Category Archives: Fort Bragg California

Local Newspaper Goes Viral

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Our weekly newspaper, the Fort Bragg Advocate News, began a Facebook presence a couple of years ago. This opened up a fantastic opportunity for any person with a computer and internet access.

In order to make your voice heard, you no longer have to go to the trouble to type a letter, put it in an envelope, and spend money to mail it.

The newspaper’s Facebook page makes it easy to express your opinion for all the world to see. You are not required to be grammatically correct. (Screw you, third grade writer’s workshop with your insistence upon spelling, punctuation, and complete sentences!)

And–here’s the best part–you don’t have to struggle to formulate an opinion that even remotely makes sense.

You can disagree with other commentators, instigate fights and resort to name calling. You can even precede a highly descriptive noun, such as moron with an obscene adjective.  (The Advocate News staff will eventually remove such a post, but it’ll take them awhile to do so.)

Since I no longer have kids in local schools, I don’t mingle with a wide variety of people in ways I once did. This Facebook page puts me back in touch with the core of Fort Bragg, and reminds me of the many reasons I love living here.

Sometimes the Advocate News posts a topic that incites a great deal of passion. Like this picture of graffiti on the CV Starr Aquatic Center property with the heading: “Does anyone know what this means or who did it?”

 

The post received 123 comments over the course of an entire week. My favorites:

A guy named Caps.

Oh i better stop before i hurt someones little feelings. Bottom line grow some balls. Keep your kids in check. Hell keep your neighbors kids in check also.

Well, ‘CAPS’ made his mark. Let’s hope “lower case” doesn’t follow suit.

Get over it talking shit on bob marley the way people dress judgeing a book by its cover those are the kind of things ignorant people say a rad neck take over please are u serious it will never happen I guess keep talking shit if it makes u feel better about urself lol some funny shit.

Whos talking shit about bob marley. There is no ignorance besides you telling me to stop talking shit and get over it. Lol. Did this topic hit a nerve in your brain. It made you comment as if you were the queen bee stepping in and taking control like we were your children. I can sence you fidgiting around in your chair now flipping your hair and letting out the typical women “Pffffftttttt” noise. Now this is talking shit. Know the difference please before you jump on here and font fuck your opinon.

Toward the end—around comment #117—came a non sequitur:

Can someone tell me if their is a craft fair going on anywhere for whale festival weekend and where and who to contact to set up a booth?

This seemed to simmer everyone down. Five posts later, the comments stopped.

After such an exhilarating experience with the Advocate News Facebook page, I like to take a moment and ponder what I’ve learned:

  • I will plant balls in my garden this year with the hope that, as they grow, I will be able to keep both my kids and my neighbors in check.
  • I have never, nor will I ever, talk s—t on bob marley, but I must admit I feel better about myself when I keep talking s—t in general.
  • I happen to prefer the “typical women Pffffftttttt” noise over many of the other noises my body spontaneously emits.
  • I always enjoy the Whale Festival craft fair, especially now that the mere mention of it has a calming effect on people.

Guy on a Bench – Part 1

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He’s in his mid-30’s and pleasant looking. He sits on the bus stop bench at the corner of Redwood and McPherson. Whenever Wilson (my 13-year old dog) and I walk by, our interaction usually goes like this:

“How’re you doing?”

“Fine. How’re you?”

“Fine.”

“Have a good one.”

“You, too. Bye.”

“Bye.”

This time, my “How’re you doing?” is responded with “Not so good.”

I stop. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s the same old thing day after day.”

I imagine it is. He sits on this bench nearly all day every day.

“People either accost me for money or ask if I want to buy drugs. I tell them no, but they keep harassing me. I don’t know what to do about it. There’s no solution.”

I can think of one: Stop sitting on this bench nearly all day every day.

“I guess I’ll have to eventually get the cops involved.”

“That might help.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Have a good one.”

“You, too.”

My advice to stop sitting on that bench becomes a metaphor for handling my own troubles.

I don’t know what to do about the five extra pounds I can’t seem to shake.

But my body aches after I work out.

  • Stop sitting on that bench: stretch for 10-15 minutes after each workout.

I don’t have time to do that, so let’s change the subject.

When Gary goes on a whistling marathon, I want to yell at him.

But then I won’t lose these five pounds.

  • Stop sitting on that bench: work out more.

But then my body will ache all the time.

  • Stop sitting on that bench: then stretch more.

This all seems like too much trouble.

  • Keep sitting on your stupid bench and shut the hell up!

You shut up!

No, you shut up!

And so it goes.

My friend and I continue to sit on our respective benches.

Bill & His Dog

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I can hardly believe I’ve lived in Fort Bragg long enough to miss something that used to be. But then things tend to come and go over the course of 20 years. One of the things I miss is how a group of old Italian men used to gather outside The Purity. I once stopped and chatted with them.

