Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Remembering to Never Forget
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Today is the 40th anniversary of the Kent State massacre. The book "Generation of Fire" speaks to the heart in its remembrances of a time when people fought for what they truly believed. Pause for a moment during your daily routines to remember those who lost their lives exercising their civil liberties to ensure our democratic freedoms as protected under our Constitution's Bill of Rights.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Little Green Army Men
Back then, it was a rite of passage. Today, sandbox therapy is a standard modality in most pediatric psychology practices.
As impressionable young boys, we would set up elaborate battlefields in the sand box with foxholes, bunkers, trenches, moats, the whole enchilada ~ and then deploy bags of small plastic soldiers... green Americans versus light gray Nazis.
In a capture the flag motif, we would lace the battlefield with strategically placed firecrackers, intertwine all the fuses into one long slow burner, light it and step back. In the ensuing carnage, the carpet bomb effect was the only way that we as young boys could process the atrocities we watched on nightly television coming into our living rooms from the steaming jungles of Vietnam.
I remember the evil looking SS Nazi officer suddenly disappearing ~ the sadistic monster becoming just another victim of war. All that remained of him were the goose stepping boots attached to the plastic stand with a wisp of smoke rising from a hole in the sand where he once stood.
As the deafening explosion and smoke subsided, we surveyed the destruction before us. It was all over before we knew it and there was nothing we could do. We felt somehow powerless as we looked at the broken bodies of the little green and gray army men. You never forget things like that ~ for in that moment I knew in my heart I could never kill another human being or be a soldier.
So Now You Get Mad!
SO NOW YOU GET MAD !
We had eight years of Bush and Cheney, but now you get mad!
You didn't get mad when the Supreme Court stopped a legal recount and appointed a President.
You didn't get mad when Cheney allowed energy company officials to dictate energy policy.
You didn't get mad when a covert CIA operative got outed.
You didn't get mad when the Patriot Act got passed.
You didn't get mad when we illegally invaded a country that posed no threat to us.
You didn't get mad when we spent over 600 billion(and counting) on said illegal war.
You didn't get mad when over 10 billion dollars just disappeared in Iraq.
You didn't get mad when you found out we were torturing people.
You didn't get mad when the government was illegally wiretapping Americans.
You didn't get mad when we didn't catch Bin Laden.
You didn't get mad when you saw the horrible conditions at Walter Reed.
You didn't get mad when we let a major US city drown.
You didn't get mad when we gave a 900 billion tax break to the rich.
You didn’t get mad when, using reconciliation, a trillion dollars of our tax dollars were redirected to insurance companies for Medicare Advantage which cost over 20 percent more for basically the same services that Medicare provides.
You didn't get mad when the deficit hit the trillion dollar mark, and our debt hit the thirteen trillion dollar mark.
You finally got mad when the government decided that people in America deserved the right to see a doctor if they are sick.
Yes, illegal wars, lies, corruption, torture, stealing your tax dollars to make the rich richer, are all okay with you,
But helping other Americans... oh hell no.
AND NOW YOU'RE MAD!
Friday, April 23, 2010
Mount St. Helen Blows
There is no greater force on our planet than a volcanic eruption. On August 7, 1980, I was aboard an Alaska Airlines flight from SFO to Seattle when in mid-flight Mount St. Helen blew her stack for a third time since the May 18th. All in-air traffic was diverted across a broad expanse of miles to detour the eruption. All later departures were grounded until the situation could be further assessed. Like 9-11, it was an amazingly clear day with unlimited visibility as the late afternoon sun began its western descent. The scale of the devastation is beyond description. All comparative references are totally inadequate. Even at our 35,000 feet altitude, the column of ash was at least three to four times higher if not more. From a probable distance of 75-miles away, the ginormous column appeared within reach of my hand just through the window. It resembled a gargantuan wet cauliflower dipped in dry cement sculpture of Jack's magic beanstalk. Easily the most extraordinary sight I've ever witnessed! Respect the epic glory of nature at her most powerful!
