We Eat Meat

Posted on February 22, 2013 by Kate

In 1992, our son Harrison entered first grade at Redwood Elementary School. A couple weeks later, he brought home the reader We Eat Meat. (I kid you not.)

If you’re a parent, you know the warm pride of listening to your young child read. In this case, I had to press my knuckles to my lips and refrain from making eye contact with my husband Gary so I wouldn’t ruin the moment with laughter as Harrison recited the lines: “Meet Pete. Pete eats meat.”

When our daughter Laine entered Redwood three years later, the book had disappeared. Perhaps it has been banned.

Laine is a vegetarian. Harrison is a meat eater. Is this merely a coincidence or the product of early educational imprinting?

Gary and I are meat eaters. While I fancy I could easily become a vegetarian, he grows faint at the mere thought of two meatless dinners in a row. He’s also of the mind that to eat Mexican, Italian or Chinese food more than once a week is to venture precariously into uncharted epicurean territory.

It took years before I realized that Gary has some serious food issues. (Never mind that missing my daily 10:00am latte makes me break out in distress hives.)

Gary has suffered from Type 1 diabetes since the age of 12. When he was diagnosed back in the fifties, his physician told him he’d be lucky to live past the age of 40. (Inmates on California’s Death Row have longer life expectancies.)

Gary views each dinner as his possible last meal. Unlike many people, he is void of the luxury of believing a disappointing meal doesn’t matter.

One Saturday evening when Harrison and Laine were home for a visit, we treated ourselves to a meal from Jenny’s Giant Burger. I joined Laine in ordering a veggie burger. Harrison and Gary each requested the giant burger.

In the car on the way home, I snacked on a number of crispy hot French fries (one of my favorite things that I’ve not, till now, confessed to my family). Moments after the food bag was set on the kitchen counter, we attacked it like a pack of starving wolves.

As I choreographed the eating of my meal—bite of burger, one French fry, sip of chocolate shake (one of nature’s most perfect taste combinations)—I marveled at the remarkable deliciousness of my veggie burger.

Half way through his burger, Gary’s face contorted into what looked like a precursor to vomiting. “This burger tastes like crap! It’s the worst burger I’ve ever eaten!”

Beware of the poisonous veggie burger.

I peeked under the bun of my sandwich to discover the reason my veggie burger tasted so good. “Oops! Looks like I got yours, Gary.”

You would have thought I’d said, “Oops! Looks like you just ate rat poison.”

Gary fled to the bathroom where I heard him spit out veggie residue. The kids and I rolled our eyes and chuckled.

When he returned to the table, we exchanged the remainder of our burgers. All was well until later that evening when we tried to reach consensus on what might possibly be the last movie Gary would ever watch.

Meet Gary. Gary eats meat.

Gary likes Quentin Tarantino and Wes Craven movies. Gary does not like Meryl Streep movies.

Definitely not Meryl Streep movies.

Definitely not.

Pick Up on Aisle 2

Posted on February 14, 2013 by Kate

Oh my—it happened again. I’ve racked up two hits in the past 15 years.

This past Sunday, I was making my way around The Purity, checking items off my grocery list when I remembered I needed onions.

Onions are in the front of the market on a short, narrow aisle. I wheeled my cart over to find two guys between the ages of 50 and 90 blocking the aisle. One was tall, in hunting camo and the other short wearing a dark jacket. They had their heads down and chatted in low mumbles. I waited for them to notice they were in my way.

The tall guy looked up.

I smiled.

He said, “Well hello pretty lady.”

“I need to get to the onions.”

He mumbled to his friend and they began to move. As he came around my left side, he said in a tone of disappointment, “You married?”

“I am.”

“Dang!”

At home, I said, “Hey, Gary, I just got hit on at The Purity.”

He rolled his eyes.

“He looked just like George Clooney.”

Pot Debacle

Posted on February 8, 2013 by Kate

I must apologize for the delay in posting this, but so much has happened since the end of October that I simply forgot.

Marijuana reports in Mendocino County often solicit big yawns among local residents. However, my national and international (Oklahoma City is international, right?) readers are not so jaded.

