Stickin' it to the Hicks

Just when I thought there was a chance that the majority of the Clatsop County planning commissioners might forsake being dodos ...

After reading today's article in The Daily Astorian about the commission's preliminary approval of NorthernStar's Bradwood Landing LNG plans, any hope of the majority of them having anything more than a "geranium in the cranium" became moot.

Worse yet, the dodos have morphed into ostriches. They have planted their thoughtless little heads firmly up their asses. Is it possible they were forward-thinking enough to realize there won't be any decent ground left in Clifton or Bradwood to bury their heads in once LNG moves in?

However ... thanks and appreciation should be bestowed on the three commissioners who showed common sense and care for the future of the river, its surrounding communities, and future generations. It is regretful they are outnumbered by morons.

I digress. Has anyone thought about why the sudden change of heart for those who recklessly approved moving forward with this project? It's so fishy the salmon would hold their noses if they could. Yet they must simply be naive rubes. Nobody wants to think their palms have been crossed with silver.

Some otherwise sensible people think LNG is going to be a good thing. Have they ever been to Clifton? Putting an LNG facility in there is like hawking a big one, and spitting it smack in Mother Nature's face.

Right now, those big ol' corporate stiffs at NorthernStar must be shooting their cuffs and laughing their asses off about how well they're progressing on the "Stickin' it to the Hicks" project.

It's more than embarrasing. It's a fucking shame.

A Fly in My Eye

Okay, okay, it's summer, and I'm feeding my lighthouse obsession before the monsoons and typhoons make that indulgence un-doable. And I had family visiting, so under the guise of Oregon Coast sight-seeing, I dragged said family down to Newport purportedly to see the aquarium.

I will confess that at five hours into the trip, after I had stopped at every vista imaginable, and taken photos of my granddaughter with a large and zaftic plaster-of-Paris mermaid somewhere in Lincoln City (she's a fool for mermaids), the troops were getting restless.

Only one more stop before the aquarium, I assured them: Yaquina Head Lighthouse. They know me well enough to realize I could not be deterred from a lighthouse mission, so they submitted gracefully to yet another side-trip.

I don't know what the hell was going on. Was there a some kind of tidal pull? A full moon? The place was literally swarming with tourists. Was the queen bee lighthouse sending out some kind of siren call to tourist drones? And it was a Tuesday, for chrissakes.

Anyway, we all trudged up to the lighthouse from the absolute furthest spot in the parking lot (the only spot I could get, right next to the crappers), wondering why all the people around the lighthouse were waving. Who were they waving to?

They weren't waving at anything. They were waving off flies. Hordes, masses and squadrons of black flies. The kids sensibly fled out of the fly zone. I was not as sensible. I wanted to go up into the lighthouse.

I got inside, and discovered to my dismay that the place was not only full of tourists, it was full of those same relentless goddam flies. The docent, hair awry and wearing some sort of Colonial-looking costume, was vainly trying to hang up something akin to mosquito netting over the front door. Leaving us trapped inside with some very aggressive flies.

She tugged wisps of hair back off her face, addressed those of us waiting to climb the stairs (yes, there was a line, of all things), and said, "Normally I would never let anyone touch the paint. But if you see a fly..." and she took a rolled up magazine and whomped the wall where about 10 of them had landed.

This was followed by an explanation of the insect invasion, which involved murres, and guano. It was something along the line of the murres not being there this time of year, and the flies feed on the guano, so they're just flying around looking for food ... and oh no, they don't bite humans.

Really? Then who the hell was that nibbling on my ankle? After the ankle-tasting, I was outta there. Enough already. I will go back again some other day, when the flies have their guano to snack on, and the tourists have all found someplace else to swarm.

Anyway, a comment on my Terrible Tilly post made me think about decommissioned lighthouses for sale. Most are located in notoriously desolate spots that might well prove to be depressing to live in; I remember one lighthouse back East where the USCG had to start manning it with two or more people to try to defuse the overwhelming feelings of isolation sole lighthouse keepers were experiencing.

