Forty-one years today, long enough ago that some people who've just reached middle-age were not yet born, the three bravest men on the planet sat perched atop what was essentially a big metal stick of dynamite over half as tall as the Washington Monument... and lit it, bound on a journey that would have left Leif Erickson, Christopher Columbus and Magellan faint of heart, with their jaws hanging.
From when the countdown reached zero, the lives of those three intrepid souls sitting in the nosecone might be wiped out in a heartbeat, at any given moment during the next eight days. Where they were going, there would be no places to rest, rethink, or ponder turning back. Their destination offered nothing hospitable to life – not even air to breathe. They would spend nearly 22 hours there before lifting off again for the voyage home, if they made it that far.
Just the trip there might kill them. Landing might crush them. Once down, their equipment – which despite rigorous testing back on Earth, could not be tested in the actual environment for which it was designed – could fail, stranding them there to die. Merely exiting the craft, once on the alien surface, might spell doom. The blast off for home could go wrong. The trip back was just as potentially dangerous, and they'd be "landing" in the roaring Pacific Ocean aboard a craft as fatigued by the same unprecedented ordeal as they.
Again, if they made it that far. Those were all still unanswered questions in July of 1969.
The entire planet of humanity became still to watch, counting off every tiny milestone – the rocket got off the launchpad, everything worked, nothing failed.
We lost them from radio contact somewhere along the way, for an anxious interval, wondering where they could possibly be – if they were alive – up in the black unknowable cosmos. Their voices were believed lost forever until someone thought to locate them by simply pointing the radio dish in the direction of their destination, the Moon.
And there they were, still in business, hardly aware that every other human had momentarily forgotten how to breathe.
The Moon was barren, but benign, and allowed the adventurers to roam, leave bootprints, take souvenirs and plant a red, white and blue calling card... along with a plaque that spelled out our intentions. "We came in peace for all mankind."
A few days after placing his foot upon a land where none had ever before, Neil Armstrong and his fellow pioneers – the only word fully accurate but woefully impotent somehow in this case – Edward Aldrin and Michael Collins returned to the Earth. Just as John Kennedy had proposed in a famous speech nine years earlier.
There were subsequent missions, by men equally as brave, each a step further in terms of the tools and toys we took to our new big grey oceanless beach, but none of them quite matched the magic, the dread, the elation of that first time – the one you never forget.
I was not yet seven years old when we bridged the dark gulf between worlds. I remember that fuzzy grey vision on our family TV, when the moment happened. I am so grateful that this event happened in my lifetime. Today's young people, who take for granted digital technology that would have made Jules Verne rethink his every word, will never fully understand the wonder.
The personal computer was still over a decade away. We went to the Moon via analog methods. Would that fact give them even a clue, or is it lost on them as well?
There are some who claim we never did it. Others say we've never gone back for nefarious reasons of galactic intrigue. They can't both be right. Let them have the other 364 days of the year to rage at the debate table.
Today, July 20... let's remember. And if you were there to witness it live, as I was, you know what it is to look at that photo of a bulky white faceless form standing before an American flag made to "wave" artificially by a right-angled rod... and feel a tear form.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Friday, June 25, 2010
You Title This One
THE DAMN POETRY CORNER RETURNS
MY CUP
I broke my favorite cup today
upon the kitchen floor.
I stood in trancelike disbelief
and saddened to the core.
It wasn't done on purpose, just
a clumsy whim of fate.
It should've been that old glass jar
or tacky decor plate.
A million curses filled my brain,
I bent a mournful stoop.
A slo-mo replay of the death
went into endless loop.
So much we'd shared, this cup and I;
from demure sips to swill –
coffee, cocoa, juice and tea,
or water for a pill.
I doubt I'll find a duplicate
in fifty Goodwill shops.
A runner-up must now suffice
to slake my thirsty chops.
Nevermore to runneth over,
or sit empty vigil there.
Wait, up in the cupboard –
I forgot, they were a pair.
-----------------
Gender inequality aimed like a luger;
A man's a Rasputin, a woman's a cougar.
-----------------
RANDOM THOUGHTS FOR JUNE
Denzel Washington to star in The Gary Coleman Story? No way.
When you walk... through a storm...
Wrap your lunch... in plastic...
What I don't know about quantum physics would cover the head of a pin a thousand times over. At least.
Hammer as loud as you need to, but whatever it is, get the damn thing BUILT already!
Proportionately, the space between your ass cheeks is deeper than the Grand Canyon, only the echo doesn't last as long. Thank heavens.
MY CUP
I broke my favorite cup today
upon the kitchen floor.
I stood in trancelike disbelief
and saddened to the core.
It wasn't done on purpose, just
a clumsy whim of fate.
It should've been that old glass jar
or tacky decor plate.
A million curses filled my brain,
I bent a mournful stoop.
A slo-mo replay of the death
went into endless loop.
So much we'd shared, this cup and I;
from demure sips to swill –
coffee, cocoa, juice and tea,
or water for a pill.
I doubt I'll find a duplicate
in fifty Goodwill shops.
A runner-up must now suffice
to slake my thirsty chops.
Nevermore to runneth over,
or sit empty vigil there.
Wait, up in the cupboard –
I forgot, they were a pair.
-----------------
Gender inequality aimed like a luger;
A man's a Rasputin, a woman's a cougar.
-----------------
RANDOM THOUGHTS FOR JUNE
Denzel Washington to star in The Gary Coleman Story? No way.
When you walk... through a storm...
Wrap your lunch... in plastic...
What I don't know about quantum physics would cover the head of a pin a thousand times over. At least.
Hammer as loud as you need to, but whatever it is, get the damn thing BUILT already!
Proportionately, the space between your ass cheeks is deeper than the Grand Canyon, only the echo doesn't last as long. Thank heavens.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Before Editing...
AND THIS WAS THEATRE
by Angelica Gouté
It is with sheer delight that your humble reviewer reports cashing the advance cheque in the sum of $150 for this review article, concerning last night's premiere. I shall have dinner tonight, which is more than is deserved by the unfortunate rabble of players whose meager talents were taxed beyond their limits by an original local play at the Kiln Playhouse in downtown Oceanside less than 24 hours ago.
If there is justice in this dreary, tainted world, these languishing cretins would be banished to the dark countryside and down to the unforgiving sea. Such was there collective crime against art and mankind.
Said production, "Hathaway's Calling," by neophyte playsmith Dell Harpsham – a gurgling dullard who should have been strangled in his very crib – opens ironically on the fair morning of a baby's birth; a loud DIY affair heralded by shouts of "Push! Push!" somewhere offstage. After a thunderous scream, and tidal thrush of breaking womb water, emerges from the wings Anna, played by that wobbling birch log, local actress Kay Fong. Anna cradles the newborn in her vice-like arms, and looks decidedly unfazed for a woman who has supposedly just pumped out a greasy bald littl'n.
