I’m at Safeway and someone has their dog locked in the car. It is 105 degrees and the car has been here at least 10 minutes. I have the kids in the car so I sent someone else in to have this asshole paged. I can’t believe anyone would think this is okay. If you see this car around Danville you’ll know what a horrible person they are.
Please read the blurb below written by former student, and current co-op member, teacher and hero Penelope Uribe- Abee about the Echo Park Film Center’s Youth Film Screening this Sunday afternoon. The feature length 16mm doc investigates the corner of Sunset and Alvarado. It’s going to be SO GOOD. Free at the Bootleg Theater:
hey beautiful people,
in light of recent events pertaining to gentrification , and the intersections that art has within the context of this plague of urban renewal–I am letting you all know about an amazing event that is coming up! The youth at the echo park film center have spent the last 12 weeks on a feature length film shot on both 16mm and film about Sunset and Alvarado, and the changes the intersection has seen.
For those of you who have heard I was involved in a serious car accident early this morning, I am in the hospital recovering. I was blessed to only walk away with a broke ankle and 9 stiches to the knee. Our little girl is healthy and unharmed however we are having difficulty stopping the contractions. So I ask to please pray for our daughter as it’s still too soon for her to born! I know many have questions and concerns but for now I’m not accepting any calls,thank you ♡
Has anyone who is voting for Hilary Clinton ever really done their research on her and Bills history. There are an awful lot of dead people who just coincidentally were murdered because they either were about to testify and had incriminating information regarding Whitewater, Iran-Contra, affairs, or The fortune they earned by taking a portion of the drugs that flew in and out of Mena, Arkansas when Bill was Governor.
I didn’t know until I researched that the Clinton’s and Bush family’s are tight. They often vacation together. Barbara Bush was quoted as saying “I love Bill he’s like a son to me!”
Hillary’s into “The New World Order I’m sorry I see right thru the con. But vote for her and when she’s encouraging a World Bank that confiscate and outlaws U.S. Currency. She will finally achieve her goal, under the sick tutelage of David Rockefeller, and you will then be given a chip instead.
It’s okay though it’s got everything of yours on it, pictures, address, social, childrens gps 24/7 and all of your finances. Now the corporations and 1% can just take $30,000 out of your savings account because they say you owe it. It’s not true so you call the franchise tax board or IRS and complain. Well they don’t allow dissent so they just turn off your chip. Oh by the way your chip starts your car and allows you entry to your residence.
Now you may think I’m an ass hole or annoying for talking about this. But that’s how I feel about people that vote for her without really digging into her past. She’s a monster and she’s dangerous to my friends, family, and my son’s future. So I educate myself out of concern for people. Look at the candidates, it’s a joke. Politics doesn’t lure the best and brightest. Educated, intelligent ethical people would never lower themselves to be a politician….Or here’s another way to look at it….Hillary’s a Hollywood Agent, now would you trust her?
Also, doesn’t that creepy Marco Rubio reminds mr of Martin Sheen from “The Dead Zone”? He’s a pathaloid………pathological mongaloid.
BY THE WAYSIDE by Jeff Putnam
Chapter Two, Part One
[Original written in 1987, Published in 1992, cut and edited by the author in 2016. Commentary in brackets is to place real people, most of whom are dead, within the narrative. Thus what follows can qualify as a memoir and the author’s ingenious namings and fictionalizations can win him the love and admiration of many readers, or at least a couple]
I might have been back sooner than she expected.
“I’d have hung around longer if they’d have let me touch her, but do you know what it is they’ve got her in? It’s like a big, glassed-in gazebo. It’s a merry-go-round with the parents circling the place, bobbing up and down. The nurses fetch the bundles of fur and mouth words. The parents mouth words back at the nurses. The babies are crying lustily. In sign language they let me know that Nena’s fine. A blue-eyed nurse pointed at her blue eyes. Of course they all have blue eyes now, don’t they? Perhaps she meant, ‘homo sapiens.’ Her color is dark red and she’s got black hair and her swaddling is nun-white. I couldn’t see her very well and I’m not sure they wanted me to see her better. I came away feeling grateful for the nurses. They seem happy with their work, they all have the blush of young motherhood about them, and considering what the noise must be like in there, you have to wonder what it is about life they might not like.”
She knew how much I liked to watch women at work. I was high on Degas and fly-on-the-wall views in general.
“All right, Gordon. Why don’t you get something to eat. This must have been a strain for you, wondering if we were dead or alive on an empty stomach. You’ll want to drink a bit, won’t you?”
“The thought has crossed my mind. I’m too tired to get in trouble, though.”
