DAY IN BIG SUR

Is there a more beautiful and magical place on earth? Words fail it, as do these photos of our outing today.

Juvenile Justice in Africa

The front page of the Sunday New York Times had been sitting on my kitchen table for a few days as I built up the emotional fortitude to read the article about the juvenile justice system in Africa. As someone who's reported on jails, prisons and the system in this country, I've heard my share of horror stories. It's an outrage how we treat our most vulnerable, and demonized, section of the population.
As I expected, the situation in Africa is, if possible, even more shocking. Given the poverty, political corruption and social chaos of those countries, how could it be otherwise? In the jails, no electricity, no food, no separation of children from abusive adult prisoners. Kids are imprisioned for years without due process, without even getting to see a lawyer. "Defilement" -- sex with an underage girl -- is a frequent charge. The penalty, in theory, is death, unless the young man can come up with about $40 to pay off the girl's family.
The article portrays a situation that is infuriating, terrifying and very, very sad. Least we in this country feel self-satisfied, the reporter rightly points out that even with the abuses, "African nations sometimes hew closer to United Nations standards than do parts of the United States."
Shame on all of us.
You can read the article at www.nytimes.com/2006/12/24/world/africa/24africa.html?_r=1&oref=slogin

CHRISTMAS BY THE NUMBERS

1 sunrise in my purple chair, enjoying the simple peace
1 orange sweater perfect for Nancy
3 hours chopping onions at the Vets Hall for the meal for the homeless
1 Christmas eve movie, Night at the Museum
2 hours hunting for presents, Alex saying the search is the best part
3 CDs in the new Tom Waits
2 shiny hoop earrings with orange beads
12 hours leaving the wrapping all over the living room
73 years of life for James Brown
4 mile bike ride with Gwen
50 stones tossed into the surf at Waddell
12 months in the traditional photo calendar I made for my parents, the first calendar in many years
40 minutes of surprising laughs with Gladys and Steve
30 minutes with South Park Merry Fucking Christmas
1 slice of homemade banana bread
3 pomegranates
10 golf balls hit down the railroad tracks
6 people around the fireplace at George's house
1 bowl of tofu, vegetables and rice with onion rings at Santa Cruz Diner
$10 bill handed to a homeless man
1 woman eating alone rescued by a friend
1 spectacular sunset
Countless blessings of family, friends, health and the awareness to appreciate them

THE SUN STOOD STILL

The word solstice comes from the Latin sol (sun) and sistere (to stand still). Twice a year, the sun stands still as it reaches its maximum or a minimum arc.
Today was as the late December solstice should be, cold and windy, wet with a minus low tide, red and orange sea stars littering the beach.
So, winter begins.
By 5:30, Alex and I were both saying how sleepy, almost dreamy, we were, how it felt so late. But like so many others, we ignored nature's invitation to stay home to rest and pushed ourselves out into the noisy, electrified and very busy downtown. We both noticed how the garbage can outside of Bookshop overflowed with empty coffee cups-- an entire culture determined not to live with the flow of seasons, to be blind to the parallel gifts of short winter days and long summer ones. Alex recalled that for the Navajo, it was taboo not to be awake for the sunrise and the sunset.

I hope someday to live more in tune with the ever-changing light and gift of the seasons, to experience a quieter existence with less pushing against the natural ebb and flow. I love waking with the sun. But at night, I'm full of resistence. Even as a little girl, I always fought going to sleep. Now, even when I'm tired, my body and mind resist letting go and saying good-bye to the day. I've always had trouble with endings. I hold on to things longer than I should. Maybe it's fear. Maybe greed. Something for me to think about.

So on this solstice night, I'm still awake at midnight, warm in a bathrobe, listening to a blues CD that I bought Alex for the holidays and watching the Hanukah candles burn down. Maybe today is the night of the Hanukah miracle and the candles will keep burning. Maybe the shortest day of the year will miraculously become the longest.
Maybe.
Maybe.
No, not tonight.

Latkes and Harmony

My annual latke party (this year for about 20) was a lot of fun, attended by some regulars, some newcomers including a delightful baby, some landesman from the East Coast and some heimish honorary Jews. With six menorahs glowing, there was a spontaneous hora around my too-small living room, a hot game of dreidel and lots of interesting music. Mitch on guitar; Alex on drums; Moreah with great vocals. My friend Helen recently found an old Hanukah 45 that she played as a kid during family gatherings. Another friend brought an amazing record that spoke to Hanukah's theme of political oppression. The Comedian Harmonists were a German singing sensation of the 1920s and '30s. Celebrated today as Germany's first "Boy-Group," the Comedian Harmonists'close-harmony sound brings to mind the Mills Brothers. I learned more about the group on the web site noted below. The elegant sextet, five vocalists and a pianist all dressed in tails, had a repertoire that encompassed styles ranging from folk songs to sentimental hits, all of which was accompanied by silliness on stage and vocal imitation of musical instruments.
Their songs -- most by Jewish composers -- were criticized by the Nazis as early as 1932, when they were not yet in power, as "Jewish-marxist noise." Indeed, three of the group -- Frommermann, Collin, and Cycowski -- were Jews. Cycowski's wife Mary had converted to Judaism, and Bootz's wife Ursula was Jewish. The popular, politically naive musicians ignored all the warning signs. But then in 1934, the unapproved Jewish members of the group were forbidden to perform, and the Comedian Harmonists split up. They gave their last concert in Munich on March 25, 1934. You can learn more about them at www.geocities.com/Vienna/Strasse/1945/WSB/comhar.html
There is also a movie about the group that's now first up on my Netflix queue.

