- More Rain
- Road Updates
- Navarro Crests
- Variety Players
- Fire Extinguishers
- Board Quorum
- Wilma Fernandez
- Airbnb Control
- Service Providers
- Sunrise Cafe
- Fair Turnout
- Ack Ack
- Farmers Convergence
- Interest Rates
- California Joe
- Bad Nap
- Boonville Rental
- Road Ahead
- Old Mug
- Street Art
- Octo Carving
- Beatnik Queen
- Yesterday's Catch
- Socialism Works
- Carbon Capture
- Newsom Troops
- Gloriana Benefit
- Mahatma Cosby
- Primary Care
WIDESPREAD RAIN SHOWERS AND MOUNTAIN SNOW will continue into the weekend as a series of systems move through the region. Showers may contain small hail. A few thunderstorms will also be possible. Snow levels will hover around 2500 feet through Saturday and possibly lower a bit more on Sunday. High pressure will briefly settle in early next week. (National Weather Service)
CHP ROAD UPDATES:
Friday 12:23am — SR 175 at the Russian River (mm 0-1) is now open in the Hopland area.
Friday 4:38am — SR 1 at the Garcia River (mm 17-18.5) is now open.
HIGHWAY 128 OPEN THURSDAY 3:45 PM (It Was Closed By Caltrans 11:04 AM)
NAVARRO RIVER LEVEL (Flood Stage Is 23.0')
Here is how the river has been rising every hour since midnight :
- 12:15 am - 15.73’
- 01:15 am - 16.64’
- 02:15 am - 17.77’
- 03:15 am - 18.50’
- 04:15 am - 19.48’
- 05:15 am - 20.41’
- 06:15 am - 21.42’
- 07:15 am - 22.26’
- 08:15 am - 22.94’
- 09:15 am - 23.41’
- 10:15 am - 23.66' ***Looks like River has crested.
- 11:15 am - 23.63'
- 12:15 pm - 23.49'
- 1:15 pm - 23.14’
- 2:15 pm - 22.57’
- 3:15 PM - 22.0'
NOAA’S NAVARRO RIVER TRACKING WEBSITE showed that the Navarro got nowhere near the so-called “max flood level” on Thursday and started receding Thursday morning which resulted in the re-opening of Highway 128 Thursday afternoon after less than a day of closure.
THE ANDERSON VALLEY GRANGE’S 28th annual Variety Show is on Friday March 8th and Saturday March 9th, and we will make room for you! That means YOU, or your funny/weird/talented friend or ANIMAL. We have had dogs, cats, horses, sheep, alpacas, cattle, iguanas, goats, pythons, doves, turtles, but never parrots, llamas, wombats…what kind of animal do YOU have, and what can it do? We want to see it!! Please contact Captain Rainbow at 895-3807, or Robyn at 272-2127 (you can text her, too) if you have a talent, skill, animal, joke, or anything else you'd like to put onstage for all of us to enjoy. We have rehearsals the weekend before the show, and we can illuminate and amplify anything. The best part is the A.V. audience, we're the most enthusiastic folk found anywhere. You won't find a better place to strut your stuff!
OOPS! AV Unified School District can and has mustered a school board quorum. Although Kristy Hotchkiss and Craig Walker will be resigning, but they haven't yet despite Walker having moved to the Bay Area and Ms. Hotchkiss under doctor's orders to take it easier, leaving Elizabeth Jensen, Saiorse Byrne and Dick Browning anchoring the trustee responsibility.
WILMA FERNANDEZ, 55, died at Rancho Navarro on Friday, February 1st. An official cause of death has not been issued but is believed to be from natural causes.
DITTO FOR MENDO
WANT TO PROMOTE YOUR LOCAL BUSINESS and support members of the Anderson Valley Village?
We are looking for a wide variety of service providers – including but not limited to: gardeners, housekeepers, handy persons, electricians, plumbers, tech support, home nursing care, etc. We will provide this list of paid service providers to our members – if you are interested in being on that list, all you have to do is fill out a one page form and mail or email it back to us.
Pick up a form at Rossi's in Boonville or to have it sent to you please contact us at: (707) 684-9829 or email@example.com
AV Village is a non-profit organization providing Anderson Valley Village members with the confidence and practical means to live safely and comfortably in their homes and community as they age.
SUNRISE CAFE - Exciting News!