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Cake of Miracles
Light me a cake of miracles ~ where I bask in the glow of countless blessings shared with family, friends and lovers past, present, future or ~ perhaps never. Your love fills my spirit's heart with compassion for the world. To each of you, I say shalom ~ שָׁלוֹם
Monday, April 12, 2010
Between Heaven and Earth
O rain soak this earth in your fertile rite...Sun make all that has passed green and good...I give you my sons and daughters to grow from my dreams...I look upon you as a child to his mother...For in trust and love we learn the strength that nurtures life...
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Ewing Field: Lost in the Fog Bank
by Greg Gaar
(Originally published in the Haight Ashbury Newspaper and the WNP Member newsletter.)
Ewing Field 1914
Once upon a time there was a beloved baseball team called the San Francisco Seals. For over half a century, the Seals belted drives and chased flies at funky Recreation Park at 15th and Valencia; and from 1931-1957 they played at Seals Stadium at 16th and Bryant, but for one strange season in 1914, pro baseball was played west of Masonic Avenue and across the street from Calvary Cemetery at Ewing Field.
J. Cal Ewing, owner of the Seals, and one of the organizers of the PCL, was fed up with sharing the lease at Recreation Field with the owner of the Oakland "Commuters." The fans were disgusted about Rec Park's short fences, overcrowded stands and congested entrances. So J. Cal coughed-up $100,000 (70 million bucks for a ball park today) and built the most modern minor league park in the country." Mr. Ewing modestly named the new stadium after himself.
On opening day, May 16, 1914, a brunch was served for dignitaries and boosters at the Palace Hotel then a motorcade parade up Geary to Ewing Field, 18,000 fans listened to patriotic music and the usual array of speeches by Mayor Rolph and other VIPs. An iron chest containing names and photos of the players and other baseball memorabilia was buried three feet below home plate. As the time capsule was being lowered the floral horseshoe inscribed with the words "Good Luck" was blown over by the winds. To the superstitious this was a bad omen.
The Seals played a lousy game and lost to Oakland, the worst team in the league, 3-0. The Chronicle placed much of the blame on the weather:
"Perhaps it was the cold wind that whistled around Lone Mountain on to the green of the ball field that made the spectators shiver and long drives which would be homers at Rec Park inconsequential."
Though the Seals got off to a slow start, they came "roaring back" with rugged ballplayers like: "Howling Harry" Hughes - who rarely said a word; "Nig" Clarke - 1907 American League batting champ nicknamed for his dark complexion; "Del" Howard - the Seals' 35-year-old manager and the team's best hitter; "Spider" Baum; "Goat" Colligan; and "Wild Bill" Tazer.
As the season wore on - the fog rolled in... nearly every game. A game was actually canceled due to fog on June 6. The fans stopped coming to games, not only because of the climate, but most of the Seals supporters lived in the Mission - miles from Ewing Field. Freeloaders, who didn't want to pay the price of admission, watched the games from the top of Lone Mountain.
The players couldn't deal with the fog either: Elmer Zachar, an outfielder for Oakland, was so confused by the fog that the mascot for the "Oaks" was sent from the bench to inform Elmer that the side had been retired. Pete Daly built a fire in the outfield to emphasize the need to stay warm.
The Seals were in the pennant chase until the final week of the season. They won 115 and lost 96. That's 211 games! On the final day of the season, Skeeter Fanning of San Francisco pitched a no-hitter against the first place Portland team. That was the last game the Seals would play at Ewing Field.
In the off season Mr. Ewing sold the Seals to the Berry Brothers, owners of the L.A. Angels. The new bosses immediately stated that because of the weather conditions, they would never play at Ewing Field. A few months later, through negotiation and big money, the Berrys' achieved what J. Cal Ewing could not - ownership of Recreation Park. In 1915, the Seals returned to Rec Park and brand new Ewing Field was abandoned.
On September 29, 1916, Ewing Field was to play host to "Aida." the opera by Verdi. 20,000 tickets were sold but the weather struck again. A freak rainstorm washed out the extravaganza and the performance was moved to the Civic Auditorium.
In 1923 Ewing Field was transformed into a football stadium. The grandstand was enlarged to handle 26,000 gridiron fans. A sold-out crowd watched Santa Clara and St. Mary's play the first football game at Ewing. The weather couldn't postpone a football game.
