world to do during the colder winter months along the Strand, and towards one of these he stumbled among drift and seawrack.

Sitting around that fire, he recognized many faces. And many more all up and down that beach.

"ch'io non avrei mai creduto / che morte tanta n'avesse disfatta"

Strange words in another language reverberated again inside the skull: "si lunga tratta / di gente, ch'io non avrei mai creduto / che morte tanta n'avesse disfatta" echoing and echoing down long hallways of echos into eternity

A small child, barefoot and wearing a nightdress ran past and disappeared as quickly as she had come.

A glimmering figure appeared before him, a woman shining with internal light, her blonde hair glowing in that dark atmosphere, and clad in gauzy fabric blown by an invisible wind.

"Denby!" said the woman. "There you are!"

"Hello Penny," Denby said. "Back again."

"A year has passed up there in your world, I guess. Here another year is all the same for waiting."

Several little girls, all between the ages of six and nine, wearing pinafores ran barefoot across the sands between them and vanished into the misty beyond.

A light was seen across the dark water approaching closer. Extending from the shore was a stone jetty with wood pilings, making a sort of wharf. The light was revealed to be two red circles of fire approaching that infernal wharf and a number of souls began to move to this location from the several bonfires along the beach.

"Looks like the Ferryman is coming," said Denby.

Down from up above strode a lanky figure carrying a bass guitar. He was singing, "And its just a box of rain, or a ribbon for your hair, Such a long long time to be gone. And such a short time to be there. . . ".

"Phil," said Denby, " Anything to say to us musicians before you go?"

“What you can do is prepare yourself to be open; open for the pipeline to open and the magic to flow down through us. It means leaving yourself behind. It’s not a question of, Oh God, don’t let me fuck up, or anything like that. It’s a question of, “Here I am. Work me, Lord.” And the figure paused as he took a small gold coin from his mouth. The Obolu. “I know this winds a-blowing and it's colder than a whores goodbye, but I'd like that thank y'all for sticking with us." And with that Phil went down the beach to the wharf and gave up his fare to the Ferryman, whose eyes are wheels of fire. But that skiff was not headed south to the Deadlands but across to the glowing City of Everafter Life.

A bevy of girls scampered past Denby and Penny and disappeared giggling into the darkness. Daughters of the Dust.

"Do not forget to avoid looking into his eyes," Penny said.

"Don't worry," Denby said, remembering the soul scalding torment the one time he glimpsed ever so briefly into those wheels of fire, how it felt his entire soul was about to be consumed in violent torment.

The skiff loaded up its cargo of souls and the Ferryman pushed off across the water and the two of them sat on the sand bank watching as the glimmer of his eyes faded into the murky distance.

"So what is to happen to us, Penny?" Denby said as they watched lightning flickers above the tumultuous Blakean clouds above, limned with gods and fire above this place of waiting in-between the worlds. It is not Hell nor Heaven, neither Mandos nor Valhalla, but perhaps Purgatory, the anteroom which holds the Last Door the dead must visit before going wherever they go at last at the end. It is the Bush of Ghosts, offering one last opportunity to speak to the living.

Another group of girls ran up and stopped and stared at the two of them. One dark-haired one with green eyes approached Denby and said, "Papi?" But then she clapped a hand over her mouth and ran off with the others.

"Disappointed you never had family?" Penny asked.

"Well, what is, I can no longer change." Denby said, with some strain in his voice. "It is what it is."

"As to what is to come," Penny said, "I cannot say, other than I see a long time of suffering for all of you and nothing good coming out of it." Then she burst out laughing. "But do not be so lugubrious!" She said. "Its all a dream we dream one afternoon, long ago!". And the wraith put her hand on his.

To the surprise of both of them, he felt it. This had not happened before on many visits, for the dead are without contact to us on this side of the veil.

"O!" she said. "You are becoming! The time is near for you!"

Denby lifted her hand, cold and beyond description. "Things have happened to me," he said. "And I feel I am losing hold of that Life."

"Denby, face me," Penny ordered. He did. She leaned forward and their lips met and a cold, moist sensation went through him that warmed inside and flickered into a little fire in his core until she leaned away. The two of them looked up at the roiling sky which parted for them to an open space that resembled a dark metal blanket with holes punched in it and a light shining behind. Streaks of falling angels etched arcs above them. Once in a while there was a little pop of light as the angel exploded above and the children ran playing back and forth on the beach down below.

"Those not yet born and those never to be," Penny said.

And so the two of them sat together on the sand bank until the tolling of the iron bell.

