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MCT: Sunday, January 6, 2019

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OVER AN INCH OF RAIN for the Anderson Valley since the storm blew in yesterday, and the National Weather Service says more is on the way:

"The second in a series of storm systems will bring additional rain and mountain snow to the area today. A brief break in weather systems is expected on Monday, though another system is forecast to bring more rain and possible mountain snow to the area beginning Monday night. Additional storm systems are expected through the end of the upcoming work week."

Public Information Statement
 National Weather Service Eureka CA
 458 PM PST Sat Jan 5 2019
 Location                     Speed     Time/Date       Elevation (ft.)      
 ...Del Norte County...
 Ship Mtn RAWS near Gasquet   59 MPH    0357 PM 01/05   5304                 
 Camp Six RAWS near Gasquet   28 MPH    0259 PM 01/05   3698          
 Jack McNamara Airport        56 MPH    0217 PM 01/05   56                   
 Smith River 1 WNW            25 MPH    0301 PM 01/05   200                  
 ...Humboldt County...
 Cooskie Mtn RAWS near Petrol 81 MPH    0108 PM 01/05   2945                 
 School House RAWS            70 MPH    0101 PM 01/05   2653                 
 Kneeland RAWS                56 MPH    0655 AM 01/05   2737        
 Slate Creek RAWS             45 MPH    0357 PM 01/05   4170                 
 Arcata/Eureka Airport        45 MPH    0346 PM 01/05   223                  
 Bridgeville 5 E              38 MPH    0300 PM 01/05   2778                 
 Fortuna Rohnerville Airport  38 MPH    0155 PM 01/05   393                  
 Bayview                      35 MPH    0752 AM 01/05   141                  
 Rohnerville                  31 MPH    1046 AM 01/05   196                  
 Rohnerville                  30 MPH    1049 AM 01/05   196                  
 Benbow                       25 MPH    0213 PM 01/05   433                  
 Arcata 2 SE                  25 MPH    0855 AM 01/05   209                  
 Blue Lake 1 NW               25 MPH    0800 AM 01/05   98                   
 Humboldt Hill                24 MPH    1253 PM 01/05   78                   
 Trinidad                     21 MPH    1146 AM 01/05   176                  
 Fortuna                      20 MPH    1242 PM 01/05   65                   
 Fieldbrook 9 ENE             15 MPH    0816 AM 01/05   600                  
 ...Mendocino County...
 5 NW Yorkville               62 MPH    1247 PM 01/05   2342                 
 Manchester 7 E               38 MPH    1204 PM 01/05   2126                 
 9 S Fort Bragg               38 MPH    1200 PM 01/05   157                  
 Philo 3 NW                   33 MPH    0916 AM 01/05   944                  
 Ukiah Municipal Airport      33 MPH    1048 AM 01/05   626                  
 Yorkville 1 NE               27 MPH    0801 AM 01/05   1978                 
 Boonville                    24 MPH    0106 PM 01/05   417                  
 Willits                      23 MPH    1048 AM 01/05   1358                 
 Covelo 3 SE                  21 MPH    1101 AM 01/05   1379                 
 Comptche 9 W                 21 MPH    0145 PM 01/05   492                  
 Gualala 1 N                  15 MPH    1123 AM 01/05   902                  
 Ukiah 2 NNW                  15 MPH    1033 AM 01/05   738                  
 ...Trinity County...
 Helena 8 N                   45 MPH    0232 PM 01/05   4609                 
 Dinsmore 4 SE                30 MPH    1153 PM 01/05   2873                 
 Junction City 2 NNW          18 MPH    0145 PM 01/05   2282                 
 Weaverville Lonnie Pool Fiel 17 MPH    0315 PM 01/05   2350                 
 Observations are collected from a variety of sources with varying
 equipment and exposures. We thank all volunteer weather observers 
 for their dedication. Not all data listed are considered official.



The NOAA forecast for the crest of the Navarro River from the rain started out at 14.6' on Thursday - but as of 10:33 am Saturday, they now say the crest will only be 9.6' Monday @ 4:00 am - well below the 23.0' flood stage.

The river is only starting to rise now - 10:15 am.

The photos are of the Navarro River mouth Friday @ 5:30 pm.


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by Flynn Washburne

One of the things I love about writing, and being a writer, is the ability and opportunity I have of shaping and solidifying my persona via the written word. Certain fundamental limitations in my personal disposition and development prevent me being the sort of bloke I actually am unless well-lubricated with the kind of personality-enhancers and fear-eradicators that have gotten me into so much hot water, deep shit, and cracks for my ass. I therefore perforce project an image entirely at odds with the person inside, appearing to the casual observer to be, at best, sullen and uncommunicative and perhaps dangerously unbalanced.

Not that my behavior (while sober) is in any way aberrant or eccentric, but my tendency to isolate from every situation, to appear utterly disinterested in the sort of offhand persiflage employed by folks to pass the time and maintain human connections, and possession of a face on which smiles can gain no purchase lead people to assume my quietude and lonerism indicate possible serial-killer or molester tendencies—someone with a big-ass, crowded closet.

In truth, I am inside fizzing with good cheer, most of the time, well-supplied with concern for my fellow man, and have plenty to say about a lot of things but I usually just end up saying them to myself, because on the rare occasions I’m able to chime in it generally comes out wrong.

It takes me, on average, several months of fairly regular contact with someone before I feel comfortable with being “myself” and exposing what I fear is a genuinely deficient personality, though people I do get to know always say the same thing, something along the lines of “Man, when I first met you I thought you were a complete asshole, but you’re actually pretty cool.”

Believing that I am, sans drugs and alcohol, a person other interesting people might want to hang out with flies in the face of my personal cosmology, which asserts that without those things I am woefully incomplete. When I write, though, I can take the time to craft and polish my ideas, explore avenues of intellectual curiosity and take the reader with me, and demonstrate, with clarity and humor, the type of man that I am.

The people who read me, those who don’t know me personally, if you have formed any idea of my character from my work are probably right on the button. Cynical, critical, and acerbic, yes, but also optimistic, reasonable, compassionate, thoughtful, and able to extract and refine humor from any situation. I try to convey, if not always directly, my beliefs and opinions about the world at large and I think they fall pretty solidly on the side of decency and sensibleness.

Jerry Philbrick may disagree, may in fact have me on his list along with the rest of the liberal socialist scum, but I think I have managed to construct a worldview I could justify to any deity come the judgment day.

Note: re: Philbrick — everyone I’ve spoken to who knows the man swears he’s nothing like his letters, is in fact a real stand-up salt-of-the earth type guy, a good neighbor and friend and a relic of the old Mendocino County. I believe this and hope to confirm it one day, because if so that means he’s doing the exact opposite of what I’m doing—masking his decency behind a facade of vitriol and hatred.

