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We received a tip from a reader quoting section 8807 of the California Elections Code which says,
“WITHDRAWAL OF CANDIDATES: VACANCIES [8800 – 8811]
“8807. If the vacancy occurs among candidates chosen at the direct primary to go on the ballot for the succeeding general election for a nonpartisan office, the name of that candidate receiving at the primary election the next highest number of votes shall appear on the ballot to fill the vacancy.”
Which seems to say that if Chris Skyhawk were to withdraw for health reasons (depending on the seriousness of his recent stroke), then the next highest vote getter, Dave Roderick, would appear on the November 6, 2018 general election ballot for Fifth District Supervisor.
But that’s not how the County Elections Office sees it.
They cite a preceding code section 8800 which says, “No candidate nominated at any primary election may withdraw as a candidate at the ensuing general election except those candidates permitted to withdraw by this part.”
The code continues that “this part” means, “No vacancy on the ballot for a nonpartisan office at a general election shall be filled except if the candidate dies…”
It also says that if a candidate dies more than 68 days prior to the election (this year that date would be August 30, 2018), then a “vacancy” would be declared and only in that case would a lower vote getting candidate appear on the November ballot.
The 68 day rule is a fairly new provision of the Elections Code which was added back in 2010 in the aftermath of Mendo DA Norm Vroman’s 2006 death while he was running for re-election, 47 days before Election Day. After some legal wrangling, then Deputy DA Keith Faulder got a court to rule that there had to be a new election, instead of allowing Vroman’s then-opponent Meredith Lintott to win by default since Vroman died less than 68 days before the election.
According to Election Officer Susan Ranochak, then, the only way Roderick’s name could appear on the November ballot would be in the highly unlikely and unfortunate event of Chris Skyhawk’s death at least 68 days before November 6, 2018. (Hardly a desirable outcome, of course, but we’re speaking about legalities, not realities.)
If Skyhawk were incapacitated and chose not to run, his name would still be on the ballot and if he happened to win and still didn’t want the job or couldn’t perform in it, he’d have to resign and have the governor appoint a replacement (like the Governor did when Tom Woodhouse in the Third District resigned).
The election code continues: “A vacancy [i.e., death] authorized to be filled because of the death of a candidate shall be filled, and the name of the person named to fill the vacancy shall be certified to the officer charged with the duty of printing the ballots, 68 days before the day of election.”
So, lots of unlikely things would have to happen for Roderick to end up on the November ballot: If Chris Skyhawk were to die, or some kind of successful legal challenge was brought against Ranochak’s interpretation of 8800 et seq. And even then only if Skyhawk wanted to somehow officially “withdraw” and he did it in time for the legal questions to be resolved before the August 30, 2018 deadline.
PS. When asked if he was aware of this unlikely possibility on Friday, Candidate Ted Williams diplomatically replied:
“I’m aware, but not in a position to speculate.”
THE CLOSE VOTE FOR MEASURE C — the Coast Hospital parcel tax that barely passed in the final count — and the accompanying recount (which we understand is underway but so far no changes) reminded us of the November 1992 race between incumbent Fourth District Supervisor Liz Henry (a good supervisor, one of Mendo’s best over the years) and challenger Heather Drum which had Henry winning by one (1) vote in the initial count. Drum called for a recount in which Henry won by a couple more votes. Drum then sued saying that some of Henry’s voters were not legitimate Fourth District voters, either not having their primary residence in the Fourth District or not living there for the required 30 days, or that then-County Clerk Marsha Wharff had incorrectly tossed out some of Drum’s voters for similar reasons. One of those disputed votes was Coast Planning Commissioner and Drum-voter Nancy Barth whom Wharff had ruled wasn't living in the Fourth District since she maintained a home in Mendocino. Barth apparently lived (and voted) part-time in Fort Bragg with a relative. It was all very contentious. Wharff had ruled that 22 votes, including Barth's, for Fourth District Supervisor were not from valid Fourth District residents, which is how those 22 got rolled into Drum's lawsuit for careful scrutiny. After several weeks of doubt, the court ultimately upheld Wharff’s count and Liz Henry served as Fourth District Supervisor for another term, from 1992 to 1996.
AS FAR AS WE KNOW, the recount now underway for the Coast Hospital Parcel tax, which apparently won by seven votes, is being paid for by Karen Calvert of Albion who owns several timber parcels which would be individually subject to the new parcel tax. MRC owns parcels in the Coast Hospital District as well. Calvert (who may be getting some support from MRC) has put up several thousand dollars to finance the recount. But the recount will only examine ballots, not envelopes (which would be a separate question with substantially more cost to check voter validity and residency). So far nobody has claimed that any of the Measure C votes (pro or con) were submitted by other than legitimate Hospital District resident voters.
ANDREW VAUGHAN ON HIS WAY TO THE BIG LEAGUES (The Boonville Connection)
Andrew Vaughn won the 2018 Golden Spike Award on June 28. Other names known to Northern California baseball fans who have won the Golden Spike award include the San Francisco Giants Tim Lincecum (2006) and Buster Posey (2008). The Golden Spike award is the baseball equivalent of the Heisman Trophy in college football. It's given to the best amateur baseball player in the nation.
Andrew Vaughn played first base for UC Berkeley where they are fighting to keep their baseball program alive.
I certainly hope the Berkeley program finds the funding to make the Cal team thrive. I want to watch Andrew play baseball as well as the rest of the team.
Dusty Baker's son Darren Baker is the second baseman on that team. Dusty Baker said Andrew has really helped Darren more than anyone else. And the Cal team knows Andrew is a special player and a great teammate.
Toby Vaughn, Andrew's father, was a terrific golfer in Santa Rosa, one of the very best in Santa Rosa for many years. Andrew's mother is Diana and his sister is Madison.
Andrew’s grandfather is Ronnie Vaughn who was one of the best athletes in Anderson Valley high school sports history. Ronnie earned 16 letters playing four sports every year in high school. Ronnie's grandmother was Doris Tuttle Vaughn. Her father was Shine Tuttle and Shine was the architect of the fine gymnasium at Anderson Valley high school built in 1957 and 1958. My class of 58-59 was the first class to play at the "new school" now on Mountain View Road.
Ronnie Vaughn started his life at the Fosche Mill at the end of the first flat plane on Mountain View Road. Ronnie was my first best friend at the Fosche Mill and continued on to the Browne’s Mill. I took him all over the Valley with my red Schwinn bicycle purchased at Rossi's hardware.
Andrew Vaughn’s Cal statistics were impressive:
Batting average: .402. Slugging percentage: .817. Homeruns: 23. Runs batted in: 63. On-base percentage: .531.