Despite its Mendocino County setting, the following is a universal story that epitomizes the fragility of the human condition. (If you have trouble relating to it, you may want to substitute “kitty” for “marijuana.”)

This is a story of how anger can sometimes make us do things we later regret. Stupid things—really, really stupid things.

Fort Bragg Advocate News Facebook October 30, 2012:

This just in from the Sheriff’s Office: On Oct. 24, at approximately 8:15 p.m., deputies were dispatched to a reported robbery of marijuana. While the deputies were en route, the caller, Kristen Wright, 32, of Leggett, advised that no actual robbery had been committed.
Wright advised she had arranged to sell 10 pounds of marijuana to three men for $20,000. They had given her four bundles of cash which they had represented as being $20,000 in U.S. currency. The men fled with the marijuana just as Wright realized that only the bills on the top side of the stacks were $100 bills, the rest were $1 bills. She had been left with slightly over four hundred dollars, not the $20,000 they had agreed upon.
Wright and a male companion followed the suspects as they drove south from the intersection of Hwy 1 and 101 in Leggett. Two of the suspects were in a dark Scion. The third man drove a light colored sedan. Deputies intercepted the Scion occupied by two of the suspects, Christopher Jaramillo, 18, of Willington, and Jose Lemus, 20, of San Pedro, in the 44800 block of Hwy 101 in Laytonville. Over 10 pounds of marijuana was located inside the car. Kristen Wright arrived at the scene a short time later.
Lemus and Jaramillo were arrested for possession of marijuana for sale, transportation of marijuana and conspiracy. Wright was arrested for possession of marijuana for sale. All were transported to Ukiah and lodged in the Mendocino County Jail, with bail set at $30,000 each. The third male suspect was never located.

Of course, no sharing of a Fort Bragg Advocate News Facebook posting would be complete without classifying my favorite comments:

The Sarcastic Humorists

“Steal my pot, will ya? I’ll go to jail before I let you have it!”

Gotta love idiots

good to see criminals with principles

Morons all around.

It s still illegal sell, transport and steal. $20,000 sounds like more than personal use. Just a few more pounds and idiots off the street. I bet she is on state aid too.

Sales 101 always count the money

The Educators

you can have up to 6 mature plants and 6 immature plants at 1 time. and all depending in how skilled you are, you can have more than $20,000 worth of crop. And if your selling to someone who has a license which most people do, theres basically no rules…

It never ceases to amaze me, but here I go anyway. Weed is not the problem, really. It’s the people who generally choose to partake at such levels that create the criminal and social stigma. The reality is it alters one’s perception and judgement, as CLEARLY displayed by this brilliant chain of events.

ok this is a crime. what the fuck. if it was a tv and they had given the wrong amount of money it would be considered a crime but not if its marijuana? bullshit! We can cultivate, conceal, transport, & consume cannabis for our own use. why can’t we sell it? Especially nowadays, almost everyone In California has a medical marijuana license. My boss, teachers, nurses etc. Come on people its 2012!

The One Who Reminisces

This reminds me of a story where a deputy from point arena got a call from a person complaining that the people next door were making meth and that the chemicals were running down into their marijuana crop.

The Defender

At least the thieves were caught! She sacrificed herself so they wouldn’t do it to someone else.

The Unclassifiable

Yup i sren something just as stupid the other day regarding someone taking someones car without consent. The person went to get their car that got pulled over and ended goumg to jail too . WTF

5 Minutes, 5 Broken Rules

Posted on February 1, 2013 by Kate

For decades, the Mendocino Coast Parks and Recreation District struggled to raise money to build a community center to replace their 100-year old pool and rec center in Fort Bragg. As time went by, the donations continuously proved inadequate to the rising cost of construction.

About 10 years ago, a local resident had a brilliant idea. A man by the name of Cornelius Vander Starr had grown up in Fort Bragg during the early 1900’s and went on to form an insurance company that grew into AIG.

That’s right—A–I-freakin’-G!

When Cornelius died in 1968, his estate created a foundation now worth bazillions of dollars. The aforementioned brilliant local, phoned the Starr Foundation and asked if they would be interested in helping fund community center in Cornelius’s hometown.

They did. And so did a few others—like local Harry Spath who lived like he didn’t have two nickels to rub together, yet left a million dollars to MCPRD when he died.