Time for you to go, Penny said. I am sorry we don't have more time during your annual visits to talk. And then she stood up, a shimmering vision of luminescence.

Denby arose and turned to go up the slope back to the gate which led out of that place. He stumbled up as the insistent bell clanged its fateful hours on the last day of El Dias de los Muertos, that day when the veil between the worlds is thinnest.

"Denby." Penny said simply and he paused as a wind kicked up with gusts.

She reached out her hands to cup his face. Cold, so cold. He felt a wetness on his lips, on his face. The rain had returned to NorCal.

Good-bye. Until next time.

He ascended the slope as the sound of the bell and three dogs became more insistent until he stumbled through the gate which slammed shut behind him. There, an open door to a train compartment waited for him and he climbed in to plotz into a seat in an otherwise empty railcar with salty, wet cheeks. On the return journey, he reflected Penny had become in the afterlife what she had been before. In life she had been a nurse during the height of the AIDS plague whose job it had been to handle the affairs of patients who had been sent home from Hospice as they lapsed and eventually died and allowed her to handle the paperwork of such things, there always the angel to usher souls to the door and through it to the next form of existence, if any, beyond.

The train passed through shadowy regions of smoke and the skeletal forms of houses and the smoke of spooks until it passed Yolanda Landing and eventually to the San Geronimo Station, where Denby disembarked. From there he entered an ornate door standing right there on the Landing with no walls on either side and went dutifully to the Island-Life offices on the Island, located some miles away although he felt exhausted unto death.

He did not question the door nor how its transportation method worked. He was only a servant, as told to him many years ago. He would always be a servant, a messenger, a courier carring letters of unknown import while the Prince stands above, his banners unfurled.

The Editor awaited him as in years past.

"So this is the 24th time you have crossed over," said the Editor. "How was it this time?"

Denby fell into a plush chair Martini had snagged from a For Free roadside pile. He gave the Editor the one thousand yard stare.

"I can tell you are wanting a drink. And by just the look of you, so am I." The Editor reached into the desk and pulled out a bottle of Glenfiddich and set two glasses on the desk before pouring more than two fingers into each glass.

"So any talk about how the Election is going to go? Afraid there is not any time to make an announcement for it will all be over by the time the issue comes out."

"Somehow the subjects did not come up," Denby said.

"Well, I suppose given past reports I should have expected that," said the Editor as he poured out the bottle. "But no harm in asking."

The train horn keened from Oaktown across the spectral estuary to echo off of the embankments of the Island and then ricochet its way through the haunted redwoods of Marin's well-matriculated hills and slide over the sleeping bulk of Princess Tamalpais, following the old, forgotten railheads that once led along Sir Francis Drake Boulevard to the coast, the sound stirring the coyotes who began to howl their evensong which carried forth on the winds over Fairfax and White Hill, ululating through Silvan Acres and the ghostly mist-shrouded niches of the San Geronimo Valley, coursing with faint gray shapes along the ridge-tops through the drifts of fog and dripping redwoods to an unknown destination.

That's the way it is around the Bay. Have a great week.

As the hours ticked by to the witching hour, the train horn keened from Oaktown across the estuary to echo off of the embankments of the Island breakwaters and ricochet its way off of the abandoned Navy base buildings, following the old, forgotten Beltline that once led past the cannery and the munitions factories, echoing along the Oaktown Embarcadero and shuttered produce warehouses as the train itself trundled outward through the darkness to an unknown destination.

That's the way it is around the Bay. Have a great week.

OCTOBER 20, 2024

ITS ALL ABOUT THE BONES

He's back! A house in San Anselmo first put up Mr. Bones last year, then kept him up through spring with seasonal decorations. Then he disappeared for several months only to return in time for the Season we all love.

WALKING WITH A GHOST. PLEASE DON'T INSIST

The full moon is ushering in that time when the veils between the worlds become thinnest. In dark alleyways, spooks sqweak and gibber. Vampires utter beguiling enticements in dark shadows of enormous rooms. Freaks and ghouls howl and deliver diatribes of bloodlust and hatred. Unlit doorways beget a legion of tiny cannibal monsters and Papa Satan strides back and forth uttering impossible promises amid smoke and flames.

Yes, Election Time is upon us once again.

Also almost upon us is the Annual Island-Life Crossover, itself haunted by over 25 years of Tradition. As per Tradition, the Editor convened the Annual Drawing of Straws in the refurbished Offices on the Island. As per Tradition, the stately Rachel walked about the assembly with a hat filled with straws.

