Ask the Dust/1, a Romance

Look at that mountain

Look at those trees

Look at that bum over there, man

He's down on his knees

Look at these women

There ain't nothing like 'em nowhere -- Randy Newman, "I Love LA"

Established in 1908, Philippe's The Original is the oldest continuously operating restaurant in Los Angeles. PHOTO:KCS

In 1952, when I was 5-years-old, I fell in love.

We had arrived in California the previous year, having left Seattle where my sister, Mimi, and I were born. We first lived in Alhambra, then Monterey Park. Both towns were a short drive from downtown Los Angeles, whose retailers and restaurants served the surrounding communities.

My father had found employment at the downtown U.S. Post Office so we spent time together in that neighborhood, which is now considered historic. Times have changed. As Bob Dylan says, "A lot of water under the bridge, a lot of other stuff, too." Like gleaming high rises and freeways that will swallow you whole.

Still my memories remain the same, sweet and bitter, a romance that started when my Dad introduced me to a sandwich, which represented a place, time and eventually a history that has lingered in the right side of my brain, where I'm told feelings are stored, for more than 70 years!

Los Angeles, the city of Angels, the home of many towns, the place that defies place and defines a concept. Maybe it's simply the home of the Dodgers, those bums from Brooklyn, or the Lakers, although there are no lakes. A sports town with a famed Coliseum and one of the original NFL teams: the Rams, honored yet more often scorned as the Lambs by their own fans. 

Call it a beacon, a light that attracts dreamers wanting to be stars. The epicenter of the movies, the House of Hollywood: The Studios. Home of The Beach Boys and Good Vibrations, celebrated by musicians who flocked to Los Angeles in the 70s to record hits like California Dreamin', Hotel California and L.A. Woman.

It's a receiving station for foreign immigrants, many from south of the border, and domestic refugees from colder climes like my family, looking for a new start under the sun.

But it's really a desert, isn't it? When the Colorado River dries up, what do you got? In the meantime spread and build, spread and build, ad infinitum. 

There's a flip side to the fantastical L.A. coin, darkly described by mid-century L.A. noir writers like Raymond Chandler, John Cain and James Elroy, author of The Black Dahlia, based on a grisly real-life murder right here in LA River City. 

Author John Fante, according to some L.A.'s greatest literary icon, put it this way in his 1939 novel, Ask the Dust:

"Los Angeles, give me some of you. Los Angeles, come to me the way I came to you, my feet over your streets, you pretty town I loved you so much, you sad flower in the sand, you pretty town."

Boiled down, LA is a contradiction. She's a beautiful woman stripped naked by forces of greed, lust and gratuitous celebrity.

She's Gloria Swanson on the staircase in the movie Sunset Boulevard. She's Kim Kardasian on the runway. She's Faye Dunaway, impregnated by her own father, John Huston, in the movie Chinatown. She's the ill-fated wife of O.J., Nicole Brown Simpson. She is movie starlet-turned-political renegade Jane Fonda.

She's a victim and survivor. That's why I love her. Which is why, on a recent trip to Southern California, I had to visit the site of the most sensuously savory LA experience of my long-ago youth on the corner of N. Alameda and Ord streets, around the corner from Chinatown, a couple of blocks from Union Station. There, sits a sandwich joint called Philippe's The Original.

Is it not the lips and tongue that tastes love first? Add the work-shop romance of a sawdust-covered floor. 

"It's called a French Dip," said my Dad, naming a signature sandwich that helped build a town.

Opened in 1908 by a Frenchman named Philippe Mathieu, Philippe's holds the distinction of being the oldest continuously operating restaurant in Los Angeles, and the place where the French Dip sandwich was invented. This latter claim remains arguable, due to a number of different and doubtless apocryphal stories.

In 1951 Mathieu told the LA Times that he dipped a sandwich roll into his beefy broth at the request of a customer. The sandwich eater's reaction was so positive that customers began asking to have their rolls likewise dipped in the juice. Another story explains how Mathieu, not one to waste food, dipped a stale bun into the broth, and hungry customers begged for more. Stale bread being the mother of invention.