We will now be open Friday and Saturday for dinner! New hours are Tuesday through Thursday & Sunday, 7am to 4pm. Friday and Saturday 7am to 8pm! We have a couple of new menu items in the works, special to the dinner crowd. Stay tuned! We are available after hours for special occasions! Need space and good food for a birthday party? Baby shower? Wedding dinner? Business meeting? We’d be happy to accommodate you! We’ll work with you to create a budget friendly menu for your event. Give Katie a call at 707-813-4049 for details! Last but not least: we’re still looking for a full time cook! Spread the word!
Brian & Katie Smith, Sunrise Cafe
10483 Lansing St, Ste 5A & 5B
PO Box 1379, Mendocino, CA 95460
WINTER ABUNDANCE: GOOD TURNOUT!
Well over 300 people participated in the 36th annual Winter Abundance Workshop under wintery, cold, snowy and rainy skies. Thanks to Mendocino Permaculture, AV Adult School, and AV Foodshed for arranging all the grafting/plant propagation classes and hands-on grafting clinics; to Robert Kourik for his lessons and myth busting on building healthy soil; to Gina Covina for her demo on how to save seeds from year to year; Mark who procured the rootstocks to sell; to those who contributed seeds and scions for a wide selection from which we could choose our tested favorites; to Jay and the AV Fair Boosters for the pulled chicken and salad lunch; to the AV Girl Scouts for hot beverages and snacks; to the Farmers’ Market and plant vendors; to Willow and Torrey for afternoon cookies and hot beverages; and to the UC Master Gardener program for their extensive help. Many, many thanks to the multitude of volunteers who create this event to increase our skills in local food production and the quality of what we eat.
SEVENTH ANNUAL NORTH COAST FARMERS' CONVERGENCE
Sunday, February 17th
Ridgewood Ranch | 16200 North Highway 101, Willits, CA 95490
Sunday 2/17 - Program
This year's Convergence will bring an impressive lineup of experts, leaders, teachers and innovators to Ridgewood Ranch for a day of education and inspiration. Scroll down to read about just a few highlights of the day, with more details to come!
- Keynote: “Donna D'Terra,” “Lifelong Students of the Plants,” Founder and Director, Motherland Botanical Sanctuary and Herb School
- Taxes, Bookkeeping & Record Keeping for Very Small Farms, Michael Foley is co-owner/operator of Green Uprising Farm in Willits.
- Seed Saving & Varietal Trials, Strong Roots Farm
- The Art of Whole Animal Butchery, Ruthie King & Eliot Hartley, New Agrarian Collective
- Herbal First Aid For Farmers: Bug Bites, Burns, Backaches, Blisters & More, Sara Grusky, Prana, Anna & April
- Learn to Build a Johnson-Su Bioreactor, Jes Pearce & Kieth Michalak, Buttercup Compost Lab
- Climate Smart Farming, Britta Baskerville, Community Education Specialist for Mendocino County's UC Cooperative Extension
- Food Safety On The Farm, Luis Sierra
Other highlights: All Day Seed Swap, Info/Vendor Hall, Closing Reception.
Questions? Email us at firstname.lastname@example.org
JOE MUNSON COMES TO CALIFORNIA PART VIII
As Told to Jonah Raskin
On my first trip to California, I hitchhiked on U.S. Route 460, which is a major East/West artery. Right away I got a ride from two girls who were about my age; I was still 16, but now I looked like a hippie, with long hair down to my waist. The girls — two sisters — were cute. “Where you going?” one of them asks. I say, “Wherever you’re going.” The girl at the wheel says, “Dallas.” About halfway there we stop and get a room for the night, only we don’t sleep much. The girls tag me. We fuck like rabbits. In Dallas we get to her father’s place, a humungous ranch like the spread on the TV show with J.R. Ewing that was a big hit at the time. The sisters tell me I can hang there. I did for five days until they got a call from dad, who wanted to be picked up at the airport. They drop me off on the side of the highway and I get a ride from Jimmy Jarrett who worked for a company that “amalgamized” scrap metal. That’s what he told me. He was on his way to Las Vegas where the MGM Grand had burned down.
Outside Vegas I get a rider from a truck driver who seemed okay. “I’m going to L.A.,” he says. I say, “Me, too.” Sometimes a trucker would want to get in your pants, but mostly they were just lonely and wanted someone in the cab to talk to and make the time go faster. On the way to L.A., the trucker gets on his CB radio and talks to a girl with the handle “Sunshine.” He comes alongside her Karmann Ghia; they talk and then pull off to the side of the road. I think she was a hooker who worked the truckers. She wanted me to ride with her, but the trucker said, “No,” and that I had to go with him because, in exchange for food on the way, I was going to help him unload in L.A. But when we got there, a guy with a forklift did all the heavy lifting so I was free to go.