Ginger-haired, freckle-plagued leading man Roy Lunst, is neither pleased nor pleasing as Anna's husband, LaRue. The child is female, and LaRue's heart was set in stone in want of a son to carry on the family name.
In this reviewer's opinion, the gender of the tyke should have been the least of LaRue's concerns, as the toy doll used for the babe, bore skin a rich chocolate. This anomaly was never touched upon.
LaRue's fury threatens the sanctity of the new family, and he confesses a strange obsession with a far-off yearning, or yearning with a far-off obsession. The road beckons, and he is off, duffel in hand, in search of an unspoken dream. Anna's tears do little to douse the flame of LaRue's passion to wander – and absolutely nothing to foment audience sympathy, as said tears never truly appear – such is the girth of Fong's repertoire.
From there, the story tumbles forth like a platter of leftover lasagna thrown into a quarry.
Actress Fong's placing of her newborn in the cradle, holding it by its neck while straightening an uncooperative blanket, was certainly attention-getting. As was tossing said bassinet offstage like a sack of old workshirts, in a sudden rush of what could only be frustration – likely at her faulty memory for dialogue, which she liberally peppered with volleys of 'gawddammits,' various slang for fecal matter, and strategically placed 'f-bombs,' all seemingly aimed at the show's producers.
Geriatric dynamo Audrey Wurztram, as Anna's loyal housemaid, Opal, turns in what is arguably the most interesting performance of the show – wearing a costume that seems part period, part anachronism, and muttering "Good ever-loving gawd" under her lines, exiting with a syrupy pale orange zig-zag of urine trailing after her. Was it in the script? Writer Harpsham was unavailable for comment.
The show's director, local treasure Cleve Dozier, who boasted his pleasure during last week's rehearsal at the show's "verité and daring," seemed unable to contain himself from his choice front row seat last night, with teary raving cants of "oh mother," and "oh dear gawd, mommy!"
LaRue – Lunst running the emotional alphabet from A to B – continues on his journey, to meet Randa, a worldly wise prostitute (played by geriatric dynamo Audrey Wurztram in a quick-change dual role) who has taken a vow of silence, and Father Gullem, portrayed by area thespian and restauranteur Ford Krevich, a priest whose unbridled addiction to cabbage and asparagus threatens to unravel his faith. He speaks to LaRue in riddles, with each mystery translated into exotic dance by Randa, with all the arousing gyration of the mechanical T-Rex one sees advertised at Air Shows.
But LaRue has a riddle of his own for Father Gullem, and whispers it in his ear, which causes the pious padre to go into convulsions, bellow like a speared wildebeest, and pee-pee dance his way offstage, never to be seen again. The riddle is never revealed, though may be fairly guessed at, considering the barrage of half-muffled epithets from beyond the scrim, and what appeared to be a dog-eared, Post-it note covered playscript suddenly heaved onstage.
An unannounced intermission occurred at this juncture in the proceedings, when director-producer Dozier stood up upon his front row seat, and loudly offered to refund the audience's ticket costs, along with pleas of "Get me a rope!" and "just castrate me!" His Local Treasure-ness was just as quickly subdued by two large usherettes who punched him copiously in a headlock and dragged his limp body off into the darkness below the exit sign.
Like a three-chilidog nightmare, the show marched on.
Fortunately, the comic relief got their cue. Area theatre stalwarts Herc Jenson and Kell Harris attempted to, as usual, wow the crowd as master traveling salesmen "Jim & Jules." Sadly, it was their old standby song-and-shuffle, which perhaps they have drawn once too often from that moldy vaudevillian well:
"Hey Jules, I heard your cousin's in the hospital!"
"Yep Jim, he saw a billboard that said 'drink Canada Dry!' so he drove up there and tried to!"
I ask, how often can one gild that lillie?
The actual intermission, at the 94-minute mark, consisted of warm tap water and margarine sandwiches, sold at the downstairs snack counter for a dear five dollars. Smoking is allowed on the lobby's central aviary roof, which is constructed of half-inch thick pine planks and chicken wire. It creaks menacingly. Cigars are prohibited as the ash may actually burn through the nigh paper-thin platform, which covers not an arbor suite of our singing feathered friends, but a two-foot deep repository of their pungent droppings, which is assumed highly flammable – condemned yet strangely ignored by the City Sanitation Department.
Nothing like a billowing bird shit inferno to mark time 'tween theatre acts.
Sadly the curtain still proved operational for the commencement of Act II. And what an "act" it was!
The sullen morality yarn had suddenly become a musical extravaganza, with two dozen flower-clad maidens tap dancing their way into our lower colons. All ages of tap artisans were represented from junior high to age-spot. The song's title could only be guessed at: something akin to "I Love To Slo-Mo," or "I Lube Up Tofu." I know I'm in the ballpark.
All the more irritating was the lack of an orchestra of any kind, despite a wide, empty orchestra pit. The acapella warblings of the tap maidens, combined with a bare wooden stage pounded into toothpicks by relentless brass-studded soles, reminded me of the old joke about the man who hit himself repeatedly in the forehead with a hammer.
"Why do you do that," asked a friend?
"It feels so good when it stops."
Unfortunately it was only a fresh beginning. The hellish test was born anew as the cast reappeared to pick up where they had left off in the first act.
Once more embarked upon his sojourn of self-discovery, LaRue is again confronted by strangers bearing headachey riddles. The next encounter involves an unwashed, cauldron guarding biddy wearing shredded Goodwill attire (again, versatile senior Audrey Wurztram). "Riddle me..." I assume was the line she attempted. Instead, an electrifying nausea consumed all remaining audience, at what sounded like "Diddle me..."
LaRue's attention, or perhaps more accurately, Lunst's, suddenly is drawn to a mystery beyond the curtain. "Oh..." he grunts, and shoves the grimy witch-i-tute offstage, with a hoarsely whispered "Go go go screw it." An avant-garde scene transition to say the least.
At first the impression is that LaRue has accepted the "Diddle" invite and is hustling his gruesome paramour behind the wings to consummate the deal. If so, it is the quickest quickie of all time, for LaRue is back on the road in the next scene, which thankfully wields his third and final riddling stranger.
Returning for a bizarre encore, Herc and Kell, the former upon the latter's shoulders, beneath a 20-foot long overcoat – with Kell in a $1.75 halloween mask – enter. The "Dreaded Creature of the Lost Highway," as the character refers to itself, asks LaRue his last and ultimate riddle that will allow him passage to the "wondrous dream world" according to writer Harpsham's glorified toilet tissue.
LaRue wails defiantly his answer, which sounded like either "Tell me reality, what!" or "Hell you're really a twat!" The Kiln Playhouse's sound system truly deserves the junk heap.
At LaRue's timber-rattling retort, Kell loses his balance atop Herc beneath the "horrifying" creature outfit... which causes the macabre stage presence to appear to break in half – the top half slamming the boards with bone cracking finality, to be dragged off by two frantic stagehands who appear out of the ether. The creature's bottom half throws up its arms beneath the costume, and waddles off in grim contemplation.
