APRIL 14, 2019

Marin is Crazy in Spring

So anyway. The torrential monsoons have given way to drier weather with skies mottled with dabs of cloud and cool air that occasionally becomes warm when the sun hits for a time. The nights hover around 47 degrees and the morning fogs dissipate quickly.

We are seeing golden poppies bursting out during this early Spring. Everyone talks about the cherry blossoms in DC, that wierd city east of Chicago, but we have an entire cherry blossom orchard in Mariner Square Village blooming madly each year over acres of parkinglot. It is not something special we go to a special place to gawk at; it is part of our daily lives. How parched must be the lives of Washingtonians who do not have this every day of the year while we enjoy live music from multiple venues all over our metropolitan area, birds of paradise blooming in the most remote corners, scads of golden poppies, tulips and gladiolas and yard after yard of extraordinary roses that have yet to erupt amid the abutilon and bluebells.

Spring is the most dangerous season.

Yes, Spring is the most dangerous season. Maybe it is different in other places, but here, wise men remain indoors and order pizza for dinner, hunker down by the TV to watch endless reruns of Monster Truck Destruction and Terminator I, II, III and IV. It's safer cuddled there in the dark lit only by the blackout curtain blocked TV set glow.

Bees dive-bombing the clover, hummingbirds bayoneting the jasmine that keeps throwing out punches this way and that while sending wafts of chemical weapons of mass disruption. Army ants on the march in great phalanxes and squirrels conducting reconnaissance forays add to the mayhem, while raccoons begin nightly raids. The daisy bush bursts with yellow ack-ack blooms while the poppies erupt with tiny explosions across the fields. Squadrons of swallows swooping and diving, ducks performing sorties, Canadian geese streaking overhead in formation and then, worst of all, there are the girls in their summer dresses.

Meanwhile, somewhere overhead, flying in stealth mode -- that naked, blindfolded, fat boy keeps firing off at random his erring arrows of wanton mishap, those IEDs (Improvised Erotic Designs), wreaking chaos in a wide swath more terrifying that Sherman's March to the Sea. Squadrons of women and girls swelling with fatal charms stroll on patrol, their smooth lithe legs flashing beneath their uniforms: thin summer dresses, haltertops, daisy-dukes, and god knows what else underneath that armor. If anything. It's all agitprop left to the imagination.

Save us all from Spring's violent terrors.

Observe Johnnie, happy and carefree as a lark, striding with ruddy cheeks and full confidence. But after him comes Jane, armed with those sharpshooter eyes, that flippy short skirt, and strappy high heels. Now Johnnie is down! His face wan and his appetite poor, his breath coming out in ragged gasps as Jane cradles his head among the wildly blooming, victorious daisies. Right in the heart, poor lad. A goner for sure.

Yes, Spring is the most dangerous Season.

A while ago Denby went back East for a wedding and went down to ask the Front Desk where was a good place to hear music and was rewarded with the comment, "Is the room radio not working? Are you talking about going to a disco?"

"No," Denby corrected. "I mean live music. Live bands with live people in them. Not canned music."

"I dunno. I suppose you have to drive to Georgetown where they have a university and maybe there they have clubs and things like that."

"There is no music in this county at all? You have to drive to another city?"

"Sir I am afraid I cannot help you. Next . . . !"

Poor, impoverished people. They have cherry blossoms once a year and no idea about music to enrich their lives.

Yet it is Spring and Mr. Twicket has engaged an army of laborers to clean up the grounds and prepare the roses. He has some annoying problems with electrical lighting in the house which the electrician has told him needs to be addressed, but the cost seems exhorbitant for that kind of thing which does not beautify the landscape.

So while the day laborers were out mulching the roses or whatever it is they do, someone cut a buried line and the clothesdryer blew up in flames. Next went the kitchen dishwasher and the electronic door opener went nuts opening and closing at random. This happened as flames crept up the drapes, the lights in the stairwell blew out in showers of sparks igniting the carpet and after how many fire seasons do we still install flammable carpet, drapes and sofas in our houses? And of course nothing was grounded properly and the breaker box was a laughingstock of band-aid fixits. Because Mr. Twicket did not want to pay union rates for a proper electrician, the slop who worked on the box installed 20 and 30 amp breakers attached to 15 amp 12 guage wire rated at 15 amps max.

Mr. Twicket returned to a smoldering mess after his afternoon cricket session at the Ross Cricket Green.

John Gaack saw Milton leave his car in the parkinglot of the Costco to go shopping. Gaack snarled and tried the door of Milton's car, finding it unlocked and reached into to shove the air condition temp controls all lthe way to hot. He then closed the door and went in with his two ugly daughters to get some things for the house and keep an eye on Milton, whom he detested for no other reason than Milton came from Alameda and did not Play the Game, the game in which the Gaack family and similar families were entitled to all that floated into their comfortable mouths.

Jason Arrabiata stepped up to deliver another sermon in Silvan Acres at his new CFSM chapel, a charming one-room shed surrounded by willow trees.

These families are the Grumpies of San Anselmo, but every town has Grumpies just like the Gaacks. Whenever something goes wrong or modern life interposes some new harsh reality, it is always the people from somewhere else at fault.

"Ramen!" said the congregation.

Let us pity the Grumpies, so self-entited and never destined for true happiness, Jason preached. They came here long ago to kill the Natives and steal their land and although they have gained the title rights to Paradise, they shall not enjoy the Kingdom of Heaven.

"Ramen!"

Let us now join in the Lord's Prayer and then eat heartily and drink lustily.

"Ramen!"

Our pasta, who art in a colander, draining be your noodles.
Thy noodle come, Thy sauce be yum,
On top some grated Parmesan.
Give us this day our garlic bread,
and forgive us our trespasses,
As we forgive those who trample on our lawns.
And lead us not into vegetarianism, but deliver us some pizza,
for thine is the meatball, the noodle, and the sauce,
Forever and ever. RAmen.

"Ramen!"

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

 

BACK TO STORY INDEX