The purpose of the Drawing was to determine by Fate who was to cross over into that realm from which no man ever returns. Save a few exceptions like Ulysses one time and Opheus, plus a few other comic book heros, and for the past 20 years one representative from the Island Life staff. Why do this? Because in times of peril, like such times as these, the Editor would fain have advance knowledge of what is coming down the pike of the Future.

No one can deny that we live in Parlous Times. Not the Liberals. Not the Magats. Certainly not the unfortunate Palistinians. Not any in America and not any in the World.

The time came to do roll call and it turned out Denby was missing. They found Februs hiding under a woodpile and Jose under his bed because nobody wanted to be among the Chosen to go visit the Land of the Dead as this visit was terrible and full of spectral implications of the most dire kind as well as revenants of feelings and memories that most people would loathe revisit.

As it turned out Denby had not moved from Silvan Acres and so still habited the old place with its Covid cabins and run down dilapidated barn.

A Posse Comitatus was dispatched to Silvan Acres in a VW microbus converted by Martini to methane and biofuel and so they fetched the hapless Denby, dragging him by his heels while eating bowls of beans so as to fuel the VW Microbus. The Posse grabbed him from under the bed and tossed him into the Microbus, using shovels and rakes and other implements of Destruction and so brought that battered man over the bridge and back to the East Bay, Land of Promises Unfulfilled. Into the Offices Denby was dragged with his feet making long scarf marks in the dust behind him.

The Posse dumped him most ceremonily in front of the Editor.

"Hokay," said the Editor when Denby arrived. "Now we have a quorum."

Denby glared underneath his hat while tied to a chair. He stared at Februs, who stood all six inches of him, upon an umbrella stand.

"Februs, how could you?"

Februs had revealed Denby's location.

"It is the Trumpian Age of Cruelty," said Februs. "In this Age they go for the weak and the easily Blameable. It was either you or me."

"Enough discourse," the Editor said. "Draw!"

And so the statuesque Rachel walked about the room with the hat and each drew a straw and nervously compared their draw to the neighbor's. Finally it came to Denby and he was made to draw and of course, according to Tradition, he lost has he has lost each year for the past 25 years this lottery has been held , and most of the Company there breathed sighs of relief. Tradition was upheld and none of them would have to descend to hell.

The proceedings followed the same outline as has been practiced for the past 22 years. Rachel took her hat loaded with straws around the tables at which staff members sat. Marlene and Andre, not members of staff, had supplied a platter of ham and cheese sandwiches which no one touched. Not even the kosher caprese rolls. Each staff member drew a straw from the hat held aloft by the statuesque Rachel. The tension in the room continued to mount as each staffer drew. Each held their straw in trembling hands until Denby was compelled to draw, at which all the staff, save Denby, exhaled sighs of relief. Once again, according to Tradition, Denby had drawn the shortest straw. As he had each time for the past 23 years.

And so they all filed out, clapping Denby on the back congratulating him on his good fortune while muttering under breath as they exited the door, "Thank god it is not me, poor sod!"

Then it became suddenly okay to demolish the platter of sandwiches, which they did, washing down with cheap red wine from a gallon jug on the porch.

Finally Denby was left alone with the Editor.

"So I guess the infernal train shall arrive on schedule to take me there as usual," Denby said.

"Is Tradition," said the Editor. "You are Chosen and that is that."

Denby walked out onto the porch and breathed in the dry, cold air of Fall. Once again he was Chosen for the Crossover as part of Tradition. Someone asked, "What does this mean to you to be Chosen year after year"?

A Tzadik once said, "It is not always to advantage to be Chosen". But ironically one has no choice. No one really ever does.

The battered Denby found a heap of cushions on which to collapse and so descend into that blessed sleep that knits up the raveled sleeve of care.

As the hours ticked by to the witching hour, the train horn keened from Oaktown across the estuary to echo off of the embankments of the Island breakwaters and ricochet its way off of the abandoned Navy base buildings, following the old, forgotten Beltline that once led past the cannery and the munitions factories, echoing along the Oaktown Embarcadero and shuttered produce warehouses as the train itself trundled outward through the darkness to an unknown destination.

That's the way it is around the Bay. Have a great week.

OCTOBER 13, 2024

SCARY MONSTERS, SUPER CREEPS

WHATS THE BUZZ TELL ME WHAT'S A HAPPENING

We have come out of some medical issues where the good doctors have prodded, poked and removed a few things and ordered regimens of chemicals that do not make one high in the slightest, so we do not know what that is all about.