The creature defeated, and all riddles answered, LaRue is granted entry into the above-mentioned "wondrous dream world," to discover it is merely his own home, with Anna and plastic brown infant waiting for him. Fong played the scene having already disengaged from her costume, wearing what could only be her personal "par-tay" attire and "stylin'" make-up. I'm willing to bet she skipped the aftershow party, nay, was the first out the door after the curtain.
She was certainly artist-absentia for the final bow. Which made the moment a tad imperfect, for the curtain descended as if completely unhinged from its moorings, knocking Lunst cold, and pinning Ford Krevich to the stage with enough gusto for him to bleat piercingly in less polite terms than used here, of a potential lawsuit. Fong's presence in this injurious turn of events was sorely missed, though intensely wished for.
Your humble reviewer, unencumbered by any remaining audience as she made her hasty exit, was waved a cheery goodnight by the theater's janitor, who seemed none too hurried to venture into the auditorium with his mighty mop and soapy suds bucket. "Fight on, brave warrior, your reward is nigh."
The final parting shot of the evening occurred outside, where local treasure Cleve Dozier, in an inebriated ecstasy, was seen with bottle of liquid freedom in hand, directing traffic at the intersection. Hazzah, sir.
"Hathaway's Calling" leaves many questions not requiring immediate answers. The first of which is, who the hell is Hathaway? As a theatrical experience, I can only site the words of LaRue: Go go go screw it.
by Angelica Gouté
It is with sheer delight that your humble reviewer reports cashing the advance cheque in the sum of $150 for this review article, concerning last night's premiere. I shall have dinner tonight, which is more than is deserved by the unfortunate rabble of players whose meager talents were taxed beyond their limits by an original local play at the Kiln Playhouse in downtown Oceanside less than 24 hours ago.
If there is justice in this dreary, tainted world, these languishing cretins would be banished to the dark countryside and down to the unforgiving sea. Such was there collective crime against art and mankind.
Said production, "Hathaway's Calling," by neophyte playsmith Dell Harpsham – a gurgling dullard who should have been strangled in his very crib – opens ironically on the fair morning of a baby's birth; a loud DIY affair heralded by shouts of "Push! Push!" somewhere offstage. After a thunderous scream, and tidal thrush of breaking womb water, emerges from the wings Anna, played by that wobbling birch log, local actress Kay Fong. Anna cradles the newborn in her vice-like arms, and looks decidedly unfazed for a woman who has supposedly just pumped out a greasy bald littl'n.
Ginger-haired, freckle-plagued leading man Roy Lunst, is neither pleased nor pleasing as Anna's husband, LaRue. The child is female, and LaRue's heart was set in stone in want of a son to carry on the family name.
In this reviewer's opinion, the gender of the tyke should have been the least of LaRue's concerns, as the toy doll used for the babe, bore skin a rich chocolate. This anomaly was never touched upon.
LaRue's fury threatens the sanctity of the new family, and he confesses a strange obsession with a far-off yearning, or yearning with a far-off obsession. The road beckons, and he is off, duffel in hand, in search of an unspoken dream. Anna's tears do little to douse the flame of LaRue's passion to wander – and absolutely nothing to foment audience sympathy, as said tears never truly appear – such is the girth of Fong's repertoire.
From there, the story tumbles forth like a platter of leftover lasagna thrown into a quarry.
Actress Fong's placing of her newborn in the cradle, holding it by its neck while straightening an uncooperative blanket, was certainly attention-getting. As was tossing said bassinet offstage like a sack of old workshirts, in a sudden rush of what could only be frustration – likely at her faulty memory for dialogue, which she liberally peppered with volleys of 'gawddammits,' various slang for fecal matter, and strategically placed 'f-bombs,' all seemingly aimed at the show's producers.
Geriatric dynamo Audrey Wurztram, as Anna's loyal housemaid, Opal, turns in what is arguably the most interesting performance of the show – wearing a costume that seems part period, part anachronism, and muttering "Good ever-loving gawd" under her lines, exiting with a syrupy pale orange zig-zag of urine trailing after her. Was it in the script? Writer Harpsham was unavailable for comment.
The show's director, local treasure Cleve Dozier, who boasted his pleasure during last week's rehearsal at the show's "verité and daring," seemed unable to contain himself from his choice front row seat last night, with teary raving cants of "oh mother," and "oh dear gawd, mommy!"
LaRue – Lunst running the emotional alphabet from A to B – continues on his journey, to meet Randa, a worldly wise prostitute (played by geriatric dynamo Audrey Wurztram in a quick-change dual role) who has taken a vow of silence, and Father Gullem, portrayed by area thespian and restauranteur Ford Krevich, a priest whose unbridled addiction to cabbage and asparagus threatens to unravel his faith. He speaks to LaRue in riddles, with each mystery translated into exotic dance by Randa, with all the arousing gyration of the mechanical T-Rex one sees advertised at Air Shows.
But LaRue has a riddle of his own for Father Gullem, and whispers it in his ear, which causes the pious padre to go into convulsions, bellow like a speared wildebeest, and pee-pee dance his way offstage, never to be seen again. The riddle is never revealed, though may be fairly guessed at, considering the barrage of half-muffled epithets from beyond the scrim, and what appeared to be a dog-eared, Post-it note covered playscript suddenly heaved onstage.
An unannounced intermission occurred at this juncture in the proceedings, when director-producer Dozier stood up upon his front row seat, and loudly offered to refund the audience's ticket costs, along with pleas of "Get me a rope!" and "just castrate me!" His Local Treasure-ness was just as quickly subdued by two large usherettes who punched him copiously in a headlock and dragged his limp body off into the darkness below the exit sign.
Like a three-chilidog nightmare, the show marched on.
Fortunately, the comic relief got their cue. Area theatre stalwarts Herc Jenson and Kell Harris attempted to, as usual, wow the crowd as master traveling salesmen "Jim & Jules." Sadly, it was their old standby song-and-shuffle, which perhaps they have drawn once too often from that moldy vaudevillian well:
"Hey Jules, I heard your cousin's in the hospital!"
"Yep Jim, he saw a billboard that said 'drink Canada Dry!' so he drove up there and tried to!"
I ask, how often can one gild that lillie?
The actual intermission, at the 94-minute mark, consisted of warm tap water and margarine sandwiches, sold at the downstairs snack counter for a dear five dollars. Smoking is allowed on the lobby's central aviary roof, which is constructed of half-inch thick pine planks and chicken wire. It creaks menacingly. Cigars are prohibited as the ash may actually burn through the nigh paper-thin platform, which covers not an arbor suite of our singing feathered friends, but a two-foot deep repository of their pungent droppings, which is assumed highly flammable – condemned yet strangely ignored by the City Sanitation Department.
Nothing like a billowing bird shit inferno to mark time 'tween theatre acts.
Sadly the curtain still proved operational for the commencement of Act II. And what an "act" it was!