From my first taste at Philippe's, I became a French Dip aficionado, a lover of juicy beef, that continued through my college years. Although I never returned to Philippe's, the place remained a delicious, distant memory, a first romance that never faded away. And strange though it is, over those years my personal consumption of beef had diminished to practically nil.

Yet the question remained: would she taste the same today? Would I experience a latent orgasmic sensation? What would it be like to find out? Desire plagued me when I saw on Facebook that Philippe's The Original was still operating in the same location at 1001 N. Alameda St. And the reviews sang like temptations to the soul.

"Amazing!" "Melt in your mouth!" "Indulge in the juicy, savory goodness!" I ignored any negative comments.

Woodcut print entitled Bunker Hill by CP Fels.

Christmas week, Barbara and I drove to Southern California to see our grandson Finn dance in Tchaikovsky's The Nutcracker presented by Pacific Festival Ballet at the Fred Kavu Theatre in Thousand Oaks. The performance was mesmerizing. We stationed ourselves in Barbara's hometown of Manhattan Beach, to visit family and long-time friends, while visions of Philippe's French Dip danced in my head.

Checking my iPhone, we were based a mere 23 miles from the legendary sandwich shop. "We must go there," I said to my wife, who has very little interest in French Dips. 

Amid our full schedule of walking, browsing and hanging out, I was able to convince her to join me on my date with destiny in the heart of old Los Angeles. She had expressed interest in seeing Angel's Flight, the historic funicular railway on Bunker Hill, based on a woodcut print by Cathy Fels (CP Fels) hanging on our dining room wall at home. 

The print, entitled Bunker Hill, shows a stately Victorian house with a faintly recognized version of L.A.'s iconic City Hall in the background. With imagination, you can see Angel's Flight.

"I've never been to Angels Flight," lamented my spouse. “I want to ride it.”

On the map, Bunker Hill is about one mile from Philippe's in the same historic district. I expected that following a late lunch, we could walk between the two. I was mistaken.

Due to a multitude of freeways that wind like giant snakes around and through the landscape of Los Angeles, intersecting, overpassing and looping from head to tail, a distance of 23 miles could consume 24 hours, if you don't know the off-ramps, toll routes, on-ramps, road codes, fast lanes and/or you go during rush hour. When is it not rush hour? 

Love is an awful plague -- Gabriel Garcia Marquez.

The drive to downtown Los Angeles consumed a little more than one hour. As we drew closer, we were surprised to see numerous shining corporate high rises that neither of us remembered. The 110 Freeway circled to the right. We took the Broadway offramp, featuring several converging lanes -- outbound and inbound -- full of vehicles swimming like hungry koi who, unlike us, seemed to know where to find their next meal. 

Behind the wheel, I felt as though I had died and gone to Hell. Or at least Purgatory. My penance was to change lanes without incident. A few close calls, and we found ourselves in Chinatown. I recalled the final despairing line from the movie penned by screenwriter Robert Towne: "Forget it Jake. It's Chinatown."

Within a couple of minutes and three white-knuckle trips around the block, we discovered our destination. The sign atop the corner building read, Philippe The Original -- French Dipped Sandwiches. We pulled into the free-parking lot (for customers) in back. I climbed out of our Hyundai Santa Fe, stood erect and inhaled deeply, followed by a long slow exhale. The terror on my wife's face had subsided.

From here it would be all gravy. 

Next installment: The Full Monty experience at Philippe's, riding Angel's Flight and discovering The Last Book Store.

The Art of Forgiving

But, you and I, we've been through that
And this is not our fate
So let us stop talkin' falsely now
The hour's getting late. -- Bob Dylan

American folksingers Pete Seeger and Burl Ives reunite in 1993.