This sort of thing of being tubed and cut into does slow a man down but now we are returned to horse and "Richard's himself again."

That line, just to let you know, was a filmographer's invention and never written by Shakespeare or any of his supposed stand-ins.

So now we are back to it, despite dismal prognosis of incurable things. Death and Life are both incurable so it should not be surprising there is a subset of health animosities. So we know how we are going to die; that's a relief. Most people fret as they age wondering what will be the next Big Thing. At least we have firm assurances.

Might as well write a few more Island-Life episodes while we are at it.

DRIVE YOU HOME AGAIN

So anyway, the triple digit temps have yielded to comfort zone air and the cars were all sprinkled with diamonds this morning after a late night shower. Other places east of here are faring not so well with murderous heat and further east disastrous hurricanes plus tornados.

We have entered into the month-long party season of October that ramps up with increasing atavistic frenzy until the orgiastic climax of Halloween offers some kind of release to a lot of people. Its time to play-act your fantasies and cut loose until that night when the veils between the worlds become thinnest and revenants pass back and forth.

And yes, once again a representative from Island-Life will perform the annual crossover to the Other Side, that Borne from which no man returns. Save for Denby.

In local news the feral children of Fairfax have been at it again, kicking down doors and running wild in the early hours. They captured one with his e-bike and no one could approach the creature who hissed and spit and snarled animal noises while uttering gutteral curses that would cause a sailor to blanche.

Sheriff Dumbly stood just beyond the reach of his chain which was attached securely to an iron ring embedded in the cement outside of the Library. His e-bike lay on the ground out of reach of the youngster.

A woman walking a poodle all done up with an atrocious barber-cut and a pink bow scolded the Sheriff for putting the boy on a chain. She began to approach the kid and one of the deputies there held her back by force.

"Ma'am I do not think getting near this thing is a good idea."

The kid rose up snarling and hissing and gave the woman the finger. "F**k you ya old doddering B**ch. Go soak yer T**t in gasoline! Arrrgrrrr!" He gnashed his teeth and flung himself at her, but the chain held.

The woman staggered back clutching her pearls. "Such bad manners!"

By this time a small crowd had gathered. One of the men there asked the Sheriff what was to be done about this creature who snarled and spat obsenities.

"Well in my opinion we ought to make sure this animal does not breed any more like him and then put him to work before the latest proposition to prevent that part of it gets passed by the Liberals, but then my opinion counts for little these days.

At this point the kid began howling and barking like a dog.

"Here now! Here now! I am gonna sue all of you!" A short man in his forties with receding hairline and a checked waistcoat accosted a man standing there.

"You there, who are you? What is your name and where do you live? I am going to sue you for transgressions."

The man staggered back under the verbal assault. "I am just standing here! I had no part in anything!"

"So you say. I am going to sue you all the same. And you and you and you with the feathers: I am going to sue the lot of you! Now, then let's see this boy . . .".

The man strode up to just the edge of the semicircle people knew was the furthest reach of the chain. "Boy!" he said.

In answer the boy cowered down,snuffling and grunting. The man, however remained outside the reach of the chain length.

"I understand an e-Bike is involved. Where is it?"

Someone indicated the machine lying on its side.

"I shall of course sue for damages and assault." said the man. "I am a fourth generation Californian of the family Trumpet, and we do not take insult with impunity!"

"Assault?" said someone. "That kid ran down Mrs. Grimoire and punched Mr. Sanchez in the face while screaming the most vile obscenities and threats at everyone! He is the one guilty of assault!"

"If he did that, which remains unproven . . .".

"Hey!" exclaimed Mrs. Grimoire, who stood there in her torn and dirtied gingham housedress.

". . . it undoubtedly was provoked without cause.

The Sheriff unlocked the padlock at the street level while deputies kept the kid at bay with cattleprods, and then handed the chain to Mr. Trumpet who said, "Come along Joshua!"

At that moment a battalion of e-bike riders swooped in among the people, cursing and kicking old ladies and so grabbed Joshua and his ebike and rode off tossing M80 explosives as a distraction while kicking in doors right and left.

"Well," said one citizen with a shitzpoo on a silver filagree chain. "I do declare."

Marin is not like other places. It is far more strange.

As the hours ticked by to the witching hour, the train horn keened from Oaktown across the estuary to echo off of the embankments of the Island breakwaters and ricochet its way off of the abandoned Navy base buildings, following the old, forgotten Beltline that once led past the cannery and the munitions factories, echoing along the Oaktown Embarcadero and shuttered produce warehouses as the train itself trundled outward through the darkness to an unknown destination.