The sullen morality yarn had suddenly become a musical extravaganza, with two dozen flower-clad maidens tap dancing their way into our lower colons. All ages of tap artisans were represented from junior high to age-spot. The song's title could only be guessed at: something akin to "I Love To Slo-Mo," or "I Lube Up Tofu." I know I'm in the ballpark.
All the more irritating was the lack of an orchestra of any kind, despite a wide, empty orchestra pit. The acapella warblings of the tap maidens, combined with a bare wooden stage pounded into toothpicks by relentless brass-studded soles, reminded me of the old joke about the man who hit himself repeatedly in the forehead with a hammer.
"Why do you do that," asked a friend?
"It feels so good when it stops."
Unfortunately it was only a fresh beginning. The hellish test was born anew as the cast reappeared to pick up where they had left off in the first act.
Once more embarked upon his sojourn of self-discovery, LaRue is again confronted by strangers bearing headachey riddles. The next encounter involves an unwashed, cauldron guarding biddy wearing shredded Goodwill attire (again, versatile senior Audrey Wurztram). "Riddle me..." I assume was the line she attempted. Instead, an electrifying nausea consumed all remaining audience, at what sounded like "Diddle me..."
LaRue's attention, or perhaps more accurately, Lunst's, suddenly is drawn to a mystery beyond the curtain. "Oh..." he grunts, and shoves the grimy witch-i-tute offstage, with a hoarsely whispered "Go go go screw it." An avant-garde scene transition to say the least.
At first the impression is that LaRue has accepted the "Diddle" invite and is hustling his gruesome paramour behind the wings to consummate the deal. If so, it is the quickest quickie of all time, for LaRue is back on the road in the next scene, which thankfully wields his third and final riddling stranger.
Returning for a bizarre encore, Herc and Kell, the former upon the latter's shoulders, beneath a 20-foot long overcoat – with Kell in a $1.75 halloween mask – enter. The "Dreaded Creature of the Lost Highway," as the character refers to itself, asks LaRue his last and ultimate riddle that will allow him passage to the "wondrous dream world" according to writer Harpsham's glorified toilet tissue.
LaRue wails defiantly his answer, which sounded like either "Tell me reality, what!" or "Hell you're really a twat!" The Kiln Playhouse's sound system truly deserves the junk heap.
At LaRue's timber-rattling retort, Kell loses his balance atop Herc beneath the "horrifying" creature outfit... which causes the macabre stage presence to appear to break in half – the top half slamming the boards with bone cracking finality, to be dragged off by two frantic stagehands who appear out of the ether. The creature's bottom half throws up its arms beneath the costume, and waddles off in grim contemplation.
The creature defeated, and all riddles answered, LaRue is granted entry into the above-mentioned "wondrous dream world," to discover it is merely his own home, with Anna and plastic brown infant waiting for him. Fong played the scene having already disengaged from her costume, wearing what could only be her personal "par-tay" attire and "stylin'" make-up. I'm willing to bet she skipped the aftershow party, nay, was the first out the door after the curtain.
She was certainly artist-absentia for the final bow. Which made the moment a tad imperfect, for the curtain descended as if completely unhinged from its moorings, knocking Lunst cold, and pinning Ford Krevich to the stage with enough gusto for him to bleat piercingly in less polite terms than used here, of a potential lawsuit. Fong's presence in this injurious turn of events was sorely missed, though intensely wished for.
Your humble reviewer, unencumbered by any remaining audience as she made her hasty exit, was waved a cheery goodnight by the theater's janitor, who seemed none too hurried to venture into the auditorium with his mighty mop and soapy suds bucket. "Fight on, brave warrior, your reward is nigh."
The final parting shot of the evening occurred outside, where local treasure Cleve Dozier, in an inebriated ecstasy, was seen with bottle of liquid freedom in hand, directing traffic at the intersection. Hazzah, sir.
"Hathaway's Calling" leaves many questions not requiring immediate answers. The first of which is, who the hell is Hathaway? As a theatrical experience, I can only site the words of LaRue: Go go go screw it.
It's Nice To Be Back, Even Randomly
Some think they're on the "A-Train," but are really just on the "Hay Train."
----------------------------
At my local supermarket I came across a cart of used books, marked at $1 each, the sale of which would benefit some charity. There was one particular book perched on the very top of the pile, which caught my eye – it seemed a bit out of place. I grabbed it and leafed through it, replaced it on the heap, and went about my shopping.
That book stuck in my noggin as I went up and down the aisles, and I decided to look at it again, if it was still there, before I headed to the checkout line. It was. I took it and flipped it into my cart. "Only a buck," I reasoned. It was a very old Bible, bended and floppy, with dog-eared pages, some scarred with penciled notations and underlines, and with a dozen or more aged Post-it notes of different colors, containing the previous owner's scribbled references to pertinent chapters, verses, etc. Said owner's name was embossed on the lower right-hand corner of the cover, in gold: Michael Scott McLean. This to me was a clue that Mr. McLean was perhaps passed away, and this was a cherished tome discarded by indifferent relatives after the house-clearing.
It seemed about twice as thick as any Bible I'd ever seen. I soon discovered why – the book contained both Old and New Testaments, a Bible dictionary, an index, the Book of Mormon, a "doctrine guide" and a map section pertaining to the Middle East of Biblical times. McLean was apparently a studious man, but not a petite one – or else had biceps like Hulk Hogan, to carry this hefty little volume around. I'm not big on the Book of Mormon, but considered the entirety of the book as something worth having, so I took it home. Inside was the most curious find of all: a Post-it, stuck on the first page of the New Testament, that contained, in scribbled pencil: "I love you. Please call me! Mary McDonough, Miss Utah 1997." I wondered if this was worth the time to Google. I did. She had indeed been whom she claimed to be. I can only conclude that if McLean really did hook up with this person, the cause of death was a heart attack.
----------------------------
Sometimes a "conspiracy theory" is the most logical answer as to why certain things have happened. It at least gives the offending party the best benefit of the doubt. Otherwise, the only alternative is incompetence and stupidity, and it would seem reassuring to think that in America even our evildoers operate based on a sliver of intellect rather than random witlessness.
Overheard at work: "Disregard what I wrote – it's just instructions."
----------------------------
I designed a program booklet for a local Wine Festival, and was given prepared text by some local PR person. It was typical Chamber of Commerce chicken scratch, not only creatively bankrupt, but a bubbling cauldron of typos and atrocious grammar. One of the articles for this program was for an oyster-themed attraction to appear at the event. A stand-out quote from their sensational ad copy runs: "Those coming to this years (sic) grand festival in search of oyster deliciousness will not be disappoint (sic) by these wonderful product's (sic) served by many fine establishments around the peninsula for those valued customer's (sic) who wish to experience a sample of gourmet excellence and perfection with every bite and/or slurp!" This PR person was paid real money for that. These are the people in charge.