Now, if you’ve been paying attention to my output lo these several years, you’ve noticed a fairly dominant theme woven through most every piece, regardless of its subject—my longtime addiction to methamphetamine, the havoc it wrought in my life, and especially the bizarre behavior attendant to dependence on that chemical. It was humor fodder, certainly, but it was also therapeutic as the time passed and the last vestiges of my long nightmare faded. Writing and laughing about it strengthened my resolve and helped to underscore the absurdity of a rational man deliberately choosing a path of measured self-destruction. As I mockingly detailed the tragically insane habits of the tweaker I did so from a place of safety and superiority, well outside that chaotic, fetid sphere. I felt pretty damn good about having gotten out with enough of my faculties intact to pass for sane and a moiety of teeth, something many former speedfreaks can’t say.

When I got out of prison in May of last year, I hit the ground running and in short order had reassembled something of the upright citizen where once stood a hopeless, hapless energy-suck. I got a shitty job and through a program of concerted bustin’ ass, turned it into a decent one in a few months. I took a credit score of 0 up to 650 in six months and hit the road in a paid-up, insured, registered, fully legal vehicle in seven, and I haven’t driven legally since 1990. I saved enough money for a cushion in the event of catastrophe, something I have never done in my life. I earned the respect of a lot of people, including the chief parole officer, Ken Garcia, who came into my work and fist-bumped me in congratulation of my promotion. This may not seem a big deal, but their policy about touching parolees is strictly gloves on and cuffing and manhandling only. Offer them a hand to shake and they will regard it as something inherently offensive.

I was coming down to my last six weeks or so of time there at the SLE (sober living environment) and both nervous and excited about making my own way in the world after so many years of dependence upon institutions, friends and family, anyone or thing but my own wherewithal, but I was pretty well prepared with funds and a good solid five-year plan.

Then, at the beginning of December, I came out of the Safeway and instead of marching blithely past the rabble that congregates around the doors, I stopped and engaged one of them. Wouldn’t you know, the conversation shortly turned to the fact that he had a quantity of meth for sale and that I happened to have not only sufficient of the necessary to relieve him of it, but also a curious lack of memory, sense, will, and judgment. I—and even as I sold myself the bill of goods, I knew it wouldn’t wash—assuaged my faintly buzzing conscience with the assurance that I could just do a little, one time, get it out of my system for good and all. No problem. Purely recreational. I shoved over fifty clams and got in return what I would’ve paid at least $200 for back when I was active—prices have gone way down. Again, no problem, I said. I’ll just do a little and sell the rest.

Twelve hours later, I’m sitting in my car in the parking lot at Pear Tree twenty minutes before I’m supposed to punch in, sweating, gnashing my teeth, and constitutionally unprepared for the rigors of a Chipotle workday. I call in sick, hating myself after six straight months perfect attendance, punctuality and picking up the slack of those not so conscientious. I spend the day shoving more poison into my body and do go into work the next day where my performance and demeanor are visibly altered and I feel heartily ashamed at repaying their faith and trust in my worth and ability with this substandard facsimile of a manager. I even pull a little classic tweaker mischief before I leave, ruining half the tools in the box trying to dislodge a stuck screw from a grill-scraper.

Naturally, the only balm for an awakening sense of responsibility was further application of the very same disruptive agent that embroiled me in that mess. It is genuinely possible to believe, under the influence of meth, that all laws of probability, likelihood and even physics will somehow reorganize themselves to your benefit. I continued getting spun through my day off the next day, which also brought an unwelcome surprise (not really—I knew it was a good possibility)—Agent Whittaker from Parole come to collect specimens from his flock. The jig, as they say, was up, my goose was cooked, and the goddamn chickens had come home to roost.

The initial decision of the staff was to bounce me without succor or ceremony, but on further consideration they deemed me worthy of another chance and I was to complete another 30 days in-house treatment. I wouldn’t be able to work but Chipotle was completely understanding about it and allowed me a leave of absence. I toughed out a couple days of feeling miserable and then set my jaw and vowed to forge ahead, thankful things hadn’t come to a worse pass. And I lived happily ever after, The End.

That there above was like one of those false endings you sometimes hear in pop songs, only it’s not so effective in print being as you can see more words right there below it. It wasn’t the end, and just prior to getting nailed I had purchased a largish quantity of the stuff for someone else and hadn’t had a chance to get it to them. So I wrapped it up beyond recognition and buried it and my pipe out by the fence, thinking I’d get it to them and get my money back when my month was up.

Funny thing, though, that sack kept preying on my mind. Sometimes in a sensible way, as in I need to dig that shit up and flush it. Other times not so much. After two weeks I actually told myself I was going to get rid of it and went and retrieved it. Somewhere along the way I made the decision to just smoke what was left in the pipe. Twelve hours later I’m in my bed sweating and gnashing my teeth, fundamentally incapable of presenting as an addict in recovery, so I panic, throw all my belongings into the Explorer, and hie off into that same goddamn cesspool I took such joy and pride in leaving behind.

On my next visit to parole, I test positive and am given a warning to clean my ass up and get my shit straight. The following week, my urine is equally damning but instead of giving them a chance to punish me for it, I figure to substitute a less tainted vintage for my own telltale stuff. Luckily I have friends in the program with pristine pee to help me out, and I took in a small plastic bottle of the good stuff tucked up into my armpit to maintain temperature. Now, my parole officer is a woman, and as such doesn’t come in with me when I provide a sample so such a deception I figured would be a walk in the park, but Ms. Weathers wasn’t there that day and Whittaker—decidedly male and professionally observant—did the duty, and he kept an eye on me. I acted as if I couldn’t go, hoping he’d tire of watching and let me get on with it. Eventually he had me go sit in the lobby and drink water.

Twenty minutes later he called me back in and I figured well, there goes that damned jig again. Might as well face the music. However, this time he left me alone with the door closed. I wasted a minute or so, scared to retrieve my bottle for fear he’d come in, but finally pulled it out and filled the specimen cup. I’d no sooner emptied it when the door opened. I had both the full cup and the empty bottle in my hands. “Let me see what you got there,” he said.

I managed to tuck the bottle into my waistband and handed him the cup. He looked at it, swirled it around, capped it and said “How long have you had this piss?”

I feigned ignorance. “What do you mean?” Fresh urine has air in it, evinced by a head not unlike that of a beer. Old urine is flat.

He waited until the readings were clear and said, “You know what? I’m gonna let this one fly. You got lucky.”

I took the pee back into the head to flush it and when I turned back around, he said, “What’s that in your pocket there?”

“Huh? Nothin’. My phone.” Keep in mind that I am not only spun out of my gourd but mortally terrified, so by this time I’m shaking like a Parkinson’s patient in a massage chair.

“No, in the middle. Lift up your shirt.”

I do and he orders me to remove the evidence. The lid catches on the waistband of my underwear and flips up, propelling the last few errant drops of pee into the air and directly onto the person of Agent Whittaker. Now, you or I care nothing for the odd pee splash now and then. Just one of those mildly unpleasant facts of life that occur from time to time. Correctional officers take a dimmer view, bodily fluids being one of the weapons employed against them in the prisons. The deliberate use of urine in this manner has therefore become punishable as a violent felony, and as a two-striker I am fresh out of room for another one of those. My life and future pass before my eyes in a flash and he says, incredulously, “Was that PISS?”

