Welcome to the 26th year of this weekly column that's updated now infrequently, on Sunday nights or Monday mornings, depending on how well the booze and health holds out. If you've got any news, clues or rumors to share from around the Bay, or the world, feel free to send them to Editor@Island-Life.net or use the envelope in the masthead. For previous issues, including 2018, visit the Archives.

APRIL 19, 2026

LICE ARE VERMIN: EXTERMINATE LICE!

APRIL IS THE CRUELEST MONTH

120 Years ago a great earthquake and fire rocked the Bay Area. It started at 3 AM, but aftershocks lasted for hours afterwards. The event affected not only San Francisco but also neighboring Oakland and the area at that time named Brooklyn, which is now part of Oakland itself. As a commemoration we are including an excerpt from one of the final chapters of Mule Sonata, which describes from the perspective of the various characters introduced earlier in the book the events that unfolded over the course of four days.

Enjoy. If you can. For something like this is sure to happen again.

That chill spring morning before dawn, Tomas, son of Festus and Sarah, got up as usual to go down to the boat and make things ready for the early morning commute between Oaktown and San Francisco. He was busy at work, unreefing the sails of the spinnaker in the dark while Captain Murphy made the larger paddle-wheel Siobhan ready by firing up the boilers. Down the quay came old Grumpus, ready to lend his single arm to the restarted enterprise.

When Carpenteria had finally left, releasing his stranglehold on the ferry trade and the docks, Grumpus had come back to work for Festus’ son two days a week to supplement his meager salary at the Chronicle where he covered the sports desk, the auctions, and the horse races.
Following his success from the long series covering Emperor Norton, Festus had stayed on as a permanent staffer at the paper, and so seldom was seen now down at the docks for his boy had risen in the world and had obtained a decent job.

As the last evenstar faded into the pale glow arising in the east, Tomas could see the day would prove to be calm and clear, always a good thing for any man who made his living on the water, but he also saw Wampum, the old pelican perched upon his usual perch there at the wharf end and so Tomas took this to be a bad sign.

Otherwise this day on the 18th of April, 1906 began not unlike any other day.

What happened next was not so ordinary. A strange growling filled the air, as if an entire herd of grizzley’s had commenced right then to sing. Then, a large wave appeared out of nowhere, lifted the boat up to the extent of its moorings and just dropped it down again to smack against the dock, which looked to have the odd appearance of a structure encased entirely in oak-colored fur. The entire structure – some four-hundred yards of tar-daubed heavy redwood pilings – was vibrating. Down by the quay, Grumpus was doing some kind of dance, barely able to keep his feet – was the man drunk?

At that moment the brick chimney of the Contra Costa Laundry, located on Thirteenth Street, but easily seen soaring 200 feet above the surrounding rooftops, swayed like a coachman’s whip, buckled and came apart before his eyes. He blinked and the entire chimney, all 200 feet, was gone, wiped from the skyline without a trace.

All along the waterfront, fronts of warehouses came loose, toppling into masses of brick in the street. Paved sections near loading docks broke apart and sand came boiling up through the cracks. Grumpus, who had been thrown down by this time, came running unsteadily, for the land, which had seemed so sturdy, had become mercurial and the sea seemed to him a far better place to be.

A small curio shop standing where Grumpus had begun his drunken dance tilted, and like a tired dowager with a heavy flower hat, leaned forward and dumped shopfront forward into the street, scattering glass and brick while leaving torn pipes spouting fluids through the dust laden air.

Other crewmen of the Siobhan appeared running and Captain Murphy came down from the forecastle, descended to the dock and was approaching now along the suddenly normal-looking wharf.

The crewmen told of downtown being filled with broken stone on Broadway and falling chimneys everywhere. The Captain mentioned he had watched the Empire Theatre go down from his high vantage point but that City Hall looked all right.

As an half hour passed, no one appeared to take the ferry across, except for an accountant by the name of Miles Standish, which was very strange. At this hour, well over one hundred people normally waited for passage across. Some of the crewmen left to go and check on their own homes.

Tomas told Murphy to wait out the run while he ran over to the City in the spinnaker with their sole passenger. Some of the crewmen came back as the sun began to rise, saying the entire downtown looked a shambles with brick and glass clogging the streets.

Tomas made his way over to San Francisco, there to encounter a remarkable sight. As the sun rose, pillars of smoke arose from the broken skyline and sirens filled the air. The Ferry Building had dumped its south wall into the water and two of the piers to the right had collapsed.

Thousands of people were jammed along the Embarcadero, many in nightclothes. The city was burning they said. Many had soot coating their clothes and faces, as if they had barely escaped.

Mr. Standish elected to debark while Tomas filled up with as many as he could carry and so he hustled on back to the Oaktown wharf. There, he was surprised to see his own boat, the Mariposa, sailing in from its customary mooring at the Carquinez Straits. When queried what his crew was doing there, they answered “Ordered by Governor Pardee.” The Governor of California had pressed all ships into service to relieve the burning city of San Francisco. Tilacse’s competitors, the Crumpott Brothers had their steamship, The Modoc, being loaded with what looked like wine casks. It turned out these were filled with water as all the mains across the way had broken, leaving the hydrants dry.

His father showed up with mom, miraculous and alive, but the irritating man typically refused to pursue common sense.

That day the Siobhan, the Mariposa and the spinnaker, named Mule, plowed back and forth, along with The Modoc, delivering casks of water to San Francisco and bringing thousands of people in all kinds of condition to Oaktown, which although in a shambles, at least was not burning. They were joined by everyone who had a moorage along the east side of the bay and by mid-morning, a great armada of lighters, tugs, dorys, and vessels of every conceivable description were converging on the stricken city from the East Bay. At noon, as Tomas came around the heel of Goat Island, the once thriving metropolis presented solid walls of flames and dense plumes of black smoke and a black tornado swirled about the tower of the Call Building. By three PM the sun was entirely hidden by roiling clouds.

More and more they came, shoeless and bleeding from the glass in the streets, smudged and shocked from hairbreadth escapes, some carrying boxes bound with twine, parakeet cages, a few satchels, all they could salvage in the moments before escape. In the late afternoon Mr. Standish re-appeared, minus his hat, smudged, clothes torn and carrying an occupied bird cage in one hand and a bulging satchel of papers from the remains of his office which had nestled up against the immense Call Building. Both office and Call Building were become tornadoes of smoke and ash.

While the smoke plumes expanded over the once pristine sky, flagging out in streamers as the winds customarily shifted seaward as evening approached. And as Tomas made his last run in the shadows of that day, he and the crew could see the angry orange bursts. Then, as night fell, the dismal crump of dynamite ordered by Mayor Eugene Schmidtz who had crews blow up entire blocks of houses so as to create wide break lanes in advance of the fire reverberated across the water, and he and Sarah worried about his father in that place, as well as his Uncle Swishee.

Earlier, as Grumpus had done his little dance along the quay, Sarah sat before the dingy window of the ferry office, watching in wonder as the iron bars, some one inch thick each, had vibrated into a blur, while things fell off the shelves and great clouds of steam billowed from the Chinese laundry across the way.

Sophia, become in her later years something of an insomniac, was examining the early blooms, and felt the earth's curious roll, as if it complained about her treatment of the roses.

Maria, in Oakland, jolted out of bed as the broad mirror attached to the Mexican cupboard leapt forward and dashed itself to pieces on the floor. Hurriedly, she got dressed, smelling smoke and hearing the cries. "Todo esta quemado! Fuego! Fuego!"

Swishee, living in what is now North Beach, alone of all of them, thought to go down and close off the gas mains after picking himself up from the floor where he had been thrown and dressing hurriedly.

Festus, rolling awake, heard the thunder and the booms and quickly got ready to run to the office, for this was another story worth covering. Perhaps, at his age, his last.

Isabelle awoke, patiently waited out the disruption, then calmly prepared for what the day would bring, treading lightly among broken tiles, shattered glass and the improbable appearance of her neighbor's toilet in her kitchen next to the sink where it had landed after plunging through the ceiling.

When Festus burst out onto the street, he was greeted by milling crowds and shattered brick facades all tumbled into the thoroughfare. As he made his way north through the Mission District, a hodgepodge collection of Irish and German immigrants all living shoulder to shoulder with mestizas and Californios, knots of people came straggling in the opposite direction, many wearing nightclothes, some bleeding, all of them dazed.

He had to cut over to Valencia Street to get around a tangle of sparking powerlines. There he saw people climbing out of the top windows of the the four story Valencia Hotel, which had collapsed in on itself, pancaking the lower three floors. The 100 room building now looked like a sorry one-floor shack.

The largely wooden structures of the Mission had rode out the shaking well, but as he approached downtown, the scenes became ones of tumbled facades and smashed-up rock. Then, he noticed the fires. Any number of houses were engulfed in flames, but the fire department was nowhere to be seen, although he could hear sirens from every corner of the compass. When he reached Market he was startled to come across a large heap amid an ocean of shattered bricks; it was a team of dray horses. They had died as they stood in a hail of bricks that had flown loose from the wall of the building that had once fronted Market Street. Festus slowly tracked his eyes up four stories to see desks, chairs, adding machines, file cabinets and someone’s dressing room all exposed to the air like an architect's model.

Higher up rose great black plumes of smoke.

He spun on his heel and ran back toward the Mission, crossing over trolley tracks which had compressed into solid bars of steel all along Market. Down Ninth, the tracks had wrenched entirely up out of their beds into snarls of iron spaghetti. By the time he had reached his flat, he had had to negotiate his way around several houses burning out of control, gouts of flames spurting from windows and making a hot wind that swirled about each structure sending chunks of burning mattresses and shingles sailing high into the air to drop, still burning, onto rooftops blocks away.

This was far worse than the one in ‘68.

He galloped up the stairs and got his wife, who had zipped on back home, to pack up a few belongings. His pistol, the account books, some money and silver. What does one pack in moments like these? One might not be able to come back. There might be nothing left. Paintings? Too big. The plate? Too heavy. Grandfather’s lance from the Civil War; that must remain. Eventually, they descended with one bag each and began making their way, with thousands of others to the ferries.

They passed by the three story building that had been Martha’s Rooming House; the sign still advertised the rates from a pole set beside what had been the door. The top two floors had pancaked down to the floor level just like the Valencia, and the house now stood about seven feet high in a tangle of crushed plaster and brick which emitted low moans, as if the building itself complained about its injuries.

A knot of six men were furiously digging with their hands into the rubble. Festus asked if any of the lodgers had escaped and one of the men shook his head. All forty-four rooms had been let out and no one had escaped. Festus and Sarah continued their journey. Festus promised to return with help from the newspaper office.

A troop of Cavalry stampeded down market and blocked their way, so they turned south and looped around the former St. Mary’s Hospital, abandoned since the earthquake of 1868 until they came to the wide Embarcadero, which they followed up behind a small carretta carrying a woman and two children perched on bundles. The boy and girl could not be more than five years old a piece and a nasty burn slashed across the little girl’s face and tears rolled down her cheeks while her little brother screamed and screamed.

Eventually, they reached the Ferry Building among throngs of others. Along the length of Market, in the distance, they could see black smoke and crowds of people. The Mint was hidden from their view by the bulk of the Palace Hotel and the neighboring skyscrapers, the James Flood Building and the Emporium. Smoke clouds billowed like dark fog on both sides of the Palace. The immense Call Building appeared to be wrapped in a smoke tornado. Soldiers were massing on horseback further down, but they had now reached the Ferry Landing and the owners threw open the great gates to let the people through.

“No fare!” someone wearing a telegraphers uniform called out.

That’s fine, but how would the Siobhan take on even a tenth of the people gathered there? Let along all the baggage and things like the family’s carretta with its mule?

In wonder Festus looked out on the water and saw an armada all gathered about the ruined piers. Several steamships were there, plus a schooner and his son’s spinnaker, towards he and Sarah plowed with determination. Reaching the boat he caught Tomas’ eye and handed up Sarah and the bags then jumped back to the dock.

“Where are you going?” Sarah shrieked.

“To work! The Chronicle!”

Sarah looked at Tomas and said something Festus could not hear, but he could guess the gist of it. Well, he was old but still a newspaper man and as a newsman he would live and die. Tomas turned to the First Mate.

“Grumpus! Get down there and try to keep my father out of trouble!”

“Aye, Aye captain! But if I could have done that thirty years ago, you would still be a glint in yer old man’s eye!”

“Get on down Grumpus!” Tomas shouted.

The old one-armed man climbed down and as he did so Festus noted with his customarily detached eye the bald spot fringed with the once flaming red hair now gone entirely white. It was true none of them were any younger than yesterday and perhaps it was also true what the crazy Evangelical Minister had said, that they were all in the Last Days. The city had been a place of iniquity and vice, in the opinion of many; down the way a tall plume of smoke arose from the site of the infamous Nymphomaniacs Hall and heart of the notorious Barbary Coast. Festus returned to the burning city with his old friend, there to make their way to the Chronicle building, which had been made of modern steel construction and so may be all right yet.

With stoic eyes, Sarah watched the two of them go down Market and disappear behind clouds of black smoke pushed by the rising hot wind. The spinnaker then cast loose with its cargo of refugees and set sail for Oakland, manned by a crew of volunteers.

That is why they did not feel the aftershock.

They had just passed First Street, and the Palace Hotel, when Festus thought he recognized Officer Finney just up Battery to the right and they hurried to catch him when they heard a rumbling in the distance.

"Here it comes again!" Grumpus shouted.

The two of them ran into the middle of ruined Market Street as the ground bucked and shook beneath them. The two of them had just gotten past the Palace Hotel when the shock came rolling along the already battered street, bouncing cobblestones like popcorn.

The remaining bricks of a now unrecognizable building on Battery launched themselves into the air and hailed down, causing Finney and another person he had been trying to pull to safety to disappear. The shaking brought Festus and Grumpus to their knees and they were like rabbits waiting for the talon, unable to move while it lasted.

When they got up, where Officer Finney had stood, pulling on the arm of a woman to drag her out of the narrow street, a block-long pile of brick lay heaped with neither person visible. The rest of Market in this block looked, with the exception of the downed trolley lines and ruined tracks, to be perfectly normal with its parallel row of wood-frame Victorians presenting neat window-boxed azaleas, appearing intact as if nothing had ever happened. Several homeowners came out on the stoops to look about with curiosity.

The two of them got up and ran up Battery to see if they could find Finney and the lady, but they found only the trouser leg of his uniform and a boot beneath a great pile of stones. Festus and Grumpus furiously began throwing bricks off of the man, but it became clear that nothing human could have survived that storm. There were still bricks on a third of the man when they found his torso smashed, his head crushed in, and the woman dead underneath him as he had tried to shield her body.