----------------------------
It is just a tad bizarre to me how we can be so dependent upon foreign fuel production, and still have an oil leak just off our own shores big enough to threaten seas around the globe if it isn't contained.
I cannot help myself from staring in gentle wonder, when I see a beautiful woman walking alone, crying. A man crying makes me turn away.
Don't ask me what put this notion into my head, but I think it's notable: The people most likely to make it through a zombie plague... agoraphobes.
A Pope Benedict action figure doesn't seem all that fun, until you team him up with Batman!
----------------------------
At my local supermarket I came across a cart of used books, marked at $1 each, the sale of which would benefit some charity. There was one particular book perched on the very top of the pile, which caught my eye – it seemed a bit out of place. I grabbed it and leafed through it, replaced it on the heap, and went about my shopping.
That book stuck in my noggin as I went up and down the aisles, and I decided to look at it again, if it was still there, before I headed to the checkout line. It was. I took it and flipped it into my cart. "Only a buck," I reasoned. It was a very old Bible, bended and floppy, with dog-eared pages, some scarred with penciled notations and underlines, and with a dozen or more aged Post-it notes of different colors, containing the previous owner's scribbled references to pertinent chapters, verses, etc. Said owner's name was embossed on the lower right-hand corner of the cover, in gold: Michael Scott McLean. This to me was a clue that Mr. McLean was perhaps passed away, and this was a cherished tome discarded by indifferent relatives after the house-clearing.
It seemed about twice as thick as any Bible I'd ever seen. I soon discovered why – the book contained both Old and New Testaments, a Bible dictionary, an index, the Book of Mormon, a "doctrine guide" and a map section pertaining to the Middle East of Biblical times. McLean was apparently a studious man, but not a petite one – or else had biceps like Hulk Hogan, to carry this hefty little volume around. I'm not big on the Book of Mormon, but considered the entirety of the book as something worth having, so I took it home. Inside was the most curious find of all: a Post-it, stuck on the first page of the New Testament, that contained, in scribbled pencil: "I love you. Please call me! Mary McDonough, Miss Utah 1997." I wondered if this was worth the time to Google. I did. She had indeed been whom she claimed to be. I can only conclude that if McLean really did hook up with this person, the cause of death was a heart attack.
----------------------------
Sometimes a "conspiracy theory" is the most logical answer as to why certain things have happened. It at least gives the offending party the best benefit of the doubt. Otherwise, the only alternative is incompetence and stupidity, and it would seem reassuring to think that in America even our evildoers operate based on a sliver of intellect rather than random witlessness.
Overheard at work: "Disregard what I wrote – it's just instructions."
----------------------------
I designed a program booklet for a local Wine Festival, and was given prepared text by some local PR person. It was typical Chamber of Commerce chicken scratch, not only creatively bankrupt, but a bubbling cauldron of typos and atrocious grammar. One of the articles for this program was for an oyster-themed attraction to appear at the event. A stand-out quote from their sensational ad copy runs: "Those coming to this years (sic) grand festival in search of oyster deliciousness will not be disappoint (sic) by these wonderful product's (sic) served by many fine establishments around the peninsula for those valued customer's (sic) who wish to experience a sample of gourmet excellence and perfection with every bite and/or slurp!" This PR person was paid real money for that. These are the people in charge.
----------------------------
It is just a tad bizarre to me how we can be so dependent upon foreign fuel production, and still have an oil leak just off our own shores big enough to threaten seas around the globe if it isn't contained.
I cannot help myself from staring in gentle wonder, when I see a beautiful woman walking alone, crying. A man crying makes me turn away.
Don't ask me what put this notion into my head, but I think it's notable: The people most likely to make it through a zombie plague... agoraphobes.
A Pope Benedict action figure doesn't seem all that fun, until you team him up with Batman!
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Random Showers
Overheard today: "I wasn't busy until I started doing something."
Nothing really "makes history" anymore. The first this. The biggest that. Milestones have become cheap. Nowadays, even the once-believed unbreakable history markers are so fragile that the only thing that inspires awe anymore is the notion that the old record holders lived in a completely different paradigm. Babe Ruth's "steroids" were beer and steak. Elvis's gold records were earned by sales of 78s. Jim Brown's rushing record was accomplished with nobody blocking for him.
Here's a way that technology has changed our lives that you'll never read about. My home internet goes down, so I walk to a nearby college, where I can use their computers via a library card. I arrive to swat my own forehead in frustration at my faulty recall; the college is closed for spring break. So I figure I'll stop at the mini-mart near my home for a snack. Their ATM is down, so I have nothing to buy with. I'm on foot, so other locales around town are a bit out of the question, time-wise. I wind up back home. Nothing accomplished, and a little worn out. This is called "thwarted at every tech-turn."
I went to a drive-thru for dinner on my way home after an exhausting day of jury duty ills. The young woman at the window was bright-eyed, with a glow of youth, and an earnest smile that lifted my spirits – even as she handed me my bag of neo-synthetic, edible death. (I ordered it, don't blame her.) Before home I had an errand to run as well, at a nearby department store. On the way out I was accosted by a different kind of eager young person: A something-teen zombie with a petition for me to sign. His eyes were aglow as well, with the agenda-fueled tribal unction of his "calling." I let my sarcastic side get away with me and came off sounding like a ranting kook, when all I actually had for him was mere disagreement. I pondered this the rest of my way home. Lifted up by a young woman earning her living, and brought down by a young man biding his time with annoying activism. Some people in our current political climate would actually scoff at the cute wage earner, and cheer that sleepwalking petition-peddling shit. Someday, it's likely that the work ethic shared by both I and that pixie will be his meal ticket. Nice work if you can get it, I suppose.
The most impressive pin a pilot can earn has to be that of the "Winged Astronaut." Air Force Major General Robert M. White won it for flying his jet fighter 59 miles, straight up. It is essentially the act of reaching outer space in a craft that is not designed to do that. It is the will of a pilot overcoming the limitations of the plane, and returning to the ground alive. Indeed, there's a lesson for life in that, somewhere.
If it doesn't fit, it doesn't matter how big the discount was.
Once in a while, a single piece of music will be played, at exactly the right time of mood... and for the next few days, only that song will suffice to play, in a loop.
We choose how important yesterday was, while tomorrow is important no matter what we think.
Nothing really "makes history" anymore. The first this. The biggest that. Milestones have become cheap. Nowadays, even the once-believed unbreakable history markers are so fragile that the only thing that inspires awe anymore is the notion that the old record holders lived in a completely different paradigm. Babe Ruth's "steroids" were beer and steak. Elvis's gold records were earned by sales of 78s. Jim Brown's rushing record was accomplished with nobody blocking for him.
Here's a way that technology has changed our lives that you'll never read about. My home internet goes down, so I walk to a nearby college, where I can use their computers via a library card. I arrive to swat my own forehead in frustration at my faulty recall; the college is closed for spring break. So I figure I'll stop at the mini-mart near my home for a snack. Their ATM is down, so I have nothing to buy with. I'm on foot, so other locales around town are a bit out of the question, time-wise. I wind up back home. Nothing accomplished, and a little worn out. This is called "thwarted at every tech-turn."