“Y-yes…” I croak weakly.

The shitstorm that followed was verbal only, but still unnerving. I was back in perp mode, legs spread and up against the wall. Cuffed and frogmarched into a conference room, I sat bleakly pondering the senseless calculus leading me to surmise that a few days of hummingbird-grade metabolic activity and obsessively surfing porn was worth tossing, with barely a backward glance, all I’d worked for and been so proud of.

The assembled strength of the Parole Dept. looked on my miserable countenance with weary contempt; disappointment clearly would’ve signified a degree of optimism at some point and the accretion of jade born of grim satisfaction at expectations of failure being met yet again hammered home the clear and welcome message: you, sir, are a piece of shit, if not the whole damn turd. You think you’re so damn special because you’ve read a few books and attained a respectable degree of cultural literacy, but if you behave in exactly the same manner as the ravaged garbageheads out there patrolling the shadows, shedding body and brain mass in a hopeless war of attrition, then you are as they, no better, no worse, just another hapless sucker chained to a pernicious notion and too damned stupid and/or stubborn to do the work necessary to subdue it.

Regard for my personal worth was plummeting rapidly and approaching bottom, so much so that jail was looking like the best option in a set of equally untenable ones. I’d be protected from myself and get some sleep, anyway. If it weren’t for the medieval nightmare that is the pre-booking holding tank, I’d have positively welcomed the change.

Sleep I did, deep and dreamless in the manner of one critically deprived of it, for three days straight, arising only to shovel in the chow and sluice off the oily, mephitic stank oozing from my pores. Day Four had me up and taking stock, wondering if this was to be a helpful prophylaxis à la Scared Straight or a full-on washing-hands-of-you punitive measure.

Monday morning the in-house parole guy came in the pod door, the one who comes to read you your charges and book your seat on the San Quentin Express. He yelled my name and I knew I was sunk but when he got to the cell door and said, “When they let you out this afternoon make sure you stop in at parole,” I about plotzed in delighted surprise. A break I did not expect and an opportunity to perhaps apply the binders to this runaway truck that is the current course of my life.

They released me well after five, too late to go to parole where my keys, wallet, and phone were, without a coat in the evening chill. I went first to parole to see if my car’d been towed—thankfully, not—and then walked up to the motel I’d been staying at to see about my belongings. The manager not only had my things packed up but allowed me, after hearing my story, a room for the night. Second undeserved blessing of the day. I took my bags up to the room, opened my big duffel and there, right on top, was my pipe and dope sack.

God-damnit. Points to the manager for honesty and laissez-faire but shame on the capricious skylarking of whatever malevolent agent of fate was shuffling my cards. I could no more not pick up that pipe—five days out and fully replenished with food and sleep, effectively resetting the meter—than I could play a Highland air on it. I smoked it all and called parole the following morning, leaving a message saying I won’t be checking in today because I’m in the condition you threatened would result in my return to custody should I be in it, so come get me if you want me. I provided my coordinates and waited for the knock, but it’s yet to come.

Agent Weathers has bounced me from her caseload and I am now under the questionable aegis of Whittaker, the very same gent blessed by my micturate baptismal. He asked me flat-out was I dirty, I confessed, and he wondered aloud what exactly I needed to stop this madness.

I said that perhaps some more treatment was in order—I am definitely on the side of curbing the disturbing trend and returning to sanity. Things are currently unresolved and up in the air except for three salient and critical details, that I am now homeless, jobless, and have burned through my savings. Funny how a few grams of artfully admixed and heated corrosives can burn through a life like napalm, fast, hot, and devastating.

And now here I sit, no longer high but not clear of the effects, writing nonetheless but not with pleasure and pride. More a compelling need to lay it all out on the table after weeks of deception and decay. Clearly announcing my return to dirtbag status to the world at large is not the way I wish to exercise my craft. I am not William Freakin’ Burroughs and have no desire to be, harbor no illusions about the romance of the drugging life, and want only to write in my natural state, adorning my modest self with words enough to make me presentable and maybe, occasionally, tarted up a bit. Not this forced, turgid drama I’ve been barfing out. Not my style and wouldn’t want it to be.

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FROM BRUCE MCEWEN’s recent End of Year Courthouse Awards:

“Certified Spanish Language Court Interpreter, Timothy Baird, is retiring at the end of the year, having served at the Ukiah Courthouse in a capacity that far exceeds the ostensible job description, in that, after he has dutifully interpreted the courtroom proceedings to thousands upon thousands of Spanish speaking defendants over the years, he must then spend the rest of his own time in the hallways explaining what has happened and what it means to their family members, to people, that is, who have as little understanding of the legalities as they do of the language. This is nothing short of extra-curricular to the point of above-and-beyond his duty, given freely out of Mr. Baird’s abundance of human decency, and he is to be congratulated for it, as well as honored with The Superlative Service Award we offer here. And we would also note that last summer Mr. Baird went on strike to try and get a long belated pay-cut reinstated – which was refused – and although he could well have single-handedly brought the courts to a standstill, his “strike” had been nothing more than symbolic. Congrats, Tim. It’s been a pleasure and an honor enjoying your company and friendship at the courthouse, Sir.”

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Looking for a kitty who is sweet, and a real social butterfly? Turkey may be the cat for you! Turkey is a 2 year old, spayed female Tortie, who is outgoing and loves to meet new people. We think Turkey will be a wonderful match for a family with children. Come down to the Shelter and spend some time with this warm- hearted feline and all her friends.

Beautiful Pino was surrendered to the shelter when her family could no longer care for her. We learned that Pino needs to be in a CAT-FREE home, she's good with other dogs, pretty mellow, house trained, and not a barker! Kids in Pino's new home should be over 12. During her evaluation, Pino met Danny, one of our tester dogs, and was not interested in him at all. Pino would like short, slow and mellow walks. Pino is a 5 year old, spayed, female Rottweiler mix, who weighs a svelte 60 pounds. Visit Pino’s webpage at

Throughout the month of January, the adoption fee for dogs over 4 months old is only $75. All adopted dogs are spayed/neutered, and up-to-date on vaccinations. (Mendocino County residents need to pay a $25 license fee.)

The Ukiah Animal Shelter is located at 298 Plant Road in Ukiah, and adoption hours are Tuesday, Thursday, Friday & Saturday from 10 am to 4:30 pm and Wednesday from 10 am to 6:30 pm. To see photos and bios of the shelter's adoptable animals, please visit us online at: For more information about adoptions please call 707-467-6453.

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Elderly veteran in need of room

An 81-year-old local veteran is in desperate need of a room for rent anywhere within a 20 mile radius of Fort Bragg. He is very sweet, considerate and tidy gentleman. His only companion is a small 12-year-old dog named Rosie who is very well behaved. His rent is always guaranteed because of his veterans voucher and can afford up to $1000 a month rent. He is great company and would make a great companion for the right person. Whether it is a temporary or permanent situation anything would suffice for now. He is on a waiting list for other permanent housing.

