Alecto, Megaero, and Tisiphone

Richmond, CA, is a snug fit between the Chevron spewing toxic refinery; an unglamourous bridge which transports one from nowhere to somewhere; and the city of San Pablo with it's wannabe Reno card casino. In two brutal weeks, Richmond with world media coverage that rivals the twinkie murders (god bless you, Harvey and George) went from podunk to infamy and now faces the relentless scrutiny of shrinks and teachers, police and politicians. The thing is I don't give a flying F about the 'why.' What happened in Richmond was a raw, unrelenting, stark, reminder that as women, our bodies, even in our homes are always at risk. Once 20 years ago I took a weapons class. I went out to a firing range and practiced shooting at targets with different calibers of hand guns. I've lived in houses where several women owned guns for protection. I'm always reminded of them when shit like this happens. I don't really want to know the answers to the following questions. Because I don't care. But for judicial sake: Who are the parents of these boys? Where exactly did they learn misogyny? Do they have sisters? And does liquored up justify gang banging? Screw (a sick pun) the trial. Give them all life sentences, even the 15 year old, toss the key, and unleash the Furies.

All the leaves are brown...

Not really! Not here in Cali yet, but they've turned back East. 'California Dreaming' was one of the defining songs from my collegiate years. Walking down the block today several houses had cobwebbed porches and skeletons hanging from lights. There is a nip in the air. Rain has been forecast. This is my favorite season. The months before the big holiday in December. It doesn't get any better than this. Time to unfold the comforter, and relight the heater pilot. Football every Saturday and Sunday. Tortilla soup, and grilled cheese sammies. Runny noses. And H1N1. Yeah, this is the season.

Pictures at 11:

ABC. They are spending mega bucks advertising their new series, 'V.' That long tall drink of water whose face is plastered in every frame better not turn into a fang dripping bug from planet X.

Da Raiders. Time for the Black Hole to man up and boycott... wear paper bags over their collective armoured heads. 8 games in and the season is a travesty.

Zombieland. The most fun I've had at a grade B movie since...Plan 9 from Outer Space.

Mad Men is the best series on the tele now. Matthew Weiner is a genius.

Obama. We know you got game. And next at the White House. While you're lobbing those fade- aways. Think about this, bro. Lots of world class women out there... Lisa Leslie, Sheryl Swoopes, and Diana Taurasi who can ball too.

Anyone flying Northwest airlines in the future?

Dakine Sugar Shack

Hawaii is always referred to as the melting pot of the Pacific. Why? Because the islands are comprised of the many cultures which settled there...the Hawaiians, first. Followed in no particular order by the different ethnic races, Asians who came over to labor under the haole, (that's whitey to you), in the sugar cane and pineapple fields, along with the assortment of smaller waves of immigrants as word of the islands flew around the sailing nations. With each arrival came the defining foods of the migrating cultures. In 1876, the first band of Portuguese arrived from the Azores. Never mind their linguisa. Or the sweet bread. The 'Portugees' (the locals never EVA call them by any other name) brought with them a small doughy fried bread product which leap frogged right into Hawaiian legend lore: the malasada. In 1952 Leonard's Bakery of Kapahulu started frying up those golden balls of deliciousness. It was like, well, the 2nd coming. Pink boxes filled with the round pastry (no hole) nuggets flew off the shelves. You can take the motley donut, and the other malasada wannabe, the benet and stuff it. Eaten warm or hot, the malasada is a little spongy, a bit chewy and covered in granules and granules of sugar which coats your car seat, your favorite t-shirt, or your tutu's (grandmother) kitchen table. It's the one of the first places locals go to sweeten up their day. I always return to the malasada whenever I'm in the islands. Like Proust's madeline, it's deja vu all over again.

Whip It Good

I remember when I got my first pair of roller skates. A 50's Christmas present. They had a red leather saddle toe which I had to lace up and a turn key lock that crimped the skate to the shoe. The skate slid in and out, heel to toe, for sizing. The ball bearing wheels were loud and grinding as my brother and I skated up and down the block, back and forth, in no particular rhythm; I fell a lot but never really minded. It was one step removed from a scooter. There was something poetic about the swaying arms and the semi- gliding legs. The other night, I went to the movie, Whip It. A tidal wave of memories seized my tiny brain...yeah, roller derby, in black and white on the Admiral tele! The Bay Bombers! Ann Calvello and those wild 'do's.' Women stroking the board on skates and gouging each other for position. You had to be into your 4th cold one, a wrestling fan watching the wrong (maybe not) channel, or an adolescent waiting for the mouse club to come on. Who knew that this was cult? Even back then. Roller Derby is the sport that never dies. It's part hard scrabble. Part cheese. And lots of moxie. Women who hold day jobs, strap on the pads, boil mouth pieces and stride out onto the hardwood slapping on bad ass names like, 'Iron Maven, and 'Smashley.' Well, ok, maybe that's Hollywood. I digress though. Whip It is entertaining. And Drew's first film behind the lens. Ellen Page. The rocknroller, Julliete Lewis and the great Marcia Gay Harden. What's not to like?