I went to a drive-thru for dinner on my way home after an exhausting day of jury duty ills. The young woman at the window was bright-eyed, with a glow of youth, and an earnest smile that lifted my spirits – even as she handed me my bag of neo-synthetic, edible death. (I ordered it, don't blame her.) Before home I had an errand to run as well, at a nearby department store. On the way out I was accosted by a different kind of eager young person: A something-teen zombie with a petition for me to sign. His eyes were aglow as well, with the agenda-fueled tribal unction of his "calling." I let my sarcastic side get away with me and came off sounding like a ranting kook, when all I actually had for him was mere disagreement. I pondered this the rest of my way home. Lifted up by a young woman earning her living, and brought down by a young man biding his time with annoying activism. Some people in our current political climate would actually scoff at the cute wage earner, and cheer that sleepwalking petition-peddling shit. Someday, it's likely that the work ethic shared by both I and that pixie will be his meal ticket. Nice work if you can get it, I suppose.
The most impressive pin a pilot can earn has to be that of the "Winged Astronaut." Air Force Major General Robert M. White won it for flying his jet fighter 59 miles, straight up. It is essentially the act of reaching outer space in a craft that is not designed to do that. It is the will of a pilot overcoming the limitations of the plane, and returning to the ground alive. Indeed, there's a lesson for life in that, somewhere.
If it doesn't fit, it doesn't matter how big the discount was.
Once in a while, a single piece of music will be played, at exactly the right time of mood... and for the next few days, only that song will suffice to play, in a loop.
We choose how important yesterday was, while tomorrow is important no matter what we think.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Fab Feb
Toilet Paper – use it by the wad and need a plumber, or use it by the square and need a shower – the choice is yours.
The sideways ball caps, the pants worn down at the thighs... it was all a little odd, but trends and fads tend to be that way. I dealt with it. Today I saw a fifteen (or so) year old... with a binky. A baby's pacifier. In his jaws like a pro basketball player works a toothpick. Let me say that again: a BINKY. Now I'm just plain scared.
How come the most overpaid, least in-touch people at a business get all the perks and best vacation packages? Because if given the choice, they'd most likely return to work afterward.
SNIFFLE SNURF, HACK!!
How can something that feels so huge up my nose blow out to just be a damp spot?
I'm not necessarily that tired, it just feels so good to lay here like a sack of potatoes.
If I had a dollar for every cough, I could make your rent and mine both.
Let Hollywood teach you something about our nation's capitol: the sole purpose of all activity in that town is to generate billions of dollars to keep its own gears turning, to keep its leaders and stars wealthy and desirous of a continued career there, while the cogs who keep the machinery operating have to punch timecards and pay their own bills. A government program is no more societal betterment than a movie is tangible reality.
THE DAMN POETRY CORNER IS BACK
Thirty days has September,
April, June and November.
February showed up late,
that's why it just has twenty-eight.
The sideways ball caps, the pants worn down at the thighs... it was all a little odd, but trends and fads tend to be that way. I dealt with it. Today I saw a fifteen (or so) year old... with a binky. A baby's pacifier. In his jaws like a pro basketball player works a toothpick. Let me say that again: a BINKY. Now I'm just plain scared.
How come the most overpaid, least in-touch people at a business get all the perks and best vacation packages? Because if given the choice, they'd most likely return to work afterward.
SNIFFLE SNURF, HACK!!
How can something that feels so huge up my nose blow out to just be a damp spot?
I'm not necessarily that tired, it just feels so good to lay here like a sack of potatoes.
If I had a dollar for every cough, I could make your rent and mine both.
Let Hollywood teach you something about our nation's capitol: the sole purpose of all activity in that town is to generate billions of dollars to keep its own gears turning, to keep its leaders and stars wealthy and desirous of a continued career there, while the cogs who keep the machinery operating have to punch timecards and pay their own bills. A government program is no more societal betterment than a movie is tangible reality.
THE DAMN POETRY CORNER IS BACK
Thirty days has September,
April, June and November.
February showed up late,
that's why it just has twenty-eight.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Somebody Knew Something
This is a blog post that I sincerely hope will provoke you to think about a few things just a bit differently. It is based on first-hand witness experience, and as accurate as I can recall it. A few essential factoids were verified (if one can do that) via Google-searching – but I didn't really find enough to claim irrefutable verification about any of it. So bear with me.
Most people still brush off conspiracy theory. Even though I am a conspiracy "buff," and possibly see intricate webs of deception where others see, oh, a few extra nuts in a Snickers bar, it doesn't mean that intrigue is non-existent. Here are a couple of examples of real-life mysteries that still "haunt" me in a contemplative lunchtime kind'a way.
NO, NOT 9-11.
Try twenty-one months earlier; December 19, 1998 to be exact. For some reason out of the blue, the U.S. Military decided to hold a simulated "attack" on an American west coastline. Namely Monterey, California, where reside the Naval Postgraduate School, the Defense Language Institute (where Lee Harvey Oswald learned Russian) and the Monterey Presidio.
This "urban warfare experiment" involved squads of armed Marines and Coast Guard prowling otherwise quiet oceanfront neighborhoods, waving on old grannies and college frumpkins walking their dogs, a few FedEx trucks, and the Amway lady tootling around in her rusty Dodge Colt station wagon.
Personally, my paranoid concern, as a resident of said neighborhood, was making it to my car in the morning for work without being mistakenly strafed by rubber bullets.
In some ways the event seemed somewhat logical – the Monterey Peninsula was and perhaps still is ripe for the type of foreign assault that was only pretended at, that day. The above mentioned locales of strategic interest – back then – sat literally unguarded. The Presidio was open and free to civilian auto traffic, using it as a shortcut across town. The gates were shut tight on September 12, 2001.
Just the memory of camo-suited guards suddenly present there, just off the street, casually hefting black metal, seems a bit surreal and disconcerting.
There was a time long ago when the vast Pacific Ocean was considered adequate defense against someone else's army. We at least had the technology in place to see or hear them coming. That was yesterday's "conventional wisdom."
It became apparent that someone, somewhere, in 1998, thought it was time we reevaluated. Monterey was not the only place where simulated combat situations were staged. And yet in retrospect, something was odd.
Such training simulations, at least one on this invasive scale and far reaching magnitude, had never bothered with little old Monterey before.
Twenty-one months later... September 11, 2001, we really were attacked, on our own – east coast – soil. By air, from a foreign power, for the first time ever since Pearl Harbor.
The military has never held a simulated "invasion" here, since. Why not? Wouldn't 9-11 have ramped up the call for regular training runs?
Maybe in 1998, someone knew that something was coming. And currently they believe that nothing like it is due in the near future?
THE GHOST OF SANTEE
Now this one is even a tad scarier; a case of the jim-jams coming home to roost on a personal level. Consider it a warning.
