Around the Horn

1. The 'glug, glug,' sound that was heard soon after the Supremes rendered
their verdict for Obama care was the not-so-good Repub presidential ship, all candidates ahoy (!), sinking like a stone, on November's political waters; not even the Hollywood mouse can save that baby as it plummets toward Davy Jones' locker.

2. Rupert Murdoch bought it from Castle &Cooke. Larry Ellison bought it from Murdoch. The island of Lanai, the former pineapple realm, with it's 3,200 residents was sold lock and barrel last week to a guy who needs an island like he needs another nickel. There is only one economy on Lanai: tourism. Murdoch alledgedly lost 20-30 million a year.  Can Ellison improve the infrastructure and bring stability to the anxious working class residents? Only if he thinks outside the box.

3. Nora Ephron. The only movies I ever saw that she directed or wrote were 'Julie and Julia,' and  'Silkwood.' The rest fell under 'chick flicks' and I passed them by. I read Ephron's 'Heartburn,' but never indulged in her blog. Who out there believed her when she publicaly named FBI agent,
Mark Felt as 'deepthroat?' Not me. But she was right. NPR as they often do, broadcast several interviews with Ephron. They were witty and charming and filled me with regret; how could I not have recognized skill and finesse? Nora Ephron. She said in 2009, that she was not looking ahead 10 years, but only thinking of today. And today meant carbs. The best bread in the history of civilization was being baked right now. Today was the moment. Tomorrow, Norah, I'm eating a donut in your memory.

Double dog Dares...

1. As a kid in parochial school, whenever the circus came to town, the nuns appropriating a stack of freebies escorted all the classes to an afternoon under the big top, which was frequently housed in a civic auditorium and not in some dusty field (which is always somehow) nostalgically depicted by H'wood film. Security wasn't very good because in those days you could wander from floor to floor (if you were a sharp kid) and one year my brother and I found ourselves in a remote hallway lined with the big cat cages; tigers, and lions paced lazily behind their bars as we ran gleefully past. I loved the trapeze acts, and was mesmerized as the chalk flew off the upside down catcher's hands. But the greatest act that ever held a spotlight under the Ringling Brothers and Barnum and Bailey circus top, was the Flying Wallendas. All eyes were riveted on the family members as they delivered the 7 chair pyramid, the crown jewel of their act, on the high wire, with no safety net beneath them! I could barely breathe as they crossed overhead. That memory still ranks as the pinnacle, the mother, of all high wire acts. Nik Wallenda's walk across Niagara Falls, last week, was as daring as one of his grandfather's, Karl, visions; he may indeed have one upped the pater familia. But, I couldn't help thinking as I watched Nik cross through the falls mist, that if Karl were still alive he would have thrown down the double dog dare.

2. The Pope. Vatican fantasy in hand, crushed the Leadership Conference of Women Religious, which represent most American nuns, stating that the US nuns defy not only conservative doctrines, but by their actions, the powerful Bishops too. Benedict wants the nuns to stop all political activity. And fall in. Uh, the time for the veil and the habits are gone, baby, gone. These are not your 'fathers' nuns.

3. Big day coming for El Presidente. The Supreme Court rendering verdict on the constitutionality of the Affordable Care Act. Stay tuned.

I'll have another and another...

When I was a lowly minion toiling away, sanding shelves, raising them onto metal brackets, hands encased in a sturdy pair of leather gloves, rubber hammer at my side, music blaring like cool waves through the cavernous warehouse which would become in future years a storage facility housing low circulation books from the great collections of the UC Northern campuses, I learned an invaluable life alerting lesson. The crew was a strange, eclectic, group. Some white collars who were tired of the
suits. A handful of high school grads who were on their first real gig. Some laid off dudes who had nicknames like 'Snake eyes,' and 'Red' who thought nothing of driving to LA for a 48 hour binge, wheeling back in time for the Monday shift stinking of alcohol and ready to bed down at the first opp
in the dark cold empty stacks. The place was filled with misfits. 'Snake eyes' was a pleasant enough fellow, and it was ol 'Snake eyes' who gave me my nickname, 'Lil Bit.'