Shaken, they left that scene and headed to the Chronicle building on Kearny Street and Market, which stood, miraculously unscathed, but with several fires roaring close on the south side of Market towards Union Square where the Shreve Building stood amid whirling smoke. In the editorial room, Michael de Young was marshaling the forces at hand to go and gather the news while at the same time preparing for possible evacuation to Oakland.

The building was fine for now, but there was no guarantee that the fires now raging out of control would not also destroy this building as well. All water mains had broken throughout the city.

As Festus and his friend came out onto Market the fires seemed impossibly close. The area down around City Hall appeared to be entirely in flames with walls of smoke concealing everything south-west of Ninth Street. As they approached along Market they came across volunteers battling the blazes past Polk and they pitched in with burlap bags and sand for some time, and appeared to be getting the upper hand, when a mounted troop came upon them and ordered them back and away from Market and the entire Commercial District.

Perplexed, Festus asked the commander just why they were to give up at this point when they seemed just about to get a handle on things and was informed the city was now under martial law by order of General Funston and they were to obey immediately or risk being shot on the spot. They were about to disobey for the house there on the corner of Market and Fell might yet be saved when the aide trained his rifle upon a man helping the family living in the house remove some of their belongings. He had in his arms at the time a small box of dolls.

"Looter, halt!" shouted the soldier.

The man, naturally not seeing himself in such a light in the yard of his own home, put the box into a wagon there and half turned to re-enter the house. At that moment, the soldier shot him in the side of his chest and the little girl who owned the dolls screamed. At the point of bayonet all the volunteers were marched off of Market as the firestorm swept on through.

A troop of cavalry patrolled Market now, to the extent they could for now the west end fire raged east to Ninth Street while another fire leapt Market near the Chronicle building. The two partners made their way to the backside of The Palace Hotel, which had numerous fires burning all around it. They found the Chronicle building evacuated and the interior in flames.

Thundering booms rolled towards them as the great Linotype machines crashed through the upper floors. Lotta’s Fountain, immediately in front, had run dry. And there stood Swishee, glad enough to see both of them alive, as they were glad to see him.

From there the three of them headed south to the Mission for there was no way to head west through the advancing fire and now fires burned north of Market. A great rage of flames and smoke obscured the Ferry Building from fires all about the Call building, so they turned south, skirting the Mint which looked to have a fair number of cavalry present around Fifth Street, keeping the people off and out of the treasury while the city burned.

They found numerous groups of volunteers battling the blazes through the Mission, which had been abandoned by most of the Fire Department and the Army and they joined them, using bags, sand, shovels and just their hands for these people fought to save their own homes and their neighbors. It had always been the way, for they were poor and could expect no help when the mansions of Nob Hill were threatened.

For the rest of that day and much of the night Festus, Swishee, and their one-armed friend fought the fires until the dim sun vanished behind the dense umbrella of smoke. The ragged line of volunteers gave ground grudgingly, with animosity, cursing vigorously as one house after another went up in balls of mushrooming smoke that continued to burn inside, dropping brands of fire all around on rooftops for blocks in all directions until the fires crossed Twelfth Street. From the direction of the Mint they heard a furious series of explosions that went on for a number of hours.

On Thirteenth a pewter-works exploded its kilns, spewing a creek of molten lead that scorched anything it touched as it ran down the street while from overhead a hail of hot metal came down scattering everyone away from that area.

They slept for a few hours at Festus' home before awaking in an overcast day on which the sun failed to shine. They tried to reach the Ferry Building but this time, no soldiers stopped them. The Call Building was ablaze and all the Victorians from Third Street were become either glowing coals or raging infernos. The tower of the Chronicle building still stood, but the great clock had been burned out and lots of ruined walls hemming ashes ringed it all around. As they stood, smoke began billowing from the massive Palace Hotel. The entire block behind it burned viciously to Howard Street. North of Market, sheets of smoke indicated that Nob Hill and Chinatown were ablaze, rich and poor now sharing the misery and so the way to the north of the City was now blocked, either by armed soldiers or by immense fires.

They made their way back to the Mission, unable to escape and so joined the growing number of volunteers who now had several trained fire fighters organizing them, for these men also had been cut off from their units and so from these men Festus learned that Fire Chief Sullivan had died in the first few minutes of the quake when his roof had fallen in. On through the second day, the men fought fire after fire with no end in sight. All day they fought the fires, stamping out the hot coals falling like hail everywhere, but they were pushed back to Fourteenth Street for all they could do. As night fell, the crack of army rifles rang out and the dim thud of explosions came to them, exhausted, filthy and with throats raw from breathing the razor-cutting ash-filled air.

On the third day, which arose sunless as the previous, the fires continued to burn, but they now had well over three thousand people fighting to save what they could of the Mission neighborhoods, while the Army and most of the Fire Department seemed busy to the north. With pickaxes they knocked in the already doomed buildings, and with shovels they slung sand to smother such flames as they could while others used burlap sacks. Still no aid came to them and still they fought on through the night without sleeping for now there was no escape. Still, the fires pushed them back to Sixteenth Street.

There, on Sixteenth, Festus heard a woman crying out and looked up. A woman with a baby in her arms was screaming from a third story window as smoke seeped out from behind her.

“For mercy’s sake, save us! My babies!”

Festus got several volunteers with burlap sacks and they made a sort of net and urged the woman to throw her child so they could catch it, but she screamed and would not at first.

Grumpus and Swishee burst in the door by running at it with a beam and using their shoulders before running inside where the wallpaper had become sheets of hot flames. The legs of a man extended from a doorway and they could see that a cast iron tub had fallen through from the floor above onto his torso. As they ran up the stairs, the landings began to collapse and Grumpus had to use his one good arm to haul Swishee up out of a hole.

Meanwhile the woman finally let loose her smallest child with a wail and the baby dropped with fluttering of swaddles down to the burlap where they caught him without obvious hurt. A larger child, about six or so, climbed out the window and, urged by the volunteers simply jumped. The impact knocked all of them into a heap, but the boy was unhurt. As they gathered there, they saw the woman look behind her, then disappear from the window. As smoke and sparks came from where the woman had been standing, electric wires near the house parted and fell snarling with sparks at the base of the window and so none of them could come near. A few seconds later, a belch of embers jetted from the window, followed by roiling smoke.

As if the house had become an immense fiery womb, the doorway ejected the woman with smoking clothes and a little girl of about eight, tumbling forward and rolling on the ground with no one saying anything, like a silent moving picture, followed by a boy of thirteen with his jacket in flames that were quickly smothered by volunteers with burlap sacks as he rolled on the ground. Next, Swishee flew out of the shattered door-frame from behind a curtain of flames and fell smoking and rolling on the ground like some Icarus without wings until the volunteers got him extinguished as well.

As Swishee looked back, the landings gave way and the floors all collapsed downward into the boiling furnace that was the shell of the house. Then, with a little sad weep of a creak, hardly any sound at all, the northern wall fell inwards as if, its job done, the house would fold itself up neatly into a little box, causing the roof to pitch down and pulse a little bit as the hot winds pushed out and devoured the shingles.

Grumpus remained inside.

The strange silence broke as Swishee let out a long, anguished wail. But there was nothing to be done. The pile of debris that had been a house boiled up in flames such that one could not stand any closer than thirty feet of the inferno. With one man fewer – at the very least – the army of volunteers was beaten back to Seventeenth by the advancing fires which sent a constant hail of flaming embers into the sky to fall on the houses and shrubbery ahead of it.

A working hydrant was discovered on Church and Twentieth Streets by the few City employees who remained in the district and hope renewed in the volunteers. The area down by the Ferry looked bleak however, as the Palace Hotel now blazed from all windows although the Call Building appeared still to stand. They still could not get to the Ferry building itself because of the tremendous heat and so did not know of Tomas's attempted rescue from that side. As Tomas sailed up with the armada they encountered the Ferry building staff waving them all off. The telegraph had been out for hours and burning refuse plunged down hissing on all sides from the boiling black clouds. The heat was tremendous as all the waterfront buildings on either side were glowing and it seemed the docks would go up next any minute as well as the Ferry building itself.

They tacked around to the north and found several Navy ships taking on thousands of people, all at the marshes at the foot of Van Ness and the Marina Cove where Dona Briones once had her adobe. There they took on passengers so as to ferry them over to Oakland. Standing briefly off Goat Island, the City appeared to be one great smoking heap of coals and black smoke rising in thick columns to a canopy of ash. It did not seem possible Grumpus and his father could have survived that fiery curtain of roiling smoke rising thousands of feet and flickered with shots of flaming gasses and debris being carried upward in solid walls.

That night, as the City continued to burn, neither Swishee nor Festus could sleep. As Festus got up he knocked around the kitchen until Swishee asked him hoarsely what he was about.

“I’m as horse in the throat as a cute whore with this smoke and not a drop of water to be had.”

“You’re talking just like Grumpus.” Swishee said. “He had that Irish way of talking for all and all,” And he turned his face to the wall and wept.

Through the remaining hours before dawn, Festus listened to his brother sobbing. The fourth day began sunless and hot and smoky and dogged persistence among those in the Mission.

It was at Nineteenth Street, at a burning Victorian Festus ran into him. His old enemy Jacinto, battling the fire next to an immense black man from Africa. It was Sam Smithingate trying to save his own house. Jacinto had come over on a packet boat to help the volunteers.

All animosity put aside – for the moment -- they joined together in fighting the common disaster.

All of them waded through scrims of smoke like shades, like soulless creatures, wielding brooms and knapsacks -- and buckets now they had a little bit of water. At noon the fire reached Twentieth Street, but the working hydrant there collected them and with the last twitches of already dead men they threw themselves into the fight against a fire now eating the side and eves of an ornate Victorian home, Swishee howling like mad and singing strange songs on the roof as Festus swung his shovel like some Viking raider under attack while the handful of men from the SFFD manned the unruly hose. His own house sat beyond, not two blocks away on Twenty-Second Street.

With a great hiss, the burning house on Twentieth and Church Street belched a cloud of steam and ashes and gave up under the stream of hose water and a hundred men with axes and shovels. And so it was done, just like that. With no trumpets or cavalry charge. For the first time in four days, the army of volunteers advanced to stamp out flickers here and there. To the north, the explosions had stopped and the smokes rising were from smolders, not infernos. The rain of burning hail and the hot wind had stopped. Into the ruined city the survivors marched. Those who still had homes went to them and gave thanks for having saved what they had. Others went to the refugee camps at Lafayette Park and gave thanks for having survived. They had won at last. The great San Francisco Fire of 1906 was finally out.

A few days later, Gustav Umbsen met with members of the Council of Fifty and his attorney, Abe Ruef, in his surviving mansion at the base of the Presidio hill to iron out deals for taking advantage of rebuilding the City. At that Meeting, Gustav paid Abe Ruef $15,000 in cash to take care of the Parkside project for him. The New Order was about to begin.

APRIL COMES, SHE WILL

So anyway, the editor paced back and forth in the news rooms, undecided how to report the new disasters of the day, the degenerate decay of the Nation into Facisitic Degeneracy as Lice Vermine paramilitaries continued to murder citizens without fear of rebuke and America continues a mad progress of insult to the entire World and the destruction of international trade as well as old alliances, ridiculous escapades led by an insane Madman. . It is a sad time for America.

As the light of the crescent Moon drifted through the cloud-wracked sky and the minutes 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 World War II former munitions factories, echoing along the Oaktown Embarcadero and shuttered produce warehouses as the train itself trundled outward through the haunted darkness past all the sleeping and the dead to an unknown destination.

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

This is IPM (Island Public Media).

MARCH 22, 2026

EXCELLENT BIRDS

Spring comes to Norcal.

WELCOME BACK MY FRIENDS TO THE SHOW THAT NEVER ENDS

The year 2025 ended as usual with the Holiday festivities at the Household of Marlene and Andre.

Just like last year a group of guys went out to get a festive holiday tree and returned with one on the chassis of the House Flexible Flyer wagon. This one looked a little raggedy and its stump somewhat evocative of something recently and rudely cut down. None of them had any money so going to the fenced-in lot in the parkinglot of the Waifsay was out of the question. There is, however, now a gap among the trees lining the parkway to Harbor Bay.

When they got their tree setup in the washtub anchored with a cinderblock, they all got lit up on tequila filched from Albertsnobs and decorated the tree with Martini's lights made of leds from cannibalized personal computers. The tinsel was strips of used aluminum foil and the ornaments consisted of condom packages fitted with fishhooks, broken doll parts, machine gears, damaged kitchen implements, screw bolts wired together, sex toys, etc.

As for the NYE, this year Pastor Nyquist dropped in on Father Danyluk again at the rectory for the church of Our Lady of Incessant Complaint. While some may find it odd that the Lutheran minister would socialize with a Catholic priest, the two men are more broadminded than most would assume. It was inevitable they should meet as it was the Father's wont to walk clockwise around the block while meditating on things pious and the the next sermon, while the Minister pondered the same issues while walking according to his nature, anticlockwise about the same block.

As it turned out the Lutherans were possessed of a great deal of musical talent in both voice and clavier, items much lacking among the Catholic flock, however the spiritual Priest did possess one valuable asset in the form of a well-stocked wine cellar which included rather high quality brandies from around the world.

Thus it was each year the men of two different cloths sat together in easy chairs facing the rectory fire stoked by Sister Profundity until the revolve of the year and the effects of the cordials puth both men to sleep until the Sister comes by to drape a blanket over the lap of each cleric having experienced the transforming peace that comes with fulfilling the spirit and intent rumored to be the main message of . . . well, you know Who.

WHATS GOING ON

We experienced a little pause in Island reportage due to health issues. Turns out after they cut your sternum in half, fishhook a few veins and arteries out to graft them onto the heart and finish up with tying the sternum back together with titanium wires you are not exactly feeling like jumping up and down and doing the Tarantela, much less the jitterbug. Healing up does take some time.

To catch-up: January eased into February and Denby once again -- as per Tradition -- got himself caught with his pants down and up to his neck in serlous Trouble around the 14th.

This year, the Editor hid out to avoid the erotic tempations of the leggy Joannah while Denby scrambled and skittered like a bug caught in the open when the kitchen lights flick on. He got it into his head to wear a disguise and make himself look ugly and avoid crowds of people. So he got this broad-brimmed hat, a fake handlebar moustache, and a colorful shawl worn over tattered potato-sack pants and rope-soled sandals. He pretended not to understand English when spoken to. He did not know any languages other than ancient Greek and Latin so he made one up just like Tolkein used to do for elves and other folk inhabiting his legenarium.

Going by Home Repo over in Oaktown he noticed knots of men standing around and so thought it would be a good idea to join them and hide out sort of anonymous to avoid getting into a scrape as he usually did on Valentine's Day. He parked his bicycle and went over and said cheerfully "Hola amigos!"

The men looked at him and all scattered. It was amazing how fast they all disappeared and left Denby standing there quite the confused Gabacho.