Thank you, Megan 707.364.9828

Megan Caron,

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CATCH OF THE DAY, January 5, 2019

Aldaz-Palmer, Braziel, Cochran

MARIAM ALDAZ-PALMER, Ukiah. Controlled substance possession and transportation, conspiracy.

DEANDRE BRAZIEL, Ukiah. Controlled substance, defrauding an innkeeper, controlled substance, for sale, resisting.

NICHOLAS COCHRAN, Willits. Taking vehicle without owner’s consent, probation revocation.

Finfrock, Fuentes, Mora, Partridge

LYNN FINFROCK, Laytonville. DUI causing bodily injury.

LLUANN FUENTES, Ukiah. Under influence, paraphernalia.

EFREN MORA, Redwood Valley. Controlled substance, probation revocation.

DONOVAN PARTRIDGE, Ukiah. Disorderly conduct-alcohol.

Rendon-Garcia, Schlapkohl, Secher

JAVIER RENDON-GARCIA, Ukiah. Controlled substance possession for sale and transportation, false compartment, conspiracy.

CHARLES SCHLAPKOHL, Redwood Valley. Controlled substance, registration for wrong vehicle, suspended license (for DUI), signing a promise to appear with a fake name.

DANIELLE SECHER, Lakeport/Ukiah. Probation revocation.

Sevier, Stevenson, Stillwell

RONALD SEVIER, Ukiah. Failure to appear.

KENDRA STEVENSON, Laytonville. Disorderly conduct-alcohol.

KERRA STILLWELL, Covelo. Disorderly conduct-alcohol.

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President Donald Trump claims he has a large base that demands to see a wall built to protect the southern border. Yet his idea that U.S. citizens should finance this promised Mexico-paid-for wall appears to be stuck in Congress.

Instead, I think he should think outside the box and get “moativated.”

I propose that the U.S. government provide his base with free shovels with which to dig a moat along the border. Then fill it with water and relocate from down south a few thousand or so alligators. Finally, put up some southward-facing signs in English and Spanish with the warning: “Danger: Cross at Your Own Peril.”

This idea is really no crazier than some of the others Trump has come up with in his first two years; and who knows, it might work.

Sherman Schapiro

Blue Lake

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When the vineyards took over the apple orchards, wasn’t there a huge property loss — from the noise, machinery and spraying? And did we protest the loss of the beloved scent of apple blossoms and fruit and unfenced orchards? Nope. I think those complaining their property is losing value due to marijuana growing should confer with a realtor or two.

On the other hand, compared to orchards, both viticulture and cannaculture use far too much of our water supply while other residents save their flushes for important matters.

Weedy Tuhtanjoseph


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WALKING ON THE AUSSIE WILD SIDE: The Counterculture Down Under with Michael Wilding

by Jonah Raskin

You’re either in it or out of it. In this case “it” is the cannabis bubble. If it’s a bubble in California and elsewhere in the U.S., it can feel much the same around the world, including Australia, as Michael Wilding knows. Smoking a joint is smoking a joint whether one is in Sydney or Sacramento, Melbourne or Modesto.

An Englishman who settled in Australia in the early 1960s, Wilding has helped—through his writing—to move cannabis away from the periphery and toward the mainstream.

Many of the same words that are used in the U.S.—grass, weed, dope, marijuana, pot, reefer, cannabis and more—are used “Down Under,” Wilding explains, though the land Down Under doesn’t have a history of African Americans jazz men and woman, such as Louis Armstrong and Billie Holiday, or Hollywood stars like Robert Mitchum, who smoked reefer and went to jail.

American cannabis activists might pat themselves on the back and insist that they’re in advance of the Aussie movement for legalization, but as history, culture and language show, Americans and Aussie are in the same boat, though separated by a vast ocean.

The island nation—which Wilding has mapped in his fiction and non-fiction for more than half a century—is a vast continent, that boasts surfers and stoners, plus cattle and sheep ranchers, and descendants of criminals who were kicked out of England and who helped to create the backbone of the nation, much as slaves, indentured servants, non-conformists and misfits helped to shape the national character of U.S.

The Aussies are our cultural cousins. They share many of our problems, including racism and white nationalism, though they have also made them their own, as Wilding knows all too well. They also make their own world class wine and beer and enjoy inebriants.

In Australia—which is about the same size as the 48 continuous states of the U.S.—cannabis is cultivated and consumed, Wilding explains, from New South Wales and Victoria to Queensland and beyond. But it’s not legal to do so without a government license. Like the U.S., Australia has a long history of prohibition, though it’s rare these days for anyone to serve time in prison for possession or cultivation. Decriminalization has proceeded slowly Down Under.

Weed smells, tastes and looks much the same in, say, New South Wales as in California, though a cannabis connoisseur in Sydney or Sacramento might be able to tell the differences between ours and theirs—terroir does matter—much as wine connoisseurs can tell the difference between an Australian red and a California red.

Working class and British, Wilding attended Oxford, where he studied English. Teaching jobs at the university level were hard to come by in the early 1960s, so he left the land of his birth for greener academic pastures.

Getting out of England and settling in Australia was the best move he ever made, academically speaking. For decades, he taught literature at the University of Sydney. He has also taught at the University of California at Santa Barbara, where he had a chance to see the hippie counterculture, and the National University of Singapore, which isn’t friendly to countercultures.

Now a professor emeritus, Wilding is a national literary treasure and the author of twenty-three books. He’s well known for a series of novels with a private investigator or P.I. who is appropriately named “Plant,” and who has appeared in seven novels so far, with an eighth on the way.

None of the Plant novels have been published in the U.S., but some, including In the Valley of the Weed, Little Demon, and The Travel Writer, are available on Amazon. Like the American detective, Moses Wine, in the novel The Big Fix, which was made into a movie with Richard Dreyfus, Plant belongs to the counterculture, at least in part.

“I call him Plant because he’s a sort of a passive observer,” Wilding explained. “He’s also a vegetarian and he’s non-violent. PI’s traditionally were hard drinkers. I differentiated him by making him a cannabis user.” In one dramatic scene in The Prisoner of Mount Warning, Plant rolls a joint and describes how he does it.

“Roll, roll, roll,” Plant tells himself. “Lick, lick, lick.” He adds, “How could it have become so difficult, he had to be stoned.”

Like his creator, Plant doesn’t flaunt his cannabis habit. On the whole, Australians don’t flaunt it, either. They’re discreet, though there are Australian versions of the Emerald Cup, and other cannabis festivals were growers and users congregate and smoke in public.

Ever since the Sixties, conservative social historians in the U.S. and elsewhere have gone far out on a limb and insisted that there really never was a counterculture, and that all cultures reflect the norms and values of the dominant society.

Tell that to hippies, stoners, dissidents and fans of rock ‘n’ roll who protested against the war in Vietnam, which the Australian government stupidly supported, and that sparked an anti-war movement in the land Down Under.

After all these years, what did Wilding think about the counterculture?

“Surely, there was a counterculture in the 1960s,” he told me. “That’s what seems so missing in present times. It wasn’t just dope smoking, music and back to the land. There were all the countercultural newspapers and small presses and a thriving alternative publishing scene. Of course, it soon became another area for capitalist exploitation.”