In 1925 a huge throng of spectators turned out for the first Shriners Football Game for Crippled Children.
Boxing promoters leased Ewing Field to stage championship fights. It appeared that Ewing Field had a bright future, but on June 5, 1926 disaster struck.
While an amateur baseball game was being played, someone tossed a lighted cigarette under Ewing's grandstand. The wooden stands caught on fire and quickly became a raging inferno. A forty-mph wind blew flaming embers onto the roofs of Victorian rowhouses in the Western Addition as far away as Fillmore. Within thirty minutes, over 21 alarms were called in. Fireman responded quickly but over a hundred fires were burning at one time. A troop of boy scouts successfully controlled a tree and brush fire across the street from Ewing Field at Calvary Cemetery. Only seven persons were injured, but forty buildings were damaged and many families were homeless. Chief Murphy of the Fire Department said, "Not since 1906 has San Francisco been in such danger of being wiped out." Ewing Field's stands were a charred ruin.
From 1926-1938 Ewing Field, except for an occasional appearance of neighborhood kids, stood vacant.1 To motorists, pleasure driving down Masonic or Geary, the site of Ewing Field prompted chuckles or the words "white elephant."
In 1938, the Catholic Church, which had always owned the land, sold Ewing Field for $150,000. In November 1938, the old ballpark was demolished to make way for 95 homes selling for for $7,500-$8,000. Heymann Homes claimed the subdivision would offer "an attractive pillared gateway entrance with gardened terraces similar to Presidio Terrace."
To see these "magnificent" homes and the site of the old Ewing Field, go past Turk on Masonic, north of the old Lincoln University and former convent, and find Ewing Street. Somewhere underneath the house near Anza, probably still buried, is the historic Ewing Field time capsule. Bring a pick and shove, Kindly ask the property owner if you can have access to their basements.
When you think Candlestick Park is a joke, remember Ewing Field.
Notes:
1. Laurie Farnam notes: "Ewing Field did not stand vacant from 1926 [to 1928]. Brick Muller's Californians (NFL) vs. George Wilson's Wildcats (American League) played at Ewing Field on January 23, 1927. Could be a few more games were played at Ewing during 1927."
(Originally published in the Haight Ashbury Newspaper and the WNP Member newsletter.)
Ewing Field 1914
Once upon a time there was a beloved baseball team called the San Francisco Seals. For over half a century, the Seals belted drives and chased flies at funky Recreation Park at 15th and Valencia; and from 1931-1957 they played at Seals Stadium at 16th and Bryant, but for one strange season in 1914, pro baseball was played west of Masonic Avenue and across the street from Calvary Cemetery at Ewing Field.
J. Cal Ewing, owner of the Seals, and one of the organizers of the PCL, was fed up with sharing the lease at Recreation Field with the owner of the Oakland "Commuters." The fans were disgusted about Rec Park's short fences, overcrowded stands and congested entrances. So J. Cal coughed-up $100,000 (70 million bucks for a ball park today) and built the most modern minor league park in the country." Mr. Ewing modestly named the new stadium after himself.
On opening day, May 16, 1914, a brunch was served for dignitaries and boosters at the Palace Hotel then a motorcade parade up Geary to Ewing Field, 18,000 fans listened to patriotic music and the usual array of speeches by Mayor Rolph and other VIPs. An iron chest containing names and photos of the players and other baseball memorabilia was buried three feet below home plate. As the time capsule was being lowered the floral horseshoe inscribed with the words "Good Luck" was blown over by the winds. To the superstitious this was a bad omen.
The Seals played a lousy game and lost to Oakland, the worst team in the league, 3-0. The Chronicle placed much of the blame on the weather:
"Perhaps it was the cold wind that whistled around Lone Mountain on to the green of the ball field that made the spectators shiver and long drives which would be homers at Rec Park inconsequential."
Though the Seals got off to a slow start, they came "roaring back" with rugged ballplayers like: "Howling Harry" Hughes - who rarely said a word; "Nig" Clarke - 1907 American League batting champ nicknamed for his dark complexion; "Del" Howard - the Seals' 35-year-old manager and the team's best hitter; "Spider" Baum; "Goat" Colligan; and "Wild Bill" Tazer.