So Denby was standing there when a couple unmarked black humvees showed up with black panel van that looked ominous. A wailing emenated from the van and Denby turned to run with understandable trepedation.

Guys wearing black masks, armed to the teeth with pistols and assault rifles erupted from the humvees and chased Denby down and when they tackled him they were not gentle, no they were not. He probably did not help his case by cursing in ancient Greek and shouting numbers in Latin and adding a few choice phrases gleaned from his one year in college.

"Triskaidekaphobia! Marfan's Syndrome! Dinglichkeit der Gestalt! Fleur du Mal!" And so on. No it did not help.

He was brought to a holding cell containing dozens of other people from all over the world along with a few Miwok gentlemen and a few fifth generation Califorians. In the process the tattered pants made of potato sacks and bound by a rope got torn to shreds and one of the Lice women wondered if he were Jewish.

I thought this was all about anti-Semitism! shouted Denby.

"Dream on M#%rF##$r!" retorted the Lice agent who whapped him with a nightstick.

While in there he heard snippits of war news regarding the attacks on Iran; seems things were not going well and all kinds of bad blowback was happening due to the actions ordered by the deranged Commander in Chief.

He looked up from his mattress on the floor to see a familiar figure dressed in black leather and dominatrix boots beeing conducted, rather ungently, down the hall to an internment cell of her own. Must be the Garden Noem. She would then learn what it is like to be handled like spoiled meat. And she would never ever get to enjoy her tax-payer funded tryst retreat with mirrors and fancy beds. Nope. Not that dope.

Meanwhile on yet another V-Day Denby found himself locked up.

Outside its America. Outside its America. So to speak. Bombs are falling dicated by a megalomaniac distracting people from his pitfalls and errors being revealed. The Megalomaniac is a proven rapist, child molester, felon convicted by courts multiple times, a lying sac of leaking soil from a colostomy bag, a failed businessman rife with bancruptcy, and a cruel racist inflaming anti-hispanic sentiments and anti immigrant views across the country. He runs national policy as if it were a Sopranos episode and he were a Mafia Don, all threat and violence.

BULLET THE BLUE SKY

So anyway. It came round to that time of year Padraic and Dawn host the St. Paddy's evening at the Old Same Place Bar. Fetching Suzie dressed all in green and wore a cute hat. Padraic and Suzie served up Gaelic coffees and pasted shamrocks on the windows. Everything was going swimmingly with a chatter and a clatter within and Padraic and Dawn served up a great number of Gaelic Coffees, which Padraic refused to acknowledge as Irish Coffee because in his mind no daycent Irishman would sully the Water of Life with base ingredients.

Until the Angry Elf Gang burst in with a squad of lICE agents. Of course anything despicable and evil and possessing Will to Power is something onto which the Angry Elf Gang will cling because that is the way they are. Toshie Urotskotije, Bryan Gump, Neil Sonderkomando Tuckiff. Evil is what this gang does and Evil shall be forever their guide and so they joined ICE as informants and abettors.

ICE, not being very subtle, crashed open the door, tackled the Man from Minot, set upon the table of the Not From Heres with clubs and fists, and proceeded to round everyone up for Detention in some far-off facility with punches and kicks like the Brownshirts they were. Denby had his pramaxle smashed and his lavendar burnies entirely destroyed. Once again.

All seemed lost on this St. Paddy's Day, or evening if you prefer, until the lights flickered, then went out. The door was open and the wind appeared. The candles blew and then disappeared. The curtains flew and then He appeared. A voice said "Come on, baby." Suzie ran to him.

Yes it was he: The Wee Man had come again in this darkest hour of America, when all seemed lost. All of America seemed governed by an authoritarian madness.

He marched up through the clots of people being beaten and subdued right to the rail and ordered a Guiness, because Guiness is good for you. And a shot of Arthur Power to precede this beverage because it takes a few moments to serve up a proper Guiness with a full head of foam.

The leader of the ICE or at least one of their number having agency, went up to the Wee Man at the rail and proceeded to bring down a truncheon upon his head. Because that is the way the ICE are: untrained, undisciplined, and lacking human empathy even though their former leader Kristi "Garden" Noem is gone and her expensive tryst location closed down. No more schtupping on the American tax dollar for the Gnome.

The truncheon in the hand of the ICE agent turned into a live chicken, which discomfited the Agent so much he let the bird go out of his hand. The Wee Man looked at him and said, "How can you be so proud of such an evil mission? No one here is "illegal". A person cannot be illegal by any definition of the law. Only actions are illegal. Like abducting and murdering citizens. I think you all need some education."

With that the Wee man clapped his hands and all of the ICE agents found themselves dressed in Catholic schoolboy clothes, but with underwears filled with squirmy things like maggots. Becase they were part of the MAGAT crew one supposes.

They all ran out of the bar, with many taking off their pants in the street. The Angry Elf Gang disappeared, as they often do when things get challenging. Neil sometimes protests about vague things that impact his hegemony, but no one has paid the slightest attention to his Mafia aspirations for some time.

At the Offices of Island-Life the Editor sat down heavily. Stuff was happening worldwide and none of it good. What was he to do as the clock ticked over to the Midnight Hour but do all he can. For Company.

As the light of the crescent Moon drifted through the cloud-wracked sky and the minutes 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 World War II former munitions factories, echoing along the Oaktown Embarcadero and shuttered produce warehouses as the train itself trundled outward through the haunted darkness past all the sleeping and the dead to an unknown destination.

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

This is IPM (Island Public Media).

NOVEMBER 30, 2025

THE 26TH ANNUAL ISLAND POODLESHOOT AND BBQ

It is hard to imagine that more than 25 years ago a daft group of lads decided to hold a humble Poodleshoot in defiance of misdirected sentiment, obnoxious aesthetics, and hideous twisting of values where an asinine species we will never truly understand gets more attention, devotion, and preference than members of our own species. Some foolishly claim that their dog really "understands me". It can be argued that in this present day in the 21st century we still have problems understanding each other, let alone another species and that species, us.

a miserable scrap of fur and teeth

26 years of Poodleshoots and still people lavish more attention and affection upon a miserable scrap of fur and teeth than suffering fellow human beings that really has little more capacity for returning love than a Real Doll made in China. It is all illusion and self deception. The dog does not really care about you; it cares about being fed and comforted and being part of a pack per instinct and if there is any affection, it stems from considering you either an extention of itself or its mate. Well, that is why the Poodleshoot came to be.

"Poodles, or Piddles, as they sometimes are called . . ."

Actually the original Poodleshoot was held in Monterey Bay, possibly as early as 1985, when the grand prize was a set of bronzed ship's propellers. It is hard to find the original news article; for some reason the local government has diverted traffic from the old site, which is just too bad. The original was created to commemorate two beloved animals with significant acknowledgment of the human perversities regarding the breed. "Poodles, or Piddles, as they sometimes are called . . .". began the original post.

All that aside, the 26th Annual Poodleshoot proceeded as follows.

The annual Island Tradition took place again, beginning with the usual, traditional ceremonies.

she trailed her gauzy banners across the firmament

As per Tradition, on the day of the 26th 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

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.

John Phillip Sousa's Liberty Bell March

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 into "Standing on the Moon", which was followed by the San Geronimo Acoustics who performed Neal Young's "Pocahontas". The 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 Ashcraft 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 former Councilperson Frank in his basso triste "You're Gonna Miss Me When I'm Gone" performance in the esoteric work La Chambre à l'arrière Enfumee Boogie by Brooks and Dunne.

Michelle Pryor and Greg Boller 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, Kate Colin (Mayor for San Rafael) led a barbershop chorus involving Lisel Blash and Tarell Kullaway of San Anselmo in a charming series of Foo Fighters ballads.

The ensemble performance of Le Papillion Enragee caused a number of ladies to faint and gentlemen 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 adopted with nearly convincing theatricality. Her seque into the role of Councilperson was performed with a graceful flounce and flourish. Mayor Izzy Ashcroft is far more persuasive as Mayor 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, as usual, 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 Presidential Election 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. Boebert, who is insensible.

The high number of absurdly decorated piddles in Fairfax has caused a problem

The high number of absurdly decorated piddles in Fairfax has caused a problem of antagonistic bent. It seems owners are deliberately dieing and barbering their animals and provocatively trotting these creatures in front of impressionable women and children, and the City Council is now holding meetings on the issue. Things may change next year as the boundaries of the 'Shoot expand.

This year, with the change in venue from the Island to Marin, featured a number of local dignitaries, along with national representatives according to tradition. Lauren Boebert appeared, firing at random at anything that seemed to her feasible including her own car and driver until she was taken by the Seargeant at Arms into the Stockade for safekeeping.

The horns tootled and the drums pounded and all the hunters marched into their respective fields of honor with many a shout of "Poodle there!" and "Ahoy! Poodle!" as the grenades went pop and the AR-15's opened up with abandon all across NorCal under delightful skies of mottled blue and grey and the 23rd Poodleshoot was underway.

Thanks to the 2nd Amendment . . . .

Thanks to the 2nd Amendment there was plenty of firepower to be had to let fly upon these Liberal pom-poms dyed with absurd colors of scarlet and blue. Old Grannies emerged from their doors to blast away with riot guns and blunderbusses while little tykes crept out from shrubs to let fly with their 22 longs.

Kristi "Garden" Noem appeared on the Island with a semi-automatic AR-15 fitted with a 50 round clip, which she used effectively to blast virtually every dog in site regardless of rules. After bagging a Goldendoodle, she became quite exited and rapidly dispatched a couple pitbulls, three German Shepards, several chihuahas which she ordered her LICE escort to detain and deport - if still living - and got a Doxiepoo before blowing a purebred dachshund to smithereens.

Garden Noem wore as usual her leather outfit with thigh-high boots equipped with six-inch stilleto heels and chains

In Marin, Peter Hogsbreath used a humvee-mounted low recoil 105mm howitzer to sink several suspected Venezualan Poodle-boats in the Marina although no carcasses could be recovered for the BBQ as he used explosive incendiary shells and all of the boats sank. It is unknown if the boats harbored poodles or even if they were Venezualan, but Pete dearly loves to blow things up and gleefully kill anything that cannot defend itself.

RFK, Jr appeared, wearing his white conical hat

RFK, Jr appeared, wearing his signature white conical hat delivered the following speech:

Given the existence as uttered forth in the public works of Jenner and Pasteur of a personal Virus quaquaquaqua with white beard quaquaquaqua outside time without extension who from the heights of divine apathia divine athambia divine aphasia loves us dearly with some exceptions for reasons unknown but time will tell and suffers like the divine Miranda with those who for reasons unknown but time will tell are plunged in torment plunged in fire whose fire flames if that continues and who can doubt it will fire the firmament that is to say blast viruses to heaven so blue still and calm so calm with a calm which even though intermittent vaccine is better than nothing but not so fast and considering what is more that as a result of the labours left unfinished crowned by the Acacacacademy of Medicine of Jonas Salk and Plotkin of Jenner and Pasteur it is established beyond all doubt all other doubt than that which clings to the labours of men that as a result of the labours unfinished of Jenner and Pasteur it is established as hereinafter but not so fast for reasons unknown that as a result of the public works of Jenner and Pasteur it is established beyond all doubt that in view of the labours of Edward Jenner left unfinished for reasons unknown of Jenner and Pasteur left unfinished it is established what many deny that man in labcoat of Jenner and Pasteur that man in Salk that man in short that man in brief in spite of the strides of medication and defecation is seen to waste and pine waste and pine and concurrently simultaneously what is more for reasons unknown in spite of the strides of physical medicine the practice of sports such as tennis football running cycling swimming flying floating riding gliding conating camogie skating tennis of all kinds dying flying sports of all sorts autumn summer winter winter golf of all kinds hockey of all sorts penicillin and succedanea in a word I resume and concurrently simultaneously for reasons unknown to shrink and dwindle in spite of the tennis I resume flying gliding golf over nine and eighteen holes tennis of all sorts in a word for reasons unknown in Martinus Willem Beijerinck namely concurrently simultaneously what is more for reasons unknown but time will tell to shrink and dwindle I resume Maurice Hilleman, PHD in a word the dead loss per caput since the death of William Jenner being to the tune of one inch four ounce per caput approximately by and large more or less to the nearest decimal good measure round figures Monthly Mortality Index in DC in a word for reasons unknown the vaccines no matter what matter the facts are there and considering what is more much more grave that in the light of the labours lost of Salk and Plotkin it appears what is more much more grave that in the light the light the light of the labours lost of the New England Journal of Medicine that in the plains in the mountains by the seas by the rivers running water running fire the air is the same and then the earth namely the air and then the earth in the great cold the great dark the air and the earth abode of germs in the great cold alas alas in the year of their Lord seventeen hundred and something the air the earth the sea the earth abode of germs in the great deeps the great cold an sea on land and in the air I resume for reasons unknown in spite of the tennis the facts are there but time will tell I resume alas alas on on in short in fine on on abode of germs who can doubt it I resume but not so fast I resume the skull to shrink and waste and concurrently simultaneously what is more for reasons unknown in spite of the vaccines on on the beard the flames the tears the germs so blue so calm alas alas on on the skull the skull the skull the skull in DC in spite of the tennis the labours abandoned left unfinished graver still abode of vaccines in a word I resume alas alas abandoned unfinished the skull the skull in DC in spite of the vaccine the skull alas the germs Salk tennis... the microbes... so calm... Edward Jenner...

He spoke for 25 minutes and nobody could make sense of anything

He spoke for 25 minutes and nobody could make sense of anything he said and he spoke until two French tramps tackled him to great applause and he was put into the stockade with Lauren Boebert. LICE agents also captured Vice President Vance because his wife does not look American and they did not recognize him as LICE bprder agents are natively not very intelligent or well-trained. They captured Lorena Bobbit and threw her in there too and she threatened RFK with a knife if he would not just shut up.

The shooting grounds were cleared out by LICE agents seeking to deport anyone who did not look or act or speak American and the BBQ went unattended because nobody wanted to hang around for fear of the LICE. After they left Guatamalans and Mexican-Americans cleaned up the mess because they always do.

Back on the Island someone threw a fishing net on Garden Noem to stop her mayhem and she got tied up while shouting over and over "Quickie! Quickie!"

Pahrump asked her why she was shouting that word and she answered that in BDSM you have to have a secret word that means Stop whatever.

"If the word is secret, then nobody is going to know it," Pahrump said reasonably.

"Scum!" shouted Noem.

Eventually the fires were put out and the emergency response crews hauled off the wounded while the Island PD used their well-funded rescue boat to deal with the boats in the Marina. Salvadoreans cleaned up the messes left by Garden Noem. At the end of the day, there were so few poodles that Padraic was forced to resort to tossing a few flanks of ahi on the bar-bee. With the Water of Life flowing ample from the kegs a fine time was had by all the survivors save for those in the stockade and Garden Noem who was hauled back to DC by her LICE attendants.