If there is one thing that I have tried to take with me from my early years of Catholicism,* it’s the virtue of forgiveness. A simple act that can be so difficult yet so rewarding. The gateway to Heaven.

Catholics go to confession to ask forgiveness for their sins. Again and again.

Jesus’ words dying on the cross: Forgive them Father for they know not what they do. (Luke 23:34)

Forgiveness is liberation. Overcoming a grudge releases us. Letting go of hard feelings takes courage. It is a step toward a higher principle, a spiritual understanding and guide for life.

Forgiving is not forgetting. Sometimes you forgive, then you forgive again... letting go becomes a process.

A memory that sticks in my mind were the words of American folksinger Pete Seeger upon the death of his contemporary Burl Ives.

Ives was popular on radio and TV during the 50s and 60s. He had a grandfatherly beard and a mellifluous tenor voice. A onetime hobo, Ives began his career as a left-leaning folksinger.

His song, There was an Old Lady Who Swallowed a Fly, became a favorite of many in the 50s when I was growing up, a fun sing-along that evoked smiles and good feelings with its rhyming, tongue-twisting verses, each ending with, I don’t know why she swallowed a fly, perhaps she'll die. It was as harmless as a playful puppy, a sign of those days that avoided controversy.

While Ives enjoyed the spoils of popularity, Seeger was exiled for his socialist-communist associations.

Seeger sang for and about oppressed people, those who suffered from having their rights taken from them. He told the story of Victor Jara, a Chilean folksinger-guitar player whose hands were cut off and ultimately died from torture, a victim of Augusto Pinochet's dictatorship in Chile.

During the early 50s, following the War, an anti-communist movement swept the United States, led by Wisconsin Senator Joseph McCarthy. The House UnAmerican Activities Committee (HUAC) held hearings. Many media figures -- actors, filmmakers, screen writers were named as communists or communist sympathizers. Pete Seeger was blacklisted.

Having had American communist associations, Ives volunteered to testify before the HUAC. His willingness to talk and name names saved his career, which flourished. He became well loved and revealed a talent for dramatic acting, winning an Oscar for best male actor in a supporting role in the film, Big Country (1959). A year earlier he had personified Big Daddy, the impassioned patriarch, in a supporting role in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, based on the play by Tennessee Williams, and featuring superstars Paul Newman and Elizabeth Taylor.

Seeger resented Ives for his HUAC testimony. Seeger was banned on American television until 1960. That’s when I first heard of him. His story, I believed, made him an authentic folksinger representing what was known as the common folk, or working class.

On April 14, 1995 Burl Ives passed away. He was memorialized by many Americans as a beloved folksinger-actor. I happened to be listening to NPR that day. Seeger was being interviewed. He spoke kindly about Ives. The interviewer asked Seeger if he carried hard feelings about Ives because of his testimony.

"No," he said. "There's such a thing as forgiveness." His words rang loud in my mind, resurrecting a a virtue we too often do not hear of.  

Two years earlier, he and Ives, then in a wheel chair, had reunited for the first time since the HUAC ban at a benefit concert in New York City where they sang Blue Tail Fly together, according to legend, a favorite song of Abraham Lincoln. 

Jimmy crack corn and I don’t care, old master’s gone away...

My holiday resolution is to forgive someone very close to me. That someone is me. Maybe then I can forgive another for whom I have held a long grudge. It starts with yours truly.

As more of a Zen practitioner today than a Christian, I see forgiveness as ridding myself of attachment to the past, aligning myself with the present, being momentous, in the flow not fighting it. 

I accept wrongs as a part of life. We all make mistakes, do stupid things. However, as the man said, "There's such a thing as forgiveness." 

Tis the season. A time to forgive. The gift of giving.

Zen saying: You've eaten, now wash your bowl.

* Posts: Inside the Church 10/6/24; Adjusting My Religion 5/18/24

Frida the German Shepherd

Frida at Mono Lake, Calif.