So, let me know if you want an invitation to next year's latke fest!

Poetry Week

I went to two poetry readings this week. Poetry Santa Cruz, organized by my pal Dennis Morton, is really quite an enterprise, with readings by some terrific poets, local and nationally-recognized, taking place at least monthly. Every time I attend readings, I get inspired by the amazing talent in Santa Cruz and the drive of so many people to work in a genre that doesn't exactly rake in the big bucks.

The first reading at Capitola Book Cafe: Gary Young, David Swanger and Joseph Stroud, three local poets with national reputations. My daughter Gwen, not the biggest fan of middle-age parents, paid them the highest tribute: "I want to be a middle-aged man!" What I think she was responding to--what I responded to-- was their self-awareness that rang with humor and insight into the human condition. All three were such generous readers -- to the audience and to each other. I loved seeing men being so encouaging and appreciative of other men, hanging on to each other's words.

Joseph Stroud, author of "Country of Light, "among other works, struck me as the most classically imaginative. Here's the blurb from Amazon: Whether trekking through Mexico or Vietnam, living in the High Sierras, or "painting paradise" in the voice of Renaissance painter Giotto, Stroud's lyrics, prose poems, elegies, and odes articulate a journey of uncommon attention and startling perception.

David Swanger read from his newest book, "Wayne's College of Beauty," which I was eager to hear since it was inspired by the beauty college on the corner of Walnut and Center Sts. I think only the walking dead could pass by the building and not be inspired in some way by the mirrors, swivel chairs, mannequin heads with wigs and white-robed young women who spend their days with hair dyes and curlers and pedicure clippers. I didn't think Swanger's title poem was the strongest thing he read (maybe because my gut reaction to Wayne's is so different than his). But overall, I loved his humor and strong imagery. His short poem about visiting his son in Tassajara (Zen Buddhist retreat center where I've spent many countless, silent hours)cracked me up.

I attended the reading primarily to hear Gary Young, who was Gwen's poetry teacher at Kirby last year and who remains an inspiration to her. Most recently, Gary, who is also a master letterpress printer, helped Gwen put together a gorgeous book of her photos as a gift to a friend. This was my first time hearing Gary read and I fell in love with his ability to say so much with so few words.

Coincidentally, the second poetry reading this week was a Community Read, where various people (this time in Davenport) were invited to read a poem that is particularly meaningful to them. My friend Peggy picked a Gary Young poem that she keeps by her computer at the local newspaper. Peggy talked about how the poem speaks to her as a journalist, whose work is ruled by the disasters of life, rather than by the simple, profound everyday occurances.
I also now have this poem by my computer, a reminder to keep my eyes and heart open.

Two girls were struck by lightning at the harbor mouth.
An orange flame lifted them up and laid them down again.
Their thin suits had been melted away.
It’s a miracle they survived.
It’s a miracle they were ever born at all.

WAVES

With today's big rain storm came a huge swell with some crazy waves. Here's the view along West Cliff near the Lane. There were a handful of surfers out there, some of the infamous big wave riders.

Coincidentally, this morning's New York Times had a front page story about surfing Lake Erie in Cleveland. "It was the kind of day that lives mostly in Cleveland surfers’ fantasies. Pushed by the storm’s winds, water the color of chocolate milk rose 10 feet in the air before slamming onto a beach of boulders and logs....“Surfing Lake Erie is basically disgusting,” said Bill Weeber, known as Mongo, 44."

You can read the entire article at http://www.nytimes.com/2006/12/10/us/10surf.html?_r=1&oref=slogin

FESTIVAL OF SCHLOCK

Inflatable dreidels
Chanukah X-Mas Stocking and Micky Mouse Tree Ornament. Tinker Bell Jewish?




Chanukah chew toy for fido

That Holiday Spirit

I got into the spirit of the season by checking out the seasonal tchotchkes available for the right price on Ebay. So many must-haves, like this Ducky nativity scene. Or this:







And wait! There's more creche kitsch from the North Pole:

And to give equal time to dogs, thanks to my friend Carol for sending me this other link: www.goingjesus.com/cavalcade.shtml

Captions welcome! If you share this kind of holiday spirit, feel free to send anything else my way and I'll post it.

Coming Tomorrow: Equal time for Chanukah

Capitola Book Cafe

What fun yesterday to read aloud a few sections of my novel at Capitola Book Cafe. I'm pretty shy when it comes to public readings (okay, near phobic), so it's a treat to stand before my local audience of supportive friends and readers. I read with another writer of young adult fiction, Ann Jaramillo (middle), who's written a terrific novel about a young Mexican boy trying to make his way north to the U.S. to join his parents. As I listened to her read, I realized that both of our novels revolve around children who have been separated from their parents and families and are dealing with the ensuing swirl of emotions -- fear, anger, and yes, excitement.

I'm always happy when CASA (Court-Appointed Special Advocates) co-sponsors my readings because it's an opportunity to get a public discussion going about the plight of foster kids and parents who, because of drugs or their own mental/emotional limitations, are at risk of losing their kids to the system.
Coincidentally, the local alternative paper ran an article this same week about a recent rise in the official child abuse numbers in Santa Cruz, which are higher than the state average. I always caution audiences about the meaning of such numbers. Yes, the numbers may be high because of drug use and the high cost of living in Santa Cruz (two risk factors). But ironically, high numbers can be good signs -- that people's eyes are open and they are reporting more often. It can also mean that our community takes a broad definition of abuse that includes not only physical abuse, but the more insidious incidences of neglect and emotional abuse. To me, it's a positive that Santa Cruz is a rare county that considers exposure to ongoing domestic violence as a form of reportable child abuse. There may be no physical scars, but the most current brain studies warn how early childhood trauma actually rewires the brain in ways that can cause lifelong post-traumatic stress syndrome, which in turn can contribute to learning disabilities, drug dependence and a whole array of physical and emotional difficulties.