As the band ended a set of Grateful Dead with Standing on the Moon.

I see the Gulf of Mexico
As tiny as a tear
The coast of California
Must be somewhere over here
Over here . . .

Thus ended the 26th Annual Island Poodleshoot and BBQ.

As the light of the crescent Moon drifted through the cloud-wracked sky and the minutes 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 World War II former munitions factories, echoing along the Oaktown Embarcadero and shuttered produce warehouses as the train itself trundled outward through the haunted darkness past all the sleeping and the dead to an unknown destination.

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

This is IPM (Island Public Media).

NOVEMBER 23, 2025

THE DAY OF THE TATZELWURM

For more  on the Tatzelwurm and other worthy hunting game, read below.

NOVEMBER'S GOT HER NAILS DUG IN DEEP

So anyway. 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 and the cars are all beaded over with dew.

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!

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 22nd year that the 'Shoot has taken place and the 4th time it will be held off the Island after the Shoot expanded operations to Marin where the infernal species abounds in great numbers and so provides splendid opportunity for Red-blooded American Sport. To commemorate past glories a 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. Dignitaries from Washington DC will attend both events. The appearance of noted dog-shooter Kristi "Garden" Gnome is anticipated with sanguinary emotion.

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.

For the 26th 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.

Some may ask the philosophical question "Why the 'Poo?" In other words for those of you who failed or wisely never took Epistomology 101 there are many worthy specimens of the Eukaryote domain. We have the savage Chupacabra [t?upa'kaß?a], the elusive Yeti, the wily Wolperdinger [vohl-per-dinger] of the Alps to consider. The Wolperdinger mammal is so designed by the processes of evolution to scamper along the steep hillsides of Bavaria such that the three uphill legs are shorter than the three downhill legs by tens of centimeters. It is not to be confused with the much smaller and very shy Wolpertinger, which is a sort of hare with antlers. Also worthy sport.

The depicted Wolpertinger is not a wooly Wolperdinger.

The French Dahu is also not a true Wohlperdinger, but worthy of being caught with a bag and a person talented in making Dahu sounds.

Then we come to the bloodthirsty Tatzelwurm ['tatsl??v??m]) described by the modernn spelunker novelist Neal Stephanson. Anecdotes describing encounters with the creature or briefly described lore about them can be found in several areas of Europe, including the Austrian, Bavarian, French, Italian and Swiss Alps. It has several other regional names, including Bergstutz, Springwurm, Praatzelwurm, and in French, arassas.

In the anecdotes, Tatzelwurm or Stollenwurm has been described as resembling a stubby lizard measuring anywhere from 1-3 to 5-7 feet in length. and purportedly either two- or four-legged, or even six-legged. They have been described as having a cat-like face, especially in Switzerland. Unfortunately they are not very tasty when grilled or included in soups.

Among traditional game we have the destructive wild pig, which inhabits the nooks and crannies of Marin in great numbers and the plentiful Jackalope of Arizona. Chinchillas appear to be multiplying faster than Tribbles and they move much faster on the run than their Star Trek cousins. Their pelts are prized, but they do not provide as much satisfaction in the hunt by blowing a few apart with Incendiary devices.

Chinchillas do not have a reputation for savagery, however they are prone to convulsions, requiring Vitamin B or cardiac soothing of some kind. Grilled they sort of taste like guinea pigs.

We all know what pigs look like, but here is an image of a chupacabra in the event you have never seen one.

All of these are certainly worthy game subjects, however their respective numbers are dwindling and specimens are difficult to come by and for some reason people object to hacking one to pieces with a sabre. No one ever complained about bringing down a wild boar, not even the Sierra Club, but the poodle has a special place in the pantheon of detested vermin by reason of their owners who lavish such absurd and disgusting heaps of misguided affection and pure self-deception that there is real cost to decent Society at large.

We did not invent the Poodleshoot, which began in Monterey many, many moons ago, but the longest and most continuous Tradition of Shootin' Poo has been on the Island, having now taken place over 26 recorded times and so the strength of annual holiday Tradition has infected the event. And shootin' poo' is as American as Apple Pie.

You can say many dog owners are self-deluded up the wazoo - take anyone who for any demented reason decides to keep a wire-haired terrier around, lying to themselves that the amimal has never attacked or bitten anyone when all evidential history indicates the beast has repeatedly attempted to tear small children apart with its teeth. But the Poodle, with its ugly barbering and the owner's obnoxious and steadfast denial of all realities involving the relationship of this animal to its owner, who is seen by the hound as property or mate, thus presenting the illusion of devotion while the owner continually arranges structures and settings so as to make the dog more emotionally comfortable at the expense of any and all human beings in the vicinity makes for a particularly satisfying kill if only to see the look of dismay on the faces of its owners.

The strutting self-confidence of the poodle, combined with the blythe ignorance of their owners, their anti-social bent, and their insistance on absurd haircuts makes for satisfying sport by any measure. O he's a good dog he is. O yes he is!

Dawn and Padraic are busy getting things ready on the Island, Denby and some of the boys from the Household are getting Silvan Acres prepared for Ultra-violence. A birkenstocks and tie-dye crowd seems to take issue with the perfectly All-American bloodlust sport with high explosives.

It takes all kinds and some kinds get their panties into a terrible twist. Go figure.

As the light of the crescent Moon drifted through the cloud-wracked sky and the minutes 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 World War II former munitions factories, echoing along the Oaktown Embarcadero and shuttered produce warehouses as the train itself trundled outward through the haunted darkness past all the sleeping and the dead to an unknown destination.

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

This is IPM (Island Public Media).

NOVEMBER 02, 2025

WE ALL WAITING ON A TRAIN

THE SUN'S GONE TO HELL, AND THE MOON IS RIDING HIGH

So anyway. The time when the veils between the worlds are thinnest had arrived. We are visited by the souls of those we knew and the Island-Life newsroom needed to send its messenger 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 train came trundling along the way beside the Sir Francis Drake Boulevard and heaved to a stop with steam and groaning of metal parts. Denby climbed aboard and took his seat in a cabin with no other passengers in the car. The conductor pulled a lever to close the door and announced, "Einsteigen. Türen schliessen. Vorsicht beim abfahrt! Nachstest Stopp, Endstation."

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.

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 went directly to the Offices, where the Editor, permanent cigar in mouth, looked up from his desk. They talked briefly about what Denby was about to do.

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

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 pushed open the gate and stepped 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 23 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.

"Whoooo!"

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.

"There is someone here you need to see," Penny said.

A tall woman wearing overalls, her hair cut short in a business-like way, her elvin face with its pointy chin topped by two bright blue eyes and furry eyebrows that spoke of her Russian heritage walked down the beach. She was singing some kind of song with a beautiful voice.

"Hello Beatrice," Denby said.

Beatrice stopped in front of him. "Denby! There you are! Who woulda thunk."

"Sorry there are no trees to climb down here," Denby said.

"O maybe there will be some on the Other Side."

"Of that I am sure. Oaks and Madrones."

"I like Madrones with their sensual warm brown trunks. We can go climb them together."

"Remember how we almost got married," Denby said.

"O I would have remembered something like that! Or maybe I have already taken a dip in the Lethe!"

"Harvey is over there. Along with Robert. And Doyle. And the other Harvey you knew who was an SF Supervisor."

"All the old gang. Do me a favor would you and see that the cow I made for the Scoop is kept presentable."

"No problem."

The Scoop is an ice cream parlor in downtown Fairfax. Beatrice made a cow out of papermache and also painted the storefront sign several decades ago.

They stood looking at one another a long moment, each remembering what can be remembered outside of officialized history. For members of the "Fam" had decided what was the official Story, and Denby had not been included, even at the family portrait at the Memorial; he was a lacuna in their selected History in the Post-Truth Era. And so in group photograph after group photograph Denby was always in the background or missing, for his existence did not count in the Official Story.

Yet at the end of things, it is the Historian who stands there on the sands, recording the end of 45 years of intimacy not shared with anyone.

'Denby, what is to become of me," Beatrice had asked while in life.

At this point, all decisions have been made and death allows no more revisions.

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.

Beatrice coughed and reached up to take a gold coin from her mouth. "What the dickens?"

"Its an obolu," Penny said. "You are going to need that."

"Goodbye Denby," Beatrice said.

A bevy of girls scampered past and disappeared giggling into the darkness.

"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.

"Beatrice, remember I always loved you. For forty-five years."

"I know," she said. And with that, descended to the stone wharf below.

A man with conservative short hair came striding down the beach with expectation in his eyes.

"Charlie, there is the ferry pilot coming," Denby said.

"If I see a Black pilot, I’m going to be like, boy, I hope he’s qualified. Because we can assume black people are rarely qualified," said Charlie.

"So Charlie how do you feel now about guns and the 2nd Amendment?"

"I think it’s worth it to have a cost of, unfortunately, some gun deaths every single year so that we can have the second amendment to protect our other God-given rights. That is a prudent deal. It is rational."

"So you really regret nothing? You have not learned empathy?"

"I think empathy is a made up New Age term that does a lot of damage." Charlie answered.

He went down to the stone jetty to join the other souls waiting to be taken to Paradise, but the Ferryman shoved Charlie with his pole so the man fell backward.

"Hey! Whussup?"

Ferryman spoke with a voice that was full of acid and fire. "No fare!"

"What? What do you mean not fair? We’re all sinners, we’re all screwed up. We all got problems. We all got vices. We all fall short of God’s standard and Jesus makes us whole. I quote the Bible all the time.”

The Ferryman directed his awful gaze at Charlie lieing in the sand so the clothes of Charlie began to smoulder and he was forced to look away.

"No fare, no passage!"

The skiff loaded up its cargo of souls and the Ferryman pushed off across the water, leaving Charlie there on the infernal beach to wail "Not fair! Not fair!"

Above Penny and Denby sat on a sand bank watching as the glimmer of his eyes faded into the murky distance.

Charlie remained behind striding back and forth on the sands down below at the water's edge, saying over and over "No fair! No fair!"

"What will happen to him now," Denby asked.

"He will have to remain here in the No Place until he learns the lesson of empathy," Penny said. "He might stay here until the end of Time. It is pretty obvious."

"So what is to happen to us then, 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.

"The country is getting worse by the day. Paramilitaries are abducting and killing people. We have become just like a tinpot South American republic rulled by authoritarian louts wearing trenchcoats."

"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. This year I was at the Black Gate with that heart surgery. I feel I am losing hold of 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. "Daughters of the Dust."

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.

The infernal conductor announced departure. "Einsteigen, Türen schliessen, vorsicht beim abfahrt!"

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 so found himself abruptly miles away on the Island and went dutifully to the Island-Life offices 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 how was it this time?" The Editor asked.

For answer, Denby just shook his head and look down, his soul wracked with grief.

The Editor opened his desk drawer and took out a bottle of Glenfiddich and two glasses.

"I suppose you did not get around to asking about the midterms and what is to become of the Country.

Denby's voice grated with sandpaper and roughness. "Somehow I did not get around to it."

"Life is wretched for most folks, full of disappointments and suffering," the Editor said. "Have a drink."

"All suffering comes from attachment," Denby said as he took the glass.

The Editor took out his cigar and looked at it. "I suppose you are right. We all need to learn to let go."

As the light of the crescent Moon drifted through the cloud-wracked sky and the minutes 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 World War II former munitions factories, echoing along the Oaktown Embarcadero and shuttered produce warehouses as the train itself trundled outward through the haunted darkness past all the sleeping and the dead to an unknown destination.

That's the way it is around the Bay. Have a great week. And do try to find some joy in this terrible Vale of Tears.

This is IPM (Island Public Media).

OCTOBER 19, 2025

ALL ABOUT THE BONES

He's back. Almost missed him, which is hard to do for a fellow standing 15 tall. But every year he shows up a the same house on the corner down the Hill in Fairfax. This year he is wearing a nice shirt.

LEAVES WERE FALLING JUST LIKE EMBERS

So anyway. It has come round to that time of year again. Scary monsters leap out of darkened doorways. Zombies stagger down streets, drooling gore and gibberish. Vampires swoop down among throngs of howling ghouls; yep it is election time again.

But more important than all that drivel, is the annual Island-Life Tradition of the Drawing of straws.

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. With them the Posse had Johnny Cash and Bonkers as tracking dogs.

When presented with one of Denby's old t-shirts, Bonkers made a wrinkled face and distinctly grunted "feh!"

They checked the dilapidated offices already looking derelict, the COVID isolation cabins built by Martini in 2019, calling out his name while the dogs ran this way and that, barking, sniffing, doing basic doggy things until Wickiwup found him up in a madrone.

He was asked to come down peacefully.

Peacefully, Denby refused.

It was demanded categorically that he come down at once.

Denby at once categorically refused to come down.

He was entreated with bribes and rewards to descend.

Denby told them all to go away and leave him alone.

Pahrump made a riata and after a few tries managed to lasso Denby. Martini and Pedro climbed up the tree and with Pahrump and Jose and Marsha pulling on the line brought Denby crashing down to the ground where they all piled on and started beating on the thrashingDenby until he had been entirely hogtied. They then dragged him to the minivan, using shovels and rakes and other implements of Destruction and tossed him in the back where he lay groaning so the Prodigal Son
was brought 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 ceremonialy 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.

Februs tenderly offered Denby a snickles, but that treat was refused.

As the light of the crescent Moon drifted through the cloud-wracked sky and the minutes 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 past all the sleeping and the dead to an unknown destination.

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

This is IPM (Island Public Media).

SEPTEMBER 28, 2025

GLORY DAYS

WAKE ME UP WHEN SEPTEMBER ENDS

So anyway. Taco Smallhands, nickname for Baby Booby President of the United Strep Association Infantile Group (USA-IG) was all out of sorts. Coochi Gnome, an important baba in the Baby Boobie organization, has been stomping about in her thigh-high leather boots and her whips and chains when she ran into an odd member of the Administration. He wore as usual a tall white conical hat and spoke utmost gibberish.

"Knibberty jobbit vacks uh vacks uh vacks nobulism," said the figure.

Coochie snapped her whip. "Who or what are you?"

"Measles fandango vacks optism cause. Study it I will brownbart optism!" He strode back and forth waving his arms and commanding attention. "Drink aquarium cleaner!"

"Hey, JD, leave that couch alone. Who is this guy?

"Oh him? He's the head of the Department of Health and Human Services."

"How come he talks like that?"

"He's got worms in the brain. Makes everything he says sound like nonsense. All the Magas love him."

"Auktimsm! Optism! Pray for beans! Lets build a boat out of a sieve and sail away sail away sail away . . .".

Coochie grabbed a page walking by and threw him on the ground. "Lick my boots, churl!"

The President appeared at this point.