As the season wore on - the fog rolled in... nearly every game. A game was actually canceled due to fog on June 6. The fans stopped coming to games, not only because of the climate, but most of the Seals supporters lived in the Mission - miles from Ewing Field. Freeloaders, who didn't want to pay the price of admission, watched the games from the top of Lone Mountain.
The players couldn't deal with the fog either: Elmer Zachar, an outfielder for Oakland, was so confused by the fog that the mascot for the "Oaks" was sent from the bench to inform Elmer that the side had been retired. Pete Daly built a fire in the outfield to emphasize the need to stay warm.
The Seals were in the pennant chase until the final week of the season. They won 115 and lost 96. That's 211 games! On the final day of the season, Skeeter Fanning of San Francisco pitched a no-hitter against the first place Portland team. That was the last game the Seals would play at Ewing Field.
In the off season Mr. Ewing sold the Seals to the Berry Brothers, owners of the L.A. Angels. The new bosses immediately stated that because of the weather conditions, they would never play at Ewing Field. A few months later, through negotiation and big money, the Berrys' achieved what J. Cal Ewing could not - ownership of Recreation Park. In 1915, the Seals returned to Rec Park and brand new Ewing Field was abandoned.
On September 29, 1916, Ewing Field was to play host to "Aida." the opera by Verdi. 20,000 tickets were sold but the weather struck again. A freak rainstorm washed out the extravaganza and the performance was moved to the Civic Auditorium.
In 1923 Ewing Field was transformed into a football stadium. The grandstand was enlarged to handle 26,000 gridiron fans. A sold-out crowd watched Santa Clara and St. Mary's play the first football game at Ewing. The weather couldn't postpone a football game.
In 1925 a huge throng of spectators turned out for the first Shriners Football Game for Crippled Children.
Boxing promoters leased Ewing Field to stage championship fights. It appeared that Ewing Field had a bright future, but on June 5, 1926 disaster struck.
While an amateur baseball game was being played, someone tossed a lighted cigarette under Ewing's grandstand. The wooden stands caught on fire and quickly became a raging inferno. A forty-mph wind blew flaming embers onto the roofs of Victorian rowhouses in the Western Addition as far away as Fillmore. Within thirty minutes, over 21 alarms were called in. Fireman responded quickly but over a hundred fires were burning at one time. A troop of boy scouts successfully controlled a tree and brush fire across the street from Ewing Field at Calvary Cemetery. Only seven persons were injured, but forty buildings were damaged and many families were homeless. Chief Murphy of the Fire Department said, "Not since 1906 has San Francisco been in such danger of being wiped out." Ewing Field's stands were a charred ruin.
From 1926-1938 Ewing Field, except for an occasional appearance of neighborhood kids, stood vacant.1 To motorists, pleasure driving down Masonic or Geary, the site of Ewing Field prompted chuckles or the words "white elephant."
In 1938, the Catholic Church, which had always owned the land, sold Ewing Field for $150,000. In November 1938, the old ballpark was demolished to make way for 95 homes selling for for $7,500-$8,000. Heymann Homes claimed the subdivision would offer "an attractive pillared gateway entrance with gardened terraces similar to Presidio Terrace."
To see these "magnificent" homes and the site of the old Ewing Field, go past Turk on Masonic, north of the old Lincoln University and former convent, and find Ewing Street. Somewhere underneath the house near Anza, probably still buried, is the historic Ewing Field time capsule. Bring a pick and shove, Kindly ask the property owner if you can have access to their basements.
When you think Candlestick Park is a joke, remember Ewing Field.
Notes:
1. Laurie Farnam notes: "Ewing Field did not stand vacant from 1926 [to 1928]. Brick Muller's Californians (NFL) vs. George Wilson's Wildcats (American League) played at Ewing Field on January 23, 1927. Could be a few more games were played at Ewing during 1927."
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Hell Explained
The following is an actual question given on a University of Arizona chemistry mid term, and an actual answer turned in by a student.
The answer by one student was so 'profound' that the professor shared it with colleagues, via the Internet, which is, of course, why we now have the pleasure of enjoying it as well :
Bonus Question: Is Hell exothermic (gives off heat) or endothermic (absorbs heat)?