In 1974, Wilding co-founded with Pat Woolley, the Australian book publisher, Wild & Woolley. For the past three decades, Wilding has been the foremost critic of and apostle for Australian literature. He’s also capitalized on his last name, Wilding, in books like Wild Bleak Bohemia and Wildest Dreamsand has explored Australia’s wild side in fiction and non-fiction.

Cannabis doesn’t grow wild in Australia, but it’s wild in the sense that it’s mostly unregulated. Australian law calls it a “narcotic drug.” For decades, Australian drug warriors took many of their cues from Washington, D.C. “Reefer madness” Down Under matched reefer madness in the U.S. Like American potheads, Australian potheads suffered under politicians who believed that cannabis was the Devil’s very own weed.

These days, cannabis can be cultivated legally with a license from the Australian government. Applicants must be “fit and proper persons.” How very British that sounds! As of November 2018, fewer than 50 licenses were granted to companies with names like “Little Green Pharma” and “Indica Industries.” The government is mighty stingy, but that hasn’t stopped growers from growing.

In Australia, as in the U.S., attempts to eradicate cannabis only seemed to make it stronger. An estimated 300,000 people used it daily; 750,000 on a weekly basis. A MardiGrass Festival, with a rally and parade, takes place in spring in New South Wales. Indeed, Aussie potheads occasionally come out of the cannabis closet.

On the subject of the black market, Wilding said, “Keeping drugs illegal meant a huge amount of money could be made from them. I think that’s one reason why the Reagan-Thatcher years introduced de-regulation and large-scale privatization. There was all that funny money around that was looking for legit business to invest in.”

Is that a conspiratorial view? Perhaps so! Wilding has been fascinated with conspiracies and conspirators. In fact, drug smugglers from Miami to Sydney and beyond have laundered the money they’ve made in cannabis and cocaine, which sometimes went hand in glove.

One of Wilding’s most appealing characters is a feisty Australian woman named Rose who enjoys flirting with Plant. She appears for the first time in a novel called Pacific Highway and again in The Prisoner of Mount Warning. Wilding calls Pacific Highway “a sort of hippified, Richard Brautigan-influenced, peace and love post-modern novel.”

That is, in large part, Michael Wilding: a post-modernist who has explored the hippie countercultural world, and in doing so has put Australian literature on the literary map of the world. His English working class roots, to which he has remained true, have also led him to study and write about the Australian working class—another kind of counterculture—but that’s a story for another day.

(Jonah Raskin is the author of For The Hell of It: The Life and Times of Abbie Hoffman and American Scream: Allen Ginsberg’s ‘Howl’ and the Making of the Beat Generation.)

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“If he thinks guns are not something that will be used in the next couple of years, he is crazy.”

— Jerry Philbrick, AVA, 12/26/18

Mr. Philbrick: “The next couple of years” is in the future. We certainly don’t see any value in discussing the future with someone who is so badly misinformed about the past.

Anyway, this isn’t about some general future possibilities of violence, this is about now and one individual, you, Mr. Philbrick, a bitter, hate-filled old-man. If you look at the rest of the AVA, it’s only you, week after week, spewing such garbage. Our esteemed editor, a major curmudgeon, more power to him, writes, one could say, like he’s expecting things in the near future to be normally messed up per usual. Nor does anyone else writing in the paper seem to be expecting some KKK crazies to come swarming out of the hills of Comptche, drag us out of our beds in the night, and string us up on a lamp-post. Only you, Mr. Philbrick.

We’re all harangued every week with the same, sad litany of your life defeats. Oh, “the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,” eh, Mr. Philbrick? Kill ‘em all! eh, Mr. Philbrick? You’re like the sore loser in a board game who grabs the board and throws it on the floor. Sane people know your laundry list of disasters is fundamentally due to global warming and/or greed, not liberals. Just one, close to home example to make my point: By the time the environmental movement got going in the 70s, 95% of the ancient Redwood Forest was already gone. 95%! We were fighting to save the last 5%. Have you got ears to hear that, Mr. Philbrick?

Your rants sound like Big Brother’s Hate Hour in 1984; your mind controlled by Fox News, Infowars, Limberger, Coulter and the rest of that ilk on the fascist fringe. They have so disinformed your mind it has deformed your soul. You, sir, are an ugly human being to hatefully promote in an open forum that neighbor attack neighbor. What would Jesus say? My bet is that he'd say you can go straight to hell.

It occurs to us that people like you are a sinister, black-hearted obverse of the left radicals back in the magnificent 60s. It seemed to us then, too, we were the whole world when we were in reality a small fringe group. So lots of bad luck with your terror campaign. By the way, given how it went down in the 60s, it's very likely the FBI has already started a file on you. You are the leader, Mr. Philbrick. Do you have a title? We always thought Grand Dragon had a nice ring to it.

If it does come to violence between neighbors it will be because of the knaves and fools like you who admire and voted for this pathological liar, this draft dodger! whose jailbird father with his money rescued his son from military service and then his multiple business failures with over $400+ million in gifts, both of them cheating on their taxes all the way. You can look it up.

You need to get some psychiatric help before you actually get somebody hurt. Don't you have any real friends? Family? Do they find you amusing? Sad.

Jon Arnoldt, Armed Liberal

Fort Bragg

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* * *



Jerry Moonbeam Brown is guilty of murder of the police officer who was killed by the illegal alien felon. He created the sanctuary state. He allowed liberal far left enviros to run the state, which contributed to the fire hazards that helped burn up the country and killed who knows how many people and animals. Jerry Moonbeam Brown and his entire administration should be held accountable and punished. Nothing will change under the new governor, Gavin Gruesome Newsom. The last three presidents we had would not make a pimple on Donald Trump's ass. He is putting the country back in the right direction. That includes the rotten liberal left-wing policies in California.

We need to help Sheriff Allman and law enforcement. Not one more officer killed. Civilians should help as much as they can. I have stopped several times to see if I can help an officer alone at night doing his duty. I would gladly risk my life in a serious situation. Two officers should respond to all calls nowadays. The backup officer should get out of the car and stand nearby with a submachine gun and cover the first officer. That should be the rules of engagement. There's plenty of money because these officers risk their lives and they should be protected properly.

I applaud President Trump for shutting down the government. I hope he keeps it shut down until the Democrats do the right thing.

The people who sit on their couches drinking beer and smoking marijuana don't care about the potholes in the road. Let it all hang out. Let someone else take care of it.

The stupid hypocritical inbred brain-dead child molesting anti-American communists like Chuck Schumer and Nancy Pelosi are trying to open the borders. That's what they want. Thousands of illegal felons and terrorists brought into our society. Nice going you rotten bastards. May you rot in hell.