Andrew went to Maria Carrillo high school in Santa Rosa. Spencer Torkelson was a Casa Grande student who played for Arizona State and hit 25 homers to top Andrew for the slugging crown. Both Andrew and Torkelson each won the title of freshman of the year, Andrew in 2017 and Torkelson in 2018.
There is supposed to be a televised ceremony on line showing Andrew receiving his Golden Spike award.
Granddad Ronnie Vaughn died a few weeks ago after getting bad knees from working as a pole climber for the power companies, after defeating a vicious cancer and then having his house burn down in the Santa Rosa fires. He moved to Cloverdale to stay with his son Toby and got up from a couch and had a massive heart attack. I'm so glad he lived long enough to see Andrew’s freshman season and knew that his family was okay before he died.
COVELO MURDER DEFENDANT CONVICTED
UKIAH - A Mendocino County Superior Court jury on Friday (June 29) returned from its deliberations just before noon with a guilty verdict of first degree murder against defendant Joshua Richard Ruoff.
Ruoff, age 32, formerly of New Hampshire, was found guilty of the willful, deliberate and premeditated murder of Timothy Sweeting on May 18, 2016 at a Covelo marijuana operation in remote Round Valley.
The jury also found true a sentencing enhancement that the defendant personally used a baseball bat in the commission of the murder.
After the jury was thanked and excused, the defendant's matter was referred to the Adult Probation Department for a background study and sentencing recommendation. It is anticipated that the defendant will be sentenced to 26 years to life in state prison when he returns to court at 9 a.m. July 20 in Department H of the Mendocino County Courthouse in downtown Ukiah.
The prosecutor was Assistant District Attorney Rick Welsh. The investigating law enforcement agencies who gathered the evidence to support today's conviction were the Mendocino County Sheriff's Office, the network of Department of Justice crime laboratories, the New Hampshire State Police, and the New York State Police,
Special thanks are also extended to the experts in forensic anthropology from California State University Chico who directed the recovery of the deceased's body from a shallow grave. Finally, the DA wants to thank Dr. Jacquelyn Benjamin, the forensic pathologist, who flew in from New Jersey to provide important testimony for the jury.
Mendocino County Superior Court Judge John Behnke presided over the 10-day trial. He will also be the sentencing judge. Individuals interested in this case or this defendant are welcome to attend that July hearing date.
(District Attorney Press Release)
LITTLE DOG SAYS, “That newspaper shooting back east has me on red alert. These guys have a lot of enemies, but as the boss says, ‘At our age murder would be redundant’.”
SCALMANINI HOUSING PROJECT APPEAL MAKES NO SENSE
To the Editor:
In response to Ukiah City Council Member Steve Scalmanini’s appeal, which was featured in an article by the Ukiah Daily Journal on June 14, Scalmanini is quoted as saying “he is not entirely opposed to the project nor its location, and in fact one of the reasons for the appeal was that the site could support a three-story building instead of two.”
As Mr. Scalmanini should know, regulations, zoning and requirements are established to protect the welfare of the public and to minimize the impact upon surrounding properties.
The requirements set forth by the City of Ukiah (zoning) and other requirements imposed by both the State and Federal Governments (Title 24 of the Building Code, Low Impact Development and American with Disability Act — ADA) all have to be taken into account and designed into the project.
Ironically, if we were to propose a 3-story structure, this would only further strengthen other issues noted in the appeal such as privacy and shade on abutting properties. Building a 3-story structure would actually not allow, in this case, more dwelling units on site or more people to dwell at the project and would only provide limited additional parking stalls.
You see Mr. Scalmanini, the key to any development project is balance. We asked ourselves early in the process: how does a proposed multi-family housing project best fit into the built environment? In this case, it’s a 2-story structure, similar to the 2-story structures that are in the vicinity of the project.
If Mr. Scalmanini felt the 49 issues he raises were of such importance (which they are not), why did he not attend the Planning Commission hearing and voice them? Why appeal, at the very last possible minute, a 5-0 vote that took place at the conclusion of a 2-hour planning commission hearing? Why waste staff’s time and City’s resources responding to such nonsense? The answer is obvious, Mr. Scalmanini is an obstructionist with an agenda of stopping housing in the same manner he tried to derail Costco.
Congratulations Mr. Scalmanini, during the last week that our project was delayed by your senseless appeal, we were unable to obtain our bank loan in time and interest rates increased by 1/4 percent resulting in an increase of rents for each unit of approximately $12.58 per month or $151 a year.
Why the citizens of Ukiah do not recall you is a mystery to me.
President Guillon Inc. Companies
VELMA'S FARM STAND at Filigreen Farm
11750 Anderson Valley Way
Boonville Ca 95415
- Friday 6/29 10am - 1:30pm
- Saturday 6/30 10am -4pm
- Sunday 7/1 10am - 4pm
FRESHLY PICKED BLUEBERRIES
- By the basket
- Flat (12 baskets)
Come by and have a taste!
CREWS BUILDING THE 'BIGGEST WATER PROJECT IN UKIAH SINCE THE DAM'
Crews are laying the Purple Pipe (more than 5,000 feet so far) through vineyards now so they will be done by the time the grapes are ripe.
JARROD WANTS TO BE YOUR FRIEND
by Eric Thomas Hartley
(Capital Gazette, July 31, 2011)
(Ed note: This is the original Capital Gazette newspaper column that inspired the latest berserk shooting.)
If you're on Facebook, you've probably gotten a friend request or message from an old high school classmate you didn't quite remember.
For one woman, that experience turned into a yearlong nightmare.
Out of the blue, Jarrod Ramos wrote and thanked her for being the only person ever to say hello or be nice to him in school.
She didn't remember him, so he sent pictures. She Googled him, found a yearbook picture and realized they apparently did go to Arundel High together.
He was having some problems, so she wrote back and tried to help, suggesting a counseling center.
“I just thought I was being friendly,” she said.
That sparked months of emails in which Ramos alternately asked for help, called her vulgar names and told her to kill herself. He emailed her company and tried to get her fired.
She stopped writing back and told him to stop, but he continued. When she blocked him from seeing her Facebook page, he found things she wrote on other people's pages and taunted her with it, attaching screenshots of the postings to some of his emails.
She called police, and for months he stopped. But then he started again, nastier than ever.
All this without having seen her in person since high school. They never met until they came to court a couple of months ago.
Last week, Ramos, a 31-year-old federal employee, pleaded guilty in District Court to a misdemeanor harassment charge.
Judge Jonas Legum, who called Ramos’ behavior “rather bizarre,” suspended a 90-day jail sentence and placed him on probation, ordering him to continue in therapy and not contact the victim or her family in any way.