Most of the students wrote proofs of their beliefs using Boyle's Law (gas cools when it expands and heats when it is compressed) or some variant.
One student, however, wrote the following:
First, we need to know how the mass of Hell is changing in time. So we need to know the rate at which souls are moving into Hell and the rate at which they are leaving, which is unlikely. I think that we can safely assume that once a soul gets to Hell, it will not leave. Therefore, no souls are leaving. As for how many souls are entering Hell, let's look at the different religions that exist in the world today.
Most of these religions state that if you are not a member of their religion, you will go to Hell. Since there is more than one of these religions and since people do not belong to more than one religion, we can project that all souls go to Hell. With birth and death rates as they are, we can expect the number of souls in Hell to increase exponentially. Now, we look at the rate of change of the volume in Hell because Boyle's Law states that in order for the temperature and pressure in Hell to stay the same, the volume of Hell has to expand proportionately as souls are added.
This gives two possibilities:
1. If Hell is expanding at a slower rate than the rate at which souls enter Hell, then the temperature and pressure in Hell will increase until all Hell breaks loose.
2. If Hell is expanding at a rate faster than the increase of souls in Hell, then the temperature and pressure will drop until Hell freezes over.
So which is it?
If we accept the postulate given to me by Teresa during my Freshman year that, 'It will be a cold day in Hell before I sleep with you,' and take into account the fact that I slept with her last night, then number two must be true, and thus I am sure that Hell is exothermic and has already frozen over.
The corollary of this theory is that since Hell has frozen over, it follows that it is not accepting any more souls and is therefore, extinct..... ...leaving only Heaven, thereby proving the existence of a divine being which explains why, last night, Teresa kept shouting 'Oh my God.'
THIS STUDENT RECEIVED AN A+.
The answer by one student was so 'profound' that the professor shared it with colleagues, via the Internet, which is, of course, why we now have the pleasure of enjoying it as well :
Bonus Question: Is Hell exothermic (gives off heat) or endothermic (absorbs heat)?
Most of the students wrote proofs of their beliefs using Boyle's Law (gas cools when it expands and heats when it is compressed) or some variant.
One student, however, wrote the following:
First, we need to know how the mass of Hell is changing in time. So we need to know the rate at which souls are moving into Hell and the rate at which they are leaving, which is unlikely. I think that we can safely assume that once a soul gets to Hell, it will not leave. Therefore, no souls are leaving. As for how many souls are entering Hell, let's look at the different religions that exist in the world today.
Most of these religions state that if you are not a member of their religion, you will go to Hell. Since there is more than one of these religions and since people do not belong to more than one religion, we can project that all souls go to Hell. With birth and death rates as they are, we can expect the number of souls in Hell to increase exponentially. Now, we look at the rate of change of the volume in Hell because Boyle's Law states that in order for the temperature and pressure in Hell to stay the same, the volume of Hell has to expand proportionately as souls are added.
This gives two possibilities:
1. If Hell is expanding at a slower rate than the rate at which souls enter Hell, then the temperature and pressure in Hell will increase until all Hell breaks loose.
2. If Hell is expanding at a rate faster than the increase of souls in Hell, then the temperature and pressure will drop until Hell freezes over.
So which is it?
If we accept the postulate given to me by Teresa during my Freshman year that, 'It will be a cold day in Hell before I sleep with you,' and take into account the fact that I slept with her last night, then number two must be true, and thus I am sure that Hell is exothermic and has already frozen over.
The corollary of this theory is that since Hell has frozen over, it follows that it is not accepting any more souls and is therefore, extinct..... ...leaving only Heaven, thereby proving the existence of a divine being which explains why, last night, Teresa kept shouting 'Oh my God.'
THIS STUDENT RECEIVED AN A+.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Ghost Town By the Bay
San Francisco reminds me of the pod people in "Invasion of the Body Snatchers". It only resembles the place we all once loved. However, it's soul was long ago sucked dry by alien life forces - dot com DOAed! 
Take it off life support - spend your money out of Gavin town! Tag it and bag it! And, tell the back up singers to hit it with a heavenly chorus of "Move on Up"!!!