It was during this strangely exhilarating grunt time (we were all free of admin responsibilities) that a guy named Donnie taught me how to read the Daily Racing Form. Golden Gate Fields was a heart beat away, and everyday coming and going to work I passed the racetrack. It was a glowing mystifying beacon. I had been to the races once, and  I wanted to know more. So Donnie, my work partner, taught me how to make sense of the figs. How to read between the lines.  How to choose a horse. Picking winners came later.

This Saturday, at the 144th running of the Belmont stakes in New York, a chestnut colt, 'I'll have Another' will attempt to win the triple crown of racing. It's been 34 years since the last horse, Affirmed swept the crown (Kentucky Derby, the Preakness, and the Belmont). No horse from Cali
has ever won. If young Mario Gutierrez wins aboard IAH he will become the first Mexican jockey to do so. How hard is it? It is so hard that only 11 horses have won the crown. There is a saying: it takes luck to win the Derby; speed to win the Preakness, and a race horse to win the Belmont. The racing gods are a prickly lot. I hope they let us all have a glimpse of thoroughbred greatness.

'Someday I'm going to make her mine, oh yeah...'

The Brits are going to be partying like well, 1994, this weekend, and letting it all hang out. There will be fireworks, parades through the streets of London, a grand flotilla down the Thames the likes of which hasn't been seen since Sir Frances Drake eviscerated the Armada, the royal Corgis, the Epsom Derby which opens up the festival of events, Sir Elton, Sir Paul, Annie, and every royal that can walk.  This and much more for HRM Elizabeth Alexandra Mary, Head of the United Kingdom and the Commonwealth etc. etc. who will be celebrating her diamond jubilee.

Just 25, Elizabeth displaying brilliance and savvy, lifted the aura of royal pomp and privacy and allowed her coronation to be televised throughout the British Isles. If the love affair didn't start then, it likely began when Elizabeth turned 21 and declared in a broadcast that 'her life, long or short, shall be devoted to your service...'

In her 60 years, HRM has survived 12 Prime Ministers beginning with Winston. She opens Parliament every year, and meets on a regular basis with the PM. She has navigated her way through a world of men, and involved and devoted herself to over 600 charities.

It is difficult for us to wrap our renegade minds around the concept of Queen and country, but, to capture a thumbnail, I always circle back to the blitz, when the Luftwaffe bombed the shit out of London for 57 straight days, and the photos of George the VI and the Queen Mother (they refused to leave Buckingham which was also bombed) walking through the devastation, the rubble, the dazed population everyday. And I kinda get a glimpse of that love affair.

The Kings of England killed for sons. The Queens of England, Elizabeth
and Victoria had Ages named after them.

QEII has never given an interview. But, my friends, during her 60 year reign that doesn't mean she  didn't have a lot to say. Bring on the flotilla.

'If I could sing ya, a love song so divine'...

SNL for the last several years has more often than not gone off the rails, fallen flat on it's collective face, but on Saturday night, the train chugged back to the station. The opening skit with a mustached Jon Hamm singing and dancing set the tone for some rollicking fun. But wait the best was yet to come. Mick Jagger as comfortable as a fly on a pile of steaming horse s...t, strutted out in a dazzling gold jacket and hosted the final show of the season. The Mick parodied Steve Tyler. Cast members parodied Jagger. Jagger parodied himself. Skits flew across the stage; the Californians, a ridiculous outrageous spoof of the LA freeway system spewed out a blond wigged Steve Martin. Could it get any better? It did.

In 2009, during the 25th anniv. of the Rock n Roll Hall of Fame,
I witnessed the greatest rendition of a Stones song eva: Gimme Shelter featuring U2, Jagger and Fergie setting the stage on fire. Nothing, I thought could ever touch that until SNL. Mick opened with Arcade Fire (love those Canadians), and gyrated his skinny 60 something ass through 'This could be the Last Time. Then as if to say, hey, yeah, you got it mofo's I am almost 70, Jagger teamed up with the Foo Fighters and ripped off '19th Nervous Breakdown, and 'It's only Rock 'n Roll.' What an exhibition! In an emotional salute and farewell to Kristen Wiig who is bound for greener Judd Apatow and H'wood pastures, Mick and Arcade Fire played a finale of She's a Rainbow and Ruby Tuesday. I was exhausted. Whatever Mick is transfusing...I want some. He was a fracking ball of fire; a sight to behold. If you missed it, get some on YouTube.