I’d heard about Venice Beach when I was in the Florida Keys so I headed there and pretty soon connected to a Jamaican named Demeo who made and sold bamboo flutes to tourists. He took me under his wing and introduced me to his friends, all of whom lived on the beach and looked out for one another. Helicopters would strafe us—mostly just blow sand in our faces—but we hunkered down under tarps and were unharmed. We lived on government issued cheese, bread and peanut butter. Then one day Demeo tells me “Get a job and contribute your share to the group.” I said, “I know how to sell weed. I can do that.”
He hooked me up with some Mexican guys who fronted me weed. I would go out to West Hollywood by bus and peddle dime bags outside a place called The Yellow Submarine that had a pool table and a few pinball machines and that sold sandwiches. West Hollywood was dirty and smoggy. There was nothing glamorous about it. I had to go to there because gangsters had cornered the weed market at Venice Beach. Kids smoked dope outside the Yellow Submarine, and old guys came-by to pick-up the young boys. At the time, I felt that nobody should fuck a fourteen-year-old except another fourteen year old, but I couldn't protect all those kids. It was sad. It’s still sad.
One day my friend, Scotty, and I see a shop owner named Simon standing on the sidewalk yelling, “There goes a mugger.” We take after the dude who’s carrying a woman’s purse under his arm. “Hey, dude, drop the purse,” Scotty shouts. We catch up to him; he drops the purse in a parking lot and takes off. I pick it up and look inside. There’s $800 there. “Hey, we got bank!” I said.
We go back to the store—Simon the Best Blue Jeans—where the owner is standing on the sidewalk. He’s shocked that we’ve come back. “I bet there’s no money inside,” he says. I say, “Shut up,” We give the purse to the Chinese lady and she bows to us. That’s all the thanks I needed, though Scotty wanted a cash reward.
After that, I started going to a place called Okie Dogs that sold French fries and hot dogs. Homeless kids hung out there. I got to know a girl who shot speed and who had needle marks up and down both arms. It would take her half an hour to find a good vein. That was very disturbing! Then I had a girlfriend named Dee Dee Alton, whose dad was the head of Pepsi for the western U.S.A. I fell in love with her. In fact, I fell in love with almost all the women I met in L.A. Dee Dee was spoiled rotten; she had a BMW 2002 which I ran really hard one day on the way from the Renaissance Faire. Dee Dee and I would get down and dirty. By this time I was 17 and thought I knew nearly everything there was to know about the world. I didn’t. Dee Dee helped me grow up and figure out who the fuck I was.
THE TALE OF THE SACRIFICIAL FORD
by Flynn Washburne
There is nothing quite like a good nap, especially when one is getting on in years and the normal nighttime sleep cycle starts getting interrupted by certain hydrological imperatives, the accumulated stressors of middle age, existential despair, and streaming video. A nap, though — a nap can put things as near to right as possible, judiciously applied and responsibly administered. Thirty post-prandial minutes stretched out with the sun buttering your eyelids can restore and rejuvenate the crankiest coot, who awakens stretching and smiling preparatory to sallying forth to conquer what remains of the day.
Then, of course, there is the Bad Nap. Bad Naps happen when one has taxed one's constitution to the utmost and perforce collapses in inappropriate and ill-timed moments and places, resulting in embarrassment, indignity, and even, in extreme cases, injury - the classic and extreme example being, of course, falling asleep at the wheel of a moving car.
I would like to attempt to describe to you the feeling of thinking for a millisecond you're arising from a brief, restorative power nap before the shocking realization that you have abandoned your proscribed northbound lane for the less crowded but decidedly bumpier median strip, heading disastrously toward the southbound side of things and nearly certain head-on collision, but I haven't the words. Suffice to say that my higher functions took one look and decided to leave the resolution of this particular problem to my lizard brain and certain raw nerve impulses. "Nitey-nite," they said. "Good luck. Let us know how it all turns out."