Mr. Know it All Arnoldt of Fort Bragg, let's see how good a shot you are because they will be camped in your backyard. You can blame the senior people at Calfire who decide how to spend the money and again Jerry Brown for all the recent fires. We should have airplanes the size of old retired B-24s and 727s big enough to affect the fire. Helicopters with buckets have very little effect. The State of California have those old retired big bombers which were phased out rigged up with massive amounts of retardant and station them strategically around the state to respond. But no, Jerry Brown didn't want to spend the money. Another catastrophe to blame Jerry Brown for which killed thousands of people and thousands of animals.

God bless Donald Trump

Jerry Philbrick


* * *

MEMO OF THE AIR: Crisse de câlice de tabarnak d’esti de sacrament.

"Spud spoke sharply. He had been scared, he was mad, and he aimed to be madder. He began swearing, soft and mild at first, as his custom was, then as his wrath stood up in him, he got into the swing of his language and the air before his face changed color. He used the deep cussing of seamen, the low, venomous cussing of cattlemen, the freighters' whiplike oaths, and what he heard from the Mississippi roustabouts when he was a kid at home. He cussed the cussing of Mexican muleteers when they're feeling fine and want to tell the world, and when, at the end of a long desert day, a mule falls and spills its pack, and another mule steps on their feet. He used the dreadful, whining cussing with which Finn sailors can stop or start a storm, and his father's terrible Irish wrath, and Navajo and Apache and Ute words of shriveling strength, and coureur de bois talk, and Kit Carson's main oath on top of the lot, and all along through it he wove in and out the ideas that came to him, the voice of his anger pouring itself out full. The warriors ducked, raised their shields and touched their medicine bags. Cochise put his fan before his face, and twice he half raised his hand to ask Spud to stop. As the cowpuncher's voice died away at last, there was a thump on the ground between them, and the buzzard which had been sailing high above fell to earth, scorched clean of feathers." — Oliver LaFarge, Spud and Cochise

The recording of last night's (2019-01-04) KNYO Fort Bragg and KMEC Ukiah Memo of the Air: Good Night Radio show is available by one or two clicks, depending on whether you want to listen to it now or download it and keep it for later and, speaking of which, it's right here:

Something went wrong with the connection to KMEC for about a half-hour or so circa 3am, suspiciously during the time I read a long article explaining the psychological and linguistic former mysteries of swearing, including the clinically dissected swears, but no problems with KNYO, and the recording is of course complete.

Also, at you can find a Costco-size fresh batch of links to not necessarily radio-useful but nonetheless worthwhile educational items I set aside for you while gathering the show together. Such as:

Charity and Andre. These amazing young Mormons grew up less than twenty miles apart. They're both children of dance studio operators so have been dancing since they were toddlers. In one of the dances here, Charity had a broken foot (!), but the show must go on, even hampered by only-slightly-modified garmies (the magic stiff anti-Satan underwear Mormons all wear everywhere, including in the shower).

Seeing this sort of training always fascinates and horrifies and amuses me to an equal degree. There are all kinds of things to think about here. Memories of dogs set on black people and protestors and workers on strike, etc. How happy a dog is to know what it's supposed to do. The fact that that's the arm-suit guy's day job, there. "How was work today, honey?" "Yeh, you know. Fine, I guess. I lost another button." "What happened to your nose?" "Nothing. Just a scratch. Anyway, why the third degree, Barbara?" "I'm sorry, I just get bored here at home all day with nothing to do but sweep, and wash clothes, and drink vodka, and watch teevee." "Oh. Well, why don't you come to work with me tomorrow? We'll be together, and you can take a turn in the arm suit, and after that we can go to Taco Bell. Make a date of it." "Yes. Yes, I'd like that, Bill. Just a minute; I'll get my sewing kit and do something about that button. Tch, tch, now where did I put it?"

And you can take the beaver out of the river but you can't take the river out of the beaver.

Marco McClean,,

* * *

AN INTRODUCTION TO FILM - Course announcement for Spring 2019

An Introduction to Film course will be offered during the Spring 2019 semester at the Coast Center of Mendocino College on Friday mornings from 9-11:50am. Open to Mendo College students and anyone else interested in film. We will study the history, diverse styles, genres and modes of filmmaking in the US and internationally - early cinema, classical Hollywood, film noir, Italian neorealist, independent cinema, documentary filmmaking, Latin American and Indigenous cinema, and more. We will watch contemporary films made by women and people of color that are breaking new ground and generating societal debate. The course is taught by Diana Coryat, who been involved in making and studying films since the late 80s. She received her BFA from New York University Tisch School of the Arts; an MA and Ph.D. in Communication from University of Amherst Massachusetts. Please write if you have any questions.

Ashok Khosla,

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click to enlarge

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To the Editor:

Mendocino County recently launched OpenGov Interactive Financial Transparency Platform to great fanfare. But I said it once, and I’ll say it again: Mendocino County’s OpenGov Transparency Platform is canned software solution; and it’s the thinnest veneer of transparency in county finances, if it's transparency that you seek.

OpenGov Transparency is only a start.

OpenGov Transparency only allows for the consolidation of siloed data into one place, one dashboard, and one spreadsheet. It allows a user to “visualize” government financial and nonfinancial data, and to drill down into graphs and tables. It’s what programmers call an “outward facing” program.

OpenGov Intelligence is a step up.

OpenGov Intelligence is a cloud-based reporting and data visualization solution that displays an individual government’s financial and non-financial data by department. It would enable the county’s individual departments to report out to the Board of Supervisors on a regular reporting schedule, including each department’s revenues and expenditures by fund, department, and type of account. The product lets departments track their spending against budget, monitor the financial status of capital improvement projects, and explore revenue trends. The public could view the data in a variety of interactive graphs and tables, as well as download or share the data through email or social media.

Then, there’s OpenGov Budget Builder.

OpenGov Budget Builder is a collaborative budgeting tool for governments. Individual departments collaborate on and submit budget proposals. Then, budget administrators, finance directors, and department heads access and evaluate proposals in one central location. is a collaborative budgeting tool for governments. Individual departments collaborate on and submit budget proposals. Then, budget administrators, finance directors, and department heads access and evaluate proposals in one central location.

Finally, there’s OpenGov Open Data.

OpenGov Open Data, powered by enterprise-ready CKAN, delivers public data to civic developers, businesses, and citizens. This solution provides a hosted and managed CKAN instance with customizable portals.

There are other interesting variations on the above themes.

Ohio State Treasurer Josh Mandel launched with OpenGov in early December 2014. Ohio was one of the first states in the country to use a searchable, machine readable checkbook for transactions. The Treasurer’s Office allows local governments to place their checkbook level data on at no cost to the agencies themselves. These local governments include cities, counties, townships, schools, library districts and other special districts.

In 2016, the Colorado Department of the Treasury implemented OpenGov to explore and report on its debt obligations from a central system.

Again, OpenGov Transparency is only a start. But no doubt, Mendocino County CEO Carmel Angelo will be congratulating herself on its launch, and the Board of Supervisors and Grand Jury will join in on the orgy of backslapping and high fives.

The public's biggest concern in 2019, here in Mendocino County, should be our ballooning unfunded pension liability. With the recent bear market selloff, it's probably upwards of $350 million.