Thanks to Book Cafe, Ann and Joanne Sanchez of Santa Cruz CASA (left in above photo) for making yesterday such a meaningful community forum.

ELLA'S BELLY

A few days ago, my friend Sara's wonderful dog Ella died. I haven't had any dogs of my own, and I consider myself lucky to have had Ella in my life. Named for the great jazz singer, Ella the dog was big, happy and furry, plus kind of nutty in that big, happy, furry dog kind of way. Loud noises terrified her and much to her family's frustration, she was always breaking out of the garage and finding her way into the backyards of strangers who instantly fell in love with her friendliness. She would greet visitors to the house by flopping on her back and making sure you rubbed and rubbed and rubbed her belly.

Walking with Ella along West Cliff Drive felt like walking with a celebrity, a world famous comic. People couldn't pass her without breaking out into a grin. I think they were most struck by her tongue which was ridiculously long and bounced along as she walked.

When Ella developed a tumor, the vet didn't give her long to live, but she survived longer than expected, continuing to demand belly rubs almost to the end. I will miss Ella and send condolences to Sara, Rich, Ben, Max and Jesse.

The picture shows Sara with Ella in her favorite position.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY WENDY

Today is my "little" sister's 50th birthday. We have an oft-told family story about how she was named. My mom's name is Lil, dad is Gil and I am -- yes, groan -- Jill.
My parents were pushing for perhaps Phyllis (Phil). But as a bossy and Peter Pan-obsessed preschooler, I insisted on Wendy and they relented -- smartly (to my mind at least) and putting a cap on the "ill" family.

The photos are of my sister and her three great kids, taken this summer when we all went biking in Jim Thorpe, Pa.

Happy Birthday, Wendy.

KUDOS IN TEXAS

Home, and Other Big, Fat Lies was just selected to be on the 2007-2008 Lone Star Reading list, which I'm told by those in the literary know is a pretty cool thing. Compiled by the Texas Library Association, the books were selected in hopes of motivating young adults to become life-long readers and to participate in the community of readers in Texas. Details at www.txla.org/groups/yart/lonestar.html

I haven't read most of the books on the list (okay, I haven't read any of them yet!), but coincidentally, I'm doing a book reading/signing this Sunday at Capitola Book Cafe with Ann Jaramillo. Her book, La Linea, another Lone Star honoree, is right by my bed for tonight's reading.

There are two other books besides mine on the list with foster care/social services themes. A lot of classic children's literature focuses on orphans or children otherwise separated from the adults in their lives. I suppose it's a way for young readers to be freed from the often overbearing influence and boundaries set by real world adults. Reading offers the adventure and delicious freedom of a world without grown-ups, but without the reality of danger.

If you're looking for a meaningful holiday gift for a 5th-9th grader, this is a good shopping list. Comments are not mine, but that of the Texas Library Association.