That's the way it is around the Bay. Have a great week.

AUGUST 18, 2024

CALLING THE MOON

Image is from several years ago and was prompted by the appearance of a full moon over the Bay this week. This image is called Moon over the Sleeping Lady.

THESE DOG DAYS ARE OVER

So anyway, the rabid child of Fairfax who ran amok biting people has been enclosed in a glass cage to prevent further infection; there he throws himself against the plexiglass and threatens lawsuits from his father. A number of his mates have reported to school and are now assailing their teachers who are trained to deal with disruptive behavior. The school administration of Sir Francis Drake High is dealing with the problem by sealing all cell phones in a lock box and chaining all e-bikes until the end of the scholastic day.

Rumors that the school changed its name are exaggerated by limpy apologists for slavery of all types. Changing the name of the high school evaded doing anything productive or meaningful about race relations as SFD, the man, experienced first hand what slavery was all about by working on a slave ship, which compelled him to become a lifelong abolitionist informed by Realities of which the apologists seem to have not a clue.

In any case citizens armed with walking canes and escrima sticks have parked at the doorways of the CVS. A few whacks of the justifiably named eh-scream-a stick have calmed the situation down enormously. As a result the children have stopped running e-bikes through the aisles of Safeway and have stopped assaulting senior citizens.

The kid who ran about biting people still remains under observation by representatives of the CDC, along with the lot of them. The Feral Kids of Fairfax are getting notice worldwide.

TALES OF THE NONPROFITS PART II - THE HOSPITAL

Denby works in a public hospital. The hospital is run by a consortium of FQHC type of folk who speak this distinctive language of governement acronyms. They have got HIRSA grants. They have got Ryan White funding. They have got Medi-Cal and MediCare and a truckload of entitlement among the Licensed.

The Unlicensed and the Merely Certified must needs slave under the usual onus suffered by underlings in this Upstairs\Downstairs society. What is Upstairs and what is Downstairs seems to have fluid resonance related to proximity to wealth and Power. Comes the welcome Friday and Ser David announces to the Staff he has an important social engagement and he expects them all to carry on to five at least if not past that.

Then off the fellow flounces, the third of his generation of still breeding thoughts, and the rest of the Unlicensed and Not-Certified must make do as the arduous hours tick by and the sunlight shifts shadows across the desks with laborious effort.

Call comes in to IT Helpdesk at 4:30pm from Ser Bothany Blatherswort that Finance needs a sudden implementation of a program by Monday morning. The Director gets this information and makes two comments, one public and one private. The Private comment to the Engineer, who is planning - as an Unlicensed - to end the day with four margaritas, is as follows

"Fuck-em. Their miserable lack of planning is not going to wreck my department, stressed as it is by several whimsical initiatives engendered by assholes who could not plan a child's birthday party. We will take it up on Monday".

The public comment is as follows, "We will discuss this matter on Monday at seven in an organized fashion. Have a nice weekend."

THERE WILL BE SORROW NO MORE

The Editor sat heavily behind his desk, the one with the pool of light cast in the late hours by the single desklamp. He had the triple monitor setup people like him often have, each screen displaying the day's news in windows. There, Ukraine and its war against the invader. There Palestine and its misery. There the windows for the electoral candidates and what at times seems the last battle for Democracy and all for which it stood at one time.

Did we not defeat the Nazis? And for what? For this? This MAGAT swell of intolerance and bigotry and misogyny and willingness to surrender truth and justice to imaginary security behind a Great Wall?

Then again, the Feral Children of Fairfax who rampage all over town with no sense of boundaries or that someone is out there regulating their Lord of the Flies mentality. Is THIS what we have made? Kids who never will have any capacity to operate in any functional manner for years to come.

Was this just kids being kids and doing the same sorts of unruly things his generation had done?

There felt a difference. His generation still knew the difference between right and wrong and were embarrassed when confronted. These kids rejected any judgement and insisted on their "right" to break stuff, hurt people, cause anguish to someone else. They had no moral compass. In fact, they had no compass at all, but blindly thrust forward and sought every opportunity to evade accountabiltity.

Much like many of their elders today. You do not like the way the Elections went? Okay so you deny the results in the face of the obvious evidence and pretend you were wronged and since you do not like the way elections went, you try to do away with elections and you caville and lie and decieve and cheat and steal and threaten and browbeat anyone who disagrees with you and you act outrageous and insult and bully to get your way. And that is what the children see. And they learn.