How about a little transparency about Mendocino County's unfunded pension liability!

Some folks think that issuing hundreds of millions of dollars in new pension obligation bonds is the answer to funding that liability. But they should think again. A small army of local tax activists -- myself included, on behalf of our children and grandchildren -- and our attorneys, are standing ready to sue, if the county issues hundreds of millions of dollars in new pension obligation bonds. Saddling future generations with hundreds of millions of pension debt that they did not incur is a violation of "intergenerational equity".

Intergenerational equity in economic terms is the concept or idea of fairness or justice between generations. It can also be applied to fairness between generations currently living and generations yet to be born.

The courts have established that "youth plaintiffs" represent the youngest living generation in a given jurisdiction -- beneficiaries of the public trust. The courts have further established that youth plaintiffs only have a substantial, direct, and immediate interest in the debt that only their generation incurs.

Youth plaintiffs have a right to a national, state, and county economy that remains stable enough to secure their constitutional rights to life, liberty, and property -- rights that depend on a livable future. A livable future is not possible with high levels of debt that older generations recklessly incurred and that cannot be repaid except through the most burdensome taxation and the most draconian austerity measures.

It's called "kicking the can down the road". And it's unfair.

It's unfair to our kids. It's why a lot of young adults who were raised in Mendocino County don't want live in Mendocino County -- big county and city government (relative to our economy and tax base), few well-paying private sector jobs, little opportunity, small economic growth, higher and higher taxes, and fewer and fewer public services as public sector debt constricts budgets.

John Sakowicz

Mendocino County Employee Retirement Association, Public Trustee, 2012-2017


* * *

SHOW BUSINESS PEOPLE are always honoring themselves, handing out trophies with cute names like “Oscar” and the people to whom these souvenirs are given have already been paid in coin of the realm far beyond reason, far beyond appropriateness. They are all loaded, rich, stinking, spoiled and bejeweled and beclothed and shod, really well shod, and they themselves have chosen among themselves who among them shall be honored and made even more rich and the event is a gala and the setting is resplendent, and they all beam like pampered children and television dotes on them and publicizes them and rehearsals have taken place and it is a celebration. It is a party for assholes. There is no other way to put it. And they gather together in pompous commonness and artful casualness and they make the atmosphere seem momentous, and what is it that they have done? They have made a bad movie about some nice people incarcerated in a modern bedlam or a lunatic asylum, or a hospital ward or some other, equally depressing setting. They all get their adulation and their trophies in the nicest kind of asshole celebration based on a story that had been bought for a song long ago and the film was made for a fair sum and its earnings had been in the speedy speedy millions and millions. But the writer of the novel was not there and he had to sue and then he settled out of court for a small portion of the swag. Who got the large portion of the swag? The celebrators of course, the celebrities. Because they worked so hard and the winners earned it. Let nobody take that away from them for one teensy weensy instant. They more than earned it. They basically say, Yes, I have lots of money and I am free to be me and to do anything I like. But really they are nothing, absolutely nothing. But the writer is another order of fish. To hell with him.

— William Saroyan

* * *


Friends and Colleagues,

Attached is a free pdf version of Major Tom, the book I published a year ago. This edition includes three appendices: 1) the five space treaties, 2) my paper on the Moon Treaty, 3) a draft Implementation Agreement. The story itself is novella length; I'm told it is a quick and enjoyable read. The paper is an expanded version of what I presented last October at the International Astronautical Congress. The Implementation Agreement (also copied below) is based on input from many organizations and individuals involved in space law.

I have also attached a review of Mars, National Geographic's series on humanity's efforts to settle on the Red Planet. Other articles are available at, along with a link to a petition in support of the Moon Treaty. At this moment in history, the Treaty, with an Implementation Agreement, represents humanity's best hope for an alternative to the militant nationalism that is threatening to dominate our departure from the home planet.

2019 promises to be a most fascinating year in outer space; reaching Ultima Thule and landing on the far side of the Moon are just the beginning. As always, if you do not wish to receive these updates, please reply with "unsubscribe" in the subject field. Thank you for your interest and support.


Dennis O'Brien

The Space Treaty Project

The Space Treaty Project is fiscally sponsored by the Cloud Forest Institute, an educational and scientific 501c3 tax exempt non-profit corporation. Tax deductible donations on behalf of the Space Treaty Project can be mailed to Cloud Forest Institute, PO Box 1435, Ukiah, CA 95482 or made on line at

Please note Space Treaty Project in the memo line. We thank you for your donation.

Implementation Agreement for Article 11 of the Moon Treaty (proposed)

  1. The Member States shall create as soon as is practicable an agency (“Agency”) to administer the provisions of the Agreement Governing The Activities Of States On The Moon And Other Celestial Bodies (“Treaty”) and this Implementation Agreement (“Agreement”).
  2. The Agency shall be authorized to issue licenses to non-governmental entities (“NGE”) for priority exploitation of resources. Exploitation of resources shall include but is not limited to: a) the extraction of materials, b) the use of a location for any other commercial activity, and c) the use of a location for settlements. Use by governments is authorized under Articles 8 and 9 of the Treaty.
  3. The Agency shall issue a license upon the proper application by an NGE, provided that the applicant (a) is approved and supervised by a national government, (b) agrees to accept the public policy obligations of the Treaty as described in Paragraph 4, and (c) agrees to share technology as described in Paragraph 8. The license shall describe the extent, duration, and nature of such use. The license shall be revoked if, at any time, a licensed NGE fails to comply with this Agreement.
  4. The public policy obligations of the Treaty that are applicable to NGE’s are as follows (detailed in the cited Treaty articles):
  5. Using outer space exclusively for peaceful purposes (3.1);
  6. Providing co-operation and mutual assistance (4.2);
  7. Informing the public of activities (5.1);
  8. Informing the public of any phenomena which could endanger human life or health, as well as of any indication of organic life (5.3);
  9. Protecting the environment (including historical legacies, such as early landing sites) (7.1);
  10. Informing the public of any scientific discoveries (7.3);
  11. Allowing free access to all areas by other parties (9.2);
  12. Honoring the Rescue Treaty (10.1)
  13. Informing the public of the discovery of resources (11.6).
  14. Any dispute over the use/development of a specific area/resource shall first be addressed using the consultation process detailed in Article 15 of the Treaty. If that process fails, the dispute shall be resolved by binding arbitration in accordance with the 2011 Permanent Court of Arbitration Optional Rules for Arbitration of Disputes Relating to Outer Space Activities. The Agency shall be appointed as the Arbitrator.
  15. The Agency is authorized to collect a fee for the issuance of a license. By adoption of this agreement, the Member States authorize the use of such fees for the administrative costs of the Agency. The collection and use of fees for any other purpose must be authorized by the Member States. The Member States shall create a process of governance for making such decisions as authorized under Article 18 of the Treaty.
  16. Member States, in consultation with private enterprise and international organizations, shall develop technology standards and practices for the safe use and development of space resources. Any dispute over the development and/or the application of such standards shall be resolved in accordance with Paragraph 5.
  17. In accordance with Treaty Article 4, Member States shall develop a process for sharing technology on a mutually acceptable basis. Until or in the absence of such a process, NGE’s shall license technology at no more than market rates. Technology that is subject to export controls shall be excluded from these requirements to the extent necessary to comply with said controls. Any dispute over the sharing of technology shall be resolved in accordance with Paragraph 5.
  18. The use or disturbance of any location on the Moon or other celestial body that is the site of a historical mission that occurred prior to the year 2000 is prohibited pending a final determination of the site's status as a Cultural Heritage Site. This prohibition applies to the location of any equipment and any evidence of presence (e.g., footprints, tracks). The Member States shall create a process for making such a determination or shall designate another entity/process for making such determinations that will be binding on the Member States.
  19. The controlling law at any location shall be the law of the country that authorized/supervises the use of that location, subject to this Agreement and Treaty. However, nothing in this Agreement or in the Treaty shall be interpreted as denying or limiting the rights guaranteed to individuals by the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, or the right of settlements to seek recognition as sovereign nations.