“I’m not taking any chances.” She held out her hand and I put the keys to the rent-car in it. This was a carryover from our brief time together in the United States, when she’d entrusted me with her sports car. She liked the idea that she could prevent disasters by managing me, though nothing had come of it. Anyway, from lunchtime on people in Spain had alcohol on their breath, and it’s well known that Spanish drunk drivers are skillful and considerate. In other words, I’d have had to leave the roadway to attract attention.
“Take the keys, then, but I guess you know you’re practically forcing me to celebrate in the bars.”
“Take a cab home. You’ve got money. You haven’t got the money for France on you…?”
“No. Do you want me to count up in front of you so you can decide what size celebration I can afford?”
“My mother might be here at any time, you know…”
“You told her! You broke your word. I’d better head for France tomorrow, then. Your mother wasn’t going to show until the baby came home.”
“Please, Gordon, you’ve got to stay until she gets here. Otherwise she’ll think you’ve abandoned me the way the Boches have been telling my parents you’re sure to do sooner or later. She’ll force me to come back to the States with her… .In my weakened condition…Not a word in front of her about going to France to LOOK for work. My parents would never understand how you could leave me at a time like this…”
Elena’s father, Enrique, was a romance philologist…an attorney…a substitute teacher…But the best way to describe Enrique was as an embittered Cuban immigrant. He’d lost a fortune when Castro threw him out, which was shortly after the revolution. He’d made back his fortune in the United States by working as a Spanish teacher while his wife slaved in satanic sewingrooms. This unusual recipe for success was effective because Enrique and family never ate in a restaurant or went to a motion picture or a play or a concert or even the zoo. For decades Enrique and Isabel’s sole recreation was watching the Spanish language channel in their pyjamas.
Since Castro had let him take all his books when he threw him out, Enrique was assured of enough to read for the rest of his life. He already knew some thirty languages and was fluent in five of them (though he never left the city limits of Palo Alto). His wife made all their clothes and cooked when she wasn’t slaving in the sewingroom, so she didn’t have time to read. She couldn’t even spare much time for Spanish TV.
Elena’s folks lived in Palo Alto, California, then, and I’d met them and given them some charming arias before Lena and I left for Spain. I’d liked Isabel a lot. I thought she might have secretly admired me for spending every penny I ever earned in bars and restaurants.
Lena’s folks didn’t approve of us going off to Europe together, but Lena at 34 was almost as old and wise as I was.They were aghast when they found out Lena had got herself knocked up, which news didn’t reach them until Lena was five months gone and we’d already been in Europe for half a year. Lena had informed them that we planned to get married even though we’d never been “anything but good friends who enjoyed sex with each other once in a while,” and that “Gordon and I have decided that our baby was conceived at a hotel in Nice where he was having a reunion with some old friends and we’d both had too much to drink.”
She played down our attraction to each other when she had to answer to her parents. She knew she was infuriating them by taking matrimony and procreation so lightly, but if she’d let her father find out how important our sex was she’d have broken his heart.
Yes, there’d been a reunion in Nice and I’d seen a lot of faces I’d missed seeing, and our glasses had seethed with Belgian ale that I’d missed drinking, but my happiest memory of that night was wallowing in Lena’s body till the sun came to the window full of flowers and made us feel like part of a brochure.
We may well have conceived our child that night because there was nothing habitual about our sex. Sometimes we wouldn’t touch each other for days. It was her doing, I can see that now. Elena liked sex to be total, some would say dirty. Flowerboxes were irrelevant. The floor was as good as the bed. She needed to bore herself for a few days to get ready for one of our frenzies, chirping about linguistic discoveries until they were as dull as the rates and rules that were nailed to our hotel doors.
She was a gifted linguist. No school had ever let her pay tuition in spite of the income from her ranch. Her money, her studies, her parents were all drawbacks where I was concerned. We may not have liked each other much but the yen we had for each other kept us together. Just about the time I’d start wondering why we wanted to keep on boring each other with our different interests and vices we’d have another all-night frenzy and I’d stagger away like a branded calf. Elena, too, was affected. She’d lie crumpled in bed all day listening to the birdies sing, or now that we were in France, street repairs.