And yet, despite so many angry people remain outraged that we dared to elect a Black Man as President, now they face the triple threat of a Black woman becoming President and this time we are ready to counter birtherist lies and all sorts of insulting behavior. Take one thing for the Truth; A Black woman takes no crap and will be strong enough for any of the folderol coming from the Extremists.

She has been put down for over 400 years; what is just one more?

As the hours ticked by to the witching hour, the train horn keened from Oaktown across the estuary to echo off of the embankments of the Island breakwaters and ricochet its way off of the abandoned Navy base buildings, following the old, forgotten Beltline that once led past the cannery and the munitions factories, echoing along the Oaktown Embarcadero and shuttered produce warehouses as the train itself trundled outward through the darkness to an unknown destination.

That's the way it is around the Bay. Have a great week.

JULY 31, 2024

YOU LOOKIN' AT ME?

The drying out of the hinterland has led to some species heading down into town after the smell of water. We will have photos of some of those following them after.

DONT WAIT

A lot has happened. Javier had his 66 birthday down there on the quad in the open, and of course the ex-girlfriends descended like Valkries to asail the sward with fire and smoke and whips. Naturally Denby was caught up in this atavistic boil of savagery and violence and wound up in the hospital and then the city jail.

That was June. Then July 4th hit with the annual Mayor's Parade on the Island and the usual disruptions caused by people trying to insert themselves into the largest Small Town parade in America, even though the Island is now home to over 100,000 souls which kind of subtracts from the Small Town Category.

Someone tried to shoot with a BB gun Baby Boobie Bobbie in the Treehouse as he was giving a speech about evicting the emigrant daycare people on the Island. The BB nicked his ear and the shooter was soon grabbed by his parents and now Baby Boobie is claiming the Hand of God intervened and people really got sick of it pretty quick.

An article appeared in the Marin Gerbil about an attack upon a citizen of Fairfax by a group of feral Fairfax kids loose on e-bikes who surrounded the 66 year old man and bit him. The victim is being taken to Marin General for observation and treatment for possible infection while negotiations are under way with the parents to determine if the child has rabies. The usual method of examination is to remove the cephalus and send it off to a lab for examination, but there are some impediments in this case for executing the procedures. Rabies is a concern in the semi-rural County environment.

Nothing else can explain this unusual frothing behavior the County Inspector said. A program to round up the feral kids of Fairfax has been proposed at the next City Council meeting.

The Editor strolls the silent aisles of the Newsroom after all the reporters and copywriters have left for the evening, fans idly pushing the last of the day's heat around in circles. Lately he had given in to despair, sitting in his office, talking to no one, listening to dire news about floods and fires and hurricanes and drinking far too much Water of Life, believing people in a group will always do the wrong thing that will inevitably destroy themselves. But also, lately things had begun to change. There was a fresh scent on the air, sharp and pungent as lemon verbena.

Word has it a new season of hope and optimism is dispelling the gloom that followed the disastrous Debate where one Candidate appeared to seize up. Things had not looked so good even before that happened with far too many people all too willing to surrender stability and freedom for the sake of the familiar empty promises and threats of a demigogue, the type of which is very familiar to Europeans who witnessed the harnessing of entire national resources of several countries to the dedication of evil.

It is no wonder one of his literary mentors favored the distraction of collecting lepidoptera while living as an immigrant exile far from that sort of surrender to tyranny and its pretend security. Collecting moths is a fine way to divert attention briefly from inevitable and vulgar truths. You cannot reverse the prison of Time. You cannot go home again. You cannot have things as they ever were in your mind.

Those Heartland folks have never known war on their soil, never suffered the jackboots of strident authoritarianism in their homespun towns, never seen what happens when every problem, real and imaginary, is blamed on an handful of Others, the dark races, the foreigners in our midst. They have never seen the aftermath of total destruction that ensues and never personally witnessed a Dirty War in their cornfields. They never have known anyone pushed out of a helicopter over the ocean 200 miles from shore. They believe that detention centers from which no one ever emerges alive cannot happen to their own families. Surely not. Not in the good old Yew Ess of A.

Abu Graib? Well that was a few bad apples. And besides, those people are not scarcely human. They do not speak English and in fact they do not even want to!

How easy it is to fall under the spell of the One Ring and its whispers. Go ahead. Put Me on now. You will be powerful and will crush all the weak ones under your fist and you will restore Order. You and you alone have the ability to establish Order. Ordnung muss sein, it used to be said.