Frida passed yesterday. She went peacefully, the same way she dealt with life. A fierce and natural protector with the soul of a saint, Frida was smart, loyal and graceful; she loved children, she loved Barbara, and most of all, she loved me, more than I deserved. She was an excellent traveling companion. She was my partner and the best friend a person could ask for. There never was a dog like Frida the German Shepherd.

with Barbara and Kevin during Santa Cruz sunset

above Pidgeon Point, Calif.

keeping an eye on me

walking the hallway with Cooper

playing with the pack at Mitchell's Cove

on the endless dog trail in Santa Fe, New Mexico

sniffing for chilis in Hatch, New Mexico

with the boss after a shower

with Coco at the South Rim of the Grand Canyon

with parents at Pidgeon Point Lighthouse

showing her profile

taking a break at Mesa Verde at Four Corners

enjoying sunset with her best friend in Carmel, Calif.

hanging out in Santa Fe, New Mexico with lonesome cowboy

on her bed at home

with Coco at sunset in Bakersfield, Calif.

at the cove during a shorebird feeding frenzy 

with dad at Pogonip labyrinth above Santa Cruz

on the trail with her favorite hiking partner

walking the Strand in Manhattan Beach, Calif.

in the lobby of the Mark Hopkins Hotel in San Francisco at Christmas

playing on the beach at the San Lorenzo River mouth

snoozing on the hardwood

with Barbara enjoying the heat in Palm Springs

with Finn, Samson and Coco at Griffith Park Observatory in Los Angeles

with Summer, Piper and Papa at Martin Luther King Parade downtown Santa Cruz

hanging at home with Mystiko and Viva

on the Bethany Curve trail in Santa Cruz

Frida was a rescue. She walked the earth spreading her gentle presence for about 13 years. I'll miss you, girl. You were the best.

Dog Gone

I've changed my ways a little, I cannot now

Run with you in the evening along the shore,

Except in a kind of dream; and you, if you dream a 

    moment,

You see me there.   -- Robinson Jeffers 1941

Maggie and Bryna with their doggies

In the poem above, Mr. Jeffers takes the voice and perspective of his beloved English bulldog, Haig, who is buried next to his stone house in Carmel. 

One of our deceased dogs, Skyla, and three of our cats -- Pancho, Belle Star and Chiloquin (aka Cheeks) -- lie in rest in our backyard, a veritable pet cemetery.

Our beloved Frida, the German Shepherd, still walks by my side, although slowly while sniffing every scent along our way. Another of our canine companions, perhaps the most remarkable of all, is not buried in our lot. Still, she deserves a story because she was hardly a trusty companion, more like a storm of trouble. Perhaps it all started because of her name, which was Mudshark.

We found her at the local Animal Shelter where she stood out among the other dogs. You could say she had charisma. She was small of stature, with a mixed black-and-tan coat and ears that folded over like Disney's Tramp. You may have thought that her right eye, a bluish white marble, was a sign of good fortune, but I tell you, it was a witch's curse.

Our youngest daughter, Bryna, at the time about 8, pointed her out, and soon after we brought the adorable mutt home. 

Bryna named her Mudshark after a famous sled dog in the Yukon, based on a book she had read.

She was no ordinary dog, as we soon learned. She was untrainable. She was indomitable. She was the Houdini of dogs.

From her markings we figured she had some Queensland in her -- the pattern on her spine was feathered blue and black. Maybe a little Aussie in her, too. I suspect also a trace of dingo.

On New Years Eve of 1990 Mudshark made her debut. As usual there had been a big party at the town clock downtown. At least half the town's folk would gather and close ranks as midnight ticked near. Our family had stayed home to ring in the new year. Except for our newly rescued pet.

Somehow, Mudshark had slipped out. We hadn't noticed until about half-past midnight when a Santa Cruz police cruiser showed up in front of our house, a spotlight searching the property, spreading alarm! What was up?

"It's Mudshark!" said Vanessa, our 16-year-old daughter.