The case is extreme. But it provides a frightening look at the false intimacy the Internet can offer and the venom that can hide behind a computer screen.
“I read about this all the time, where Facebook conversations, email conversations, start out fine and then take a turn where they become nastier over the course of time,” said Ramos’ lawyer, Christopher Drewniak, “And this is apparently one of those situations.”
The victim, who asked that her name not be printed, said she lived in fear for her safety for months.
The emails started in late 2009 or early 2010 – she can't remember exactly, because it was only a few months later that they grew disturbing and she started documenting things.
At first, she felt bad for him, so she shared some personal information and offered advice.
“But when it seemed to me that it was turning into something that gave me a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach, that he seems to think there's some sort of relationship here that does not exist … I tried to slowly back away from it, and he just started getting angry and vulgar to the point I had to tell him to stop,” she told the judge.
“And he was not OK with that. He would send me things and basically tell me, ‘You're going to need restraining order now.’ ‘You can't make me stop. I know all these things about you.’ ‘I'm going to tell everyone about your life’.”
An email in April 2010 said, “Have another drink and go hang yourself, you cowardly little lush. Don't contact you again? I don't give a (expletive). (Expletive) you.”
Later that month, the woman was suddenly put on probation at the bank where she worked. She said a supervisor told her it was because of an email from Ramos and a follow-up phone call in which he advised them to fire her.
She said she was laid off in September and believes, but can't prove, it was because of Ramos. She's since gotten another job.
When she learned what Ramos had done, she called police. He stopped contacting her for a while and started counseling in November. Still, the silence was not comforting.
“That just left me to feel like he was stewing,” she said. “For all the time he was silent, he's collecting things about me. And then comes back at me, like, 10 times worse than he had before.”
The messages resumed in January, referring to friends’ Facebook profiles and postings about her and about Ramos himself.
His messages rambled, calling her “a bipolar drunkard leading a double life” and saying “[Expletive] you, leave me alone,” though she hadn't written him in months. He told her she was afraid to let a man get close to her and discussed her family, friends, job and Rotary Club involvement – all information gleaned from the Internet.
In January, the victim went to court to get a peace order and file charges. Finally, he stopped for good. Ramos, a tall, thin man with long hair he wears in a ponytail, did not speak at the hearing and did not return a call for comment left with his attorney.
He has a degree in computer engineering and has worked for the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics for six years, Drewniak said. He had no previous criminal record.
Detective Rob Cremen, who handles domestic violence cases in the county police Southern District, said sustained harassment like this is rare.
Facebook and networks like it offer the chance to reconnect with old friends. But they also can invite unwanted attention. Many people don't realize how much information about them is on social networking sites and elsewhere on the web.
“It's kind of a double-edged sword,” Cremen said.
* * *
NO COUNTRY FOR OLD WOMEN, Part 2
by Eleanor Cooney
I arrive at the little nursing home to visit Berna. In the foyer is a TV. Three old women, two in wheelchairs and one propped up on a gurney, are watching, but they turn hungry eyes to me when I come through the doors. "Hello, there. How are you?" I say as I breeze by, dispensing noblesse oblige like Eleanor Roosevelt going down into a coal mine. And I think: Eleanor Roosevelt got hit by a car when she was 76, never recovered, died a couple of years later. Imagine being the person who hit Eleanor Roosevelt with a car...
Berna's room is way down at the end of the hall. I pass open doors. This being a small town, I recognize people, some of them altered by age or disease so that I do a double take and check the name placards. It's a gallery of the fallen familiar: Here's a woman who was a robust, glamorous artist, but a heavy smoker, now wrinkled and withered with an oxygen tube in her nose and an obvious case of emphysema. But she's dressed and groomed. She greets me, assures me that this is only temporary, that she'll be checking out soon and going home. A little further down, I'm surprised to see a guy who was once a great denizen of Gwendda's tea parties, where I first met him maybe twenty years ago. He's 92 now, looks about the same as when I first knew him: slight, boyish, an interesting King-Tut-like head, the clearest, most youthful-looking blue eyes I ever saw, mind entirely intact. He broke his hip, but he's already back on his feet, he says. He's dressed, too; being a member of the tribe of the dressed, as opposed to the tribe of the hospital-gowned, seems to be definite bit of juju, as if Death might mistake you for somebody else.
In the hall, ones who can roll themselves along maneuver past each other in a stately traffic formation, and every visitor goes down a sort of receiving line: Hello, hello, hello, I say. I pass the bathing-room where freshly-washed people, some of them young but damaged, others gaga with senility, are swaddled like babies in big white towels. The staff is noisy and cheerful.
I approach Berna's room. Reluctance slows me down like heavy mud under my tires. Interest and penalties have compounded: guilt over not visiting has kept me from visiting. I dawdle in front of one of the perky informational signs decorated with flowers and butterflies: Vera S., 89 years young, five children, eight grandchildren, ten great-grandchildren, homemaker, schoolteacher, loves to cook.
At Berna's door, I poke my head into the gloom; the blind is shut, and the divider curtain that separates her from her roommate is in place. I say her name. No answer. I say it again; no answer. I go in and peek around the curtain: she's on her back, as she always is, and asleep. I say her name again. She doesn't wake up. I sneak away like a coward and a thief, out the door, down the hall, and gone. I tried, I tell myself: I tried.
I wish she could die.
I'm not convinced I'm not a thief, and I'm not convinced I'm not an old woman, either. A sneaking, thieving old woman. I remind myself of the black-clad hags in "Zorba the Greek," who convene like buzzards around Madame Hortense's house while she's dying, even creeping inside, and at the moment of her death, swarm all over it and pick it clean. A little extreme, perhaps, but this is the way intensive and protracted immersion in dissolution and senescence can affect a person. I'm one of those physically fit baby-boomers, a member of the largest and most extensive Peter Pan experiment in the history of the human race, who's managed to extend my adolescence into a decade which, in any other era, would have made me unequivocally old.
One rainy night this past winter I was out getting firewood from a pile of construction scraps. The scraps were obviously discarded, left out in a heap, and so what I was doing was not exactly stealing, but I know how greedy and possessive humans can be, especially well-to-do humans with the means to build houses on the northern California coast, whose attitude tends to be that if you're such a loser that you're gathering scrap firewood, then you don't deserve any firewood. And so I do my scrounging furtively, at night, pressure-sensitive flashlight in my teeth. I love this wood — it's dry, cut to just the right size, and free. I'm good at this sort of thing. I like sneaking into places, I like switching my light off when I hear cars or footsteps, and I especially like it when people pass by, oblivious, while I watch them from the dark like a ghost or an animal. And it occurs to me: at this exact moment, all over the world, other marginal folk are picking and scavenging on the fringes, furtively gathering scrap firewood, and I'm a member of another vast fellowship.