Perhaps because of this new spirit of Optimism, perhaps because he finally won that internal battle against the lure of the Ring, the Editor decided to start it all up again. In the hot spell of the summer night of this global climate changing (all things, as you know, are fated to mutation) a hawkmoth banged against the window screen and remained there, clinging to a desire for light. Yes, tonight is a good night for mothing.

As the hours ticked by to the witching hour, the train horn keened from Oaktown across the estuary to echo off of the embankments of the Island breakwaters and ricochet its way to following the old, forgotten Beltline that once led past the cannery and the munitions factories, echoing along the Oaktown Embarcadero and shuttered produce warehouses as the train itself trundled outward through the darkness to an unknown destination.

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

MAY 5, 2024

ALL ABOUT THE BONES

Heard that someone in San Anselmo had resurrected a Halloween decoration for Spring, so we just had to toddle on down the hill for a looksee. Looks like Mr. Bones has a Mememto Vive in his hand. "To the virgins to make much of time . . .".

THIS IS OUR LAST DANCE / UNDER PRESSURE

So anyway, Denby wound up in jail again on Valentines Day because he forgot to take his key when taking out the laundry at midnight and got caught out without his pants. When he got out of jail with the hookers and the shopping cart homeless in the bleary blue hours of dawn, he made his way back to the Household to get ready for the St. Patricks' Day festivities at the Old Same Place bar on the Island.

As in years past, the Wee Man showed up with his magic tricks and members of the Angry Elf gang tried to upset things and ruin the vibe, something they really like to do for some reason unknown to the reast of us such that the motto, "I loathe pushy people" has become more and more in vogue. Especially since the proliferation of MagaHats, or Maggots as they can be termed. These Magats have been running around shouting at the top of their lungs about all kinds of mean, nasty, ugly things and there seems nobody can do a thing about it. KILL ALL THE FURRINERS! KILL ALL THE LIBERALS! HE IS THE MAN WHO GETS THINGS DONE! Like was said about Mussolini. But nevermind.

The Angry Elf gang came in while people where peacable minding their business and the Man from Minot was in the last stages of finishing a Jenga tower of blocks about three feet high when the gang busted in and knocked it all down with a careless guesture and the Wee Man turned their weapons into corncobs and bouquets of limp lupin.

Nothing like having your switchblade turned into lupin, I tell you.

A number of staff have been out due to medical reasons, so the issues have been delayed. The Editor promises to recify the problem and the irresponsible shall be tossed into the Island Oubliette.

Pesach in the Household, which is honored every year by Marlene and Andre was a somber event quite unlike usual times, given the world political situation.

WHAT'S GOING ON

We intrude for a rare real-world discussion about what has been going on. The weekly issues have been late because of interference by both Life and Death with Death being the more uncompromising influence. Dear Readers, of those listed on the masthead, only Denby and the Editor are still alive and operational in the world as we know it. Both Chad, our HTML coder, and Tammy, our photographer have passed away, leaving a tremendous vacuum at the Offices. Beatrice, our graphic artist, is still, more or less, alive, but stashed away in a Memory Unit in Sonoma; she is no longer able to communicate verbally and has to be hand-fed and dressed by someone else.

The Editor is not doing so well either, for each day begins with a litany of pills and potions and more bad news from the doctor. Did you ever think when you were young and your body a coiled spring that just walking down the street would become a painful hobble?

We got Chris Smither's latest CD, All About the Bones and have come to realize that great musician has it sussed, having reached the final half of the final Quarter with the understanding it is now all over save for how to spend the time that is left measured in minutes now instead of years.

We had a good run for over 20 years and for a while the issues will remain as a sort of historical record of our times, our foolishness and our greatness be that what it may. The Island-Life staff, the Offices, the Old Same Place Bar, the Household of Marlene and Andre, the Poodleshoot, Jaqueline's Salon, and even the Iranian spy submarine El Chadoor are stuff that dreams are made of and will eventually vanish like Bloom County into thin air.

As Chris says in "Completion",

If it ain't the end I'm pretty sure it's near.
And in the dimming light,
No one should fight your right
To drop a curtain . . .
. . .

You'll simply take what comes,
and forego
Anticipation

THE UNNAMABLE

The Editor moved down the aisles of the desks festooned with ropes of green and red festive garlands and blinking led lights hung in celebration of a military victory won on this day in 1862. Jesus had gone off with Pedro and Jose with a bottle of tequila in commemoration of that battle between Mexico and French invaders. It had been a sharp rebuke to Europe and a firm statement that no, you may no do just anything you want.

The Editor sat down at his usual seat at the table with the little pool of light shed by the desklamp, still doing all for Company while all around hung the curtains of darkness. But first he had a shot of Cazadores. Then another.