Sure enough. Her head popped up in the window of the cruiser. She had been found at the town clock celebration, picked up by a friendly officer and escorted home like Cinderella in a horse-drawn coach.

We all laughed at the spectacle. It was only the beginning.

Sitting in my dentist's chair some weeks later, I nearly choked when he said to me; "I saw Mudshark the other day trotting down West Cliff Drive."

"You know Mudshark?" I was stunned. And the novocaine had hardly kicked in. Her reputation was spreading.

We had a yard to keep her in, with a gate. How was she getting out?

I built a kennel to keep her in during those times when the kids were in school and Barbara and I were at work. Framed with two-by-fours and covered with a heavy-gauged wire mesh, the kennel door latched tightly closed. The floor was made of half-inch plywood. She had a bowl of water and all seemed fine.

"You'll be staying here today, Muddy," I made sure the latch was hooked and could not be pushed open.

When I returned midday to check on her, the gate was closed and the kennel was empty. There was no sign of damage. Mudshark had disappeared.

That afternoon, Barbara had attended an open house showing at the historic Epworth Victorian up for sale at $5 million. Amidst real estate agents and brokers viewing the spacious quarters of bayview rooms and beautiful wainscoting and luscious fabrics and ornate chandeliers, a smallish scrappy-looking dog scrambled up and down the hardwood stairs.

Barbara pretended not to notice, embarrassed by her unruly pet, and shocked by her surprise appearance.

After careful inspection, I realized that Mudshark had called upon her forceful determination and pushed the kennel door open just enough to slip out and have it snap closed. Attempting a number of fixes to keep the kennel shut tight, I discovered that Mudshark was able to tear apart wire and chew through wood like a beaver.

She wore a name tag, a name that few forgot.

We would receive calls almost daily from the security guard at the Municipal Wharf: "Come and get Mudshark, please." As well as residents from throughout the area -- from Natural Bridges to Beach Hill.

"Mudshark's here."

She seemed to follow the action -- a birthday party, wedding, barmitzva.

Occasionally she would leave for a day or two, show up with her head swollen and cockeyed as if she'd been in a street brawl, sometimes stinking of rotting sea life. Oh, Muddy... The enemy inside her was making her pay.

Determined to contain her, I was finally able to make the kennel escape-proof. That's when she started barking, which created a horrible disturbance for our neighbor who called the police. I once found Mudshark clinging like a monkey to the wire ceiling of the kennel and barking.

This was not good. I took her to the beach to run, but she would simply bark incessantly at anyone throwing a ball. She'd rather bark than fetch, which annoyed many a dog owner. 

There were times when I wanted to strangle her.

As stories of our intrepid dog spread, we met a couple of women who lived in a remote area of Humboldt County who offered to take Mudshark. She would be cared for and have lots of open space to roam.

We said our goodbyes to Mud. Over the next couple of months we received regular postcards informing us of idyllic days spent in the forests and along the creeks with Mudshark. We loved hearing of her splendid new life in Humboldt. After a while, the postcards stopped coming.

Time passed and our lives calmed down without the regular commotion of Mudshark. Then one day Bryna burst into the house.

"I just saw Mudshark!"

It was true. Doggone, if Mud wasn't back in town! She had hitched a ride with some young folks heading down the coast. They had found her hanging around a general store up north, always near the action. She was traveling in a camper bus.

"I've really become attached to her," said the young woman in a tie-dyed shirt. "We named her Redway because that's where we found her."

We weren't about to spoil their trip. Mudshark seemed happy. I swear her oddball eye winked at me.

We don't need a grave stone in our yard to remember the Mud.

Elon Wouldn’t Talk to Me

Shortly following the new millennium, or if you prefer, the year 2000, I spent a fair amount of time in Silicon Valley. I was seeking out companies that might enjoy taking a break from many hours in front of a computer and visiting Santa Cruz for a BBQ beach party.

I was employed as a sales manager for the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk. It was a position I would never have dreamed of, yet it fell into my lap in a dream-like way.