But if anyone out there really really needs to own a lighthouse, check out the Lighthouse Program link on the U.S. General Services Administration website: GSA

Terrible Tilly

I am a fool for lighthouses. Naturally, I enjoy living in the Pacific Northwest, where there are so many of them. The one that intrigues me the most is Terrible Tilly, aka the Tillamook Head Lighthouse.

It has a gruesome and dramatic history (Tilly's history), and even though it's no longer an active lighthouse it still stands sentinel off Cannon Beach. I'm a little weirded out that it's now a columbarium (lovely name for "dump your ashes here"), as I can't help but wonder who the peculiar individual was who came up with that plan. Just in case you want to park your ashes there, check it out here:

Eternity at Sea

Anyway, I digress. I really wanted to see Terrible Tilly from as close an angle as possible, which would involve hiking. I should preface that statement by saying I do not have an athletic or outdoorsy-type bone in my body.

I was always incredibly relieved that I was the last to be chosen for any team at school, hoping I could spend my time on the bench reading, and my idea of camping out is a hotel that doesn't have a fridge in the room.

Nonetheless, I suddenly got this urge to climb up this wretchedly narrow forest path with sheer drop-offs to one side to get a good look at old Tilly. Wearing my plastic Payless sandals, no less.

The higher I climbed, and the deeper into the forest I went, the more determined I became. Even though I was hearing lilting running stream sounds, not ocean sounds, which made me doubt the sanity of my climb, I kept trudging.

Finally, I rounded a bend in the forest, and could hear booming ocean noises. Aha! Then there was a sign warning of cliffs, and falling rocks, and all of the things that I would not be within a mile (or ten) of in my normal state of mind. In my lunacy, all I could think of was that I must be close to the view I was seeking.

Then I rounded a corner at the top near some gawd-awful cliff-edge (fortunately, the view down was obscured by trees at that point), and I could see straight out. There were clouds, and sunlight, and sea, and yes, at last, the amazing and majestic Terrible Tilly.

That view was worth every gasp and blister it took to get up that hill.

Bodies Unworldly

Today we trundled out of Astoria off to Portland to see the Body Worlds 3 exhibition at the Oregon Museum of Science and Industry. Bizarre doesn't begin to cover rooms full of flayed corpses posed in peculiar positions. The ballerina above was not in this particular exhibit.

With all the blathering about the "plastination" process throughout the exhibit, you tend to think it's all just plastic, as nothing looks like it was formerly flesh until you look closely. Several of the specimens seemed to be from elderly men, judging from the ear hair and white eyelashes, who now look young again minus their slipcovers.

Also throughout the exhibit are mentions of the 6,000 "volunteers" who donated their bodies to be plastinated, and not-to-subtle requests for more donors. All of which comes under the "yikes!" chapter in my book. Not to mention, even though the theory is that you will be preserved forever, I can't help but think that if I did it, I'd wind up in a dank broom closet somewhere when they find a new and better process. Not a happy thought.

The creator of this art(?), artifice(?) is Dr. Gunther von Hagens, a rather ghoulish-looking character who, in a film that projects on a back wall, wears a large black hat and blue scrubs while in the process of "plastinating" corpses. He's creepy enough to scare the bejesus out of children and small dogs, and a large poster of him grinning looms over the exhibit, giving the place a cheery death-camp ambiance.

Here's a little info from a website about the plastination process:

• Plastination, invented by Dr. Gunther von Hagens in 1977, is a vacuum process whereby the body’s water and fat are replaced with reactive plastics that are initially pliable and then harden when cured with light, heat or gas. All tissue structures are retained.
• Unlike plastic models, plastinated specimens are intricate, REAL displays of human anatomy.
• It takes an average of 1,500 hours to transform a cadaver into a full-body plastinate.
• Plastinated specimens are dry and odorless and retain their natural structure – in fact, they are identical to their pre-preservation state down to the microscopic level.
• "Slice plastination" is a special variation of this preservation technique. Frozen body specimens are cut into slices which are then plastinated. Plastinated organs and body slices are a useful teaching aid for cross-sectional anatomy which is gaining importance in medical communities.