It was a hell of a winter. We get spectacular storms here that blow in from thousands of miles out in the Pacific. The wind howls, waves lash the cliffs, huge trees come crashing down. A monster storm in early January brought down about a hundred trees, knocking out the power for days and days. Gwendda lives outside of town, and her neighborhood is usually the last to get power restored. In her day, she'd soldiered through these long annual outages with the same stiff-upper-lip capableness that got her through the London Blitz. Now, she's helpless. She can't remember that the power and hence the electric heat are off, she can't build a fire in her woodstove the way she once did, she can't remember the location of any of the dozen flashlights I've put everywhere in her house. Unlike Berna in her bed in the nursing home, she's done nothing to thin out her possessions, and her house is crammed with stuff, most of it highly combustible: clothes, furniture, teddy bears, dolls, and that hallmark of "senior squalor," piles of old newspapers and catalogues, which she accumulates as fast as we can get rid of them. I think of her bumbling around with candles or oil lamps: old lady plus piles of paper plus open flame equals funeral pyre.
On the second morning of the blackout I was up before dawn and about to go back to bed. A little voice told me to get dressed, get in the car and go over to Gwendda's house, where I'd last been around midnight. I went. The place was completely dark. I crept in, and jumped when I heard her speaking my name. I found her with my flashlight beam, lying on the living room floor. I lit a lamp, hauled her to her feet. She wasn't hurt. She'd fallen, landed on a carpet, had lain there for hours, I guessed, though she couldn't tell me how long. Somebody pushed me, she said.
I got her into a chair, built up the fire, made some tea, draped a blanket around her. As the sun rose, I saw the wreckage — pictures pulled from the walls, papers and books scattered, furniture overturned, and I reconstructed events: She'd got up during the night, gone into the bathroom, forgotten that the power was out, turned off the little battery lamp I'd left on in there, started down the hall, tried to use the light switches, got confused, crashed around in the dark, tripped and landed where I found her. And I thought: how many other old women, and old men, are lying on the floor in the dark at this exact moment, waiting for someone to come along and find them? And what are their thoughts while they lie there?
Within an hour, the ordeal seemed to have evaporated from her memory.
After that, for the duration of the blackout, I slept at her house, without her ever knowing I was there. If I'd told her I was going to spend the night, she'd have rejected the idea as unnecessary nonsense. Besides, it was just easier to do it on the sly, like a stage manager. So I slipped into her house after she was in bed, flashlight in my teeth, and stealthily went about the business of stoking the fire and checking on the battery lamp in the bathroom. I stood outside her slightly ajar bedroom door and listened to her breathe, thinking: Good thing I'm not an ax murderer. I crept into the unused wing of her house, cold and still as a tomb, played my light over more dolls and teddy bears, which looked especially solemn, festooned as they were with cobwebs and bug casings, crawled into the chilly musty bed, listened to the wind and the seals barking out there on the dark wet rocks and slept for a couple of hours. Later, I got up to tend the fire. I'd just put a log in and shut the stove door when I heard the creak of hinges at the other end of the hall; I switched off my light, stood still, and watched, by the pale light cast by the battery lamp, as she moved across the hall into the bathroom, bent over, hair wild, in her nightgown, looking like something out of a Black Forest fairy tale. She never saw me.
My own "good" car was getting old and tired. This was not the car given to me by Berna; that one was already old and tired when I got it, strictly for close-to-home use. A hundred roundtrips to see my mother had left the "good" car with a slipping clutch and an evil spirit in its electrical wiring. Meanwhile, Gwendda's car, which she had maintained assiduously before she stopped driving it and which had low, old-lady mileage, was beginning its fourth year of rusting in her garage.
I wanted it. The brother across the sea has Power of Attorney, conferred on him voluntarily by Gwendda the last time he'd visited. For a couple of years, he'd been urging me to take the car as a "bonus" for looking after her. I resisted. It was so much like stealing from an old lady. I considered being forthright and simply asking her for it, but didn't dare. She hadn't driven it, looked at it, mentioned it for years. If I asked her for it or offered to buy it, she'd be reminded of its existence, and her dormant chronic paranoia might be roused; if she said yes, then she might later demand it back. If she said no, then I'd be in an even deeper dilemma. So I waited.
Letting a lot of time go by seemed to be the thing to do. I considered finding a decoy, an old wreck the same shape and color, putting it in the garage to fill the space if I ever took hers.
My "good" car became undrivable, and I was stretched too thin financially to fix it. I had to rent cars to get down to see my mother. I wasn't going often enough; guilt was reaching critical mass. Again, the brother urged me to take the car. He'd sign it over to me, he said. You've earned it. Just take it. It'll help you take care of my sister, he added, which was absolutely true. Time had indeed rendered her ever more dotty and dependent, putting more psychic distance between her and the car, and, I hoped, mellowing and diluting her tendencies. She needed me, she didn't need the car, I needed it badly.
So I did it. At night, when she was asleep. Put a new battery in, fired it up, and drove it, groaning, creaking and mildewed (the car, not me), out of the garage. My broken car, similarly shaped but an entirely different color, sits in its place in the garage, covered with a tarp, behind the very door with the still-visible dent in it.
It's been a year since the car heist. I haven't quite had the balls to actually take Gwendda anywhere in her car. I think about getting a fast, cheap Tijuana paint job. Bright blue, maybe. I use the other old-lady car to take her on trips to the movies or the hairdresser, though that's happening less and less because it's becoming almost impossible to get her out of the house. She sleeps all day, doesn't always know if it's 6 AM or 6 PM.
One evening not long ago, she said she was going to call the police because someone had stolen her car. My heart thumped irrational panic. But I stayed cool.
Before you call the police, I said, you need to have some specifics for them. Who took it?
It was those two men from the Bed and Breakfast Inn. They said they wanted to borrow it, and they never brought it back. It's a damned nuisance; I had to walk to the store to buy food.
Well, I said, relieved but still cautious, it's a little soon to call the police, isn't it? Why not wait a day or so and see if they bring it back?
Then, boldly, I asked: Have you looked in the garage?
I don't know how to get into the garage, she said.
Then she told me she'd bought a new house, would be moving soon, and she hoped I'd be able to find my way to it. I said she could draw me a map.
And she said: My mother and father walked right by my new house, and didn't even stop to say hello, the buggers.
Well, I said, maybe they didn't know you were in there.