NOTHING BAD CAN HAPPEN; ONLY IT CAN GOOD HAPPEN. COVEFE SOME MORE! WE HAVE A BORDER, STRONG, AND WE HAVE A SHAPE, AND THAT SHAPE DOESN'T JUST GO STRAIGHT UP. THAT SHAPE IS AMORPHOUS WHEN IT COMES TO THE ATMOSPHERE . . . WE HAVE VERY CLEAN AIR. I SHOULD GET THE NOBEL PRIZE FOR ALL OF MY ACHIEVEMENTS EXCEPT ALL THE UN COUNTRIES ARE GOING TO HELL. DON’T USE TYLENOL UNLESS ABSOLUTELY NECESSARY, DON’T GIVE TYLENOL TO YOUR YOUNG CHILD FOR VIRTUALLY ANY REASON, BREAK UP THE MMR SHOT INTO THREE TOTALLY SEPARATE SHOTS (NOT MIXED!), TAKE CHICKEN P SHOT SEPARATELY, TAKE HEPATITAS B SHOT AT 12 YEARS OLD, OR OLDER, AND, IMPORTANTLY, TAKE VACCINE IN 5 SEPARATE MEDICAL VISITS!

The head of the Department of Health ran up to President Smallhands and threw his arms around him. "Baby Booby! I wub you tremendous you talk!"

I DO NOT CARE FOR YOU; I JUST NEED YOUR VOTE. . . .

Back on the Island, Mr. Howitzer stomped around his mansion instructing Dobbs on setting up seasonal decorations followed by his dog, Hoover. He paused on the staircase landing before a little shrine occupied by the gilt framed portrait of a rightwing demigogue who had been assassinated recently. A little black spider was on the ledge in front of the portrait and it looked to be moving to get behind the picture. Mr. Howitzer abruptly smashed it with his fist and knocked the bug to the floor, where Hoover promptly ate it.

Mr. Howitzer made a note to chide Dobbs about bugs in the Mansion and he had better do something about it. Or else.

He walked down to the main floor to watch Dobbs with a critical eye. Up on the marble staircase Hoover scampered after a large cockroach.

Then, he caught it.

Papoon, periodic Presidential candidate of the Somewhat Progressive Party sat in the Old Same Place bar tended by Suzie. His drinking companion. by tradition in the time before Elections, was Babar, member of the Grossly Orutund Conservative Party. Babar was so conservative he always wore two pairs of pants. Up on the screen above the bar the Red Sox were playing the hated Yankees in the first game. Bases loaded on the bottom of the ninth and Cody Bellinger sent a flare shot up and down into the outfield grass. End score 3-1 and the Sox were popping champagne and so was the normally miserly Padraic. Why the Sox?

Because the Red Sox are Boston and Boston was about as Irish as you can get and still be in America.

In the offices of the Island-life newsroom, the rear castor on the Editor's chair gave way and the man tumbled with his cigar to the ground.

Pedro and Jose and Denby all ran to help. But at first the Editor just stared up at the ceiling while lying spread-eagled and prone.

"Boss, you okay," Jose said.

"I've had a vision. Like Saul of Tarsus Heel, Tennessee who became enlightened after being struck by lightning and falling from his mule. I have seen . . . the Way!"

The boys asked what it was they should do.

The Editor climbed to his feet as best as a 76 year old Marine Corps veteran could do.

"We need living, unifying symbol and mascott for Island-Life. Too long we have labored in these brown cubicles in anonymity and without inspiration."

The staff of course wanted to know what would be the new mascot.

"The answer is . . . Boston!"

"Boston?!"

"The Boston Red Sox! Like Saul I have converted by way of Divine Providence. (Denby fix that castorwheel). We will put up pennants and tshirts and regalia! We will have red socks days! I see it all! Next year the World Series!"

"Boss are they gonna allow that? And what about the Giants?"

"They are not as Blessed," the Editor said. "As for the Yankees, the phrase d***d Yankees says it all. Let them be the Devil."

The Editor pulled a hard chair from the side and sat at his desk. "By god I am a genius. Why did I not think of this before?"

"La jefe es muy loco," Jose said to Pedro. "I think he hit his head when he fell."

As the light of the full Hunter Moon drifted through the cloud-wracked sky and the minutes 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 past all the sleeping and the dead.

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

This is IPM (Island Public Media).

SEPTEMBER 21, 2025

WHEN THE BOYS OF SUMMER ARE GONE

The recent heatwave brought out the pink ladies in droves and typically marks the end of high summer around here. These are behind a fence in San Anselmo.

I FEEL IT IN THE AIR, THE SUMMER'S OUT OF REACH

So anyway. Baby Boobie, aka Taco Smallhands, got a call from his Russian top and pranced with the phone into the side office off the Oval Office, expecting another Lover's chat. It was the Trapezoid Office, nicknamed by some wag The Trap\CD Office.

... (indistinct talking on the phone receiver)

VLADIMIR DARLING HOW ARE YOU! YOU HAVE BEEN ENTIRELY TOO DISTANT LATELY BUT SO GLAD YOU CALLED THE MOST STABILE GENIUS IN THE WORLD. IF THERE IS A PROBLEM I ALONE CAN FIX IT!

... (indistinct talking on the phone receiver)

WHATS THAT? O HE MEANS NOTHING TO ME. YOU MUST ALWAYS KNOW I AM YOUR DEVOTED SERVANT AND LOYAL BOTTOM. I SWEAR THERE IS NO ONE ELSE.

... (indistinct talking with an air of complaint on the phone receiver)

WHAT?! THAT FELON TUSK WAS NEVER MORE THAN A PET, LOVE! HE WAS SUCH AN ADORABLE SOUTH AFRICAN HOWLER WITH HIS CHITTERING AND ASPERGER REPETITIONS, BUT THAT IS ALL OVER NOW. THERE WAS ALWAYS YOU MY SMOOCHY SLADKIY!

... (indistinct talking with an air of complaint on the phone receiver)

PLEASE DO NOT BE ANGRY MY MASTER AND COMFORT BEAR! THAT UKRANIAN IS ALL BUSINESS. I WISH HE WOULD GO AWAY. PLEASE DO NOT LET THAT MAN COME BETWEEN US! SO WE HAVE SPENT A LOT OF TIME TOGETHER RECENTLY . . . .

...(angry indecipherable shouting from the receiver)

YOU KNOW THERE IS ONLY YOU AND YOU ALONE AND THIS UKRANIAN MEANS NOTHING TO ME. WOULD YOU LIKE ME TO DROP AN ATOM BOMB ON KIVIV? I CAN DO THAT YOU KNOW FOR I ALONE CAN RESOLVE THE PROBLEM. I AM ENORMOUS AND OMNIPOTENT. NOW DEARIE, SWEET LEATHER FIST, HOW ABOUT I GIVE YOU A GIFT LIKE ARMENIA. WOULD MY SWEETNESS LIKE TO HAVE ARMENIA?

... (indistinct talking with an air of irritation on the phone receiver)

LYBUIMYY! YOU KNOW HOW DEVOTED I AM TO YOU. NO ONE BUT ME IS SO DEVOTED. I PROMISE I WILL HAVE NO MORE TO DO WITH THAT ODIOUS PFEFFERMINT UKRANIAN! WE TOGETHER SHALL OVERWHELM THE PATSIES, GULLIBLE MIDWESTERNERS, AND LIBERALS FOR I ALONE CAN DO IT!

Meanwhile, as this lovers quarrel continues in the room adjacent to the Oval Office, Denby sprawls in rehab condition after his abrupt introduction to heart surgery .

The Editor turns from this lovers spat there in the room adjacent to the Oval Office to address Denby who was sitting and groaning in the chair while recovering from open heart surgery.

Stop mewling Denby! Its unmanly.

Denby grabbed both shoulders x-wise while he coughed so as to keep the two halves of his sternum together.

Honestly, I do not know how we are going to defeat this current trend of American fascism with fellows like you, said the Editor. Go out and find something newsworthy on which to report.

Exeunt Denby with his problems.

The Editor turned to his left, nearly tripping over Festus. "Festus, what the devil are you doing down there?"

"Getting ready for the seasonal changes, boss. Winter is coming on and I need to be gathering nuts for storage."

"Get nuts on your own time and get back to work delivering the mail!"

"Ogay."

"Damn hamsters! Worse than rodents sometimes."

The Editor sat heavily at his desk of Cares and Worries. Its going to take a lot of digging to get us out of this mess. Economy headed for the rubbish heap, masked thugs abducting people off of the street, crops rotting on the vines with no one to pick the fruit, delusional nut case running the Health Department, demented Commander in Chief destroying every strategic alliance while crippling National Security bureaus right and left so as to hand us over to our enemies . . . " He put his head in his hands.

"Hey boss, Pedro said coming in. "Ever tried these new Nice Guys delivery? Take a world off your mind!"

"Who are these Nice Guys?"

"Cannabis delivery," Jose said. "You can get vapes, papers, buds, flowers, gummies and even cookies! Its a healthy high!"

"Pothead!" said the Editor. "Get out and get busy!"

The Editor waited until Jose was out of site before pulling his bottle of Glenfiddich from the file cabinet. Nice Guys indeed!

As the light of the full Moon drifted through the cloud-wracked sky and the minutes 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 past all the sleeping and the dead.

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

This is IPM (Island Public Media).

AUGUST 10, 2024

SUCH A PARCEL OF ROGUES IN A NATION

WHAT'S GOING ON

Denby went in for a procedure and suddenly found himself in a Situation. A number of burly men and women strapped his arms down to either side, someone called for The Checklist, a tube was shoved down his throat after which a man glided a sharp knife down the center of his chest, exposing the white bone. After that another man took an electric saw and cut his sternum in half - as a start -- someone else cranked a metal thing to shove the rib cage to either side and then they somehow stopped his glistening heart and lungs before really getting to work on him.

This was not a dream. This was not fiction. This was real.

Somewhat later Denby woke up and the tube was yanked out of his mouth but a number of other tubes and wires remained embedded in him from the neck on down as fluids drained from various places in his body. There was now an ugly incision about a foot long in his chest.

Looks like the weekly edition of Island-Life would be somewhat delayed as Denby gave thanks to the miracle of Oxycodone.

Pahrump drove Jose over to the Babylon hospital where Denby was lieing in.

"Well amigo, you never gonna win the Mr. Universe contest; not with a big scar like that," Jose said.

"Another career opportunity cut short," rasped Denby.

All this started when Denby started noticing some chest pain while walking from the parkinglot to the hospital in the morning. He would sit down and lean on a mop for a minute to recover and then started noticing heaviness in his chest while cleaning. One night he felt this powerful acid feeling while lying in bed and so got up to take a pepcid. He lay down and the feeling did not go away so he got up and took some alka seltzer. That did not work as usual so he popped two chewable antacids.

That did not work either as he started sweating and throwing up.

He told his Self, Self, it is time to call somebody about this. So he called the advice nurse who scheduled appointments, which followed by x-rays, Mri's, sonograms, and then, what was supposed to be the one day diagnostic called cardiac catheterization. "Do not worry; I will be gone only for a day," he told the Household.

One month later, Marlene discharged Denby from her rattletrap Malibu and he staggered over to the porch to drop into the chair there. Pahrump offered him a jug of gallon-wine.

Denby looked longingly at the heavy jug. Said he was on restrictions and may no lift more than 3 pounds for a few weeks.

Martini got him a glass while the new Denby Plan was discussed. No lifting. No bending. No raising the arms. Grab your own shoulders in a self-embrace when you cough or sneeze to hold the pieces of your sternum together or you will explode like something in a Ridley Scott movie.

Since the operation involves stopping that unruly heart from bouncing around and the lungs as well, Little Adam had a natural question. "What's it like being dead?"

Not as bad as the coming back to life if you want to know.

THIS LAND IS YOUR LAND. THIS LAND IS MY LAND.

So anyway, while Denby was in hospital, not muched changed. Gas remained over $4.85, the price of eggs meant no more eggs for now, crime - which had been improving - now was on the uptick. Murderous weather assaulted southern Red states for their sins while murderous weather assailed the industrial northeast for the presumption of trying hard to pretend this climate change thing is fictional and with gutting the NOAA we will have no more inconvenient data and facts. Baby Booby is going about doing what just about every other politician with declining home ratings has done - he turns his dysfunctional radar abroad and makes trips for photo ops with foreign heads of state.

He and Felon Tusk had a falling out over decorating the Oval Office and on dinner dress. Felon wanted something light and tasteful with blonde wood and accents in crinoline. President Booby wants Germanic solidity and lots and lots of baroque, garish gold everywhere. For about the home wear he favored sleek beige pantsuits with cream pumps with moderate heels and a little cape he could flick, while Felon wants to dress all in black goth with glitter eye-liner.

Those girls; no wonder they have such a fascination with LGBTQ.

The veep did not care so long as there was a plushy couch.

The meeting with his old friend Vladimir "Malysh Mal'chik" LaPuta did not go well. President Booby banged on his highchair foodtable with a wooden spoon. Malysh President kicked his feet and refused to give up all the toys he stole from President Vlodymir. Or give up claim to the half of the play ground he and his buddies had siezed. The whole summit meeting descended into a childish set of trantrums with people throwing food items at one another. A lot of pablum was wasted that day. It all descended into atavistic chaos of diaper yanking and fistfights.

Such is the dignified world order brought on by Baby, King of ALL CAPS TWEETS.

As the light of the full Moon drifted through the cloud-wracked sky and the minutes 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 past all the sleeping and the dead.

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

This is IPM (Island Public Media).

JULY 13, 2025

WHAT'S UP PUSSYCAT

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Now when the creeks are running low and ponds drying out the animals are on the move looking for water, followed by fellows like this one.

It is also the time of year when small pets start disappearing . . . .

WHATS GOING ON

Much has been going on in the Snoffish Valley. The Community is all atwitter about a planned 6-story apartment house, a recall effort is out to remove three City Council members down the Hill in Fairfax, No Kings protests have been held just about every other week as yet more outrageous orders issue from Baby Booby out of Washington D.C., and people are being snatched off the street in San Rafael and even San Anselmo by masked men with no ID and no official insignia in unmarked cars.

Didn't they used to call that Mafia abduction and kidnapping in what used to be America?

It is not happening over "there" or someplace far away or another State, but right here and right now. This is not "getting dangerously close to authoritarianism"; this is authoritarian Fascism happening right here and now.

What can we do? First off let me address the remaining people who still call themselves Conservatives and Republicans who remain sober-sided, reasonable, and balanced in mind and emotion. Now is not the time to "take advantage" but to yank the Nation from a disastrous course of foreign wars, immense deficits, selective inhibition of industries and businesses like Green Power, racist and intolerant scapegoating of immigrants and anyone non-white that will smear the name of this nation for centuries afterwards it all. Completely. Fails.