On the threshold of his Story. "I'll go on, you must say words, as long as there are any . . . Before the door that opens on my story, that would surprise me, if it opens, it will be I, it will be the silence, where I am, I don't know, I'll never know in the silence you don't know, you must go on, I can't go on, I'll go on."

As the hours ticked by to the witching hour, the train horn keened from Oaktown across the estuary to echo off of the embankments of the Island breakwaters and ricochet its way to following the old, forgotten Beltline that once led past the cannery and the munitions factories, echoing along the Oaktown Embarcadero and shuttered produce warehouses as the train itself trundled outward through the darkness to an unknown destination.

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

JANUARY 21, 2024

SOMEWHERE OUT THERE ON THAT HORIZON

WELCOME BACK MY FRIENDS TO THE SHOW THAT NEVER ENDS

So anyway. It has been a while and there have been lacunae in our posts. We will try to make up for that with additions to the Island Stories section. We will be trimming down the sidebar fat as far as the Calendar and other offshoots goes.

And we will be returning to the Island, made famous by Erika von Strade at a noteworthy Prarie Home Companion episode. No more mucking about the hot tubs of Marin, which is a wierd enough place that it deserves its own commentator. In fact, Marin is so wierd and humorless that it feels nigh impossible to parody any of its most ridiculous hobbyhorses. All we could do is describe factually what people believe and other people remark, "O you made that all up! Nawwww! That can't be true!"

Sort of takes the wind out of one's creativity.

So long-time Island-Lifers will recognize a return to the familiar and the 15 member household of Andre and Marlene and Mr. Howitzer ensconced in his mansion on Grand Street with an entrance guarded by two stone lions.

It has been a long, difficult journey to return to our roots, but given the dangers to our Democracy and to Common Sense in general, we feel it necessary in the absence of sane islands like Bloom County to give perspective, we need to return to the forefront and not yield to the petty threats of a petty wannabee Napoleon, a course thug of threatening opportunity driving a red sportscar about the town like a stuffed-shirt wearing the big boots of a golem.

The Household endured the holidays with usual stoicism and a fir tree found somewhere and set in the old washtub. The decorations are all taken down and we have had some merciful rain to slow down the advent of the next fire season.

Pastor Nyquist and Father Danyluk spent the New Year's Eve as usual, sitting before a fire while enjoying the fruits of the Catholic wine cellar and discussing matters of theological import along with gossip about their respective parishoners. The old year ticked over into the next until Sister Profundity tucked the snoozing Lutheran and the Priest in with woolen blankets before banking the fire.

The Editor meditated on this and other Traditions while at his desk in the darkened offices of the Island-Life newsroom. There in the San Geronimo Valley all remained silent as 2023 tottered away to die without a sound while the Island and Oaktown erupted with the usual illegal fireworks and gunfire until roving patrol cars put a stop to spontaneous jubilance, leaving the town in the keeping of the one who was sweeping up the ghosts of Saturday night.

Soon they would all be returning to their hometown where they all belonged. They would return to A Touch of Wonder with Brunhilde and Borg, Jaqueline's Salon and the ever amorous Luther (the classic gentleman in dustcoat, waiting, to The Old Same Place Bar with Padraic, Dawn and Suzie, to Bosco the pig, to the Island's many many churches which includes El Adelphian Iglesia del Luz de los Cajóns de Estacionamiento del Mundo.

And of course to the El Chadoor, the forgotten Iranian spy submarine, forgotten and lost in the Teheran bureaucracy for 25 years, but still carrying out its vague mission in the Oakland estuary. Why did the submarine hide in the estuary? Because it was the only part of the Bay deep enough for a sub to dive because it had been dredged for the big container ships.

Amy Holiday, one of the Islands two hookers, and Ms. Morales, the schoolteacher at Longfellow. And of course Mrs. Almeida's chickens and fifteen children. Mr. Almeida spent this rare evening at home, for a fisherman does not rest long when the crab is ready to be taken.

A house not scooped up by developers was found for let; another one bedroom cottage at a price obscene for a single couple, but with 15 souls they would make do. Soon they would all be going home.

As the hours ticked by to the witching hour, the train horn keened from Oaktown across the estuary to echo off of the embankments of the Island breakwaters and ricochet its way to following the old, forgotten Beltline that once led past the cannery and the munitions factories, echoing along the Oaktown Embarcadero and shuttered produce warehouses as the train itself trundled outward through the darkness to an unknown destination.

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

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