[Lena and her parents are dead now. I was finally informed of this by our daughter, whose real name is Nicole. She has told me by email that she wants nothing to do with me but one of the reasons I am reviving this book — besides the fact that it is one of the best things of its kind ever written by an American — is the off chance that I will be able to hold this daughter in my arms again after thirty years apart. Since she was always an infant in the time I was writing about I don’t see how she can object to her portrayal. As for her mother, and her granddad, and her grandmother… I think I’ve made it plain that I admired the last-named and enjoyed her company, even though I do call her at some point a “waddling, overfed bitch.” The whole point of this exegesis is to show how life is improved by fiction and by expressing what others mean to us in inexact words instead of mere pictures that merely cause us to make up stories about what we see. The people in most of my fiction were trying to tell me THEIR stories, with all their possible meanings. I may not have grasped what they were telling me at the time but writing is done in sober solitude, often long after the situations it describes. Nicole, I love you, and I will always love you, and despite all the trouble I’ve caused, and the certain knowledge that there’s little I can do to make anything right, I can only hope that you will understand who I was, and what my world was like, and see that I was not a monster. Frankly, despite all the adventures that were mediated by various talents, I have always been quite ordinary. Yes, there were excesses in the area of food and drink and the love of women’s bodies, but I have always felt that the “artist type,” mostly unknown in the United States — or when known, despised — is a kind of subspecies immediately recognizable to most Europeans. If you somehow learn of this work and can read through it, perhaps you will one day give me the chance to approach you as a living being and not just the main character in a book.]
BY THE WAYSIDE by Jeff Putnam
Cut and rewritten, with commentary, by the author
[Comments are in brackets. Book was written in 1987. Comments are from 2016]
That could have been the cry of a newborn, all right, and I was looking for it on the living room floor beneath the couch she was on.
No, the noise had come from Elena, the Cuban woman who was about to have our baby.
“We’d better get down there.” She meant the Maternidad, the Barcelona charity hospital where the baby’s welcome was scheduled for a month and a half hence.
It was sunup and we’d returned to the flat two hours ago from a trip to southern France. Elena had been asleep when I’d done the fast driving.
I was already rehearsing the things I’d tell her mother when she showed up. If our baby didn’t make it she’d add murder to the list of my crimes. At the top of it was “soft on Castro.” Mama and Daddy Cabezón were disgusted with Elena for getting pregnant by me. They disapproved of everything but my height genes.
In a quavering voice Elena translated what the interns were saying. The baby had stuck its arm through her cervix, the arm had been without circulation, it would take too much time to set up a spinal. She’d have to have general anesthesia.
“A general… What I wanted all along…”
This wasn’t sarcasm. Sleep was Lena’s favorite state of being. She hated being on her feet more than a couple of hours each day. I’d known her to shed tears when she couldn’t get out of walking a certain distance, always a distance I’d have called short. Sit right down by the side of the road and sob.
Being gassed and knocked out this way was almost as good as going into a coma… Compared to the kind of snoozes she was getting with me, a high order of stupor, insensibility deluxe.
Elena was wheeled away, gratefully supine. One of the doctors told me where to wait.
I waited all day. I was sure that our baby was somewhere in a pail. It had learned all it would ever know of life outside the womb while it flexed one tiny hand. Elena too had not survived. After a lifetime knocking at Death’s door she’d finally been taken in.
The nurses had seen how distraught I was getting. By afternoon the doctors had had a look, too. There were conferences behind cupped hands. No one had the guts to give me the bad news.
By five PM I was feeling feverish, which I thought unusual for someone who hadn’t eaten. Dehydration could cause hot, dry skin, but I’d been getting up every ten minutes or so to go into my night watchman routine, which I finished with a swallow of water before facing more tense minutes of waiting. Of course the main thing was to check the big picture window behind a green room-divider where all the preemies were arrayed with name tags at their feet. No “Cabezón,” though. No “Bancroft.”
It occurred to me that I might be losing my mind, and what a good thing that would be, because then I could barge through the double doors and get a straight answer or start going through their pails. A few seconds after I got that idea I acted on it.
The people in green were accustomed to having women like Elena wheeled in and out of their lives, but this hot-browed, hand-waving person spoke little Spanish and was a head taller than the angry husbands they were used to seeing.
I finally got through to one of them when I clutched my right arm, waggled the fingers of my right hand, then pointed between the legs of one of the nurses.
“Ah, Senor Cabezón. Your woman is gone from here this morning, early. She rests now. Nurse will take you…”
Lena was already sitting up in bed, reading an illustrated magazine, looking less bored than usual. Her huge, dark-blue eyes were especially huge and dark blue. The emptiness in them was giving me an erection. No. Not here. Not yet. Mere vascular twitches that would turn into an erection when the time was right.
“’Lo, hon. I was sure you’d gone out for a few.”
“You’re okay, then. The baby?”
“A girl. She’ll have to spend a few weeks in the preemie unit but they say she’ll be all right.”
“She won’t lose the arm?”
“Nah, she’ll have full use of it soon. Hungry? Have a seat. The Boixes brought these. Sorry they’re almost gone.”
Irrelevant pastry of some kind. Or perhaps the very thing that Catalans brought after a caesarian. The Boches – the Catalans pronounce Boix the same way the French say “boches” – had been driving me crazy ever since we came with their ritual Catalanism.