A graph of my mother's gradual, grinding decline and dissolution would resemble the classic boardroom cartoon depicting a failing business: a jagged line going up, down, up, down, but the whole in a sure angle of descent. She'll soon begin her ninth year of incarceration. That's one of those thoughts that has to be just rudely shoved aside. Get in touch with my feelings about it? No, thanks. Avoidance, denial, dissemblance — that's the ticket.
They've called me from the home to say they sent her to the hospital again. They're conscientious at this place — if the old folks fall, or act peculiar, they send them to the emergency room for observation. She'd been acting limp and groggy and wouldn't eat, so they called the ambulance. I made an extraordinary discovery a while back, earth-shaking, at least to me: the old people get actual love from the staff. I'd expected competence and professional compassion, but love? I kid you not. These staffers I speak of have a genuine vocation. They get profoundly attached to the crumbling people in their care, treat them like prize orchids — diapers, drool, and all. This is what allows me to get some sleep occasionally. It's luck, I know; neither mine nor my mother's has completely run out. Not yet.
Usually, my mother is bounced out of the emergency room and back to the home within a few hours. This time, though, they've admitted her. She seems to be just running down, they tell me, as if her battery is finally and forever out of juice. As the sweet, golden-hearted manager of my mother's unit at the home puts it on the phone to me, she's "getting ready to go to heaven." I jump in the "stolen" Gwendda car and drive down. Something big, decisive, dreaded and yearned-for seems to be getting ready to happen. I think: I'm about to join the ranks of people whose mothers are dead. The prospect is fearful, awesome. Like going to jail or being abducted by aliens, I'm aware that it's a state of being you just can't know without experiencing it.
When I get to town, I do a little foot-dragging. Instead of going straight to the hospital, I go to the local Safeway, my oasis there for years, a remarkably civilized place with a deli and a Starbuck's where I can sit and get composed before going to see my mother. The people-watching is unsurpassed: one of the employees is a pretty, high-functioning young Down Syndrome woman who bags groceries, laughs and carries on conversations with customers. Most people would not have spotted her as Down, but I did, several visits back. Today, I'm thinking about her as I go in, wondering if she'll be there. I run into her almost immediately. We make eye contact. She greets me in a friendly, modulated voice. I have the feeling she knows that I know she's Down, is aware that I've been watching her. They're highly prone to Alzheimer's, at a shockingly young age.
I gather my courage and forge on to the hospital. My mother's in bed in the classic mouth-open-eyes-closed pose. Her doctor is female and Pakistani; I see the formidable intelligence behind the huge dark eyes. We talk a little about Musharif, the election, the death of Benazir Bhutto. The doctor tells me that since she began practicing in the U.S., she's been shocked at the amount of dementia she's seen. It's rare back in Pakistan, she says; where most people are dead by age 65. You should let your mother go, she tells me. Put her in hospice care, make her comfortable, and let her go.
Indeed, I have a letter my mother wrote way before she started to lose it. She said she'd taken out a long-term care policy, good for five years. And she wrote: Five years is enough. After that, find me a getaway pill. Her exact words. We've exceeded that limit by three years now, will soon start a fourth. Horrible. Beyond horrible: betrayal.
Lying there in the hospital bed, she certainly looks like someone getting ready to check out. I sit with her for a while, thinking I really ought to be talking in her ear, but feeling weirdly self-conscious and finding it oddly awkward to think of what to say. I look at the polish on her fingernails, put there by the staff; back in her day, she never, ever wore nail polish. Plain, short fingernails were her style. I look at her ear lobes; she'd had her ears pierced on a trip to Europe fifty years ago. The hole on her right ear was off-center; I remember noticing it when I was little. Now I'm looking at it up close. She quit wearing earrings a while ago, but the hole is still there, way too close to the inner edge of the ear lobe. Pretty clumsy work, I think, on the part of some long-ago anonymous ear-piercer.
I do my best to avoid looking at her mouth. She's gone dentureless for a couple of years now, when she started refusing to keep her teeth in. We got her some new ones, more comfortable, we hoped, but she wouldn't keep those in, either, and they vanished. Probably wadded up in a paper napkin and gone into the trash. I think: those teeth exist somewhere, right now, grinning away in a landfill, to be found by archaeologists of the future. Or maybe never to be found. Matter whirling around the sun.
My mother's teeth. She once had a beautiful mouth—red-lipsticked, her breath mint-gum and mentholated-Kools sweet and fragrant. I used to swoon a little over her mouth and breath when I was a child. I was kind of in love with my mother. They say that women try to find men like their fathers; thinking about it, I see that I wanted to find a man like my mother. Not the lipstick — the lucidity, brains, literacy, humor, manners, charm, worldliness and natural nobility. Getting used to those toothless jaws was a tough one for me.
(Part 2 of 4)
CATCH OF THE DAY, June 29, 2018
SONO CARRIGG, Willits. Parole violation. (Frequent Flyer)
JESUS CHAVEZ-CARMEN, Ukiah. Suspended license, unlawful operation of vehicle without license, probation revocation.
FRANCISCO DUENAS, Gualala. Community supervision violation.
SAMANTHA ESPANOLA-NORTON, Willits. Resisting, probation revocation.
ERIBERTO GUZMAN-MARIN, Auburn/Ukiah. Probation revocation.
JEREMY KENYON, Fort Bragg. Burglary, controlled substance, receiving stolen property, controlled substance for sale.
RAMON MACIEL, Ukiah. Bicycle riding under the influence of alcohol, disorderly conduct-alcohol, resisting, failure to appear, probation revocation.
WANA MATTHIAS, Ukiah. Under influence, probation revocation.
MICHAEL SAHL, Gualala. Domestic abuse, probation revocation.
BELINDA SCHAFER, Ukiah. Disorderly conduct-alcohol, probation revocation.
ANDREW SNYDER, Ukiah. Failure to appear.
PATRCIA STONE, Ukiah. Failure to appear, probation revocation.
JOSHUA THOMAS, Covelo. Probation revocation.
DUSTIN WOOD, Ukiah. Vandalism, probation revocation.
HAVING OUTED MYSELF earlier in these pages as a natural-born optimist, I now search for somebody else who is, because my reaction to Supreme Court Justice Anthony Kennedy's retirement is not optimistic. It's "there goes the ball game."
Kennedy was never more than a lukewarm ally of progressives. When he broke ties in favor of the common people against the interests of the rich & important, he did so in shallow, wishy-washy opinions that left doors and windows open to future challenges from the Right.