We do not need more District 9 style concentration camps. We do not need to expend dwindling resources on a foolish attempt to "purify" the national race. We need to bring this Nation back to a sensible course that is not anti-science, anti-reason, and anti-logic. That means contacting your Rep, the one for whom you voted, and say you cannot waste another vote on him until that person gets some cojones and says NO! to much of what is going on.

Look. I am not an economist. But I am an historian. And I see that things like the immigration stuff and the tariff stuff and the RIF stuff has always failed, not only in this Country, but in others where it has been tried since 1940.

For one example, who now remembers Argentina as the enconomic powerhouse of the Western Hemisphere? They were in fact. Until they, along with a number of other countries, instituted massive tariffs meant to encourage local manufacturing. It did not work. The manufacturing that developed used shortcuts, automation, and cheap material, resulting in crap goods no one wanted as the cost of quality goods skyrocketed and the national economies all tanked, each and every one.

A SUMMER WIND, A COTTON DRESS

So anyway. Spikes of the Pink Ladies are erupting everywhere as the buckeyes all wither save for their nascent, pendulous fruit. Along the byways the brambles turn multi-hued as the red berries start to darken to deep shades of purple. The kids all graduated weeks ago, those that could, and you can still see rear car windshields painted with Class of 2025 here and there even as the onslaught of Back to School mobilizes its regiments of marketing blitzkriegs.

The July 4th orgy of jingoism came and went. Baby Booby had a falling out with his pet, Felon Tusk, and so the two were no longer on speaking terms. Baby continued to tweet the most nonsensical drivel of nonsequiturs and outright lies all in caps. I AM THE GREATEST PRESIDENT EVER! I ALONE CAN FIX EVERYTHING THAT IS BROKEN. AMERICA IS BROKEN AND I AM GOING TO FIX IT ALL. CRIMINALS ARE RAMPANT, CRIME IS UP. BIDEN IS RESPONSIBLE. I MEAN HUNTER BIDEN. HUNTER BIDEN AND THE MEDIA CRASHED THE ECONOMY! EVERYTHING IS JUST AWEFUL! THE PRICE OF EGGS FOR EXAMPLE. YOU CANNOT GET A DECENT OMLET IN WASHINGTON DC AND I AM GOING TO FIX THAT. I AM CALLING IN THE MILITARY TO TAKE OVER WASHINGTON. DRAIN THE SWAMP! FIX THE EGGS. VACCINES ARE MAKING ALL YOU STUPID. I DO NOT NEED ANYONE, NOT EVEN YOU! ALL WANT IS YOUR VOTES. YOU WILL NEVER HAVE TO VOTE AGAIN ABOUT THE EGGS. THEY MAKE VACCINES FROM EGGS, DID YOU KNOW THAT? SOMEBODY TOLD ME THAT WAS TRUE. MAYBE IT WAS MY FRIENDS IN FOX NEWS. AMERICA IS IN A TERRIBLE MESS AND IT IS ALL BECAUSE OF BIDEN. BIDEN AND BARBARA WALTERS AND THE LYING PRESS! I ALONE CAN FIX IT ALL AND I AM GOING TO DO IT IN LESS THAN 100 DAYS. YOU JUST WATCH ME. ITS ABOUT THE EGGS . . . .

Meanwhile the Vice President is making deals and getting cozy with the CEO of Flexsteel Industries. Flexsteel is one of America’s longest-established sofa manufacturers, specializing in durable metal-frame sofas and sofa beds. It is expected that Flexsteel and Palantir Industries will have a merger soon.

Its been a cool summer and so the ironmongery garden at the Household looks forlorn, with just a few tomatoes trying to announce themselves among the scraggly pepper plants and what is left of the pole beans after savage gopher attacked them overnight.

Martini sat out there with an air rifle and Jose managed to pot one with a wrist rocket until they finally cobbled together a gopherhawk-like device with an old motorcycle fork spring, a pvc tube and some Martini ingenuity. The first time it worked the two of them did a war dance around the garden with the help of Pahrump on a drum. The Household is a buddhist bastion of non-violence most times, but when it comes to threats to the subsistence garden, all vows of ahimsa were off.

Martini tried to cook and eat the second one they got, but out of caution - these things do carry a raft of diseases -- they must have overprocessed the carcass and then overcooked the meat. By "processing", to rid the likelyhood of plague fleas and hantavirus, Martini's idea was to dip the body at arms length into a bucket of denatured alcohol after a bath of water and pet shampoo. Probably he should have done the alcohol first.

While skinning and gutting the fellow they wore nitril gloves and used hazmat overalls before tossing the thing on a BBQ grill. Needless to say it was a messy business and they still had to figure out how to dispose of the head and offal.

If they wanted to find out if gophers were going to be a steady source of protein, they were disappointed for they seem to have hunted and killed them all before getting this last one. Pahrump would not touch it.

"Martini, this is really disgusting," Jose said. "It tastes like burnt chicken."

"Maybe we should stew it," Martini said.

"I do not think so," Jose said.

"If it soaks for a while . . . ", Martini said.

"Martini! No."

O well.

The guys began eyeing the squirrels, until it was learned that squirrels are game animals in the Golden State and may only be hunted in designated zones. Turns out Alameda County is not a designated zone, hence we got a lot of squirrels who have no fear.

"I am going to the Food Bank," Jose said.

At the Food Bank Martini found a bottle of meat tenderizer on the table.

"Put it back," Pahrump said.

Back at the Offices, the Editor removed one of his last Micheltema's frozen dinners from the microwave. The Most Dangerous Season (do a search for it) was long over and he was save for another year from the chaos of Eros. The leggy Joanne was now devoting her energies to art galleries and salons instead of hunting for mates. During such heated times when Passions flamed, the Editor learned to keep his head low and stay underground.

When he was done, the Editor tossed the container in the trash and turned to work at his desk, lit by the single oval of light from the desklamp and the computer screen.

As the light of the full Moon drifted through the cloud-wracked sky and the minutes 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 past all the sleeping and the dead.

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

This is IPM (Island Public Media).

JUNE 8, 2025

MADMAN ACROSS THE WATER

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Teslas are offering a smorgasbord of bumpersnickers around here lately. One read loudly, "I got this car before Elon went crazy"

Someone at work was proud of his Darth Vader Tesla truck -- until somebody rammed it, about three times in one go. Better trade it for a reasonable Toyota. Those things are liabilities

GOUDY KIMBLE TO YOU

So anyway it came round again for this year's birthday commemoration for Javier and as usual, all the Bay Area Trauma Units stocked up on plenty of guaze, bandages and painkillers, and the hospitals made sure to have full staffing in all areas, especially for ER and ICU, while the First Responders checked and double-checked their gears, making sure that the fire trucks and ambulances stood at the ready, radios in order, kevlar vests taken out for each year, Javier's birthday provided no end of excitement once all of his ex-girlfriends had located the venue, which changed secretly each time in vain attempts to forstall the inevitable violence.

This time, the party was located in the large courtyard behind Juanita's Taquaria on Park Street. The courtyard was enclosed by 15 foot high brick walls topped with razor-wire and the only entrance was through the taquaria dining room so trouble could be seen coming well in advance. There was a side door in the wall to satisfy the fire marshal, but that was always kept locked. It was an iron door that could only open from the inside for emergency evacuation to the street, but nothing short of high explosives could open it from the outside.

In choosing this location Jose was hoping that another birthday celebration in the form of a military parade being orchestrated by Baby Booby and the Magat Party on Park Street would distract anyone looking for Javier. Baby Booby was turning 7 -- give or take a few diaper decade years -- and he wanted this to be a Big Beautiful Miltary Parade for the Baby always did things Bigly. There were sure to be crowds and lots of confusion, for Baby also liked engendering disorganized chaos.

There had been a falling out between Baby and his buttboy, Felon Tusk, so the South African Howler would not be around, which suited Baby just fine as Baby liked all the attention to be focussed on himself.

While Jose arranged the tables loaded with tequila and trays of tacos, Vice President Vance Couchman started off the parade desultorily at City Hall by leading a number of Army jeeps that weaved about a bit followed by a scattering of soldiers who, instead of marching in formation, also weaved about a bit, all of them a bit unsteady due to each of them having downed substantial amounts of vodka and gin.

A rock band sort of played sloppy versions of old standards, including the anti-Vietnam war song Fortunate Son. This caused some musical dissonance as the marching Navy band played Elgar and the Liberty Bell march somewhat discordantly as they were all drunk as well. The tuba player fell over into a concrete planter of azaleas and so got left behind.

Fortunately the crowd was sparse as everyone had better things to do on a sunny weekend than stand around watching a boring parade that lacked stilt-walkers or even clowns. Save perhaps the one with orange hair sitting up there on the bandstand.

While the Marine corps mounted contingent also stumbled in ragged formation - even the horses were three sheets to the wind, Javier held forth in the protected courtyard among friends someone looked up and notice drones hovering overhead.

Uhoh, said Jose. I think this means . . .

A helicopter appeared overhead and lines soon dropped followed by several of Javier's ex-girlfriends, all armed to the teeth. At the same time a cohort of armed women assailed the front door of the taqueria, while Juanita and Pedro tried to fend them off with frying pans and cast iron comals, which did much advantage against the katanas wielded by Suzi and Diane. Bottled up at the doorway, Angelina was unable to us her 8 foot long chain whip.

Carmen, Ivana, Sharon, Sheena, and Amy landed on their feet and promptly set about discharging firearms and crossbow bolts all about them as the company threw up protective barracades in the form of the imported thick oaken tables turned on their sides as shields.

Trapped in a corner by Miranda wielding a scimitar and shuriken, Jose suddenly held up his hand with something.

"Have a taco?" he said.

This disconcerted Miranda enough that he was able to dive beneath the tortilla-maker machine and hide, losing only a pint or two of blood in the process.

Up front spectators who had left the boring parade to enjoy this vastly more entertaing spectacle only added to the congested confusion at the front door. No one could enter and no one could excape.

Things looked bleak for the party crew as the whole affair descended into an atavistic orgy of blood and violence while Bobby Booby's parade became an utter fiasco of soldiers piled in sodden heaps here and there.

But then there appeared on a hovercraft from Los Angeles the Rock Star of Financial reporting, Kai Ryssdal. "Today is Sunday, the 8th of June everybody. Glad to have you all along. Today we are going to talk about the T word again. On Wall Street, the traders were all . . . meh. Tariffs, what Tariffs. At the end of the day, it is the consumer that pays the Tariff cost."

"I CURSE YOUR TRUTHINESS!" shouted Baby Bobby, who always speaks in caps.

"And here to talk about tariffs and how we survive is the gal with owl-glasses and brown hair from Baltimore, Amy Scott. I have to fly off and meet with important dignitaries from China Bobby Booby has insulted instead of made deals with. Zàijiàn!"

With that, Kai zoomed off and Amy Scott descended on a cloud of Reason. At the doorway to the Taqueria, she said simply, "Put down your weapons and go back to work so as to turn around this train-wreck of an enconomy that President Booby has created. You oughta feel ashamed giving so much power to the patriarchal dominence. Javier isn't worth all this trouble."

Abashed, the girlfriends melted away and Amy entered the taqueria, which looked the much worse for wear.

"Where is Javier," she asked.

As usual, Javier had disappeared and so had gotten clean away with no one knowing how he did it this time.

"Carmen, please stop strangling Denby, and Sharon I think you have stabbed enough people. And Miranda refrain from hacking at the hydrangea to get at Martini. Let us all pay heed to Chairman Powell who has said, and I quote, 'We should respond with caution regarding tariffs upon the reciept of additional data'. I think these are words of wisdom. But who am I but a modest gal from Baltimore, concealing the guise of a goddess. Like many women among you. I am Amy Scott for Marketplace."

The girlfriends, frustrated once again in having Javier elude them, all dispersed and Juanita set about repairing the damage to her business. Amy Scott ascended on the cloud of Truth in Reporting to heavenly Finance.

"MY BIGLY BEAUTIFUL PARADE IS ALL RUINED!" shouted President Booby. "THE TONE IS ALL WRONG!"

As the light of the full Moon drifted through the cloud-wracked sky and the minutes 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 past all the sleeping and the dead.

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

This is IPM.

APRIL 27

WHAT SARA SAID

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This is the site of the fiery crash that claimed the lives of four young people and put two more in the hospital fighting for their lives. The accident has made national news. Details are provided below.

DEATH COMES FOR THE MAIDEN

It was after 7:30pm, Good Friday on the Christian calendar, a feast day that precedes the weekend that culminates in the most optimistic of Christian celebrations of Life - that of Easter. A car carrying 6 teens came out of a turn on San Geronimo Boulevard, a two-lane rural road through a fern and redwood forest heading into Woodacre, left the road at a high rate of speed and slammed into a redwood tree, instantly killing three of the teens in a fireball.

The fourth teen died en route to the hospital. Two more remain in critical care ICU.

Marley Barclay, 14, of Fairfax was one of the passengers in the vehicle that struck a tree Friday evening along San Geronimo Valley Road. The driver and five passengers were classmates at Archie Williams High School (formerly Sir Francis Drake) in San Anselmo.

Speculation as to what exactly happened and why should be left to the conclusion of a CHP investigation.

“What we can share at this time is that Marley left our home at 6:50 p.m. to walk to downtown Fairfax,” the statement by Jessica Glantz and Ross Barclay says. “There she met with the driver of the vehicle who was getting off work at approximately 7:15 p.m. They, along with the four other girls, left heading towards Woodacre shortly thereafter — all wearing seatbelts.”

The girls who died were Olive Koren, who was in ninth grade, and 10th-graders Sienna Katz, Ada Kepley and Josalynn Osborn, according to the Tamalpais Union High School District.

The driver was Elsa Laremont Stranczek, 16, who is in 10th grade. She and Marley remained hospitalized Monday (4/20/25) Word is that Elsa upon release may find ascending the stairs to her bedroom difficult after her release from Intensive Care and so the family has been asking for anyone who has a daybed to provide one for the interim.

“What Marley remembers of the moments before the accident is that they were going around a blind turn, and another car veered into their lane,” the statement said. “The driver of the vehicle that Marley was riding in swerved to miss the other vehicle and was run off the road.”

The California Highway Patrol investigation continued Monday. No details were available about the cause of the crash or whether another vehicle was involved.

Licensing is an aspect of the investigation. Under state law, a driver who is under 20 years old and who has been licensed less than a year cannot transport passengers unless accompanied by a licensed parent or guardian, a driver at least 25 years old or a certified driving instructor.

Our reporter who delayed going to the site out of respect for the numerous family and friends who have been dropping by in steady streams nearly every day since the accident, finally went out this evening and still found a small group of neighbors who had known at least one of the teens there. By then a couple hard downpours had knocked down many of the flower bouquets.