Lena told me I could go see the baby, but only through a glass window and only by yelling “Cabezón.” If I wanted to go… she had no objection. If I wanted to come back and say what the baby looked like… fine.
The page made a snapping sound and slithered into alignment.
Before I rushed off I thought to tell Lena how glad I was that she’d come through surgery in one piece, even if there was a small cut in it, and was in such good spirits. She glanced up, frowning slightly, as if I had a motive.
“Thanks for coming.” She went back to her magazine.
Acting bored was never a pose with Lena. She’d had her baby and life was back to normal – something to nibble on, something to read. She’d have been less bored back in our flat with the things I cooked for her and her books on romance philology.
Her books covered one wall in her little bedroom whenever the spirit moved me to clear the floor of them. Lena had just finished a year of doctoral work at the University of Barcelona and she needed a lot of books to make up for all the classes that conflicted with the hours she set aside for sleep.
Feeling incredibly blessed! Rudramandir has allowed the Seven Sisters Solstice 2015 Heart Activation & Soul Replenishment to move to their gorgeous main sanctuary for our event on Sun Dec 20! That means many more of you can join us without a problem, as we were only 2 tix away from being sold out! So, dear community, gift yourself a luxurious opening to the heart space through a guided journey & healing sound. I will channel, too! Sounding by the amazing Valerie Carpenter, & our altar & Shadow priestessing courtesy of the profound Maura Torkildson! Please spread the word & get your tix now! We’re blessed to have Christina Nielsen & Sarah Wells helping, too! Link’s in comment line below.
Do you know what’s going to save our country? It’s not a political candidate, though our country’s leadership has the power to either help or hinder. It’s us – everyday citizens. It’s on *our* shoulders to be brave. To speak out against discrimination. To be wiling to stand up to those who preach hatred and violence. It’s scary, putting yourself out in front of hate-spewing extremists of *any* background. But we have to do it. I truly believe that the good people in this country outnumber the bad. The problem is when good people remain silent. The time for that is over. Be brave. Speak out. Take a stand.
If you’re reading this, it means that you are probably a longtime reader and friend of mine, whose presence on this Facebook page has meant a lot to me over the years. Never was this more evident to me than in the last thirteen months, since my husband Jim’s diagnosis with pancreatic cancer, when–truly–it was the words of readers and friends here that often sustained me.
Last week, I shifted my Facebook presence to something called an “Author Page”. I made this change reluctantly. But I had long since passed the 5000-friend limit, and was hearing from so many readers who wanted to be friends, but could not. (And when I looked over my Friend list to see who I might eliminate, so I could accept some new ones, I was surprised to see that actually, in some way, I knew nearly every one on my friend list, and didn’t want to eliminate anyone.)
So…the big migration took place. And I DID get a great many new friends who have been telling me how happy they are that they can now not only read my posts but respond to them. The disturbing part of this was that many old friends could not find me on Facebook any more , evidently. (This actually included my own husband, who searched for an hour without success.)
Finally, we figured out a solution . I’d send friend requests to you all, (actually, Jim did) and then, once I found you, I’d invite you to the new page. Though you can’t be an official “friend” on this page, if you “Like” the page, I will still receive updates about you on my news feed. Hearing a little about what is going on in the lives of my many readers in far flung places (and down the road) is an important part of my day and I want that to continue.
Of course you can also still post messages on my page. I may not be able to respond to them all, but I read every single one.
And though there will be more members of this new Facebook community, I have no intention of changing its content. I will still be posting stories of my life and adventures, including my struggles. (A lot of those.) I will always write as if I am speaking with friends. Because , in fact, I am .
so, here’s a link to the new page. I hope I see you there.
POST PUNK BRITAIN tonight (Saturday) at 8pm & repeated tomorrow at 10pm on www.breaklondon.org features:
1. Boots For Dancing – Salt In The Ocean
2. UB40 – King (1980)
3. Clash – The Prisoner (1977)
4. Crass – Shaved Women (John Peel, 1980)
5. Jilted John – Jilted John (1980)
6. John Cooper Clarke – Readers’ Wives (Peel, 1979)
7. pragVEC – The Follower (1979)
8. Proles – Soft Ground
9. Monochrome Set – Eine Symphonie Die Gruen (1979)
10. Penetration – Life’s A Gamble (1978)
11. Culture – They Never Love (1979)
12. Psychedelic Furs – Love My Way (1982)
13. Magazine – Because You’re Frightened (1980)
14. XTC – The Hop (1979)
15. Wah! – Better Scream (1981)
16. Steel Pulse – Ku Klux Klan (Live 1980)
17. Protex – Just Want (Your Attention) (1978)
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