Lone Star Reading List 2007 - 2008

1. Buckley-Archer, Linda. Gideon The Cutpurse: Being the First Part of the Gideon Trilogy. Simon & Schuster Children's Publishing. 2006.
In 1763 pickpocket Gideon Seymour is hiding from Tar Man when Peter and Kate, two timetraveling children from the 21st century, fall from the sky and into his life.
2. Bunting, Eve. The Lambkins. Joanna Cotler. 2005.
After being kidnapped by the lonely widow of a brilliant geneticist, Kyle finds himself shrunk todoll-size and living with three other children in a dollhouse from which there seems to be noescape.
3. Cabot, Meg. Avalon High. Harper Collins Publishers. 2006.
Having moved to Annapolis, Maryland, with her medievalist parents, high school junior Ellieenrolls at Avalon High School where several students may or may not be reincarnations of KingArthur and his court.
4. Carter, Ally. I’d Tell You I Love You, But Then I’d Have to Kill You. Hyperion. 2006.
As a sophomore at a secret spy school and the daughter of a former CIA operative, Cammie issheltered from "normal teenage life" until she meets a local boy while on a class surveillancemission.
5. Chima, Cinda Williams. Warrior Heir. Hyperion Books for Children. 2006.
After learning about his magical ancestry and his own warrior powers, sixteen-year-old Jackembarks on a training program to fight enemy wizards
6. Enthoven, Sam. Black Tattoo. Razorbill. 2006.
A sprawling fantasy epic set in modern day London, about a fourteen-year old boy, Charlie, whothinks he's been given superpowers, but in fact has been possessed by a demon. The adventurebrings Charlie--as well as his friend, Jack, and Esme, the one girl raised to stop the demon--from the streets of London into Hell itself, as they prepare for a battle with ultimate stakes.
7. Han, Jenny. Shug. Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers. 2006.
A twelve-year-old girl learns about friendship, first loves, and self-worth in a small town in theSouth.
8. Harkrader, Lisa. Airball: My Life in Briefs. Roaring Brook Press. 2005.
Uncoordinated Kansas seventh-grader Kirby Nickel braves his coach's ire and becomes captain of the basketball team in order to help him prove that NBA star Brett McGrew is the father he has never known.
9. Jaramillo, Ann. La Linea. Roaring Brook Press. 2006.
When fifteen-year-old Miguel's time finally comes to leave his poor Mexican village, cross the border illegally, and join his parents in California, his younger sister's determination to join himsoon imperils them both.
10. Korman, Gordon. Born to Rock. Hyperion Books for Children. 2006.
High school senior Leo Caraway, a conservative Republican, learns that his biological father is apunk rock legend.
11. Lisle, Janet Taylor. Black Duck. Sleuth/Philomel. 2006.
Years afterwards, Ruben Hart tells the story of how, in 1929 Newport, Rhode Island, his familyand his best friend's family were caught up in the violent competition among groups trying tocontrol the local rum-smuggling trade.
12. Lupica, Mike. Heat. Philomel Books. 2006.
Pitching prodigy Michael Arroyo is on the run from social services after being banned fromplaying Little League baseball because rival coaches doubt he is only twelve years old and he has no parents to offer them proof.
13. Mass, Wendy. Jeremy Fink and the Meaning of Life. Little, Brown & Company. Everything changes when the box arrives. Jeremy's father, who died five years ago, left behind a box for Jeremy to open on his 13th birthday. According to the writing on the box, it holds themeaning of life! The problem is, the keys are missing, and the box is made so that only the keyswill open it without destroying what's inside.
14. McKernan, Victoria. Shackleton’s Stowaway. Random House. 2005.
A fictionalized account of the adventures of eighteen-year-old Perce Blackborow, who stowedaway for the 1914 Shackleton Antarctic expedition and, after their ship Endurance was crushed by ice, endured many hardships, including the loss of the toes of his left foot to frostbite, during the nearly two-year return journey across sea and ice.
15. Meehl, Brian. Out of Patience. Delacorte. 2006.
Twelve-year-old Jake Waters cannot wait to escape the small town of Patience, Kansas, until the arrival of a cursed toilet plunger causes him to reevaluate his feelings toward his family and its history.
16. Murdock, Catherine Gilbert. Dairy Queen: A Novel. Houghton Mifflin. 2006.
After spending her summer running the family farm and training the quarterback for her school's rival football team, sixteen-year-old D.J. decides to go out for the sport herself, not anticipating the reactions of those around her.
17. Papademetriou, Lisa. The Wizard, the Witch, and Two Girls from Jersey. Razorbill. 2006.
Two mismatched teenage girls must find their way back home to New Jersey after being zapped into the pages of a fantasy novel.
18. Sonnenblick, Jordan. Notes from the Midnight Driver. Scholastic Press. 2006
16-year-old Alex decides to get even. His parents are separated, his father is dating his formerthird-grade teacher, and being 16 isn't easy, especially when it comes to girls. Instead of revenge though, Alex ends up in trouble with the law and is ordered to do community service at a senior center where he is assigned to Solomon Lewis, a "difficult" senior with a lot of gusto, advice for Alex, and a puzzling (yet colorful) Yiddish vocabulary. Eventually, the pair learn to deal with their past and each other in ways that are humorous, entertaining, and life changing.
19. Van Draanen, Wendelin. Runaway. Knopf Books for Young Readers. 2006.
After running away from her fifth foster home, Holly, a twelve-year-old orphan, travels across the country, keeping a journal of her experiences and struggle to survive.
20. Wolfson, Jill. Home, and Other Big, Fat Lies. Henry Holt. 2006.
Whitney has been in so many foster homes that she can give a complete rundown on the most common varieties of foster parents—from the look-on-the-bright-side types to those unfortunate examples of pure evil. But one thing she doesn’t know much about is trees. This means heading for Foster Home #12 (which is all the way at the top of the map of California, where there looks to be nothing but trees) has Whitney feeling a little nervous. She is pretty sure that the middle of nowhere is going to be just one more place where a hyper, loud-mouthed kid who is messy and small for her age won’t be welcome for long.

The Dharma Gate of Bobby

This morning, I read a friend's blog in which he wrote about his experience in seeing the new film Bobby about the assassination of RFK. Hearing about my friend's reaction -- his tears in the darkened theater, his willingness to allow grief of the past to leap so quickly to his present -- touched me deeply. He spoke of leaving the film feeling as if his life has been cowardly and renewed his committment to truth at the cost of personal satisfaction.

What struck me most personally is my friend's apology to those around him, and to himself.

Every morning for the past many years, I've recited a Buddhist prayer that somehow points me in the right direction in the face of life's frequent encounters with seemingly inconsolable grief or insurmountable private and cultural obstacles.

Beings are numberless, I vow to save them
Delusions rise inexhaustably, I vow to end them
Dharma Gates open endlessly, I vow to enter them
Buddha Way is beyond attainment, I vow to become it

I love these words in all their confusing, straight-foward, and contradictory glory.
What chutzpah for a single human being to vow to save numberless sentient beings! I certainly see delusions rising inexhaustably and have a fine time pointing them out, especially when they arise from others! How do I even begin trying to end them?

In grappling daily with these four lines, in saying them aloud, I usually take them as a challenge and encouragement to be ever more present and to live as much as possible with courage, passion and compassion.

But today, I am seeing the apology in the familiar words. Apology to all the beings I'm unable to save. To all the delusions rising up in myself that I'm unable to even see. To all the available gates of wisdom and truth that I turn my back on out of greed, fear and sheer stubbornness.

I'm not talking about the kind of apology that makes a person buckle under a sense of personal failure. This apology feels very life-affirming -- to apologize for being human with all its limitations. Then, to use the energy of apology to try and connect with everything that appears before me. To live with the hope and exhilaration that RFK's words inspired in my friend, to come at life not just from the mind and heart, but from the soul.

THANKSGIVING ROUND-UP

Like most people, I've had a tortured history with holidays -- the memories both sweet and painful, feeling their draw or bristling with all the personal buttons they can push. I think Thanksgiving 2006 with its gentle and profound simplicity will stay with me for a long time.