Take it off life support - spend your money out of Gavin town! Tag it and bag it! And, tell the back up singers to hit it with a heavenly chorus of "Move on Up"!!!
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Friday, February 26, 2010
LES JEUNES NOUVEAU
by Ian Rage
In the wee hours of a quiet summer morning in 1894, the fin-de-siècle movement, Les Jeunes (“The Young”), was born in the city of San Francisco. Artists Gelett Burgess and brothers Bruce and Robert Porter toppled the self-erected cast iron statue of teetotaling civic demagogue, Dr. Henry Cogswell, (from novelist Frank Norris’ McTeague infamy) off its pedestal on Market Street. Far from being some mindless, adolescent prank, this seminal act of iconoclasm became a harbinger for knocking hypocritical Victoriana square on its collective ass.
For masterminding the pre-dawn hi jinx, Burgess was summarily dismissed from his faculty post at the University of California, Berkeley. But, there was no time for tears. Instead, Burgess and Bruce Porter promptly launched the première edition of The Lark—a publication whose sole purpose was satiric anarchy. Contributors soon included architect Willis Polk, artists Florence Lundborg and Ernest Peixotto, poet Yone Noguchi and writings from the estate of Robert Louis Stevenson.
Despite a brief life of only two years, The Lark’s whimsical style and spirited attacks on pomposity swiftly won favor in the hearts and minds of literary San Franciscans. The popularity of The Lark was such that the always au courant Teddy Roosevelt shouted out recitations of Burgess’ pre-Dadaist/absurdest poem, The Purple Cow, between affairs of state (and otherwise) at the White House.
One hundred years have past since the days of Les Junes. On the eve of the millennium, The Lark’s two years or even Warhol’s “fifteen minutes of fame” manifesto seem to be undergoing a myopic compression of time and space. Such dimensions are now measured in non-linear, sub-microeconomic terms like nanoseconds and angstrom units. Our world is rapidly on the threshold of critical mass. Our infinite wisdom creates an information society and feeds it gigabytes of vacuous waste ad nauseam. Suddenly, “Who’s on first?” is completely inadequate. The real question is “Where is home?”
In this time of crusades to unholy lands and flag waving bravura, there are still some tiny bands of misguided malcontents naively adhering to the notion that minority voices can make real impacts. Perhaps, home is a non-nuclear family? Could there really have been tribal communalism a million years before frozen TV dinners and Floppy Pop? And if so, what is the connection between the wall paintings of Lescaux and MTV?
In relative terms, the recognition of global survival may perhaps steer human cultures to look at the future in less prosaic eyes and to realize today’s sacred cows are destined to be tomorrow’s USDA inspected, 100% all beef patties. For the Home of the Whopper® is the planet earth. It is not just a parallel world or fantasy dimension of some overpaid crazy, high on martinis and uppers in some Madison Avenue executive suite. Understanding that that media spawned reality is as much our reality somehow juxtaposes the past with the future and suffuses it into a present, where isolation and alienation are not mere tokens, but actual identity badges for everyday survival.
Our identities are being strip mined from us daily as we willingly submit to torturous rigors unknown by previous generations. Our barbarous past pales in comparison to what is becoming the new reality. And, guided by the push of a button, the prospect of an even more barbarous future looms through an uncertain haze of Capital Hill folly and Wall Street hubris - both fueled by the vapor trails of tax payer bought martini lunches.
We are rapidly losing our humanity. We will soon be less sentient creatures than the machines we create. And, why not? We are HAL. We are Commander Data. SONY is not just consumer electronic gadgets or a global corporation destined to rule the planet. It is you and I. After all, who plugs in whom? Who makes the choices?
So, pull up an easy chair in the glow of your fractal fire, find your drug of choice and hear the soothing voice of Guy Lombardo crooning into the dawn of a new millennium. After all, in case you haven’t noticed, it’s later than it seems and we’re already here. Welcome to the Brave New Order. And, have a nice day. ☻
Copyright © 1991 by Timothy Johnson. All rights reserved.