First of all, I live in a neighborhood that is very near the Boardwalk. I had spent many a day staring over the water thinking about my next move -- where I might find work -- with the Boardwalk in the background and the wooded Santa Cruz Mountains farther in the distance. A position with the seaside amusement park was the furthest thing from my mind.

Following up on an ad in the local newspaper, I applied and interviewed for a sales position at the amusement park. My most recent employment had been a complete bust, as an ill-defined editorial director for a high-tech public relations firm in Silicon Valley. That lasted six months and our parting had not been pleasant.

I did not mention that job on my resume, which did, however, include a successful sales and project management career of 10-years in the holography industry, based in Santa Cruz with worldwide reach. As is the case with many technology companies, that business ran its course and dwindled to obscurity. Yet the sales figures and account names, including 3M, Proctor & Gamble and the U.S Postal Service, looked impressive.

Following my first interview at the Boardwalk, I received a call from the very nice woman in the HR department. "Thank you for your application," she said. "At this time I'm afraid we're going to have to pass on you."

"I'm so disappointed," I replied without hesitation. "I really want to work for the Boardwalk! I enjoyed meeting you and was looking forward to it."

"You know," she said. "I've never done this before but I've changed my mind. I will schedule you for another interview with our sales director." That next interview included a panel of directors. I gave them my strongest, most positive pitch and won them over. However, I wasn't finished yet. 

I still had to separately convince Kathie Keeley, Sales Director, that I wasn't a stuffed shirt, that I knew how to have, and project, fun. I think my resume was over-the-top corporate appearing, as well as my coat and tie. In a test of my quotient for fun, I rode the spanking new virtual roller coaster, hooting and hollering. Thus began a 16-year employment with a carefully managed company that clearly was not going to fail. My colleagues turned out to be some of the finest, down-to-earth and talented people I have had the pleasure to work with.

So Elon. 

Tesla at this time was only a name and a dream. Google the same. I visited both companies in their early years. I had heard the chatter, but they were too small for what I was after. I wanted big numbers for big beach parties. 

Dressed in an aloha shirt and shorts, I would drive around Silicon Valley looking for prospects that I couldn't find in any other way. I played Travis McGee sleuthing for clues in the streets and alleys of Sil-Valley. New companies with awkward names like Nauto and Nutanix were sprouting up over night as the once agricultural landscape turned soft industrial. Large parking lots filled with vehicles signaled the big fish I wanted to reel in. In sales, it's always about numbers. 

If I couldn't get in through the front lobby, which often was unattended and locked, I walked around back looking for an open door or random person to ask. Most of these plants were cube farms -- large, windowless indoor spaces filled with work cubicles (tiny offices). Perhaps a dog with name like Browser would be trotting around. Maybe a game room with foos ball and ping pong. I walked through practically unnoticed, blending in, looking for a contact, someone who organized outing and events for employees. I sincerely believed that these workers would enjoy a day of fun at the beach. 

Our package included a private area with BBQ lunch with sides and soft drinks -- beer and wine optional -- beach volleyball court and ball, plus all-day unlimited rides. Add-ons included a live band, games coordinator, face painting and more. I emceed all my events with a welcome address and thank you. I loved having the microphone. Back in the office, I created my own persona as Mr. Beach.

During this period, I was also writing freelance articles for South Bay Accent, a slick lifestyle magazine published in Santa Clara Valley since 1978. Many of these pieces were profiles of successful personalities in the valley, in tech, government and sports. The editor asked me to write a profile of Elon Musk, little known at the time, but showing up on the radar.

I knew his offices were on Deer Park Drive in Palo Alto, a posh industrial neighborhood where the Wall Street Journal and Hewlett Packard -- the original Silicon Valley company started by Bill Hewlett and David Packard in a backyard garage -- were now located. I had persuaded several groups from Hewlett Packard to come enjoy a beach party at the Boardwalk. One engineer told me that he had solved two problems while lounging on our beach deck. I used his words as a testimonial. I liked dropping in at the HP lobby where the same male receptionist would greet visitors, including me, with the grace of a cultured maitre'd. "May I fix you a latte or cappuccino ?"