Sunken Treasure

So there's this walk I take while I'm making the daily rounds, Mountain View Cemetery, designed by Frederick Law Olmsted, who was also responsible for planning Central Park, and part of UC Berkeley. The older portions dating back to the early 19th century are at ground level. The landscaping significantly improves at the higher elevations. There is even a millionaire's row with monuments that swallow up the family plot, and loom spatially, like the mansions they were conceived in, gaudy memorials to mortality. When I was smoking, I often drove there and fired up a few while staring at the distant Oakland horizon. I've even bagged my lunch and picnicked, guzzling my soda, and eating my sammies sitting and using the finest carrera marble as my table. But I digress. A month ago, I passed a section which is not on my usual route. Most of the inhabitants were from county Kerry or county Kildare. Sparsely populated. The biggest tombstone was 'Campbell.' Irish? I chuckled. Surely, laddies, a misprint. But wait. It gets better. The next stone over belonged to Ina Donna Coolbrith, 1st poet laureate of California!

Ina. She was as cool as her name. Even cooler. Ina hung with the literati boys of her time, Bret Harte, Mark Twain, Alfred Lord Tennyson, John Muir and the critic Ambrose Bierce. Ina like Gertrude had salons and introduced and established a young Joaquin Miller to the publishing world. In 1874 Ina worked as a Librarian in Oakland grinding out 6 days a week, 12 hours a day for $80.00 a month, a sum far less than a man would receive in the same position. Employment infringed on her writing. However, it is said that Ina never had a poetry submission rejected by a publisher. Ina mentored the flamboyant Isadorah Duncan, and later helped a 10 year old Jack London to read. In 1906 Ina was named the 1st poet laureate of California. Later in life, almost destitute, Ina was rescued by Edwin Markham and the actress, Lotta Crabtree. One of the last formal portraits of Ina was taken by Ansel Adams in Berkeley. Ina Donna Coolbrith died in 1928 and lay in an unmarked grave until 1986 (JeeezuzH) until a headstone was placed there. Plot 11. Jack London never forgot Ina, and wrote no woman affected him as Ina did.

Old School

1. So a bunch of us went out to celebrate April birthdays, and ended up at one of the classic 'old school' restaurants in SF. It is fitting that, Original Joe's, once an iconic landmark in the 'Tenderloin' district of the city, gutted by a fire which shut it down for four years, has risen from the ashes to reside in it's new locale, the old Fior d'Italia, at the corner of Union and Stockton. That's right, baby, come home to mama...North Beach. With it's signature red leather booths, tuxedo clad waiters, a menu laden with steaks, filets, veal Milanese, linguine Alfredo, a bar that was jammed, and an overflow crowd spilling onto the sidewalk, it was happening on that Friday night. The noise level was off the charts. I could not hear the conversation across the table. But who cared. It gets better, though. A long long time ago in grammar school, my best friend, was a gangly shy tomboyish girl like me. We were an odd couple. She was tall. And I was short. We made our first communion together, and played a parochial version of baseball with tennis balls which we hit with our fist out on the asphalt playground. When I was 11 I transferred to another school. We never wrote. We never made play dates. It was over. Until Friday night. She's the owner of Original Joe's. The evening was surreal. Nostalgic. And just as we were marshaling to leave, Francis F. Coppola walked in and sat 3 booths over from us. That, my friends, was a beautiful wrap.

2. The foie gras state ban in Cali is looming. Make it illegal, and a black market will rise.

3. The greatest 2 minutes in sports is this Saturday. The Kentucky Derby. Creative Cause, Daddy Nose Best, or Gemologist. And, Happy Birthday Alex! You da man.