I wrenched the wheel hard to the right, which had the immediate effect of obviating the death-vector but took me directly into the path of a large Caltrans sign supported by stout 4X4s, which I took out cleanly on my way back to the northbound side. Arriving there, I was not oriented strictly northward but had more of a NNE vector, and anyway had no more control over the vehicle than I do over this damnable addiction of mine. Another sign, this one helpfully pointing out the distances to Petaluma, Cloverdale, and Ukiah, went the way of the buffalo and spun me first so that the car was pointed south and then, as I headed down the right-side embankment, into a roll along the vehicle's long axis. One full revolution, two, and it was here that I had my first coherent thought, something like I certainly hope this is over soon.
After what felt like forever but was surely only a few seconds, I bounced to a stop — luckily, right-side up — and began taking stock. Blood was dripping from my hand but appeared to originate from somewhere below the wrist so I dismissed that. I wiggled my toes and fingers, turned my head from side to side, pronounced myself fine and started to unbuckle my seat belt when a well-intentioned passerby came bounding up screaming, "Don't move! Don't move!"
"Relax, I'm okay," I said, but he insisted and persisted and I acceded, sitting back to wait for the emergency crew to arrive. My thoughts, as one's will during times like those, turned to my nearest and dearest and I looked around the cab panickedly. "My phone! WHERE'S MY FUCKING PHONE?"
"Relax, brother, we'll find your phone," said my Samaritan. "Just sit still and wait for the EMTs."
I sat, but I wasn't real still, spinning and fidgeting as much as the harness would allow to try and spy my phone, pipe, and dopesack, but nothing was where it ought to have been. The roof, for example, was about ten yards away from the car proper, and there was a trail of other parts and possessions leading from the highway to my current off-road position, This was not good, not by any definition of the word, and try as I might, I couldn't come up with a single 12-step slogan, positive affirmation, Buddhist koan, or pithy Taoist directive to ameliorate the sitch. Because I do like to look at the bright side of things, but on polling the committee, the vote was unanimous: you, sir, are Fucked.
How did I arrive at that terrifying and definitive juncture? Well, when last we spoke, I was freshly embarked on a new relapse, sitting in a room at the Economy Inn, coming down and unsure of what direction to take. Bruce McEwen had just stopped by with a plate of bacon-wrapped shrimp and a liberal dose of his outsized personality, cheering me significantly. It's probably unnecessary to say, but I elected to continue on the path to perdition, refilling my sack and setting my cap for what would prove to be a parlous and precarious adventure.
I began keeping company with a notorious local thug and his junkie moll, who shall remain nameless in that simply being aware of his existence is probably a violation of my parole, never mind all the accessory-before-and-after-the-fact-ing I ended up embroiled in. I never participated, but was certainly complicit by virtue of knowledge, in a staggering number of crimes.
In my own criminal past I was always a lone operator and never associated with the criminal underworld at large except post-bust in the stripey hole, where I agonized over the damage I'd inflicted on the fabric of society, but if this particular miscreant was any indicator of the amount of monkey business being perpetrated on the good people and merchants of Ukiah, then my piddling efforts amounted to less than a drop in the bucket — a molecule in a drop in the bucket. This guy took more from Wal-Mart, Penney's, and Kohl's every single day than I got from my bank job, and that's just the beginning of it. Assaults, burglaries, and all manner of mischief unspooled throughout every single day. To my credit, I was horrified and wanted to distribute his picture throughout the commercial sector with specific instructions to never, under any circumstances, allow this man entre into your establishment, but I did nothing. I may yet, if this character is still free-ranging it when I get back to Ukiah, arrange for his arrest and detention. I'm sure some of my criminal chums inside are even now reading this and screaming, "Washburne's a SNITCH!", but fuck it. Stealing is wrong and so was I for sitting idly by as this joker raped our local businesses.
I concede that a revolutionary-style case can be made for the moral rightness of stealing from Wal-Mart in retaliation for their crimes against small business, the working poor, and the economy at large, but not by me. Moral imperatives are best writ large and depicted in clear, vivid, black and white. Don't take things that don't belong to you, period.
My daily meth intake, never restricted by anything more than scarcity, became prodigious in the extreme as I was finally able to answer the question: what would I do, given an unlimited supply of my chosen poison? Answer: smoke myself to death. Literally, and the inevitability of that sad outcome became more apparent each day. The muscle tone I'd worked so hard to build and define melted away and left me a feeble, skin-wrapped skeleton. Effort or exertion in even the mildest degree caused joints to dislodge and connective tissue to strain, making the simplest physical action an exercise in pain and difficulty. I restricted my energy expenditure to lifting nothing heavier than a pipe and a torch and walking no further than the bathroom.