The weather was crisp and clear, perfect for the long walk along the beach -- from Rio Del Mar to Pajaro Dunes and back -- that I took in the morning with Gwen, Alex and Lauren.

We had several invitations for dinner and planned to do a tour of the various potlucks, but we wound up staying at one friend's house. With the table laden with all the usual dishes, we started the meal with one of my family's long traditions -- going around the table and each person telling something they are thankful for.

Lord knows, each one of us there had something NOT to be thankful for. One friend lost both of her parents this year. Another has been battling metastasized breast cancer. Another woman just moved out of her home and is reeling from the end of her 20-year marriage. But as I listened, I was so moved by each deeply felt expression of gratitude. My sick friend's thankfulness for enough health to allow her to eat this meal. Appreciation for the beautiful town we live in. For old friends and new ones. For airplanes that bring us home. For the three kinds of cranberry sauce available that night.

For me, my daughter Gwen made the most poignant comment of all. She said something like, "I'm thankful to be having Thanksgiving dinner with people who know how to be thankful."

Amen.

This is a picture of the gorgeous persimmon tree that I can see from my deck -- for which I am grateful.

Thanksgiving Sing-along

It wouldn't be Thanksgiving without it.

Alice's Restaurant
By Arlo Guthrie
This song is called Alice's Restaurant, and it's about Alice, and the
restaurant, but Alice's Restaurant is not the name of the restaurant,
that's just the name of the song, and that's why I called the song Alice's
Restaurant.

You can get anything you want at Alice's Restaurant
You can get anything you want at Alice's Restaurant
Walk right in it's around the back
Just a half a mile from the railroad track