In the wee hours of a quiet summer morning in 1894, the fin-de-siècle movement, Les Jeunes (“The Young”), was born in the city of San Francisco. Artists Gelett Burgess and brothers Bruce and Robert Porter toppled the self-erected cast iron statue of teetotaling civic demagogue, Dr. Henry Cogswell, (from novelist Frank Norris’ McTeague infamy) off its pedestal on Market Street. Far from being some mindless, adolescent prank, this seminal act of iconoclasm became a harbinger for knocking hypocritical Victoriana square on its collective ass.
For masterminding the pre-dawn hi jinx, Burgess was summarily dismissed from his faculty post at the University of California, Berkeley. But, there was no time for tears. Instead, Burgess and Bruce Porter promptly launched the première edition of The Lark—a publication whose sole purpose was satiric anarchy. Contributors soon included architect Willis Polk, artists Florence Lundborg and Ernest Peixotto, poet Yone Noguchi and writings from the estate of Robert Louis Stevenson.
Despite a brief life of only two years, The Lark’s whimsical style and spirited attacks on pomposity swiftly won favor in the hearts and minds of literary San Franciscans. The popularity of The Lark was such that the always au courant Teddy Roosevelt shouted out recitations of Burgess’ pre-Dadaist/absurdest poem, The Purple Cow, between affairs of state (and otherwise) at the White House.
I never saw a purple cow,
I never hope to see one;
But I can tell you, anyhow,
I'd rather see than be one
~ Gelett Burgess
One hundred years have past since the days of Les Junes. On the eve of the millennium, The Lark’s two years or even Warhol’s “fifteen minutes of fame” manifesto seem to be undergoing a myopic compression of time and space. Such dimensions are now measured in non-linear, sub-microeconomic terms like nanoseconds and angstrom units. Our world is rapidly on the threshold of critical mass. Our infinite wisdom creates an information society and feeds it gigabytes of vacuous waste ad nauseam. Suddenly, “Who’s on first?” is completely inadequate. The real question is “Where is home?”
In this time of crusades to unholy lands and flag waving bravura, there are still some tiny bands of misguided malcontents naively adhering to the notion that minority voices can make real impacts. Perhaps, home is a non-nuclear family? Could there really have been tribal communalism a million years before frozen TV dinners and Floppy Pop? And if so, what is the connection between the wall paintings of Lescaux and MTV?
In relative terms, the recognition of global survival may perhaps steer human cultures to look at the future in less prosaic eyes and to realize today’s sacred cows are destined to be tomorrow’s USDA inspected, 100% all beef patties. For the Home of the Whopper® is the planet earth. It is not just a parallel world or fantasy dimension of some overpaid crazy, high on martinis and uppers in some Madison Avenue executive suite. Understanding that that media spawned reality is as much our reality somehow juxtaposes the past with the future and suffuses it into a present, where isolation and alienation are not mere tokens, but actual identity badges for everyday survival.
Our identities are being strip mined from us daily as we willingly submit to torturous rigors unknown by previous generations. Our barbarous past pales in comparison to what is becoming the new reality. And, guided by the push of a button, the prospect of an even more barbarous future looms through an uncertain haze of Capital Hill folly and Wall Street hubris - both fueled by the vapor trails of tax payer bought martini lunches.
We are rapidly losing our humanity. We will soon be less sentient creatures than the machines we create. And, why not? We are HAL. We are Commander Data. SONY is not just consumer electronic gadgets or a global corporation destined to rule the planet. It is you and I. After all, who plugs in whom? Who makes the choices?
So, pull up an easy chair in the glow of your fractal fire, find your drug of choice and hear the soothing voice of Guy Lombardo crooning into the dawn of a new millennium. After all, in case you haven’t noticed, it’s later than it seems and we’re already here. Welcome to the Brave New Order. And, have a nice day. ☻
Copyright © 1991 by Timothy Johnson. All rights reserved.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Dark Comforts
Are you not the poet who rages at heaven's hope to find a universe all in the name of truth and love? Do you not whisper tenderly to those who care when the sun rises? This is what I ask the waning moon and stars amid fading jet black skies. Perhaps it is you... for love is a mistress who only gives away her secrets to hearts unwavering and thirsts unquenched.
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