The CV Starr Community Center opened in 2009. It is so beautiful, so unlike much of the beloved funky construction in Fort Bragg that some residents complain that it’s too nice for our little town.

I attended the opening ceremonies with some young friends and, yes, dared to put on my 20-year old sagging swim suit to join them in the pool on opening day. (Fortunately, no photo available.)

A few months later, I bought a new swim suit and took a water aerobics class. Most of the participants were at least 20 years older than me and bitched continuously about the coldness of the water and difficulty of the moves.

Despite the entertainment of listening to prickly, grousing elders and the thrill of feeling comparatively youthful, I determined water aerobics classes were not for me.

One afternoon, I headed for the pool to do my own workout. Little did I know I was about to break a number of rules.

The locker rooms of the aquatic center exit directly in front of the Olympic size lap pool. I was delighted to find it empty—in contrast to the large number of people in the play pool. Only three swimming lanes were designated, which left a huge empty space that looked perfect for the workout I had planned.

I entered the lap pool via the gently sloping stairs and had submerged to my waist when a lifeguard appeared.

“Excuse me, you can only be in this pool if you’re going to use the lap lanes.”

I smiled into the face of a teenager who is a lifeguard only because his unreasonable parents insisted he get a job for the summer. “I thought I’d exercise here because it’s so crowded in the other pool.”

“You can’t.” (Broken Rule #1.)

“Ok.”

“Did you shower before you got into the pool?”

“Do what?”

“You have to shower over there before you get into the pool.” (Broken Rule #2.)

“Thank you, I’ll do that.”

As I showered, I noticed the “lazy river” was running. I had heard that walking against the current is great exercise. I slipped into the river. Trying to dodge kids who slammed into me added to the adventure. I had traversed about half way when I heard, “Excuse me.”

I looked into the pimply face of another bitter teen. “If you want to be in here, you can’t go against the current.”

I smiled. “But I want to get a workout.”

“You can’t do that now.”

“When can I?”

“Noon to 1:00 and 5:30 to 6:30.” (Broken Rule #3.)

I floated to the narrow bridge that separates the river from the play pool. This bridge is partially submerged in water and allows the lifeguards to pace back and forth, prison guard style. I flopped like a harbor seal onto the bridge.

“Excuse me.”

Stomach suspended on the tile, I looked up at the lifeguard.

“You’re not supposed to be on this.” (Broken Rule #4.)

I quickly slipped into the play pool. “Sorry.”

I spotted the foam rubber “weights” that I’d used during water aerobics class on the deck area on the far side of the pool.

I swam to the side, climbed the ladder to exit the pool (legally, I presume since no said, “Excuse me”), took two weights, and jumped back into the water.

“Excuse me.”

“Yes?”

“I don’t think you’re supposed to use those unless you’re taking a class.” (Broken Rule #5.)

By saying, “I don’t think…” instead of the more powerful “You’re not supposed to…” this new lifeguard created a loophole. I explained that I only wanted to use the equipment for 15 minutes and I would put them right back.

I promised.

She hesitated.

“Would you mind asking someone if it’s okay?”

She agreed and left the area.

Two boys—about ten years old—swam towards me. “Where’d you get those?”

I held the weights to my chest. “They’re for adults only.” I had a vested interest in making up my own rule. I didn’t want to jeopardize my ability to use the weights if the child population started raiding the bins.

A male lifeguard replaced the female who had moved to supervise the empty lap pool. I turned my back on her replacement and kept the weights submerged while I completed my workout.

Like shopping at The Purity, swimming at the CV Starr Community Center is a must do. However, unlike The Purity, there are rules of conduct that need to be obeyed. Before you take your first aquatic voyage, I encourage you to review my five broken rules in order to save yourself from teenage lifeguard angst.

Tip Top Pick Up

Posted on January 24, 2013 by Kate

Before I turned 21, taverns were easier places to score a night of drinking with my fake ID than an upscale establishment. But the depressing feng shui always offset the thrill of getting away with breaking the law. After I became of legal drinking age, I avoided taverns.