I did maintain contact with my remarkably patient and accommodating parole officer, who was working to place me in another rehabilitative situation. Peripherally aware of but not overly concerned with that possibility, I figured I'd burn that bridge when I came to it.
The prospect of imminent rehabilitation can, to the actively abusing addict, be comforting while still in the abstract, much like that golden period between being hired and actually starting work. When the moment arrives and it's time to get clean, though, that's a whole 'nother kettle of fish and an altogether terrifying prospect.
When the call came from my parole agent to report to the Volunteers of America program in Oakland post-haste, I was deep into a bag, getting deeper, and I panicked. "I need some time to detox," I said.
"How much time?"
"I don't know, two weeks?" I inquired hopefully.
"You've got 12 hours. Be there or I'll issue a warrant for your arrest." Click. He's a decent enough guy, but definitively abrupt once he's had his fill of nonsense.
Well, nothin' to it but to do it. I loaded up the Explorer with all of my worldly possessions, loaded up my pipe, secreted a couple grams in the prison pocket, and headed south.
West Oakland was foreign and scary. I couldn't find a place to park and people kept yelling at me for blocking their way. Knots of brightly attired, rambunctious youths patrolled the streets, and the vibrant urban scene I would normally find intriguing and invigorating seemed ominous and anti-Flynn. The facility itself looked, once inside, like a combination of prison and boot camp, with the clients uniformed and hierarchied, not the nurturing sort of environment I've come to expect from my treatment centers. I may have been paranoid from the drugs, but I was also pretty perceptive, and my speedfreak-sense told me there was to be absolutely no coddling in this environment. No coddling? Pffft, that's a wrap. I'm dust. I plotted a course for the intersection of Turk and Leavenworth and hit the road again.
San Francisco's Tenderloin District is the Disneyland of drug ghettos, a 24-hour street festival of procurement, enjoyment, bizarre behavior, and unbelievable bargains in consumer goods and (albeit risky) sex. I found a choice parking spot on Eddy, befriended a garrulous and helpful Fentanyl addict who gave me an informative walking tour, updating me on which corners to get what and which to stay away from, acquired some very reasonable and effortless sexual release, and took a nap.
Awakening with the sun, or what passes for it in a Bay Area winter, I took nineteen or twenty restorative hits from the pipe and aimed ol' Betsy northward and home. I made it to northern Marin before cruise control, the rhythm of the road, and the cumulative effects of weeks of physical deficit-spending lulled me into a deadly slumber, and this is where we came in.
The condition of my whip, I noticed as the EMTs wheeled me back up to the highway, was such that passers-by no doubt cringed and clucked imagining the carnage within; I was extremely lucky in suffering no more than some minor hand lacerations and a sore shoulder. Most folks would attribute the intercession of God or angels for such a fortunate outcome, but I prefer to believe it was the vehicle itself who save me in gratitude for my careful and loving treatment of her during our short association. When danger loomed, she ensconced me in her rigid steel framework, kept the harness tight, and with her last living act, gave her own life to save mine. Rest in peace, noble steed. You sha'n't be forgotten and the Ford marque will be forever revered.
At the hospital I fell asleep during the MRI and remained so for six hours. When I awoke, they fed me a sandwich and sent me on my way. I spent the night in Petaluma's relatively plush and accommodating homeless shelter and in the morning caught a bus for Santa Rosa and points north.
I'd barely inserted myself back into Ukiah's welcoming bosom when a routine roust at Jack In The Box proved that my PO had instructed the local constabulary to remove me from the mix without delay, and I was once again a guest of the Low Gap Hilton.
The next three days were a hellish fog of puking, freezing, and hallucination in the holding cell, and I'd no sooner been shifted to the dorm and given a bed when the call came to "roll it up." As I'd been suffering through the nightmarish withdrawal, machinations were afoot and apparently the intercession of three — count 'em, three — parole agents with the funding agency, who'd earlier announced no more funding for me or anyone else for treatment, achieved for me with their testimonials an override and a 90-day spot at Hilltop in Lake County. What the fuck? It's almost as if these guys gave a shit and believed me capable of redemption. Wonders will indeed never cease.
Never let it be said that I failed to extract lessons from my travails and shenanigans, and herein are a few of them.
- I want to be clean. I really want to be clean. I scared the crap out of myself during this last episode and found I do not want to perish in drug-addled ignominy.