The tree stood as it has stood for nearly one thousand years, charred at the base from the fire while all about lay strewn flower petals, bouquets, statues, memorabilia, attestations to a profound grief. When we spoke to a young person there she said through tears that she had known the people who had died.

How are we to say, still embedded in our own grief of recent loss, there will be many more others.

And it never gets any better. Each loss feels just as sharp as the first.

APRIL, COME SHE WILL

So anyway. The days have been cool with late rains drenching the countryside. We thought we were done with and into Spring, but the unruley weather has had another thing to say. Each of the past mornings has seen lashings of rain -- not exactly dockwallopers but enough to get you attention. Local elections seem to be imminent, as foretold by lawn signs and mailers. Yes on E! No on This and That! Taxes! Bonds! Seems we will have to put aside our usual indifference and actually start behaving like a Democracy. O its a Republic you say? Fuck you. Its all semantics and calling it a Republic does not give you the right to stomp stomp stomp on all the rest of us just trying to get by. America is Democracy as taught by grade school and DD Eisenhower and that version of Democracy is good enough for us.

Meanwhile various members of the Household are getting ready for The Most Dangerous Season.

?

April's showers provoke next month's flowers with vicious and insidious intent. You can try to put out Nature with a pitchfork, but she always comes roaring back with violence.

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 than 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 Jonny, happy and carefree as a lark, striding with ruddy cheeks and full confidence down San Pablo Avenue. 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.

And now Denby was captivated by the nurse Mariah with her tatoos and everything besides. Her beautiful eyes glowing in that dark pit. His daydreams featured images of Mariah riding on top of him with her luxurious rope of chestnut hair flying about like a cowgirl riding a rumpus. In short, he was hopelessly smitten and tottally lost. Ah, the poor sod.

The Editor made his usual annual preparations to deal with the punishing effects of Romance by stocking up on Michelina's frozen dinners, cases of Glenfiddich, and plenty of cold showers. Blackout curtains go up at night and he retreats to the inner sanctums of the house so that no stray light or sound announces that anyone is at home. He will hide out like this for months until deep summer and everyone has safely mated someone else or left town and the leggy Joanne has turned her wandering eye from prospective boudoire partners to postmodern art.

Yes, Spring is the the most dangerous Seaon.

As the weather warms the Editor retreats indoors while Denby moons about the Hospital and only Javier, who enjoys violent excitement and physical danger goes about looking for trouble. As the most Interesting Man in the World once said to Javier, "My friend, to remain interested in Life you must BE interesting yourself."

As for Baby Booby and his buttboy Felon Tusk, they have no delight in this weak piping time of peace to pass away the time unless to spy their shadows in the sun and descant on their own deformities. And therefore, since they cannot prove a lover, to entertain these fair well-spoken days, they are determined to prove as villains and hate the idle pleasures of these days. Plots have they laid, inductions dangerous, by drunken prophecies, libels and schemes to set as King, brother against brother in deadly hate the one against the other:

In far off Washington to the East (there be worms!) the South African Howler jumps up and down on his settee, which PP. Fom-Pei eyes with malevalent lust. Meanwhile the curlew calls across the benighted land as night descends. Cry, the beloved country.

As the light of the full Moon drifted through the cloud-wracked sky and the minutes 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 past all the sleeping and the dead.

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

APRIL 06, 2025

FOR A DANCER

WISH YOU WERE HERE

She was born July 25, 1950, and died with her son laying on the floor next to her bed March 22, 2025. Over the course of 75 years that featured associations with Alan Ginsberg at the Naropa Insitute, Harvey Milk in Texas, her mother's paramour Charles Addams (creator of the Addams Family), a meeting with Python John Cleese and a firmament of stars, including talented musical, literary and graphic artists, social revolutionaries, and otherwise vibrant people she spread love and joy wherever she went.

Whether driving a VW microbus across the Country with her sister, hitch-hiking across northern Africa, posing naked with 100 other women on the beach to spell out an anti-war message with their bodies, snorkeling above the corals off the Florida coast, or simply and spontaneously climbing trees well into her sixties, she lived courageously without inhibition, inspiring a great many people to change their lives for the better.

Taking long walks she was fond of exclaiming, "Look! There are madrones! Let's climb them!" And she would scamper up the hill followed by her corgi named Nemo and scrabble up high in the trees while the corgi ran in circles at the base barking like mad.

We knew her from about 1981 onwards through various encounters over 42 years, only lately becoming romantically involved to the end. We can only say the trained choral singer would enchant as she moved through the house, occasionally bursting into song. And so a portion of her last days we can say were filled with evidence of joy.

She worked as a graphic designer and, being a capable carpenter, built many stages for the Bill Graham rock concerts and also renovated a number of houses, including the one in which she raised her only child Lucas and lived in for 31 years. Her artwork ranged from near photo-realistic depictions of elephants and Phlippe Petit tightrope walking the Twin Towers to gorgeous sandpainting abstracts and surreal oils. Towards the end of her award-winning artistic career she became involved with Island Life and drew the images you can see today in the masthead.

There was a certain schadenfreude, stemming partly from her troubled relationship with her extraordinarily beautiful mother Odette nee deBruniere. In her early years Beatrice's beloved ballet lessons were terminated, ostensibly for financial reasons, although Odette's husband and Beatrice's father was the handsome and successful banker and real estate magnate who developed the Florida Inland Waterway into a string of mansions.

Truth be said, Beatrice was not an obedient child inclined to just go along with the social program. She was bounced from school to school due to her rebelliousness, which, funnily enough, was duplicated by her son, whom she raised as a single parent - more or less. And of course she usually applied the hammer and tongs to the boy, making him even more rebellious, getting expelled from one school after another for smoking pot, for unruliness, for just being punk. One day the police came to her door to ask for his whereabouts on such and such a day and such and such a time as some graffiti had been found on a certain San Anselmo bridge and some suspicion fell on Lucas.

"Oh no," she said. "That evening he was here with me playing backgammon until late."

Time passes. We cannot step into the same river twice. Lucas moved from surly graffiti tagger to become the CEO of an corporation employing people all around the globe to design . . . fonts. Yes, fonts. Every corporation wants a trademarked identity and that means unique fonts to present themselves. No son ever took better care of his mother in her final years. She eventually fell due to Alzheimers wasting.

You might say the boy done well. That is the sign of a good mother.

At the Memorial Luc was there with his wife Chantra and their firstborn with yet another swelling along the way, the room ringed by framed examples of Beatrice's artwork. As it is said, one door closes, and another opens.

At Tennessee Valley Beach, her son walked down to the little outlet and released a portion of her ashes to be taken by the wind out to sea. And she was gone.

On the walk out several of us noted a Cooper's Hawk flying down low above us.

APRIL IS THE CRUELEST MONTH

So anyway. The Editor returned to the Offices after a long day packed with memories and goodbyes with old friends. He sat heavily at his desk and perused the latest reports about Bobby Booby and his butt-boy, Felon Tusk, trashing the Official Treehouse and about P.P. Fom-Pei, visiting Greenland. Apparently all the Inuits there scurried to hide their plush furniture from potential violation, although there is - as of yet - no proof Fom-Pei ever made love to a sofa. And he would never write about it, even if he did.

The Editor shoved the reports aside and ordered Denby to go out and collect some news about people who acted and spoke rationally for a change.

Denby paused, thinking hard for a moment. A good man is hard to find these days apparently.

"Don't just stand there like an omadhauen, boy! Go find some news, and if you do not like it, make some of your own!" The Editor shouted. "Vamanos!"

Denby left quickly, leaving the Editor alone with his head in his hands; such people I have for staff. It's true you get what you pay for and since I pay them nothing, they are worth the same amount. The old Marine relit his cigar, alone again with the muttering shadows as light faded from the world leaving the little pool of light cast by the desklamp while all around hung the curtains of darkness. Out beyond there surely must be . . . His head nodded with heaviness. The cigar fell into the tray. The wraith of a woman entered the room and touched his shoulder. Others were behind her. Men he knew from the Service who had not come back.

And he was again beside that dark river as dark forms flitted and chittered back and forth above.

Then all that was was fair. Twas Elvenland! Teems of times and happy returns. The same anew. Ordovico or viricordo. How things return and return again. Did someone say something?

Lord save us! And ho! Hey? What all men. Someone was calling. What? Can't hear with the waters of. The chittering waters of. Flittering bats, fieldmice bawk talk.

Ho! Are you not gone ahome? What? Johnny? Can't hear with bawk of bats, all them eddying waters of. Ho, talk save us! My feet won't move, I'm turning into moss. I feel as old as yonder elm. A tale told of Luc and sons? All the daughter-sons. Dark hawks hear us.

My ho head halls. I feel as heavy as yonder stone. Tell me of John or Joe? Who were John or Joe the living sons or daughters of? Night now! Night now! Tell me, tell me, tell me, elm! Night night! Tell me tale of stem or stone. Beside the rivering waters of, hitherandthithering waters of. Night!

As the light of the full Moon drifted through the cloud-wracked sky and the minutes 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 past all the sleeping and the dead.

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

March 16, 2025

THE DAY WILL BEGIN LIKE ANY OTHER

Image is of Bradford flowering pears now in bloom in the FairAnselm Parkinglot next to the Fairfax post office. The headline is from Richard Shindell's "Spring".

The day will begin like any other
Another sunrise in the east
It will reach across and touch you like a lover
It will tease you from a dream

And opening your eyes you will surrender
To the light that fills the room
And the hope that you have carried since September
You will offer up to June

Maybe will be certain
You can take it as a vow
Winter's just the curtain
Spring will take the bow

Songwriter: Richard Shindell

SUN IS ON MY SIDE

So anyway. The entire world is on fire with war and disaster. The flowering pears are all blooming in the FairAnselm parkinglot and high up around the 3,000 foot level, green spears are dimpling the snow in the Sierra Foothills; look and you will see something is happening down there. Nasty men keep trying to toss out Nature with a pitchfork, but each year She comes roaring back, coming rougher every time. Immigradianda.

Yes, the buckeyes are leafing out vigorously and all the cherry blossoms are beginning to erupt in the Island Safeway parking lot, making that show in the Eastern capitol look look staid by comparison. Even in that fetid swamp which is Washington DC, the blossoms shall return victorious. This morning the full moon hid herself at four-thirty in a blood-red veil, portent of things to come.

Indeed it is come round to that time again. Down in the Old Same Place Bar Padraic and Dawn had done up the place in honor of Ireland's Thirty-two (Contaetha na hÉireann) and the celebration of all the Irish wherever they may currently reside for 8 souls million dwell on the Island and some 32 million live in the diaspora scattered all around this rugged world.

This year the place was packed with spirit and folks all come there to sing and dance for in these troubled times many sought to find a kinship with the auld sod for to be Irish, or nearly Irish, was a grand thing on this day where all were included, all were equal in their magnificent diversity. And even a couple scarce Orangemen were present, for Padraich was not one to make exceptions, not on this day. No, not on this day at all, at all.

I come from Kootenay Daire, da kenne ya, righ'?

At least he pronounced the name all right. Let him in to enjoy the craig with all of us and serve him a Guinness for Guiness is good for you.

So Chicago dyed the river green and parades cavorted down Market Street in Babylon. In the Old Same Place Bar there reigned a cheerful shoutmost shoviality of noise and throng as Suzie served up the Gaelic coffees on this dank and cold evening all a drizzle with wind and rain as if Ireland would share its weather with all to enjoy, or not enjoy as serves typical Irish weather. Wet and gloomy and miserable as the devil's own grandmother with a fit of flue and ague for all of that.

Denby struck up a fine old mountain tune there in the Snug and there was all sorts of cavorting and dancing and lovely singing out of key and plenty of good craig to be enjoyed by all, and wouldn't you know it but in burst a squad DOGE and ICE and the Angry Elf gang beside, for whenevre and wherever there be fear to be had and sold, the Angry Elf gang was sure to be employed by its purveyors. They overturned tables, smashed chairs and roughed up the Man from Minot most egregiously.

In waddled the Orange-Haired One with small hands and tiny feet supported a gross, corpulent body followed by his South African Howler who lept upon a table and dropped his pants to drop a big one into a pint of Guiness.

"O Muskie, you are a bad boy!"

Muskie dropped off the table to scamper over to the Orange-Haired One and rub affectionately against his pantleg.

"We will have no more celebrations of fringe elements here," announced the Orange-Haired One. "And certanly no encouragement of emigrants of any stripe. I alone can Make America Great Again, and its America First from now on!"

Muskie started jumping up and down and chattering excitedly. "Impound! Impound!"

"Furthermore we are going to seize all the Guiness to help defray costs for this Special Operation . . . and offset my wonderful tax cuts on behalf of all the lovely people who do the real work in America. And lastly, you all are going to be deported to Guantanamo as suspected Enemies of the State, while some of you are immigrants. There will first be a little pain . . . and then we are all going to have fun! Ah hahahaha!"

The Angry Elf gang moved behind the bar and began unhooking the supply lines to the taps while the black-clad members of DOGE started putting cuffs on everyone, starting with Suzie. One of the DOGE lifted up the back of Suzie's skirt and exclaimed, "Oh yeah! We sure gonna have fun!"

Suzie abruptly lifted her leg backwards and kicked the guy in the crotch causing him to double over cursing. Padraic picked up his blackthorn stick and made for the DOGE who had their hands on Dawn behind the bar.

Things looked bad in the Old Same Place Bar, but DOGE had picked a bad day to push around the Irish immigrants.

Right then as DOGE was hustling the Man from Minot to the door along with several others, Then the door flew open and the wind appeared. The candles blew and then disappeared. The curtains flew and then He appeared, saying "Don't be afraid."

Yes it was he: The Wee Man. All 48 inches of him from his buckled shoes to the top of his green derby. The Wee Man, for it was him, stroked his chinny chin chin and thought and thought.

What did he look like? For a start he wore a twill newsboy cap on a head of bright red hair. Red, too was his full beard and cobalt blue his eyes. He wore a green checked waistcoat which sported a gold chain that went into the side pocket and green checked pants. And on his feet a set of green suede brogans with tassels and toe tips that curled up and about in a merry way. As said before, he stood all of 48 inches in height.

The Wee Man produced a small derringer pistol which he discharged into the ceiling without so much as looking before putting the weapon away into his waistcoat. A bit of faery dust rained down and everyone remained quiet.

As to what the Wee Man really was, besides himself all day, which most of us can claim at nearly the same rate, the matter was open to speculation and never-ending discussion. Some say he came from the Spanish Armada that sank off the coast and others say he was of the legendary Firbolg that harried the ancient Romans loose from the Emerald Isle thousands of years before. Some say despite his stature he was related to the mythic giant Finn ni Cuchulain, Finn McCool, whose body extended the length of Howth, and that his apparent manifest physical size was merely a kind of trick, and some say that he was of the tribe of the Bann Sé that howl about the chimneys at night and cause the tree branches to toss about and wave by way of their long hair as they fly among the trees and so therefore a sort of faery, but with some disreputable attributions, including cigar smoking and farting.