This was early Silicon Valley. And HP was hailed the model high-tech company (see The Hewlett-Packard Way). Yet, the fluid nature of the Valley vaporized even HP. Beach parties ended under Carly Fiorina's reign as CEO.

I contacted Tesla headquarters introducing myself as a writer for South Bay Accent, the lifestyle magazine of Silicon Valley. I proposed an interview with Mr. Musk for a cover feature. At least a real person answered my call. Remember those days?

I researched Elon but information was sparse at that time. He was from South Africa where his mother had been a high-fashion model. She dominated the Musk files.

I called several more times without ever receiving a direct response. It was clear that Elon considered himself too important to give a moment of his time for a local magazine profile. Elon wouldn't talk to me. He had bigger plans. 

Google beach parties at the Boardwalk eventually went from 50 guests to 2,000 guests per division, as the tech giant slowly gobbled up the city of Mountain View. They loved getting away for a day at the beach. Tesla employees, even as the company grew in numbers taking over the old GM-cum-Toyota auto factory in Fremont, never had that opportunity. 

Note: In 2007 the privately-owned Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk celebrated its 100-year anniversary as the longest running seaside amusement park on the West Coast. We held a gala reception and smashing party in our historic Cocoanut Grove.

 

Exiled in a Strange Land

Outriggers hit the water for an early morning paddle while the hummingbird observes her habitat.

The hummingbird was perched on the very same yarrow limb, facing inland. Each day when I walk to the corner for my morning salutation, we greet each other.

"I see you're waiting," I'll say.

She remains still, her needle-like beak pointing toward me. Sun rising behind her, I cannot see her eyes or finer features. She appears a silhouette.

After a moment or two, she'll flutter around performing her aerial dance, maybe circle me, then head out beyond the cliff over the water and back to her branch.

To her, this morning was like any other, save for the unusually fierce offshore wind that rattled every hanging object in our backyard last night. Election results had been coming in faster than expected and the timing of the blustering offshore seemed ominous.

My morning routine, which typically begins just before dawn in order to service Frida, includes quiet observation of the birds and critters and their routines. A family of raccoons might be crawling one-by-one into the corner storm drain for safety before daylight. Tiny wrens skitter around helter-skelter pecking for bugs and worms. Beyond the animals lies the major force of nature in our midst -- the ocean with its tidal shifts that draw from the moon.

I believe that the natural world around me stays in tune with the tides. The hummingbird knows more than I do. Frida picks up on these forces as well. We humans are so out of touch its ridiculous.

This morning the offshore wind coming from the land had a touch of warmth which means it's been hot inland. The surface of the bay was textured with mini peaks. Surfers like it because the offshore helps shape the waves, giving them a better curl, a hollow tube.

My personal hollow feeling based on results of our National Election last night seemed a smaller deal compared to my surroundings, from the hummingbird to the moon and beyond. We're all in this together.  Of course, as white hetero male on firm ground, I'm privileged. If I were an employed immigrant without the proper papers, I would be very nervous, even frightened. If I were a woman I would feel betrayed. 

Personal freedoms are at risk. What I write could well cause trouble. History shows that under dictatorships, writers are the first to go. Words of dissent are too powerful for authoritarians.

In my lifetime of nearly eight decades, I've only rejoiced over Election results a couple of times. I exiled myself and two daughters to a liberal enclave on the California coast 46 years ago, not knowing what that would lead to. I count my blessings.

Elections are like the tide: they rise and recede, ebb and flow. The ancients who studied such things unencumbered by the noise of electronic media and vicissitudes of modern life tell us that light is the other side of dark. We have reached a dark place.

This is inevitable before the light. Keep the faith. Take a walk in the woods. Keep the light shining within. A resistance is forming.