When he voted with the court's conservative members, as he usually did, notably with Citizens United, which set in concrete the importance of wealth as the deciding factor in most American national and high-profile state elections, or the heinous Supreme-Court decision to stop counting Florida votes and investigating the state's glaring irregularities in the election of 2000, which brought George W. Bush into the White House ("Hail to the Thief!") and barred the door to a Gore presidency--at those times he showed his truer colors.
Trump has yet to match the violent conversion of millions of living people into flyblown corpses and the unprecedented theft of American wealth from the many to the tiny handful that W accomplished, but he's making excellent progress, and his appointee to the court, whoever it is, will join Trump's tax-cut-to-the-rich of last fall as another giant step toward the goal of the Ruling Class to make the United States republic into a feudal society.
Tony Kennedy's vote to gut LBJ's 1965 Voting Rights Act, exactly five years ago, was another historic tie-breaker--and did much to restore the unyielding whip-&-noose racism of the South. If you're black in Alabama, as the song said long ago and now says again: "...git back, git back, git back, git back!"
So I'd be happy to say good riddance to Kennedy except that he startled us a few times by voting (as I said, luke-warmly) on the side of progress instead of reversal of progress. So he was dubbed "the swing vote" when he was a feeble and undependable one at his best. He cast a vote favorable to gay rights. For that he was adorned with an ill-fitting halo.
When he voted with the court's conservative members, as he usually did, notably with Citizens United, which set in concrete the importance and legitimacy of money as the deciding factor in most American national and high-profile state elections, or in the heinous Supreme-Court decision to stop counting Florida votes and investigating that Corruption-'R'-Us state's countless irregularities in the election of 2000, which brought George W. Bush into the White House and barred the door to a Gore presidency--at those times he showed his truer colors.
In reading U.S. Attorney General Jeff Sessions’ biblical justification for the Trump administration’s immigration policy, I am reminded of this quote from Shakespeare’s “Richard III”: “And thus I clothe my naked villainy with old odd ends stolen out of holy writ; and thus seem a saint, when most I play the devil.”
by James Kunstler
The fabulous Coen Brothers of Hollywood couldn’t come up with a wackier Deep State than the one depicted on Cable News this week. Thursday’s House Judiciary Committee hearing had Congressman Jim Jordan (R-Ohio) in the role of “The Dude” from The Big Lebowski doing battle with Deputy Attorney General Rod Rosenstein as “Osborne Cox” in Burn After Reading. Rosenstein was sure burning, or at least smoldering in his seat, as Jordan badgered him about threatening House staffers by subpoenaing their emails and phone calls…!
The gotcha moment: “You can’t subpoena a phone call,” Rosenstein answered, trying to suppress his mirthful smirk… as in, listen to me, you dim, Rotarian, Buckeye clod, with your worthless JD from the most obscure law school in the darkest corner of your meth-and vicodan-addled state… you can’t subpoena a phone call, ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha…!
Had Mr. Jordan been a little more nimble of mind in his Dude role, had he not, say, downed that Red Bull and Ayahuasca “pick-me-up” before the committee session, he might have come back smartly at Mr. Rosenstein with a simple, “…yes, but you can subpoena the records of phone calls, can’t you?” Schwing. Only the poor clod muffed it, and Rosenstein’s praetorian guard of attorneys in the seats behind him joined in the mirthful smirkery, grand fellows of the Deep State are we, we eat Buckeyes for breakfast!
Now, Mr. Trey Gowdy (R-SC) is a different breed of porpoise among congressmen, kind of legal man-eating orca. In look and demeanor, he comes off as a cross between Atticus Finch and the young feller who played the banjo so well in the opening scenes of Deliverance. Mr. Rosenstein didn’t dare lay any mirthful smirky trips on Mr. Gowdy, who radiated the consolidated wrath of the legislative branch at this flock of executive branch popinjays. Mr. Gowdy, who is declining to run for his seat this year, may be bound for bigger things. Some say he may be the next Attorney General.
In case you’ve forgotten, Rod Rosenstein is not the Attorney General, he’s the Deputy AG. His boss is Mr. Jeff Sessions, an elusive figure for months now in the malarial DC backwaters, like that Louisiana Swamp Thang that turns up in the fake Bigfoot documentaries, looming hairily through the night-vision goggles in a cypress slough. Maybe three or four people have laid eyes on him since sometime back in April. Better check his office, make sure he isn’t hunched over face-down in a take-out order of tonkatsu ramen.
It’s rumored that our president, the Golden Golem of Greatness, can, shall we say, put the Department of Justice and its subsidiary, the FBI, out of their current misery by finally firing a few of these conniving top dawgs. Order Rosenstein to release un-redacted files he’s been sitting on for a year, and fire his ass for cause when he refuses. In the case of Mr. Sessions, for Godsake, call the undertaker.
The figures most hidden these days go by the names Barack Obama, Hillary Clinton, Bill Clinton, John Brennan, James Clapper, James Comey, Loretta Lynch, Huma Abedin, and Debbie Wasserman-Schultz. If or when the dark, tangled, matrix of “matters” at the FBI ever manage to get unraveled, these characters will come tumbling out with the yarn, dropping into the harsh daylight like little squirming larva of Tineola bisselliella, the common wool moth.
Personally, I can’t imagine that the mighty mischief at DOJ and the FBI the past two years was not initially approved before 1/20/17 in some fashion by Mr. Obama and with his explicit knowledge. There’s little doubt that the “Steele Dossier” was the “insurance policy” that FBI Counter-espionage Chief Peter Strzok and FBI attorney Lisa Page referred to in their famous text exchange about how to deal with the “terrifying” specter of a possible President Trump. Debbie Wasserman-Schultz needs to explain under oath how her humble IT employee, a Pakistani national, become a real estate millionaire in the DC burbs while servicing, shall we say, her laptop. Hillary, of course, is like some mythical Cave of Seven Winds — a boundless dark realm of winged beasts and crawling things. Loretta Lynch still has some public ‘splainin’ to do about meeting certain folks on tarmacs. The grand juries are begging to be convened.
(Support Kunstler’s writing by visiting his Patreon Page.)
SUMMER ACTIVITY FOR KIDS - JULY 14
Veggie Gardening for Kids!
SAT, JULY 14 from 10AM to 12PM
This 1-day, 2-hour workshop is a great introduction to gardening for your young ones with a green thumb. We will work and play while planting, nurturing, and harvesting in the organic demonstration vegetable garden at Mendocino Coast Botanical Gardens. Children ages 8 to 10 of any level of gardening experience are welcome to attend. More details and sign up info at https://www.gardenbythesea.org/calendar/kids-veggie-gardening/.
Workshop instructor Jaime Jensen (MCBG Lead Gardener) is a passionate advocate for backyard vegetable gardening, delicious fresh meals, food preservation, and health education.