You can get anything you want at Alice's Restaurant
Now it all started two Thanksgivings ago, was on - two years ago on
Thanksgiving, when my friend and I went up to visit Alice at the
restaurant, but Alice doesn't live in the restaurant, she lives in the
church nearby the restaurant, in the bell-tower, with her husband Ray and
Fasha the dog. And livin' in the bell tower like that, they got a lot of
room downstairs where the pews used to be in. Havin' all that room,
seein' as how they took out all the pews, they decided that they didn't
have to take out their garbage for a long time.
We got up there, we found all the garbage in there, and we decided it'd be
a friendly gesture for us to take the garbage down to the city dump. So
we took the half a ton of garbage, put it in the back of a red VW
microbus, took shovels and rakes and implements of destruction and headed
on toward the city dump.
Well we got there and there was a big sign and a chain across across the
dump saying, "Closed on Thanksgiving." And we had never heard of a dump
closed on Thanksgiving before, and with tears in our eyes we drove off
into the sunset looking for another place to put the garbage.
We didn't find one. Until we came to a side road, and off the side of the
side road there was another fifteen foot cliff and at the bottom of the
cliff there was another pile of garbage. And we decided that one big pile
is better than two little piles, and rather than bring that one up we
decided to throw our's down.
That's what we did, and drove back to the church, had a thanksgiving
dinner that couldn't be beat, went to sleep and didn't get up until the
next morning, when we got a phone call from officer Obie. He said, "Kid,
we found your name on an envelope at the bottom of a half a ton of
garbage, and just wanted to know if you had any information about it." And
I said, "Yes, sir, Officer Obie, I cannot tell a lie, I put that envelope
under that garbage."
After speaking to Obie for about fourty-five minutes on the telephone we
finally arrived at the truth of the matter and said that we had to go down
and pick up the garbage, and also had to go down and speak to him at the
police officer's station. So we got in the red VW microbus with the
shovels and rakes and implements of destruction and headed on toward the
police officer's station.
Now friends, there was only one or two things that Obie coulda done at
the police station, and the first was he could have given us a medal for
being so brave and honest on the telephone, which wasn't very likely, and
we didn't expect it, and the other thing was he could have bawled us out
and told us never to be see driving garbage around the vicinity again,
which is what we expected, but when we got to the police officer's station
there was a third possibility that we hadn't even counted upon, and we was
both immediately arrested. Handcuffed. And I said "Obie, I don't think I
can pick up the garbage with these handcuffs on." He said, "Shut up, kid.
Get in the back of the patrol car."
And that's what we did, sat in the back of the patrol car and drove to the
quote Scene of the Crime unquote. I want tell you about the town of
Stockbridge, Massachusets, where this happened here, they got three stop
signs, two police officers, and one police car, but when we got to the
Scene of the Crime there was five police officers and three police cars,
being the biggest crime of the last fifty years, and everybody wanted to
get in the newspaper story about it. And they was using up all kinds of
cop equipment that they had hanging around the police officer's station.
They was taking plaster tire tracks, foot prints, dog smelling prints, and
they took twenty seven eight-by-ten colour glossy photographs with circles
and arrows and a paragraph on the back of each one explaining what each
one was to be used as evidence against us. Took pictures of the approach,
the getaway, the northwest corner the southwest corner and that's not to
mention the aerial photography.
After the ordeal, we went back to the jail. Obie said he was going to put
us in the cell. Said, "Kid, I'm going to put you in the cell, I want your
wallet and your belt." And I said, "Obie, I can understand you wanting my
wallet so I don't have any money to spend in the cell, but what do you
want my belt for?" And he said, "Kid, we don't want any hangings." I
said, "Obie, did you think I was going to hang myself for littering?"
Obie said he was making sure, and friends Obie was, cause he took out the
toilet seat so I couldn't hit myself over the head and drown, and he took
out the toilet paper so I couldn't bend the bars roll out the - roll the
toilet paper out the window, slide down the roll and have an escape. Obie
was making sure, and it was about four or five hours later that Alice
(remember Alice? It's a song about Alice), Alice came by and with a few
nasty words to Obie on the side, bailed us out of jail, and we went back
to the church, had a another thanksgiving dinner that couldn't be beat,
and didn't get up until the next morning, when we all had to go to court.
We walked in, sat down, Obie came in with the twenty seven eight-by-ten
colour glossy pictures with circles and arrows and a paragraph on the back
of each one, sat down. Man came in said, "All rise." We all stood up,
and Obie stood up with the twenty seven eight-by-ten colour glossy
pictures, and the judge walked in sat down with a seeing eye dog, and he
sat down, we sat down. Obie looked at the seeing eye dog, and then at the
twenty seven eight-by-ten colour glossy pictures with circles and arrows
and a paragraph on the back of each one, and looked at the seeing eye dog.
And then at twenty seven eight-by-ten colour glossy pictures with circles
and arrows and a paragraph on the back of each one and began to cry,
'cause Obie came to the realization that it was a typical case of American
blind justice, and there wasn't nothing he could do about it, and the
judge wasn't going to look at the twenty seven eight-by-ten colour glossy
pictures with the circles and arrows and a paragraph on the back of each
one explaining what each one was to be used as evidence against us. And
we was fined $50 and had to pick up the garbage in the snow, but thats not
what I came to tell you about.
Came to talk about the draft.
They got a building down New York City, it's called Whitehall Street,
where you walk in, you get injected, inspected, detected, infected,
neglected and selected. I went down to get my physical examination one
day, and I walked in, I sat down, got good and drunk the night before, so
I looked and felt my best when I went in that morning. `Cause I wanted to
look like the all-American kid from New York City, man I wanted, I wanted
to feel like the all-, I wanted to be the all American kid from New York,
and I walked in, sat down, I was hung down, brung down, hung up, and all
kinds o' mean nasty ugly things. And I waked in and sat down and they gave
me a piece of paper, said, "Kid, see the phsychiatrist, room 604."
And I went up there, I said, "Shrink, I want to kill. I mean, I wanna, I
wanna kill. Kill. I wanna, I wanna see, I wanna see blood and gore and
guts and veins in my teeth. Eat dead burnt bodies. I mean kill, Kill,
KILL, KILL." And I started jumpin up and down yelling, "KILL, KILL," and
he started jumpin up and down with me and we was both jumping up and down
yelling, "KILL, KILL." And the sargent came over, pinned a medal on me,
sent me down the hall, said, "You're our boy."
Didn't feel too good about it.
Proceeded on down the hall gettin more injections, inspections,
detections, neglections and all kinds of stuff that they was doin' to me
at the thing there, and I was there for two hours, three hours, four
hours, I was there for a long time going through all kinds of mean nasty
ugly things and I was just having a tough time there, and they was
inspecting, injecting every single part of me, and they was leaving no
part untouched. Proceeded through, and when I finally came to the see the
last man, I walked in, walked in sat down after a whole big thing there,
and I walked up and said, "What do you want?" He said, "Kid, we only got
one question. Have you ever been arrested?"
And I proceeded to tell him the story of the Alice's Restaurant Massacre,
with full orchestration and five part harmony and stuff like that and all
the phenome... - and he stopped me right there and said, "Kid, did you ever
go to court?"
And I proceeded to tell him the story of the twenty seven eight-by-ten
colour glossy pictures with the circles and arrows and the paragraph on
the back of each one, and he stopped me right there and said, "Kid, I want
you to go and sit down on that bench that says Group W .... NOW kid!!"
And I, I walked over to the, to the bench there, and there is, Group W's
where they put you if you may not be moral enough to join the army after
committing your special crime, and there was all kinds of mean nasty ugly
looking people on the bench there. Mother rapers. Father stabbers. Father
rapers! Father rapers sitting right there on the bench next to me! And
they was mean and nasty and ugly and horrible crime-type guys sitting on the
bench next to me. And the meanest, ugliest, nastiest one, the meanest
father raper of them all, was coming over to me and he was mean 'n' ugly
'n' nasty 'n' horrible and all kind of things and he sat down next to me
and said, "Kid, whad'ya get?" I said, "I didn't get nothing, I had to pay
$50 and pick up the garbage." He said, "What were you arrested for, kid?"
And I said, "Littering." And they all moved away from me on the bench
there, and the hairy eyeball and all kinds of mean nasty things, till I
said, "And creating a nuisance." And they all came back, shook my hand,
and we had a great time on the bench, talkin about crime, mother stabbing,
father raping, all kinds of groovy things that we was talking about on the
bench. And everything was fine, we was smoking cigarettes and all kinds of
things, until the Sargeant came over, had some paper in his hand, held it
up and said.
"Kids, this-piece-of-paper's-got-47-words-37-sentences-58-words-we-wanna-
know-details-of-the-crime-time-of-the-crime-and-any-other-kind-of-thing-
you-gotta-say-pertaining-to-and-about-the-crime-I-want-to-know-arresting-
officer's-name-and-any-other-kind-of-thing-you-gotta-say", and talked for
forty-five minutes and nobody understood a word that he said, but we had
fun filling out the forms and playing with the pencils on the bench there,
and I filled out the massacre with the four part harmony, and wrote it
down there, just like it was, and everything was fine and I put down the
pencil, and I turned over the piece of paper, and there, there on the
other side, in the middle of the other side, away from everything else on
the other side, in parentheses, capital letters, quotated, read the
following words:
("KID, HAVE YOU REHABILITATED YOURSELF?")
I went over to the sargent, said, "Sargeant, you got a lot a damn gall to
ask me if I've rehabilitated myself, I mean, I mean, I mean that just, I'm
sittin' here on the bench, I mean I'm sittin here on the Group W bench
'cause you want to know if I'm moral enough join the army, burn women,
kids, houses and villages after bein' a litterbug." He looked at me and
said, "Kid, we don't like your kind, and we're gonna send you fingerprints
off to Washington."
And friends, somewhere in Washington enshrined in some little folder, is a
study in black and white of my fingerprints. And the only reason I'm
singing you this song now is cause you may know somebody in a similar
situation, or you may be in a similar situation, and if your in a
situation like that there's only one thing you can do and that's walk into
the shrink wherever you are ,just walk in say "Shrink, You can get
anything you want, at Alice's restaurant.". And walk out. You know, if
one person, just one person does it they may think he's really sick and
they won't take him. And if two people, two people do it, in harmony,
they may think they're both faggots and they won't take either of them.
And three people do it, three, can you imagine, three people walking in
singin a bar of Alice's Restaurant and walking out. They may think it's an
organization. And can you, can you imagine fifty people a day,I said
fifty people a day walking in singin a bar of Alice's Restaurant and
walking out. And friends they may thinks it's a movement.
And that's what it is , the Alice's Restaurant Anti-Massacre Movement, and
all you got to do to join is sing it the next time it come's around on the
guitar.
With feeling. So we'll wait for it to come around on the guitar, here and
sing it when it does. Here it comes.