There were many glass cases with plastinated organs and bones, and somehow that was a little easier to take than the displays where the organs were sitting primly in the body cavities or balanced on a hand.

A flattened and sliced obese man (like doing a cross-section of a tree) provided a strange specimen. The internal organs were all squished, and apparently he died of a heart attack.

The piece de resistance was a camel posed with a baby camel. It has quite the trompe d'oeil effect as you round a corner and boom! There it is.

Most people also seemed quite intrigued by the clean lungs next to the cancer-eaten lungs. Nearby was a looped video of Yul Brynner, who died of lung cancer more than 20 years ago, telling people not to smoke. Next to the screen with his image was a plastic box for people to throw their cigarettes in and "take the pledge."

All in all, a very fascinating exhibit, but I was disappointed that some of the figures I had read about or seen photos of were not on display. Even so, it was worth the trip.

Regotcha

Ah, the Astoria Regatta. Normally a fun kinda thing, lots going on, parade, etc.

A few years ago the center of it all was that little stretch of Duane by the Moose Club. I had my vending tent there, as did several others, and we covered both sides of Duane. The parade marched right by, so close you could touch them. My granddaughter was only one at the time, and she was in her stroller just inside the tent, her eyes agog.

It was a fun, relaxed street-festival atmosphere. Post-parade, the bands performed in the street by the Moose Club, which was holding an open house for the weekend, and there were food vendors. The Bowpicker must have cleaned up that weekend - there was always a line in front of the place. The festivities were close to the Maritime Museum, so there was a steady flow back and forth between the street and the museum. It a very nice event that had a small-town cozy feel to it.

Then last year, the regatta committee started feeling a little greedy, so they decided to fence in the Safeway square for the vendors, bands, and beer, and charge admission. Think it was only a buck or two. People winced, but some coughed it up and came in. Not enough to give the vendors much business, though. I mean, who's going to pay to go in and shop when they can see the same vendors on Sunday for free at the Sunday Market?

This year, they raised the fee for vendors, and I decided I wouldn't go through the whole ordeal of setting up my tent in the little fenced-in area. Besides, I knew I would be having company, and preferred to spend the time with them.

Bomb threat be damned, we all set out this morning to see the parade, which the regatta committee has not managed to fuck up yet, and parked ourselves on Duane Street just outside the fenced-in regatta area. A pal of mine, who is a vendor, came out to talk to me. She was pissed. Seriously teeth-gnashing pissed.

It seems the greedy bug bit the regatta committee pretty hard this year. They were charging $5 to come into the fenced area. So nobody was in there but the vendors, who had paid from $50 to $75 to be there, and were in a state of uproar.

My pal told me she was going to fold up her tent and get the hell out of there as soon as the parade was over, and was going to demand her money back. She thought several other vendors were going to do the same.

Needless to say, the vendors had not been told about the admission fee. Kinda like when the Sunday Market managers don't tell vendors at the cruise ships about the passengers being Canadian, and only allowed to spend $50 in the U.S.

Anyway, I was going to take my guests to the regatta festivities tonight until I heard about the $5 per person to get in and the short-pours on the over-priced beer. Forget it.

And where were the gill-net boat races? They advertised them last year, and this year, and nope, no races either year. Heard there was some grumbling on the part of the gill-net boat owners, but don't know exactly what the grumbling was about. The last time they raced was 2005, and it was marvelous to watch them. Another fun part of the regatta, gone.

Too bad the greedy bug ruined what was once a fun event.

Go Fly a Kite

When I was little, I don't even remember learning how to swim. I've seen photos of me at about one year old on my belly at the tide line just splashing and grinning.