- It is possible to survive for up to six weeks on nothing but potato chips, ice cream, meth, and Yoo-Hoo, but I wouldn't push it much beyond that.
- No association in my life has lasted as long or been as meaningful and fulfilling than that I've enjoyed with the AVA. Bruce and Mark have been friends, benefactors, and champions of my better self, and I owe them a debt I'll do my best to repay the only way I can. I am, for better or worse, the prodigal problem child of this august rag and I'll stay with it until the wheels fall off.
- The words of encouragement and financial support I received from those who contributed to my begging campaign moved me tremendously and I thank you all from my very cockles. It should be also noted that I did spend (most of) the money responsibly. Thank you.
And that, ladles and jellyspoons, is that. I am safely secured in what I believe will be a helpful and successful program, not quite firing on all cylinders but approaching homeostasis and oddly optimistic. Onward and upward!
(Photo by Judy Valadao)
HOME FOR RENT. Boonville. $2,000/month. 2B/1B Home - Live, work and play in downtown Boonville. Recently renovated 2B/1B home with basement laundry and detached garage. Wood Stove & Wall heater. Propane cooktop and electric in wall oven. Wood and Tile Floors, new bathroom, great lighting. The 2-car garage is on a slab. The location is perfect for those that enjoy the convenience of being in town and/or are interested in working from home. NSNP
Sheri Hansen, Rancheria Realty License #01292144 7072727248
THE ROAD AHEAD
(Photo by Dick Whetstone)
I USED TO pick up 5-lb. blocks of medium cheddar (sharp is too crumbly for our purposes) cheese for Diamond and me from a particular refrigerated bin at Walmart. The bin was one of those open affairs that you reach down into for retrieval of the item you want. They have since relocated the cheese to another cooler in the store. But, at the original location, there was a mirror built into the interior of each end of the bin. Why they had mirrors I do not know. Maybe it was to direct reflected light on the products in the bin; maybe it was to make the bin look longer, thus giving the impression that it was filled with even more wonders of kaputalist agribusiness than it could possibly hold. I just don’t know.
Anyway one day I couldn’t find my cheese–plenty of mild, but no medium–and was searching the darker back reaches of the bin for it, placing me in a rather preoccupied state. I glanced up and saw a stranger staring at me, and a rather odd looking cuss at that it seemed to me. It took me a few seconds to realize that I was staring at my own reflection in the mirror. It amazed me, since I was used to seeing myself in the bathroom mirror, but at those times I am expecting to see myself and have certain expectations as to what I am likely to see. The unexpected image was completely unrecognizable to me for several seconds. It was shortly thereafter that it really began to sink in that I was getting old. Now, that happened probably about 9 or 10 years ago. Imagine my shock if the same thing were to happen now … I might simply keel over dead. Which, given the current prognosis for the planet and its species, might not be such a bad thing.
— Harvey Reading
POINT ARENA STREET VIEW…
Hola everyone! I'm a newbie in the area, so forgive me if sharing isn't proper, but I just wanted to say that I absolutely love the mural on the cannabis store, and hope that we can over time encourage more updated murals on other structures in Point Arena including some of the struggling buildings.
I think little steps like this will go a long way in attracting tourists to stop! Have we also thought about putting up fencing that isn't transparent around locations like the Whale hotel? I think hiding some of these struggling properties from public view will give more positive attention to the businesses that are up and functional. Folks stop and shop with their eyes!
ARTIST JEFFREY SAMUDOSKY recently transformed this huge fallen redwood into an amazing giant octopus using only a chainsaw.
QUEEN OF THE BEATNIKS
A reporter once asked ruth weiss how come you, an out lesbian, are living with a man?
ruth replied, "I never let gender stand in the way of affection."
No wonder she was named "Queen of the Beatniks."
Alan ‘Captain Fathom’ Graham
CATCH OF THE DAY, February 14, 2019
JOSHUA BEEKMAN, Livermore/Boonville. DUI-alcohol&drugs.
CLIFFORD CASTILLO, Point Arena. Domestic abuse.
DANNY MARTIN, Willits. DUI.
SERGIO MEZA, Willits. Probation revocation.
JESSICA OSBORN, Ukiah. Probation revocation.
ALISSA PADI, Redwood Valley. Domestic battery.
ERNEST SALO, Fort Bragg. Resisting/threatening peace officer, resisting arrest, probation revocation.