I was told there are two things rarer than hen’s teeth for a retired Italian guy in Fort Bragg—dodging the wife’s honey-do’s and a warm sunny day. When he’s able to bring the two together, he’s off to The Purity. The wife can’t understand why he needs to get together with his buddies. “Didn’t you have enough of them when you worked at the mill?” He might have been happy to leave the job behind, but not the guys. It didn’t take long to start missing the guys.

Staying home can get lonely. When the weather’s good and the wives backs are turned, they sneak out of the house and congregate at The Purity. They talk about old times, but mostly they wait to see if something exciting will happen.

One day, sitting in my car as Gary shopped, I saw one of the old the guys walk up to stand along the south wall. Another arrived and then another and another, until the gang was there. They spoke Italian, laughed at jokes, and eyed women walking by.

A younger man walked around the corner with his dog. He wasn’t a member of the group, but they knew his name. They shouted, “Hey Bill, how you doing?” Bill wasn’t too swift. He was mentally slow and fat, a combination that made it hard for him to get around.

One of the guys said, “You should enter that mutt in the Ugly Dog Contest at the Paul Bunyan Days. You’d be sure winners in the owner-dog lookalike category.”

Bill shared the rheumy eyes, tottering gait and dirty blonde hair of the old, tired cocker spaniel. He laughed even though it looked like he didn’t get the joke.

“All that dog needs is a pair of glasses and you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between you.”

Bill tied the dog’s leash to a pillar outside The Purity doors. It wasn’t really a leash, but a frayed rope. “Will you guys watch my dog?”

“Yeah, yeah, go ahead. He’ll be fine.”

Bill disappeared into the store and the dog started to yelp like someone was beating it with a stick.

The guys took turns bending down, patting the dog’s head. “It’s okay, fella.

The dog announced that it wasn’t okay. His yelps turned into ear-piercing howls.

“Maybe I should we take him for a walk.” One guy untied the rope and tried to coax the dog out of his sitting position. The dog refused. His howls turned to screams.

“Jesus!”

“Goddamnit!”

“Shit!”

A few minutes later, Bill came out of the store and the dog stopped crying.

“We tried everything. Damn dog wouldn’t shut up.”

“Don’t ever leave him with us again.”

Bill said nothing, just looked confused. One guy handed him the rope. Bill and his little dog tottered down the street.

The guys agreed it was time to go home. Bill and his dog were enough excitement for the day.

Words with Friends

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“What the f—? You’re kidding me!”

She sits on the curb outside The Purity. She’s so deeply involved in pressing buttons on and talking to her smart phone that she appears to forget she’s holding a burning cigarette. When she takes a drag, she makes it meaningful, tugging it all the way down to her toes. She’s also chewing gum.

“Oh man!”https://encrypted-tbn0.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcS-DaM2W6Fiq2YHYB8USQfrqdH5lCEEA7PgwJB6trIiaikslwn9

She’s a skinny little thing in her mid-90’s—or maybe she’s my age. It’s hard to tell.

She looks like a troll doll left under a pile of leaves for the winter and found after the spring thaw. Like a troll doll, there’s a cute quality to her face.

“Damnit!”

I wonder why she’s sitting on the curb with the pant legs of her jeans hiked up to reveal white anklets and tan Keds sneakers. It’s too dreary and cold to be sitting outside.

Maybe she’s waiting for someone. In the meantime, maybe she’s playing Words with Friends.

“Jesus Christ!”

King of the Homeless

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I’m sitting in my car in the parking lot at The Purity, waiting while Gary shops.

On Franklin Street, a group walks towards me. Like Van Gogh’s Potato Eaters, they’re dressed in earth tones. Individually, they would go unnoticed in the landscape. But collectively, the six command attention. They walk the sidewalk with a purpose. At my car, they part, half of the group streaming to the right and half to the left. As they pass, I feel their power.

The leader is tall—six and a half feet—with hair the color of sand and a complexion to match. There’s a woman who stands out because she doesn’t look homeless. She has short black hair topped with a small navy and white paisley scarf styled in 60’s fashion—over the head and tied in the back. She also wears glasses—black rimmed, trendy glasses. Her jeans and canvas jacket are clean. She might be an undercover anthropologist or imbedded journalist.

The group sets up formation in a straight line, running parallel to the front of The Purity building.

“Do you have eighty-six cents?” the woman asks the leader.

“No.” His voice is a deep growl. If a German Shepard guard dog could talk, he would sound like this.

“I need a bottle and I’m eighty-six cents short.”

“I only had enough for my bottle today. Don’t got no more.”

This concerns me. Where’s he going to get the money for tomorrow’s bottle?

“Come on, just give me a dollar.”

“No.”

This woman could have graduated from a small Ivy League college and be heir to a fortune. What’s she doing with these people? Why is she begging for eighty-six cents?

Suddenly, the leader yells, “Toby!”