For those who have lived on the Monterey Peninsula since the late 1990s, the name Christina Williams has a certain meaning. Her kidnapping and murder led to an exhaustive search with bizarre twists, turns and a Twilight Zone conclusion, that all served to galvanize the population in the process.
Christina was the perfect post-modern girl next door; Eurasian, raven haired, pencil-slender and of course cuter than cupcakes. Out walking her dog one evening. At just thirteen, perhaps this was not an ideal place for her; alone, out along a boulevard near a military post where lots of young men with raging hormones tend to cruise around, sometimes fueled by adult beverage. But there she was. An almost stereotypically perfect opening scene for a documentary about a kidnapping, that of course fades out with "never to be seen again."
The public notice of Christina's vanishing was immediately more than just any typical missing persons case. Fort Ord was still federal property then, and a kidnapping on government land wasn't any mere felony, but a potential breach of security. The story grabbed the front page and stayed there for weeks.
A beach-combing hobo found floating face-down in the bay would be lucky to make the next morning's police blotter.
Christina Williams became everyone's little girl as the massive search began. Celebrities like Mariah Carey, Reggie Jackson and Clint Eastwood each made public appeals for help and prayers for the Williams family.
A most bizarre twist was the sudden presence of the lowrider community, who taped photocopies in their back windows, of Christina, and the police sketches of the two individuals whose low-slung car she was seen getting into. Were they genuinely concerned about finding the girl, or was it a gesture to symbolically eliminate themselves from the suspect list?
Every inch of the Peninsula was searched, especially the trails in and around the expanse of Fort Ord – searched and searched again. And again.
About a month into the case, a body turned up fifty miles north, that seemed to match Christina's description. Tests were performed. The entire county held our breaths.
No. It wasn't Christina. It was a woman much older, but whose petite framed body gave the impression of a teenager's. Someone else's case. Though it was not exactly reassuring, it gave pause for hope; the longer Christina didn't turn up dead, there was all the more reason to believe she could still be found alive.
At this point in the story, is where the headlines crept their way into my own day-to-day life. During this time, I worked at Monterey's daily paper, The Herald, which was then owned and operated by Scripps-Howard, Inc.
I worked as an advertising designer and compositor. One morning an ad insertion order came in from a walk-in client. I was given the raw copy to typeset. It only took me a minute to realize that this was no ordinary newspaper ad.
For one thing, it wasn't an advertisement for anything. A full page in size, it was a random pastiche of the client's prattling personal manifestos. A laundry list of bumper sticker "truisms."
"I won the Superbowl more times than the 49ers, so where's my money?" and "I don't waste time picking lotto numbers, I just want the girl." are two of the gems I recall from this huge, rambling "word quilt."
The sales rep handling the client excused herself. Her calm walk to the back office became a gallop once she was out of the client's eyeshot, straight to the publisher's office to scream for help.
The client refused to give his name, but insisted on being referred to as "The Ghost of Santee."
I decided I had to get a look at this person. When I walked out front, I discovered him chatting up one of the Classified Department sales reps. I chose to just observe, and moved on after a few loiterous minutes.
He was slicked back, every hair in place like a swatch of chestnut corduroy. A waxed mustache and goatee of the same color. What stood out most was his attire... a custom-looking suit with pants and coat made of the same silvery fabric, only the coat wasn't a standard suitcoat, but more of a priest's frock, with no buttons I could see.
He seemed weighed down with gold chains and various neck-worn ornamentation. Every finger had bling. A pair of highly polished snakeskin boots completed this strange "cosmic wild west chaplain" ensemble.
After he left, the publisher decreed that The Herald would not run such an ad. I wonder if the verdict would be different now, when anyone coming in with an open checkbook is treated like royalty, regardless how good-n-nutty they are.
Later, the salesperson who handled the account told me some of the off-planet comments that TGOS had made while placing his goofy ad. He tended to steer conversation toward the subject of... Christina Williams.
He was amazed that nobody else, especially at the city newspaper, already knew the identity of Christina's murderer. This was still before a body had been found, and hope still lingered that she was alive.
TGOS said that "everyone" knew who offed Christina. He then, incredibly, predicted that her body would be found in exactly a week. He left before going further with his "insider info."
Christina Williams was found... dead. A week later. Two miles from her home, on Fort Ord land, along a trail near Imjin Road – a location that had been covered, and covered again, thoroughly during the search. Who ever had possessed Christina's body for the months prior to its discovery, had recently placed it there.
It was quite easy to conclude that The Ghost of Santee was Christina's killer, coming in to place an ad that he thought would taunt authorities – like The Joker, leaving a baffling public clue to goad Batman. But strangely, nobody else involved ever mentioned TGOS afterward – as if he'd never appeared at The Herald office.
Nobody, including the editorial staff with its clan of supposed advocates and champions wanted anything to do with the incident. It became a forgotten anecdote, and nothing more.
But, I kept saying to myself, THAT had to be the guy. Am I crazy? Doesn't anyone else see it?
Out of curiosity, I wondered what hidden meaning might be contained in the title "Ghost of Santee," and Googled it. It turns out that Santee, California is a paranormal "hotspot," with ghost sightings considered somewhat of a tourist attraction. One of the most prominent ghosts of Santee is an adolescent girl who is usually witnessed before dawn, "meditating."
Over a decade later, Christina's killer is still technically considered to be at large. Marina, California rapist Charles Holifield, currently serving a life term in state prison, however, is believed by the FBI to be a suspect. They try, ongoing, to coax a confession out of him, to no avail as of this writing.
But if you take Holifield's photo, and pencil a mustache and goatee on him... well... maybe. I wonder if they'd get anything out of him if they asked "have you ever referred to yourself as a ghost?"
Most people still brush off conspiracy theory. Even though I am a conspiracy "buff," and possibly see intricate webs of deception where others see, oh, a few extra nuts in a Snickers bar, it doesn't mean that intrigue is non-existent. Here are a couple of examples of real-life mysteries that still "haunt" me in a contemplative lunchtime kind'a way.
NO, NOT 9-11.
Try twenty-one months earlier; December 19, 1998 to be exact. For some reason out of the blue, the U.S. Military decided to hold a simulated "attack" on an American west coastline. Namely Monterey, California, where reside the Naval Postgraduate School, the Defense Language Institute (where Lee Harvey Oswald learned Russian) and the Monterey Presidio.
This "urban warfare experiment" involved squads of armed Marines and Coast Guard prowling otherwise quiet oceanfront neighborhoods, waving on old grannies and college frumpkins walking their dogs, a few FedEx trucks, and the Amway lady tootling around in her rusty Dodge Colt station wagon.
Personally, my paranoid concern, as a resident of said neighborhood, was making it to my car in the morning for work without being mistakenly strafed by rubber bullets.