Sign up soon, class size is limited and for participating children ages 8 to 10 only. Class cost is $20 for Gardens members (MCBG household memberships apply towards children or grandchildren in the same household); $30 for non-members. Payment is due upon sign-up. Please note, all workshop fees are non-refundable unless the workshop has been canceled or rescheduled by the Gardens. Sign your children up by phoning The Garden Store at 707-964-4352 ext. 16 or stop by The Garden Store at Mendocino Coast Botanical Gardens.
WHAT OCASIO-CORTEZ’S WIN SAYS ABOUT THE RISE OF THE LEFT
by Josh Hoxie
You’ll be forgiven if you’ve never heard of Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez. This time last year, she was working as a bartender in the Bronx. Now, she just unseated a 10-term incumbent congressman previously on track to lead the Democratic Party in the House of Representatives. Amazing how much can change in a year.
Ocasio-Cortez’s victory is sending shockwaves through the Democratic Party. Should she win the general election in November, an all-but-inevitable assumption given the heavy Democratic-leaning NY-14 district, she’ll become the youngest woman ever elected to Congress.
Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez represents something new in national politics in the United States — a Latina millennial entering power with a bold, progressive agenda. As she stated in a campaign ad that went viral, “Women like me aren’t supposed to run for office.” She campaigned on Medicare for All, a federal jobs guarantee, and on abolishing Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE). Each of these are to the left of where the mainstream Democratic party is right now.
Voters in her district responded by giving her nearly 60% of their vote, despite the mainstream news ignoring her and her opponent outspending her 18 to 1.
The playbook on how to win elections has been pretty straightforward for several decades: Raise as much money as humanly possible from whoever will give it to you, preferably in as big a check as possible; then spend it on television ads with a moderate message that’s been focus group-tested to win moderate voters, and pander just enough to your base to get them to turn out for you. (It doesn’t hurt if you also happen to be old, white, and male — the dominant demographic of Congress.)
Bernie Sanders upended this logic (although not the old, white man part) with his improbable 2016 presidential campaign, famously raising an average of $27 from small-dollar donations, turning down corporate PAC donations, and running on an unabashedly progressive message. Ocasio-Cortez has proven this was not just a flash in the pan.
Also winning in this week’s primaries was Ben Jealous, running for governor of Maryland. He beat Rushern L. Baker III, who was backed by the state’s political establishment and favored to win. Jealous played a key role in the Bernie 2016 campaign by doing outreach to black communities who’d never heard of Sanders, drawing on his experience as a former head of the NAACP.
“Our goal is to not just win an election but to build a movement,” Jealous said at his victory party, “which will allow us to lead into law the new agenda that this state so desperately needs.”
Jealous faces a tough general election in November against incumbent Republican governor Larry Hogan. But his insurgent campaign style is unlikely to change. “Larry Hogan will lose in November,” Jealous announced, “because he is not ready to run against someone who knows how to build a true people-powered grassroots campaign.”
The victories for Ocasio-Cortez and Jealous came just a day after The New York Times published a piece titled, “Bernie Sanders Is Winning Converts. But Primary Victories Remain Elusive.” The Times piece rightfully points out that issues Sanders has championed have moved from the fringe to the mainstream since his presidential campaign.
But they were wrong, it turns out, on the primaries.
Also wrong were the Clinton supporters who made political hay out of characterizing Sanders supporters as “Bernie bros” — which is to say young, white men. A Harvard-Harris poll conducted in April 2017 showed Sanders was the most popular politician in the United States, with his highest ratings coming from people of color and women. So it’s no anomaly that Ocasio-Cortez, a Latina woman, and Ben Jealous, an African American man, are carrying the torch into high-profile general elections.
“The biggest hurdle that our communities have is cynicism — saying it’s a done deal, who cares, there’s no point to voting,” Ocasio-Cortez told volunteers in the lead-up to election day. In the face of skyrocketing economic inequality, massive tax cuts exclusively for the rich and powerful, and immigration policies that would leave any moral person appalled, it’s easy to understand where this cynicism comes from.
Nevertheless, progressive candidates ready to make change are winning elections and changing the dynamic of electoral politics. Small-dollar donations and serious on-the-ground and digital organizing are helping insurgents take back the reins of power from big money. And they’re proving voters are ready for an unapologetic leftist message.
(This column originally appeared in Fortune. Josh Hoxie directs the Project on Opportunity and Taxation at the Institute for Policy Studies (IPS-dc.org). Courtesy, CounterPunch.org)
HOW AMERICA’S WARS FUND INEQUALITY AT HOME
Those who care about this country’s economic future would be remiss not to include today’s war financing strategy among the country’s most urgent fiscal challenges. Anyone interested in improving American democracy and the well-being of its people should begin by connecting the budgetary dots. The more money this country spends on military activities, the more public coffers will be depleted by war-related interest payments and the less public funding there will be for anything else. In short, it’s time for Americans worried about living in a country whose inequality gap could soon surpass that of the Gilded Age to begin paying real attention to our “credit-card wars.”
MAYBERRY, er, POINT ARENA MEETING
Point Arena Special City Council Meeting July 3, 2018
Resolution 2018-16, Awarding the Contract for the Port Road Rehab
Project # 2018-01, to Wylatti Resource Management, Inc. and Authorizing the City Manager to Sign the Contract on Behalf of The City (https://drive.google.com/open?id=1-Eis-uog5aUONr-7mfOE_E5RHYolxhra)
1. Approve Resolution 2018-16 Awarding the contract for the Port Road Rehab Project #2018-01 to Wylatti Resource Management, Inc.
2. Direct the City Manager to execute the construction agreements with Wylatti Construction Inc. for the completion of the Port Road Rehab Project, Bid #2018-01
STEPHEN ROSENTHAL COMMENTS:
Re: Whole Foods: when Amazon purchased Whole Foods, I told anyone who would listen that they would ruin it. Since then there have been subtle but significant changes, one of which is pointed out in Margaret Paul’s comment. No longer do they carry organic meat, at least not at the Whole Foods stores that I’ve been to, nor do they list the source of each of their meats and poultry on signs in the meat coolers as Ms. Paul points out. Scores of organic dairy products are MIA. Amazon Prime members get a 10 percent discount, but the prices on many items that were stable for years have been raised by, whaddya know, approximately 10 percent. Name brand products they used to carry are no longer stocked, replaced by their own label (something Costco is doing as well with their Kirkland label). I could go on, but I believe my point has been made. Amazon is using Whole Foods to gradually destroy their competition, just as Amazon has done with its competitors in other industries. Now Amazon is purchasing online pharmacy PillPack. However, Amazon no longer offers the cheapest prices; searching the Internet often reveals much cheaper prices from other sources; even local brick and mortar stores offer competitive pricing without the wait. Oh, but if you’re a Prime member, you get exclusive deals with “free” 2 day shipping. But they just raised the price of Prime membership, so it’s a wash. If you aren’t a Prime member, expect to wait weeks for your order to be delivered. It’s no accident that Jeff Bezos is now considered the wealthiest American, surpassing Buffett, Gates, et al. Instead of boycotting Whole Foods, how about boycotting Amazon and all its entities?