CHRISTOPHER THOMAS, Ukiah. Probation revocation.
ON LINE COMMENT OF THE DAY
Australia had not had a recession in 27 years, because China has not had one in 29 years. America has not had one in 10 years, 8 Obama year and 2 Trump years. With a little luck we can endure 2 more Trump years and then elect a tax the rich liberal who wants the country green by 2030. Despite the pathetic job of HRC of promoting them, green jobs are the future and there’s no going back to coal. Obamacare was a good start. It taxed the rich to pay for healthcare for the rest of the country. But it was just a start. Starting in 2020, lower the Medicare age by 5 years. In ~12 years you would cover the entire population, with the most at risk getting help the soonest. This would gradually increase the load on Medicare and lower the load on private healthcare. Private healthcare would have time to respond and paint government healthcare as one rung up from bleeding with leeches, allowing them to stay in their parasitic business. This would begin to rein in healthcare costs until a new system would emerge that would cover everybody. Tax the rich to the tune of double what it costs to cover the poor. That way when a Republican happens to cheat his way into office with the retarded electoral college, there is enough there to outlast him until Americans wake up again 4 years later. This would condition Americans to the benefits of government run healthcare and prevent Republicans taking us back to the Dark Ages every 4 – 8 years. Socialism works. I’ve never heard of it bankrupting the rich. I’ve never even heard of it coming close to doing that. All I ever hear is how it’s going to do that.
SOME EXPERTS have argued for more work on removing carbon from the atmosphere with machines. Unfortunately, the current technology needs to be scaled by a factor of 2 million within two years, all powered by renewables, alongside massive emission cuts, to reduce the amount of heating already locked into the system. Biological approaches to carbon capture appear far more promising. These include planting trees, restoring soils used in agriculture, and growing seagrass and kelp, amongst other approaches. They also offer wider beneficial environmental and social side effects. Studies on seagrass and seaweed indicate we could be taking millions of tonnes of carbon from the atmosphere immediately and continually if we had a massive effort to restore seagrass meadows and to farm seaweed. The net sequestration effect is still being assessed but in certain environments will be significant. Research into “management-intensive rotational grazing” practices (MIRG), also known as holistic grazing, show how a healthy grassland can store carbon. A 2014 study measured annual per-hectare increases in soil carbon at 8 tons per year on farms converted to these practices. The world uses about 3.5 billion hectares of land for pasture and fodder crops. Using the 8 tons figure above, converting a tenth of that land to MIRG practices would sequester a quarter of present emissions. In addition, no-till methods of horticulture can sequester as much as two tons of carbon per hectare per year, so could also make significant contributions. It is clear, therefore, that our assessment of carbon budgets must focus as much on these agricultural systems as we do on emissions reductions.
MORE PROOF, as if any more was needed, that the world is full of idiots.
GAVIN NEWSOM PLANS TO SEND NATIONAL GUARD TROOPS NORTH TO TACKLE ILLEGAL POT GROWS
Newsom Will Send Troops To Also Address Wildfire Preparedness & Border Smuggling
by Ruth Schneider
Following up on Monday’s plan to pull National Guard troops from the California-Mexico border, Gov. Gavin Newsom announced today as part of his State of the State address that he plans to send some of those troops north to tackle cannabis grows.
“We’re not backing down,” Newsom said this morning. “Just yesterday, I gave the National Guard a new mission — on that will refocus on the real threats facing our state.”
He outlined three areas he wants the troops to address, including wildfire preparedness and “stopping criminals smuggling drugs and guns through our existing border checkpoints.”
“Another third will boost the National Guard’s statewide Counterdrug Task Force by redeploying up north to go after illegal cannabis farms, many of which are run by cartels, are devastating our pristine forests, and are increasingly becoming fire hazards themselves,” Newsom said.
North Coast state Sen. Mike McGuire (D-Healdsburg) lauded the move to use the National Guard troops in other ways.
“I also fully support his move to withdraw National Guard Troops from the border and repurpose these hard-working men and women to make California more fire safe and to help eradicate the illegal drug cartel activity that has taken hold in California’s cannabis industry,” McGuire said in a news release.
North Coast Assemblyman Jim Wood noted, “All of this work is extremely important to our district.”
Humboldt County Sheriff William Honsal welcomed the assistance locally in fighting cartel-run grows.
“We welcome the governor’s proposal to send more public safety resources to the rural areas of (California) to combat the few (drug-trafficking organizations) that still exist,” Honsal said in an email to the Times-Standard.