In some ways the event seemed somewhat logical – the Monterey Peninsula was and perhaps still is ripe for the type of foreign assault that was only pretended at, that day. The above mentioned locales of strategic interest – back then – sat literally unguarded. The Presidio was open and free to civilian auto traffic, using it as a shortcut across town. The gates were shut tight on September 12, 2001.
Just the memory of camo-suited guards suddenly present there, just off the street, casually hefting black metal, seems a bit surreal and disconcerting.
There was a time long ago when the vast Pacific Ocean was considered adequate defense against someone else's army. We at least had the technology in place to see or hear them coming. That was yesterday's "conventional wisdom."
It became apparent that someone, somewhere, in 1998, thought it was time we reevaluated. Monterey was not the only place where simulated combat situations were staged. And yet in retrospect, something was odd.
Such training simulations, at least one on this invasive scale and far reaching magnitude, had never bothered with little old Monterey before.
Twenty-one months later... September 11, 2001, we really were attacked, on our own – east coast – soil. By air, from a foreign power, for the first time ever since Pearl Harbor.
The military has never held a simulated "invasion" here, since. Why not? Wouldn't 9-11 have ramped up the call for regular training runs?
Maybe in 1998, someone knew that something was coming. And currently they believe that nothing like it is due in the near future?
THE GHOST OF SANTEE
Now this one is even a tad scarier; a case of the jim-jams coming home to roost on a personal level. Consider it a warning.
For those who have lived on the Monterey Peninsula since the late 1990s, the name Christina Williams has a certain meaning. Her kidnapping and murder led to an exhaustive search with bizarre twists, turns and a Twilight Zone conclusion, that all served to galvanize the population in the process.
Christina was the perfect post-modern girl next door; Eurasian, raven haired, pencil-slender and of course cuter than cupcakes. Out walking her dog one evening. At just thirteen, perhaps this was not an ideal place for her; alone, out along a boulevard near a military post where lots of young men with raging hormones tend to cruise around, sometimes fueled by adult beverage. But there she was. An almost stereotypically perfect opening scene for a documentary about a kidnapping, that of course fades out with "never to be seen again."
The public notice of Christina's vanishing was immediately more than just any typical missing persons case. Fort Ord was still federal property then, and a kidnapping on government land wasn't any mere felony, but a potential breach of security. The story grabbed the front page and stayed there for weeks.
A beach-combing hobo found floating face-down in the bay would be lucky to make the next morning's police blotter.
Christina Williams became everyone's little girl as the massive search began. Celebrities like Mariah Carey, Reggie Jackson and Clint Eastwood each made public appeals for help and prayers for the Williams family.
A most bizarre twist was the sudden presence of the lowrider community, who taped photocopies in their back windows, of Christina, and the police sketches of the two individuals whose low-slung car she was seen getting into. Were they genuinely concerned about finding the girl, or was it a gesture to symbolically eliminate themselves from the suspect list?
Every inch of the Peninsula was searched, especially the trails in and around the expanse of Fort Ord – searched and searched again. And again.
About a month into the case, a body turned up fifty miles north, that seemed to match Christina's description. Tests were performed. The entire county held our breaths.
No. It wasn't Christina. It was a woman much older, but whose petite framed body gave the impression of a teenager's. Someone else's case. Though it was not exactly reassuring, it gave pause for hope; the longer Christina didn't turn up dead, there was all the more reason to believe she could still be found alive.
At this point in the story, is where the headlines crept their way into my own day-to-day life. During this time, I worked at Monterey's daily paper, The Herald, which was then owned and operated by Scripps-Howard, Inc.
I worked as an advertising designer and compositor. One morning an ad insertion order came in from a walk-in client. I was given the raw copy to typeset. It only took me a minute to realize that this was no ordinary newspaper ad.
For one thing, it wasn't an advertisement for anything. A full page in size, it was a random pastiche of the client's prattling personal manifestos. A laundry list of bumper sticker "truisms."
"I won the Superbowl more times than the 49ers, so where's my money?" and "I don't waste time picking lotto numbers, I just want the girl." are two of the gems I recall from this huge, rambling "word quilt."
The sales rep handling the client excused herself. Her calm walk to the back office became a gallop once she was out of the client's eyeshot, straight to the publisher's office to scream for help.
The client refused to give his name, but insisted on being referred to as "The Ghost of Santee."
I decided I had to get a look at this person. When I walked out front, I discovered him chatting up one of the Classified Department sales reps. I chose to just observe, and moved on after a few loiterous minutes.
He was slicked back, every hair in place like a swatch of chestnut corduroy. A waxed mustache and goatee of the same color. What stood out most was his attire... a custom-looking suit with pants and coat made of the same silvery fabric, only the coat wasn't a standard suitcoat, but more of a priest's frock, with no buttons I could see.
He seemed weighed down with gold chains and various neck-worn ornamentation. Every finger had bling. A pair of highly polished snakeskin boots completed this strange "cosmic wild west chaplain" ensemble.
After he left, the publisher decreed that The Herald would not run such an ad. I wonder if the verdict would be different now, when anyone coming in with an open checkbook is treated like royalty, regardless how good-n-nutty they are.
Later, the salesperson who handled the account told me some of the off-planet comments that TGOS had made while placing his goofy ad. He tended to steer conversation toward the subject of... Christina Williams.
He was amazed that nobody else, especially at the city newspaper, already knew the identity of Christina's murderer. This was still before a body had been found, and hope still lingered that she was alive.
TGOS said that "everyone" knew who offed Christina. He then, incredibly, predicted that her body would be found in exactly a week. He left before going further with his "insider info."
Christina Williams was found... dead. A week later. Two miles from her home, on Fort Ord land, along a trail near Imjin Road – a location that had been covered, and covered again, thoroughly during the search. Who ever had possessed Christina's body for the months prior to its discovery, had recently placed it there.
It was quite easy to conclude that The Ghost of Santee was Christina's killer, coming in to place an ad that he thought would taunt authorities – like The Joker, leaving a baffling public clue to goad Batman. But strangely, nobody else involved ever mentioned TGOS afterward – as if he'd never appeared at The Herald office.
Nobody, including the editorial staff with its clan of supposed advocates and champions wanted anything to do with the incident. It became a forgotten anecdote, and nothing more.
But, I kept saying to myself, THAT had to be the guy. Am I crazy? Doesn't anyone else see it?
Out of curiosity, I wondered what hidden meaning might be contained in the title "Ghost of Santee," and Googled it. It turns out that Santee, California is a paranormal "hotspot," with ghost sightings considered somewhat of a tourist attraction. One of the most prominent ghosts of Santee is an adolescent girl who is usually witnessed before dawn, "meditating."
Over a decade later, Christina's killer is still technically considered to be at large. Marina, California rapist Charles Holifield, currently serving a life term in state prison, however, is believed by the FBI to be a suspect. They try, ongoing, to coax a confession out of him, to no avail as of this writing.
But if you take Holifield's photo, and pencil a mustache and goatee on him... well... maybe. I wonder if they'd get anything out of him if they asked "have you ever referred to yourself as a ghost?"
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