You can get anything you want, at Alice's Restaurant
You can get anything you want, at Alice's Restaurant
Walk right in it's around the back
Just a half a mile from the railroad track
You can get anything you want, at Alice's Restaurant

That was horrible. If you want to end war and stuff you got to sing loud.
I've been singing this song now for twenty five minutes. I could sing it
for another twenty five minutes. I'm not proud... or tired.
So we'll wait till it comes around again, and this time with four part
harmony and feeling.
We're just waitin' for it to come around is what we're doing.
All right now.
You can get anything you want, at Alice's Restaurant
Excepting Alice
You can get anything you want, at Alice's Restaurant
Walk right in it's around the back
Just a half a mile from the railroad track
You can get anything you want, at Alice's Restaurant
Da da da da da da da dum
At Alice's Restaurant
©1966,1967 (Renewed) by Appleseed Music Inc. All Rights Reserved.

HAPPY ANNIVERSARY LIL AND GIL

Today is my parents' 56th wedding anniversary. There are a lot of Hallmark sayings tossed about regarding long-term marriages; my parents' union -- a true through sickness and health -- is the kind held up by family values types as the dinosaur of relationships, killed off by rampant cultural narcissism.

Of course, my parents' marriage-- a living, breathing, flawed thing -- has been infinitely more complex. For me, it has always been and I suspect will always be a touchstone-- a place that I inevitably return to in order to test my own concepts and perceptions of relationships -- what I want, what I don't want, the powerplay (sometimes thrilling, sometimes devastating) between men and women, what people are willing to give up in the name of security. Where is that fine line between opening yourself to another person and closing yourself to yourself?

Perhaps, that's how we all grapple with these perplexing questions, as close witnesses to the way our parents did and didn't work things through.

Thireen Moons

I'm just about finished listening to the audio book of Charles Frazier's Thirteen Moons. I know it has best-seller status and has garnered so many great reviews. But I think that if I had been reading it, rather than listening to it, I would have put it aside after the first 200 pages. Yes, it tackles a fascinating piece of history and no one denies that Frazier can turn a lovely phrase. There's a sense that things are happening plot-wise. But at heart, the book strikes me as empty, in the same way that Cold Mountain did.
In Thirteen Moons, we hear the voice of the narrator for hundreds of pages, from his boyhood through old age, and still I feel as if I really don't know him. He's the same feisty, fine-phrase-turning individual throughout, with no character development, no arc to lead the reader along. Same for the portrayal of American Indians (The character Bear is wise and honest and story-telling, the way Indians are meant to be?). The main female character Claire? There's no real there there, except for her mysterious feminine ways and of course, a body lovingly described. Who is she really?
I listen to audiobooks as I take long walks in the hills or along the ocean. Ultimately, this was like strolling with a companion who goes on and on and on. I found myself frequently tuning out the repetative stories and just letting the soft North Carolina accent of the narrator (Will Patton) wash over me.

COLLEGE APPLICATIONS

A good chunk of this month has been devoted to helping my daughter deal with her college applications. Honestly, I don't know how any young person manages the paperwork (sans paper; it's all on computer) without the direction and hand-holding of a patient parent and also a college counselor. My head is swimming.

Part of the difficulty comes when, like my daughter, the student hasn't traveled the traditional high school route. For her high school experience,my daughter first went to the nearby public high school, home-schooled for a while, returned to public school and then switched to a small private school. What an ordeal trying to make that all fit nicely in the University of California online application. One high school school follows a block schedule; for biology, she went to the local community college. Photography in one of her schools is UC-certified (meaning she can list it on her transcript); in her current school, photography can't be listed. Whew!
The whole annoying and cumbersome process strikes me as the perfect training for following a life that's safe, predictable, and typical. Step outside of the ordinary and pay the price of not being easily classified and understood.

ON ILLNESS

I've had a more social week than usual, including lunch with a friend whose father recently died. Listening to her talk about memories of her dad and the memorial service was especially meaningful to me, since my dad has been recently diagnosed with cancer. My friend and her dad were extremely close, in that they seemed more like friends and colleagues. I so admired that. He edited all of her books. They had long philosophical and intellectual discussions.
My relationship with my own father has none of that flavor, but as I look back over the decades, I see a fierce loyalty to me even when he didn't understand, and definitely didn't approve of, what I was doing with my life.