ON LINE COMMENT (2)
All grocery stores buy all their chicken from factory farms. The conglomerates have made it illegal for small farmers to sell to grocery stores, nor can local butcher shops sell local meat for the most part. The "organic" and "free range" chickens in the store are simply factory farmed chickens done slightly differently but still subject to all the horrors of CAFOs. Read Michael Pollan's book "Omnivores Dilemma" which debunked Rocky-Rosey sold here by Perdue now. Whole Foods is owned by Amazon, which I have worked with for many years and is unethical and damaging to the future as anything else in society. They rewrote all the social contract between buyers and sellers to eliminate all rights gained over thousands of years in the marketplace and recreate feudalism, with all rights going to Lord Bezos. Know you farmer, eat less meat and pay more for it if you have any concern for animals. But everybody REALLY only wants super low prices which even CAFO industry itself knows will kill us all or at least sicken us in the long run, but Americans only really care about one thing, liberal and conservative today and that is low prices. We killed off our local economies for them, we torture animals for them, we will do anything to save a nickel.
THERE’S NOT MUCH EVIDENCE that Justice Kennedy got softer with age. In his last months on the bench, Kennedy shed his cloak of reasoned rectitude to reveal the judicial monster that has always lurked within. He voted to purge voter rolls and maintain grossly inequitable lines in gerrymandered congressional districts. He teamed up with the Roberts/Alito bloc to gut public-sector unions, backed mandatory arbitration provisions and gave his imprimatur to Trump’s vile Muslim travel ban, which will surely rank with Dred Scott, Plessy, Korematsu and Citizens United (which Kennedy drafted) as one of the cruelest and most cynical decisions in the Court’s history. Kennedy could have positioned himself a check on the unbridled power of an authoritarian executive. But at the most fraught constitutional moment of his long career on the federal bench Kennedy chose to play the role of enabler. It’s fair to say that Anthony Kennedy went out smelling of sulphur.
Liberals make far too much of the court. Across more than two centuries, the Supreme Court has functioned as the country’s most reactionary institution, the most resistant to social change, the final guardian of property, power and commerce against the aspirations for individual liberty, civil rights, war powers and environmental protection. Nearly all of the court’s most exalted rulings, from Brown to Roe, have been forced down its throat by years, often decades, of fierce political organizing.
— Jeffrey St. Clair
WILD ON H2O
(Photo by Susie de Castro)
Community Announcement: Learning the New Language of 60+
In case you haven't learned this already, things don't get less complicated once you turn 60. And for many, the picture evoked by the phrase "retirement years" doesn't apply to the day-to-day lives they find themselves living as older adults. Learning the new vocabulary and making choices related to Social Security and Medicare, knowing the options for help in the home when the need arises, and even getting that reduced cost fishing license one's been waiting to finally have time to use, each requires working with agencies and programs. And because agencies and programs change from year to year - and access becomes increasingly digital - talking to a live person to help you learn this new language of 60+ can save you time and frustration.
The Community Resources Specialist at Community Care's Senior Information & Assistance Program can help older adults and their families living in Lake and Mendocino Counties to better understand their options and help them become more efficient in accessing resources. Funded through the Area Agency on Aging of Lake & Mendocino Counties, Senior Information & Assistance is available Monday through Friday by contacting (707) 468-5132 or Toll-free (800) 510-2020.
Senior Information & Assistance Program's Community Resource Specialist Kathy Johnson responds to questions about services for older adults in our area.
“OF COURSE IT’S ALL RIGHT for librarians to smell of drink." — Barbara Pym
(via Dwight Garner)
ON THE AIR, ON THE COAST
David Herstle Jones wrote (Coast ListServe:
I’m checking this out for sure.https://soundcloud.com/user-741665314/snap-sessions-episode-1
* * *
Marco McClean Replied:
That first SnapSessions! 45-minute episode was produced by Doug Nunn, Marshall Brown, Ken Krauss, Christine Samas and Steve Weingarten, all of whom I have to restrain myself like Doctor Strangelove's hand from putting THE in front of, I admire them so much. This link is good:
And it'll be on 107.7fm KNYO-LP Fort Bragg tomorrow (Friday) night, as well as 105.1fm KMEC-LP Ukiah at the same time if the equipment renovation at KMEC has been completed, and of course all SnapSessions! episodes will be on KNYO in future. They'll have their own regular time slot. Also stories by David Herstle Jones, see above, and other writers in his website https://ThinkInTheMorning.com are regularly read on the air at KNYO, as well as stories by dozens of other locals, in prison or out, civil or not. Notty Bumbo's poetry. Rich Alcott's street interviews. Rex Gressett's uncensored reports on city government. And plenty more; it's quite a list.
At the risk of sounding like I have some kind of an agenda, which I do, I have to point out that arranging to get these wonderful people and and their worthwhile ongoing projects and writing and music on the air at KNYO virtually always involves a single quick email interchange, initiated by either party: "Can this be on the air?" "Yes." On my show you don't even have to ask, just show up with the work or email it to me. It's very different from the way things are done at KZYX, where I applied to put Memo of the Air: Good Night Radio in late February of 2012 and am still waiting for any action on that seventy-six months and four-and-a-half general managers later. Next time they're begging you for money over there and holding the public airwaves for ransom, if you have some radio dollars to spare and you want to put those dollars where they won't all be going into the poke-bag of a handful of arrogant bosses barricaded in an office out in the middle of fricking nowhere, spread a little love on downtown Fort Bragg KNYO instead: https://knyo.org
Every year since 1989 KZYX has pissed away enough money to fully fund fifty (50!) radio stations like KNYO. Real radio is cheap and free, but it's not free in the sense of free hamburger. What it needs it needs. Please consider underwriting a show on KNYO. And if you want your own writing or music on KNYO, email it to me firstname.lastname@example.org or come in during my show and present it yourself. And if you want your own show on KNYO, contact Bob Young and arrange time(s) for it: email@example.com
It's truly that simple a process. Live radio studio equipment is easy and fun to learn to use. Broadcast frequencies are natural resources that belongs to everyone, and it's your right to be on the air.