Note: This blog post was censored by Facebook for "breaking the rules." It seems that Meta (owner of FB and Instagram) fears retribution by the new order.

 

Thanks Joe, Hello Kamala

From the redwood forests to the gulf stream waters... this land is made for you and me. Protect our natural resources and federal lands from oil drilling and development. 

Joe Biden has been the best President of my lifetime. 

He gave us hope. He brought us out of COVID when things were looking pretty bleak. He did so without rancor or vengeance. He didn't mince words, didn't pretend that everything was fine and great because he was in charge and the only one who could save us.

Inflation went sky high, yet Joe had good ideas and programs. Thanks to him and his leadership inflation has come down to pre-COVID level. 

Our infrastructure has been failing and there was a lot of jawboning before him about how devastated things were -- the word from the Great Poser was "carnage.”Rather than big talk, Joe took big action. Roads are being repaired and improved across the country. Jobs are being created. We did not fall into the recession that many economists thought we would.

Our country is finally cruising, flush with new energy. Look at the numbers. Build from the bottom up, he said, "not the top down." The trickle-down economy -- supply-side -- produced a huge gap between the rich and the poor. The trickle never reached the bottom. Those poor folks you see on the streets didn't just appear out of nowhere. They're a result of years of supply-side economics that paid the CEOs grandiose dollars while the little people -- most of them hard working -- had to secure two jobs just to stay afloat. Others turned to drugs and addiction. Yet corporations have flourished, gobbled up the little guys, killed the mom and pops.

Joe has kept us out of war during one of the most dangerous periods on earth. He's bolstered our allies and refused to pander to dictators and autocrats who would have us surrender to fascism. That is, have our nation fall victim to falsehoods, throw the intellectuals who dissent into prisons, poison them, make them disappear, keep them from speaking the truth, while enriching the plutocrats and oligarchs, the wealthy loyalists.

Joe is a decent guy. He admits when he's wrong. Country is more important to him than country clubs. Dictators of our world know he won't bend to their whims. He knows right from wrong. There's no deals being made that sacrifice our freedom and keep us under the foot of an autocrat. He knows who we are and what we stand for.

Has Joe been perfect? No one is perfect. People make mistakes and they own up. They accept losing. That's how we learn. Simple facts. Is he a great speaker? No, he's a doer, an action man.

We've got a climate crisis, a shaky international situation, threats of nuclear war and we cannot afford to have a madman in charge. The risks are too high. Our problems do not stem from too many immigrants. That is a lie and a sham. They stem from an inequality of wealth and lack of strong leaders who can see through the false screens. 

We need a leader who will build us up, not tear us down. Kamala Harris has been watching carefully taking notes, calculating what works for the real people, not the business buddies. Truth is, the other guy with the big-brand name cannot run a business without going bankrupt (6 times). He's made his fortune by selling his brand. It's phony salesmanship, a con, bitcoins and Bibles, not nuts-and-bolts business. His current business strategy is "Drill, baby, drill."

To those who believe in Mr. Big Shot, what has he ever done for you other than make you want to tear our country down? His is an emotional appeal, not fact-based realism. It's television, social media, not reality. Anyone who seeks vengeance, promotes hate, loves to insult people, is not going to help you. He's a bully.

For our future. For our planet. For the good of the world, let's elect a smart, intelligent woman who understands -- a decent, rational person. She's learned from the best and will make it better. She's a fighter.

Business Note: According to the nonpartisan Committee for a Responsible Budget, Trump's proposed lavish spending, his tariffs and tax cuts, will increase U.S. debt by $7.5 trillion, compared to Harris's plans that will amount to $3.5 trillion, through 2035. Talk about inflation! Source: the Wall Street Journal, Oct. 11, Greg Ip's column Capital Account, page 2. 

Now he is saying that the conservative Wall Street Journal has no credibility. In the real world, the WSJ understands business and basic economics better than he does.

Trump has no credibility. He is not fit to be our President. Vote in a winner! Vote Kamala!