My dad's struggle with this disease has been difficult, with so many ups and downs of treatment. He feels rotten most of the time, not at all himself. My mom, who is doing an amazing job as his caregiver, says it's a good day when he's grouchy and critical because she recognizes her husband again. Often, he's spacy and unable to hold a thought for more than a beat. It's especially difficult, because my father has always been intensely independent (okay, pig-headed and stubborn), and it's nearly impossible for him to give up control.
My mom, dad, sister and I are struggling with the question that plagues so many cancer patients: Is the chemo worth it?

Hmmm. I intended this blog to be about my social week, but that will be another time. The picture is of my dad, my daughter and niece during a visit two summers ago to Dennis the Menace Park in Monterey.

KELP AT THE LANE

I woke this morning pleasantly sore and achy, a reminder that I've gotten into the ocean for the past four days in a row. Yes! I'm determined to start early this surf season when the air is still warm and surf tame, in order to get my body and mind acclimated. Last year, I waited too long and by the time the big waves hit, I felt too intimidated to get in much. This year, I'm aiming for cautiousness and respect of the water, rather than a lump of fear in my stomach.

Yesterday was an amazing time. From the cliff, the waves looked too small for a boogie-boarder and I probably wouldn't have gone at all, but Gwen wanted to get in. So after dropping her, her friend and their two long boards at Cowells (super low tide (minus 1.4), lovely, glassy longboard waves), I paddled around the corner, past the Indicator and into the Lane.

It was an entirely different ocean there -- churned up a little, intensely thick with kelp. Turned out that there was a little break, more suited to a boogie-boarder than a surfer, and I was the only one out there. That had never happened before, to be the only one in the Lane with something to ride. It unnerved me at first. What did everyone but me know? High fecal count? Shark alert (I pictured my legs dangling in the kelp and knew they looked like part of a sick, helpless seal meal.)

But then I figured --What the heck -- and caught many good rides. The break was a fairly steep drop that re-formed slightly before turning to foam. One time, when coming down the face, the kelp wrapped around my fin and nearly pulled me off my board, like some creature from the Odyssey. But it was so amazing to have this rare experience of being able to stay present with the wave -- with its shape and direction and sound and smell -- without having to stay hyper-aware of other human beings. In that short session, I feel like I learned an enormous amount about reading waves and gained confidence.

At 5 o'clock, the bells from the nearby church rang and the sun dropped, turning the water and kelp and me the most amazing shades of blue and magenta. The water vibrated with color. Over the harbor, the moon showed its huge, round full face.

At the risk of sounding like someone stoned on New Age crystals, I truly believe that every moment of our life is one of perfection. But some of these perfect moments, like yesterday in the ocean, are a hell of a lot easier to recognize than others.

THE NOW OF JILL ON MONDAY MORNING

What I'm Reading Now: Thirteen Moons by Charles Frazier


Best Romanian Techno for Driving: Dragostea Din Tei



Some mottos to ponder:
"It is what it is." -- (Various anonymous grandparents)
"I am what I am" -- Popeye
"Be regular and orderly in your life, like a good bourgeois, so that you may be violent and original in your work.”-- Flaubert

LET YOUR JEW FLAG FLY

For the past few months, I've had the New York Times Sunday paper delivered to my doorstep. I usually read the paper -- or at least scan the headlines -- online each day. But the Times had a special offer and I find that I really enjoy the tactile sensation on a Sunday morning -- the newsprint that comes off on my hands, the snap and crunchy sound of pages being turned as I follow a jump, the sharp creases when I fold the paper to fit on my lap.

Today's A section alone kept me occupied for a good morning:

G.O.P. Glum as It Struggles to Hold Congress (Poor babies!)

The town of Aberdeen, Wa. is trying to become known as more than the place that gave Kurt Cobain his first guitar and a heroine habit.

An article about Legacy.com (the online obituary site where mourners can post memories of the deceased). Paid screeners constantly troll for mean-spirited postings and the airing of dark family secrets. "I think it's true that death brings out the best and the worst in people."

An article on page 3 -- With Jewish Roots Now Prized, Spain Starts Digging -- looks at how cities and towns across Spain are searching for the remains of medieval synogogues, excavating old Jewish neighborhoods, etc. -- 500 years after forced expulsion and conversions. Some towns are even faking old synagogues and neighborhoods, hoping to cash in on the tourism biz (We know how rich those Jews are!). How's this for a quote: "It's the opposite of 300 years ago when people chnaged their last names ...now it's trendy to say you have Jewish roots."

The same appears to be happening in other previously anti-semitic hotspots. The old Jewish Quarter in Prague is now basically a Jewish theme park drawing tourists and young people with its trendy coffee shops, pricey restaurants, and 1,000-year-old graves. Seems that Kafka -- His Eminence of alienation and paranoia -- is to Prague what Frida Kahlo is to Mexico City -- the ubiquitous icon whose compromised image rests on everything from billboards to coffee mugs.
Ironically, this burgeoning of Jewish pride coincides with a burgeoning of anti-semitism in Europe.

I am constantly amused and amazed (and yes, depressed) at the ability of our species to hold conflicting realities in their minds, and their inability to recognize inconsistencies of thought. Reminds me of one of my juvenile hall students, a handsome, agreeable young man with neo-Nazi tattoos. When I took a chance and told him I was Jewish, he really lit up and pumped his fist in the air. "Me, too!" he said. "Jewish power." Then, he asked me to bring him in a dreidel.