Honsal added the sheriff’s office had a long-standing working relationship with the state and the National Guard.
“This is a carryover of the ‘CAMP’ program,” Honsal said. “We have worked alongside our state and federal partners on combatting cartels and drug trafficking organizations growing marijuana on public lands. Due to this partnership, we have seen a significant decrease in these (drug trafficking organizations) growing operations in our county. Humboldt County only identified a handful of trespass grows last year. We believe this is due to our enforcement efforts and the significant increase in marijuana supply and the rock bottom price (marijuana) is getting on the black market.”
He added that now was a good time to pivot to addressing the increasing methamphetamine and heroin problem in Humboldt County.
“Right now California is being flooded with meth and heroin from Mexico,” Honsal said. “County law enforcement has seen a steady increase in the amount of hard drugs that are in the streets of Humboldt County. The top priority for our (Humboldt) County Drug Task Force is to stop the drug trafficking of these killer drugs into our county. … We would welcome more assistance from the state and the Department of Justice to help combat the growing meth and heroin problem in our rural county.”
GLORIANA'S ANNUAL CABARET DINNER AND AUCTION is This Saturday!
Gloriana's Annual Cabaret Dinner and Auction will be held on Saturday, February 16 from 6:00 to 8:00. The event, which will be held at Eagles Hall in Fort Bragg, will feature performances of your favorite love songs by Gloriana performers and a silent auction. All proceeds will go towards our Scholarship program. Dinner is your choice of either meat, veggie or vegan lasagna, garden salad with a selection of dressings, garlic bread, non-alcoholic drink and a dessert bar. Beer and wine for sale separately. Meat and Veggie lasagna catered by D'Aurelio's. Tickets are $25 per person or $40 per couple. Tickets available online at gloriana.org or at the door.
E-mail email@example.com or call 707-964-SHOW for questions
REASONS for admission to an insane asylum from 1864-1869
LIKE COBRAS, WAITING
Cobras spend their entire lives waiting to pounce. Mice know this, and squirrels, and the other creatures out there in the grass. In a manner of speaking, they await their fates. A few of them will meet their end in the coils of a cobra.
In his way, the Orange One knows this. Ever since his bright idea in the tanning bed one night, he has known what end awaits him, even if what awaits he and his repellent family is a bit slower in coming than many would prefer. This makes him sweat under his dark tailored suit made in China. If the asbestos bothers him, he doesn't let on. Appearances.
The rest of us enjoy knowing this, knowing what is coming. We will be ready, well read, thoughtful, prepared. As am I, I think, for my end, also approaching, and every bit as inevitable. And knowing that he knows. We are critters in the grass, and he thinks that the grass is somehow his, that God has destined him to lead us. And, for years, we have let him think it.
But we know what's coming. When he is finally and totally gone, many will still love him and deny our alternative story. They will lie. They will cheat. Some of them will probably shoot. A long time ago, a student of mine told me, 'Don't worry. Hippies got guns too'.
At seventy-five, I finally know what he meant. Like many hippies, my guns are loaded and locked, but my guns are like diamonds: my teaching career, Wild River, my family, deceased parents, a couple of dogs. And 34,858,274 others. Like the Donald, we're ready to go. I won't likely be hanging from a lamp post somewhere. I will be wrapped in the coils of the medical profession. But, in our hearts, but of us equally finished.
Pour the coffee. Roll that blunt and share it. And smile. It's been one hell of a ride.
“MY POLITICAL BELIEFS, my actions of trying to humanize all races, genders and religions landed me in this place surrounded by barbed wire fencing, a room made of steel and iron,” the comedian said in a statement released through his press spokesman.
Bill Cosby, 81, is being held at a maximum security prison outside Philadelphia, and was recently moved to the prison’s general population.
MORE PRIMARY CARE DOCS
As a retired Kaiser primary care internist, I was delighted to read some of the innovative ideas proposed to attract more young physicians into a primary care career in our area.
But I was disappointed in the lack of acknowledgement of what is likely to be the most important factor, which comes straight from the Republican calculus, and that is market forces.
Primary care is among the most challenging of all the specialties in medicine, yet its practitioners are among the most poorly compensated. Find a way to improve the typical primary care practitioner’s workload and increase his/her compensation substantially, and I would bet many medical students interested in dermatology or anesthesiology might rethink their futures.
Paul A. Johnson