But I lived on the East Coast, in an estuary area, so there were no crashing waves or rip-tides to contend with - the tide went in and out gently and smoothly. Everything had that lovely salty smell, and the water was so quiet you could hear the seaweed snapping and popping on the seawall at low tide.

I grew up with an abiding love for the beach, and for salt water. My mother told me, from as early as I can remember, that I would never be able to live away from the sea and be happy. If I did go away, I would have no control over the compulsion to return. I thought she was nuts. Of course, it was one of the very few things she was actually right about.

Well, I did go away, and I moved to a very large and inland city. I raised my son there, and he never had the experiences I did with the sea. He had an abject terror of the water, and when I would take him out for a simple rowboat ride at my parents' house he would clutch the gunnels and white-knuckle it every minute even though he was trussed up in an excellent life-jacket and I was an excellent swimmer.

So when he and his wife produced a lovely grandbaby, I was not hopeful that she would share my love of the sea. They still live in that large city he was brought up in, and I'm at last back by the sea. Sure her other grandmother has a pool, and my granddaughter loves it, but that's a completely different experience.

They are here visiting, and at 3 years old, my granddaughter is old enough to really absorb the sights and sounds she's experiencing here. We took her up to Long Beach, and my daughter-in-law had a sudden urge to fly a kite. Lovely idea, so we went and bought one. We opened the car doors, and at first my granddaughter was frightened by the roaring sound of the sea.

Soon, she was distracted by the sights of the seagulls, which she pointed at swooping by and inexplicably exclaimed, "Doggies!" We got that sorted out while she pretended to listen and discovered her bucket and shovel, and how well they work with sand.

Her mother walked further down the beach to fly the kite, and by then, my granddaughter was dancing and pirhouetting in the sand being a "barrerina," holding the kite, running after it pointing and shrieking with delight when her mother or father held it, and chasing her shadow whenever she noticed it. It gave me a huge amount of pleasure to see her enjoy the sand and sea as I did as a child. I grin just thinking about it.

Since the waters here are dangerous, unlike the waters I was brought up in, we have to stay above the tide-line. But I'm delighted she's getting some sand/sea/sky experience. It gives us an important bond we would otherwise not have. I hope she remembers it as well as I will.

Schlepping and Small Town Politics

This weekend entailed a great deal of schlepping. I don't know if anyone out there has any idea what it's like to lug around and set up a 10x10 tent, then stuff it full of your wares to sell, but let me assure you, a picnic it ain't.

Saturday, I was at the Covered Bridge Celebration, an event I normally enjoy doing. It's in a nice field by the covered bridge in Grays River, Wash. There are two huge trees in the middle of the "courtyard," providing lots of shade for those who want to lounge around and listen to the music or just relax. Last year there were antique car races, and tractor races, which were a total howl, and really added to the character of the event.

Well, there I sat, after setting up the tent on dirt (what can only be called) tussocks. Wrestling the tent into submission, and almost losing, would be more accurate. The "parade" came through the covered bridge and onto the field. I would have missed it entirely if not for the noise of the tractors, as there was no band.

I waited in vain for the promised Model T races and the tractor races. No sign of either one. It was all very quiet and puzzling. Too quiet. Bands played on a little stage, everyone ignored them. All in all, it was a strange vibe, not to mention a weird sales day.

The next day I was slated to do the Sunday Market. What the hell is happening there? There are fewer and fewer vendors every time I go. Could it be they are wising up? The tents are all moved around, using two tents to fill three spaces. The vendors I've spoken to are not happy campers.

Oh I know, you hear all of these vendors praising the market to the skies, and read their letters to the editor saying everything is just Pollyanna peachy, but guess what - they are in the minority, not the majority.

Most vendors will not speak out publicly because they fear retaliation. So we huddle and chat amongst ourselves. The fact of the matter is that there is no vendor input in the market. It is a fiefdom run by the Comperes, and they do not answer to anyone except their board of directors, who let them do anything they want.