pdf attachment book majortom:

pdf attachment mars

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* * *


Ingrid's Lounge is proud to present our next artist showcase for Second Saturday in Mendocino. On Jan, 12th, Apaulo Hart will be on location to meet and greet guests and art lovers who come in to view his works.

“Apaulo Hart is a full-time leather fashion designer and part time illustrator/tattoo artist residing in Mendocino Seaside. He loves to study esoteric literature of the occult, mythology, philosophy and theology. These studies and his view of the natural world are inspireation for his fashion and illustration. Personally, he identifies as a Queer Artist and sees it important to be out and confidently communicate this because of our political climate. His art, both fashion and illustration, playfully and boldly mix the archaic and modern. You can view his fashion design at

In his illustration and painting he uses charcoal, watercolor, and acrylic on wood to combine mythical ideas and symbols with classic pin-up tattoo flash or graphic/comic style. Apaulo invites the viewer to think about how they are viewing his art psychologically. He gives the viewer a choice to see his characters as horrible monsters luring the innocent to their doom OR as powerful self-aware yet misunderstood creatures who happen to bring up the “fear of the unknown” and personal judgement in the onlooker. By depicting creatures that are physically a combination of differences Apaulo asks us to imagine what it could feel like to connect the soul and the carnal nature, myth and history, science and spirituallity, dark and light, and even our ideas of good and evil, to look for balance and unity so hopefully we may get to know ourselves better.”

Ingrid's Lounge, 16 Ukiah St, Mendocino, CA

MUST BE 21+ or 18+ with valid 215 and ID


  1. Marco McClean January 6, 2019

    To Flynn Washburne:

    Watch a few of Spalding Gray’s simple monologue films (Gray’s Anatomy, Swimming To Cambodia, etc.) and mull over slapping together a show where you read selected bits of your life for an hour or so. Most of the work is already done; you’d only need to assemble it. After your latest troubles, once your situation settles down, which will happen, let me know and I can help you stage your show in Mendocino before a live audience and I’ll film it and you’ll have some theater experience and something to distribute. You may feel you’re not William S. Burroughs, but you’re at /least/ Spalding Gray, I think, though without the depression and suicide, thank the great What’s-Her-Name. And I’ll do the work on spec; I believe I owe you; I’ve been reading your stories aloud on my show since your first one in the AVA. That was far enough back in the mists of time that there was still KMFB, with Bob Woelfel in charge there. There was still a species of saber-tooth capybara the size of a milk truck living in the Amazon, and phones were four pounds of black bakelite and had curly wires going up to a pole outside. All this time your writing has been consistently brilliant, honest, genuine, funny, unique, some more words, what, um, give me a minute. Superlative. Superlative work, Flynn.

    And if anybody at NPR (or even at the local NPR-colonized so-called public radio stations) had a brain in their head and half a ball in their pants they’d allot you at least an hour a week and pay you for it out of their copious ill-gotten tax loot. I read that they pay just Ira Glass and the two producers of his one-hour-per-week show /$500,000 a year/. That’s almost as crazy as KZYX flushing away $600,000 a year to run a system that all together costs about a dollar an hour to jazz with electricity, and still they claim there’s no money to tip the local airpeople even $20 a show, nor anything at all. That is some combination of wacky and sleazy woo-woo new-age corporate crookedness that nothing’s stopping them from shaking up and setting in order tout suite, so it’s a possibility, but not one I’d hold my breath about.

    Meanwhile, you can use my radio show on KNYO in Fort Bragg and KMEC in Ukiah. Email me and we’ll arrange a scheduled time and do it live over the (modern tiny) phone every week or every other week on a proper therapeutic deadline from wherever you are. You’d try it for awhile and see if you like doing radio, and then move to the next obvious level, whatever opens up, whenever it feels right. We can start as early as this Friday, Jan. 11, 2019. There’s no pressure; just get back to me if you want to do it, and I’ll take it from there.

    Also, you’re exactly pithily right about Jerry Philbrick.

    p.s. To webmaster: A squiggly foreign character didn’t show up in the title of my latest MOTA-announce post, the one about the untranslatable Quebecois swear. I should have spelled it out phonetically using normal American numbers and letters. And the post from the day before that– I was in a hurry and careless and didn’t replace YouTube links and a twitter link with tinyURL substitutes, and it made a mess for you to clean up; I’ll add these items to my production checklist so neither problem darkens your door again. Thanks again for all your help.

    Marco McClean

    • AVA News Service Post author | January 6, 2019

      swear repaired

  2. Randy Burke January 6, 2019

    Right on Marco. A great gesture of compassion and aid to a guy I have been following and reading aloud for quite some time. Nicest offer to someone I have seen since the New Year. Hope it continues on into the rest of 2019 and beyond.

  3. PhiloFred January 6, 2019

    Dear Flynn, I’m very sorry to hear of your recent setbacks. This long-time fan (one of many I am sure) is rooting for you to get back on your feet in 2019.

  4. Lazarus January 6, 2019

    re: Flynn Washburne

    Mr. Washburne,
    Not being near as articulate and prolific as yourself I applaud your writings. It seems someone in journalism would gleefully hire you as a stringer for their publication. From there the sky is the limit, exposure is everything.

    Soulful writers are rare in my opinion, and you are obviously such a writer.
    Meth is the plague of all drugs, I hope you can beat it, and with that, use your natural talents in writing to succeed in this life. Good on you, and safe travels…
    As always,

  5. Bill Pilgrim January 6, 2019

    RE: Washburne.

    Permit me to distill all the bedizened linguistic legerdemain to a shorter, simpler declarative: “I f*cked up, man.”

  6. Steve Heilig January 6, 2019

    As it’s established that California’s Sanctuary State policy had no impact on the recent police murder tragedy (the murderer was arrested before it was enacted), Philbrick’s latest rant begins with a falsehood and declines from there. But if Philbrick himself runs somebody over or shoots somebody or otherwise harms anyone, including himself, prosecutors would take one look at his collected AVA rants and ask, ruefully, “Why didn’t somebody institutionalize this guy long ago?”

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