He clapped his hands and all of the DOGE froze. Nothing like frozen DOGE, which might be likened to a sort of Italian ice cream, but not so tastey.

"So", said the Wee Man, "Necessita ayuda?"

"Grab him, ordered the Orange-haired One. "He speaks Un-American!"

A number of the DOGE thugs attempted to grab the Wee Man but slipped from their grasp and seemed to shrink about two feet.

"There he is! Get him!

"Ahhgg! Yer elbow in my eye!

"Blast that shrimp!"

"BOOM!"

"Yiyiiihiii! You shot my toes! You shot me!"

"No shooting in the house! There he is on top of the bar!"

"He shot my toes! He shot my toes! Owww Owww!"

"How'd he get away? There he is again. Ooof! Get offa me dumbass!"

As the DOGE oafs flailed their arms and chased after him their prey scampered between table legs and chairs. The shoes of the DOGE turned into size 14 white tennis shoes, causing them to fall over each other. The Orange-Haired One also tried to capture the Wee Man, but only fell over under a table where the Wee Man appeared to clap a big red rubberball nose on his face before skittering away again. All the while Muskie jumped up and down pointing this way and that wherever the Wee Man appeared, but to no effect.

Brian from the Angry Elf gang swung a baton low at the head of the Wee Man but kit the knee of a DOGE who fell over on top of Toshie, who dropped her knife, which impaled the hand of another DOGE crawling on the floor.

"Peek-a-boo!" said the Wee Man. "Now we are having fun! It's like going to circus!"

The Orange-Haired One got up from under the table and tried to crush the Wee Man by throwing his bulk at him, but only managed to knock several DOGE into a heap.

"Help I've fallen and can't get up!"

"I can't believe you shot my toes off!"

"Okay enough of that. Time for . . . a wedding!" With that the Wee Man grew up to his full height, which was not much to begin with it must be said, and clapped his hands, causing a dazzling light to blind everybody. When they all could see again, the Wee Man appeared on top of the bar. The Orange-Haired One appeared dressed in a light green pants suit and green high heels. Muskie appeared dressed in a darling pinafore of stripes, white stockings and Catholic girl buckled shoes. All the DOGE wore baggy striped trowsers with suspenders or polk-dot onsies topped with ruffled collars, red bulbous fake noses, red face paint about the lips, and bright green frightwigs. And of course the size 14 sneakers.

"Awww just look at the Bromancers," said the Wee Man. "Don't they look cute!"

A number of the DOGE began curiously examining what was under their pants.

"Now you are free to be yourselves, your real selves," said the Wee Man with delight. "Muskie, you may kiss your darling now."

Muskie looked up at the Orange-Haired One adoringly, who responded with disgust and then tottered unevenly on his new high heels to the door.

The bar quickly emptied as the DOGE and the Angry Elf gang got into the black Tesla tanks and Black Mariahs waiting outside with the armored Deportation Vans.

The Wee Man climbed up onto a stool. "Such a lovely couple. I do think they are made for each other; no wonder he does not want to sleep with Melanoma any more. I'll have a Guiness."

"Oy, he's done it again to me knickers," Dawn exclaimed. "This time its all ivy!"

"Sodden pervert," said Padraic peering past his waistband.

"O time to go I think. Got a faery circle to attend. Take a raincheck on the Guinness will ye? Ta ta!"

And with that the Wee Man vanished in a puff of sparkling dust.

"A nice pervert, all the same," said Padraic, pulling a handful of shamrocks from his trowsers.

And a distant laughter was heard from the amused heavens.

As the light of the full Moon drifted through the cloud-wracked sky and the minutes 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.

February 15, 2025

DIDN'T WE SHAKE IT SUGAREE

This week is an old drawing by Carol B. Taylor. It is an old image, but i happen to like the work of this talented Island-Lifer. She needs some urging to put her amazingly good stuff out there.

BABELOGUE

Baby Booby and his South African Howler Buttboy have been rampaging through the forests, tearing up stuff and beating their breasts like the far nobler Silverbacks of Uganda.

Late at night the pair have been visited by former members of the Third Reich encouraging them in the formation of a new Fourth Reich, naturally to last a thousand years. They are being advised to follow the path of history and it does appear that the present regime in Washington is copying all that Eichman, Goebbels and the architects of the Third Reich did in the past. Everything from purging government, installing loyalists, tearing down protective institutions like the security agencies, demonizing minorities, creating prisons to house them, arresting and persecuting political dissidents, and running roughshod over the Constitution and seperation of powers.

It is supposed to last 1000 years. Just like the last one.

I USTA LOVE ER

So anyway Denby sought to avoid the dreaded Valentines Day Massacree by hiding out in the Native Sons of the Golden West parlor hall down by the marina.

Unfortunately the Loud Boys and the Island Flat Earth Society decided to hold a joint conference in the Hall with the Island Magat Association. The consortium managed to secure rental of the hall the usual way these guys do things - by lying. They presented themselves as the Island Puppy-Lovers Association.

When Bernd Stacheldraht opened up the doors to let in his gang, all dressed in leather vests, furs, chains and some wearing horned viking helmets, Denby retreated quickly to the back but there were a number of armored Teslas parked outside the rear exit door. As the hall filled up with ruffians and the Deluded, Denby climbed up into the rafters. From up above he listened in to the coalition-building as the gangs talked all about deportations, immigrant bashing, book burning, diversity destruction, equality ejecting, White Empowerment, Press and Media control, nazi salutes, Deep State wrecking and all kinds of mean, nasty, ugly stuff along with absolute proof the Earth is actually flat with its centers located in various cities and towns named Springfield.

They was having all kinds of a good time, whooping and hollaring and sieg heiling one another now they was in control and there was gonna be some changes made and there warn't nothing the libertards could do about it 'cause democracy was just a word. They was gonna shrink the CIA, turn the FBI into a walzing Matilda wearing pink frillies, and purge the armed forces while putting the Army in charge of the Marines. When all was said and the done the Country would be handed over to the Spatznetz. Trump and Co. would depart aboard Air Force One with the Code Football for a comfortable dacha outside Moscow.

They got so excited some of them took out their lugers and fired into the air, perforating a few rafters and the roof and causing Denby to shriek and fall from his perch, catching his pants on a nail as he fell on top of Berndt Stacheldraht and Elton Quatsch until they all wound up in a heap on the floor.

Denby lept up amid a chorus of "A spy! A spy!" and dashed for the front door. Alice Malice tried to grab him but got left with the remains of his pants as he made it outside followed by several of the Loud Boys and Magats who were about to shoot him, but there appeared a girl scout troop and, as everyone knows about firearm safety, you must always consider what is behind your intended target.

And in front of Denby was a mostly White group of girls who pointed at him.

"Miss Priss, why is that man naked? And why are the men chasing him? Is it because they are gay?"

"Just because a man puts on a fey costume with furs and a funny hat does not necessarily mean he is gay," Miss Priss replied. "Remember girls, never to judge someone by their looks."

While Miss Priss tried to explain things to her charges before the Crab Cove visit, Denby galloped past Washington Park where he was tackled by ICE Agents Dabney Taggart, Henry Reardon and others who demanded Denby's ID and proof of citizenship.

Uh, it's in my pants. Denby said.

"You aren't wearing any pants," commented Agent Taggart. Looking down she said, "Are you Jewish?"

"Necessita ayuda?" asked Agent Reardon.

Me vendrían bien de pantalones. Denby said.

"Ok he speaks Spanish and has no ID. Go get John Galt." Reardon told Agent Taggart.

Who is John Galt? asked Denby.

"Él es el que tiene los grilletes. He is the one with the come-alongs."

So that is how, once again, Denby found himself humiliated and spending V-Day in a holding cell.

As the light of the free Moon drifted through the bars of the holding cell and the minutes 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.

JANUARY 19, 2025

OLD MAN DOWN

Flags all across the nation are flying half-mast for a man whose accomplishments as President are often overlooked, while he had the most successful and productive post-presidency in history. He showed us that what makes a great Man is an elegant combination of gentility, magnaminity, firm graciousness and ethical charity.

In the late 1970's he arrived on the campus of the College of William and Mary to participate in a debate. Here is how he looked more than forty-five years ago.

ONE, IN THE NAME OF LOVE

January 20th is a day to morn twice over. We lost a great man, a great leader and a great statesman in the form of Dr. King. We probably shall not see his like again for a very long time - possibly not for at least another generation.

EVERYBODY KNOWS THE DICE WERE LOADED. EVERYBODY KNOWS THE GOOD GUYS LOST

So anyway. while the speeding planet burns the Household prepares for the Interregnum of Fear to come. The Holidays passed with their usual Traditions but with the certainty this may be the last time we all enjoy togetherness like this. The tree was lit with its usual junk artifacts in the old washtub and now is out on the corner, taken away by WMI. Pastor Nyquist met with Father Danylunk for the New Years theoligical discussion as was their habit and fell asleep before the fire, after which Sister Profundity tucked them both in for the night with blankets.

That is all over.

Martini has dug out the basement under the Household only to find that the water table for the Island -- it is an island after all -- was only a few feet below the surface. So he got plate glass from someplace god only knows and hella sealant and built a room down there which is sort of a dry aquarium. Through one wall a visitor can see all sorts of saltwater sea life swimming around while crabs scuttle underneath the floor. One way or another they will be ready when the economy tanks through any number of disastrous efforts.

His idea was to create a sort of provisions bunker for the hard times ahead. What he got was a perfect spot for stocking the larder with fresh fish. Go figure. Martini is, like braver Ulysses, a man never at a loss.

Andre has been working with Roman, who comes from Danzig, to translate and reorchestrate songs composed from behind the Iron Curtain, which now have become suddenly relevant in their subtle messaging.

Joe Bob Bingle and Eugene Gallipagus are busy forming cells with a mind toward blowing things up while Latreena Brown and Malice Green are forming coalitions of more non-violent groups of the Resistance.

Mr. Spline has given up his hopeless attempt to terminate Jason in the face of greater threats to national security. In fact, these days he sits at home cleaning his pistols deep in thought as he puzzles how to proceed through the coming Interregnum, for adherence to Authority might not be in the national Interest for the first time in his professional career of spying and killing people, for Authority might take two, three or more forms. He would then have to start thinking for himself, and for this eventuality the CIA operative had never prepared. Poor Mr. Spline found himself in a quandary.

The crew of the AIS Chadoor is much undone by the collapse of discipline and resources in Teharan. The crew had a near mutiny when they assembled and demanded of the Captain when can they go home, for this mission of spying on America, the Great Satan, clearly was not the important issue in the face of what had transpired with Isreal.

Indeed, the Mission, begun some 20 years ago, had lost itself in the beaurocratic welter of Teheran's mismanagement of things organized. No one remained who knew just why the spy sub was sent to the estuary between Oakland and the Island in the first place and no one remembered what their core mission was supposed to accomplish, but no one would accept responsibility of terminating the effort so as to bring the boys back home, because returning home with nothing to show for it meant the mission had failed and no one wanted to be part of a failed program in the bureaucracy. The bureaucrats wanted peace with honor, but no one had ever defined the parameters of what that was, so year after year the mission dragged on and minor-level administrators made sure supply lines were maintained and reports issued on schedule. Reports no one ever bothered to read any more.

Night fell, as it always does, without a sound. Other noises -- the distant wail of sirens and the yowling of coyotes echoed like memories of some other time independent of night and day. The Editor sat at his desk with its pool of light spilled by the desklamp while all around hung the muttering curtains of darkness. The cold gripped the place with frost, challenging the small space heater to a fight it surely would lose. We are all fighting rear-guard actions now these days and the smarter ones are moving assets out of the country. The ghosts of any number of Dictators are howling triumph from the depths of the various hells they have been consigned. Pinochet, Mussolini, Ceau?escu, Josef Stalin, Old Fuckface Trujillo, Ferdinand Marcos, Ghaddafi, Franco, Zia ul Haq, Charles Wilson, Idi Dada Amin and many others sang an unholy chorus and they gibbered in delight at the expiration of the American Experiment.

The Editor put his head in his hands. Those voices are but ghosts, lacking power now. They are Desire without implements. America is more than the sum of bad decisions. There is a Resistance and somewhere out there were people of like mind. And all of the Dictators, after causing as much misery as they have done, ended up much as Mussolini and Ghaddafi: hanging by their heels or hanging in a dank, concrete room with a trap door. Do dictators reallty enjoy misery as much as Vlad the Impaler did?

Only the Devil knows.

Meanwhile the Editor remained in his solitary room lit by the pool of light, surrounded by the muttering darkness. Doing all for Company.

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.

JANUARY 12, 2025

EVERYBODY KNOWS

This is what happened to the last guy who seized power, claming he would "drain the swamp". Memento Mori, guy.

WHATS GOING ON

We just finished an intensive project that lasted two years and culminated in an eyeball-bleeding long night into day session in which teams replaced the entire LAN infrastructure for a mid-sized Federallly Qualified Health Center at the main datacenter. Over two years everything that could go wrong went wrong, from equipment arriving late to equipment being stolen to unknown software bugs causing the thing to blow up at midnight.

At least now 65,000 patients and another 50,000 clients in Supportive Housing belonging to underserved populations will get better service, for our Mission states emphatically, all people deserve health care.

Finally its done and we can return to things like Island-Life and Life's little pleasures.

WELCOME BACK MY FRIENDS TO THE SHOW THAT NEVER ENDS

So anyway. The Season of good will to all and charitable giving has clearly ended and the Household tree lays out there with the others on the block, waiting for the green WMN trucks to come and haul the last signs of bon homie and tolerant geniality and graciousness to the garbage dump.

Seems appropriate.

By now everyone knows the good guys lost and Baby Booby Frump has seized power at the White House Treefort. He no longer is accompanied by the girl Melanoma, for he has found his best butt-buddy in the form of Evan Tusk. Now we know what all this infatuation with gender and trans-gender is really all about. While Melanoma has gone off to sleep with someone else, Baby Booby now wears beige pants suits, pearls and high heels and he has decorated Marred El Largo with effeminate cupids and filagree and gaudy furniture no real Man would stand for a second.

The Press all showed up and were in the livingroom when everyone rocked back on their collective heels as an infernal howling blasted through the house.

"TUSKY! MY SWEETIE!" shouted Baby.

In on all fours galloped a genus that is found in South African jungles. He sat up on plush divan, opened his mouth wide and issued the famous howl that gives the genus its name. He wore a white stuffed shirt, black suit coat and no shoes.

Well. Are they not a darling pair. An open-mouth all caps shouter and a South African Howler.

Next week we will recap the holidays at the Household while this bromance enjoys a honeymoon.

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.

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