I hear of differing rates of pay, but the minimum they receive is $71K for managing the market per year. Which is insane. Hell, I'll do it for $30K. But apparently money isn't an issue for the political "in" crowd.

The vendors who still are actually showing up are desultory. I'm usually fairly cheerful, but even I was feeling depressed because they put me right next to someone who was selling damn near the same thing as I was. I mean, what's with that? It's just thoughtless, and, dare I say it? Disrespectful. To me as a vendor, and to the other vendor, as well.

The most interesting thing that happened on Sunday was that I got an explanation of the quietude at the covered bridge celebration from a Grays River local. It seems that the guys who race the old Model T's and the tractors have a bone to pick with the bridge preservation group, who run the event, and who have become a power to reckon with in the town. Apparently the group has stepped on toes, and the drivers were boycotting to express their displeasure.

We hapless vendors get caught unwittingly in the small town political hornets' nests. The only thing you can do is duck, run and hope to hell they don't swarm.

Gone But Not Forgotten

Today, as I was hanging around in one of my favorite watering holes here in Astoria, the topic of the World Trade Center came up. My pal remembered that the last time he'd seen it, it was in the process of being built.

That was the last time I saw it, too. I was on the Staten Island Ferry, doing the cheapo/best tour of New York once again that afternoon. As I recall, I was pretty upset because the fare had either already gone up from a nickel to a quarter, or was about to go up. Actually, I think all of New York was horrified at the fare increase from the traditional nickel. Incredibly, now it's actually free. Yes, really. Staten Island Ferry

Anyway, I was on the ferry getting my adrenalin-rush late afternoon view of lower Manhattan, which is the most amazing city-scape ever. I was at the stern of the boat, looking back at the city, studying the World Trade Center, which at that point was about 75 stories high, and grimacing at the huge cranes that were on top of the structure.

I really wanted to see the building when it was completed, and go up to the top to see the spectacular views. It probably would have taken heavy sedation of one form or another to get me up there, though, as even the Empire State Building elevators gave me a serious case of the flim-flams. I just assumed those buildings would always be there, and I could get back to go to the top someday in the future. Well, we all know what happened to that idea.

Anyway, it got me to thinking about what an amazing pair of buildings the World Trade Center was, and about the construction of it. So I did a little research on the subject, and found an 18 minute documentary made in 1983. You can see it at:
Building the World Trade Center

I don't think I'll ever get over the destruction of the WTC. "Never forget" indeed.

New Kids in Town

Since my last post about the "guest" who is living under a nearby stoop, which I thought was an anomaly, I find that he is actually part of a trend.

Today I was walking down 11th Street, and there was another homeless guy squatting in a doorway, drinking coffee. Another scruffy guy appeared and joined him.

Across the street, in front of the coffee shop, a third hobo was sitting on the curb next to his knapsack.

I drove around a bit later on, and saw several more obviously homeless people wandering aimlessly around town or sitting in strange places staring into space. While at a stop sign with the window rolled down, one was overheard saying to another, "Let's go find a back yard to sleep in tonight."

When I first moved here, one of the things that impressed me was how clean the city is compared to where I was living. The other thing that struck me was that there were no homeless people. Except Motorcycle Steve, who wanders around in his motorcycle helmet with his shopping cart, and who isn't technically homeless, from what I gather. Besides, he's a known quantity, harmless, and a local fixture.

So what is going on? Since when has Astoria become a mecca for the homeless? Where I lived before, the place was rife with the homeless; some were harmless, some not so harmless, and some completely demented and downright dangerous. Many didn't want any part of the shelters because they couldn't drink and drug there.

You rarely walked about in the daytime, and never at night, because there were just too many crazies, not to mention gang members, out and about. You drove around with your doors locked at all times.

With this sudden influx of homeless people, call me silly, call me an alarmist, but I don't feel safe here any more.