A short, bowling pin of a guy wobbles towards my car. His tangled hair is sun streaked and his deep red face could use an application of aloe Vera cream. He wears a small backpack, his thumbs linked through the front straps.

The leader yells, “Toby, you go back right now and apologize for calling that woman back there a f—ing c—t.”

Toby stops. The expression on his face is utter confusion. Perhaps he’s thinking: it’s July, it’s Saturday, it’s tourist season. There are people on the street, possibly children, who have never heard the “F” word, let alone the “C” word.

“I told you to get back there and apologize for calling that woman a f—ing c—t. She’s good people. Turn around. Go!”

Toby slowly pivots and totters away from the store.

“Goddamned Toby, calling that woman a f—ing c—t.”

This sets off a series of goddamned Toby grumbling among the group.

It takes Toby a good two minutes to reach the end of the block. He stops, unsettled by the vast separation from his pack members.

The leader steps forward, raises his hand and pointer finger and yells, “Toby, keep going. Get back there and apologize for calling that woman a f—ing c—t.”

Toby steps off the curb and crosses the street.

The leader steps back into the group. “Goddamned Toby. Calling that woman a f—ing c—t. She doesn’t deserve that.”

Everyone agrees: Goddamned Toby.

After crossing the street, Toby continues about ten feet when he appears lost. He stops to examine The Floor Store’s sign.

The leader steps forward once again, waving his arm in a gesture of moving air forward, “Keep f—ing going!”

But Toby is stuck.

The leader drops his head and shakes it. “Goddamn it Toby.” He sighs. “You can apologize later. Get the f—k back here.”

Toby looks worried as he nears The Purity. He has tried and failed. He stops in front of my car, staving off the consequences. I prepare to offer a get-away ride.

“Get the f—k over here you f—ing idiot.” There is a playful, forgiving tone to the leader’s voice. Apparently, this is not the first time Toby has failed him. He will not harm him.

“Let’s go,” the leader commands. Even though he didn’t give her eighty-six cents, the Ivy League anthropologist falls in beside him, matching his stride. The group heads north to parts unknown. Toby trails several feet behind.

The Best Gift Ever for Under $10

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For this project, you’ll need:

  • 200ml bottle of Taaka Genuine Vodka located (for anti-theft purposes) behind the checkout counter at The Purity.
  • A bag of snack pack M&M’s (you can’t find these at The Purity; try Rite Aid).
  • Thin ribbon (you should already have some).
  • Hole punch (you should already have one).

Directions:

1. Punch a hole in the corner of each pack of M&M’s.

2. Cut a 12-inch of longer length of ribbon.

3. Tie the ribbon securely around the neck of the bottle. Use the ribbon to string together  about four packs of M&M’s.

4. Tie the ribbon.

5. Flip the bottle over and repeat above steps on opposite side.

6. Cut long lengths of different color ribbon. Use scissors to curl each piece of ribbon. Secure the ribbon to the wreath with your original piece of ribbon. Curl that ribbon, too.

Voila! For less than $10 (the M&M’s will cost more than the vodka), here’s what you end up with:

Now you need to determine who’s going to get this great gift. I gave mine to a friend after her third (and youngest) child went off to college.

Purity Justice

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The young woman directly in front of me at the checkout stand has blonde-streaked curly hair and is quite attractive. Three men are in front of her – one about my age (middle age if one is planning to live past 110) and the other two about the same age as the young woman. One of the young men is holding a 12-pack of Corona. The smell of bitter alcohol sweat fills the air.

All three men unabashedly ogle the young woman, fidget like pre-schoolers who have to go potty, and talk in Spanish in between girly giggles. The beer holder says to the woman, “He thinks you’re pretty,” translating for the older guy.

As the mother of a daughter, my hackles raise. I prepare to step in front of this sweet girl and shield her from these potentially dangerous men

The woman gives a smile and sweetly says, “Thank you.”

This sets off a round of giggles and pants wetting among the men. The older guy says something to the younger guy in Spanish. The younger guy says, “He thinks you have beautiful eyes.”

Okay. That’s it. One more comment and I’m going to kick their asses. (After all, I lift weights.)

She smiles again and thanks them.

They pay for their beer and sadly bid adios as the young woman steps to the checkout counter.

After they are out of earshot, I say, “I was ready to protect you if you needed it.”

“Thank you so much,” she says, “but I didn’t think I’d have a problem with them.” She pulls what looks like a wallet out of her purse, flips it open, and flashes her sheriff’s badge.

Okay then.

I pay for my items and walk to the parking lot to see the men getting into a tan truck. A community service officer (you know, not a cop, but dresses like a cop) is walking across the lot.

I grab his arm, stopping him in the middle of the lot. “Don’t look now, but those guys behind you are drunk. And now they’re driving.”

He looks, blowing my cover as a snitch, and chuckles. “The cops know those guys.”

As they whiz past, he yells, “Go home. And stay there.”

They nod their heads in agreement.

Purity justice has been done.