So it was after much persuasion that I agreed to accompany my underage son to the Tip Top Lounge on a Saturday afternoon a few years ago to buy a tee-shirt for his college girlfriend. My mother came along for the adventure.

The bartender told Harrison that he had to stand outside the door. My mother went with him. The bartender disappeared into a back room to fetch a box of shirts.

As I waited, I surveyed the patrons. Sitting about three feet to my right was a gentleman in his sixties who was dapper in the way of someone who frequents a tavern in the middle of the afternoon: Grecian formula hair slicked into a pompadour, his once handsome face creased with wrinkles that only alcohol, cigarettes, and hard living can provide.

He was staring at me, so what was I to do but smile and say, “Hey.”

He lifted his eyebrows. “Your mom and kid dropping you off?”

It had been years since I’d been hit on, but I remembered the difference between a flattering hit and a I’d-better-set-this-guy-straight-that-I’m-not-a-whore hit.

A spit of gagged air escaped my mouth followed by a loud “No!”

What type of woman do you think I am? Oh, yeah, my mom and kid frequently drive me to bars in the middle of the day and drop me off. And after I get drunk enough, I find a nice looking man like you to take me home. Don’t talk to me!

The bartender returned with the tee-shirts. I held up a few for Harrison to inspect. He chose one quickly and handed me the money. I paid the bartender and turned to leave. The pickup artist bid me farewell. I was only too happy to tell him the same.

In retrospect, I don’t know why I was so offended. The guy thought I was hot—or at least worthy of spending time sitting next to him on a bar stool on a Saturday afternoon at the Tip Top Lounge in Fort Bragg. Granted, he was drinking, but perhaps it was still early enough in the day that he only had a buzz on; he hadn’t hit blind drunk.

I should have been honored. In the past 15 years, I can count on one hand—make that one finger—the number of times a guy has made a pass at me. The only hoots I get on the street are either directed at my dog or my sporty 2010 red Honda Civic.

Maybe I would have felt differently about garnering the gentleman’s attention if it hadn’t happened in a tavern. Maybe I would have felt better about it if it had happened at The Purity.

Green Chain

Posted on January 18, 2013 by Kate

By 1993, we’d lived in Fort Bragg for a year. I worked part-time as an investment advisor through the local branches of a major bank. My clients were semi-happy when the stock market was up, and extremely unhappy when it was down. My children were in preschool and grade school. My husband was beginning to experience eyesight problems, the result of the diabetes he’d had from childhood. We both knew his days of being the breadwinner were numbered.

We’d acquired a golden retriever who liked to chew our possessions and two cats who liked to shred our furniture. I maintained a second job as domestic servant to my family. I pretended to handle life with ease, but most of the time I was a stressed out mess.

So what did I do?

I joined the Leadership Mendocino program. On the surface, this might sound insane, but in reality, Leadership Mendocino gave me one entire day off each month for eight solid months.

The third Friday of the month, people treated me as if I was important. I was offered snacks, lunch, and snacks again. The classes were held in a variety of locations throughout the county and opened my mind to issues from natural resources to law enforcement. I met interesting people from diverse backgrounds. Ginny Rorby became a wonderful friend who continues to nurture my secret desire to write.

One of the highlights of that year was when our class got to tour the sawmill at Georgia Pacific. The mill played a vital role in this community’s economic health for over 100 years. The original was built in 1885 as the Fort Bragg Sawmill. It was renamed Union Lumber Company in 1893. Georgia Pacific bought the operation in 1973, and ran it for 29 years before closing down in August 2002.

Each member of our group was handed a hard hat, safety goggles and earplugs. I was excited. I had been a city girl all my life. I did not know how trees were harvested and processed into lumber. The only things I knew about the Georgia Pacific operation were: (1) the noise from the sawmill which could be heard throughout town, (2) the noon whistle that blew each day, and (3) the smokestack’s white plume that told how hard and which way the wind blew.

As our group neared the sawmill, I physically felt the noise—like coming upon a living, breathing dragon. It gave me shivers.

Inside, I was surprised by the high tech appearance of the operation. The catwalks brought to mind the boiler room of a freight ship. Two cutting operations ran side by side. A log appeared on a conveyor belt and was grabbed by a mechanical arm. A red laser beam guided a huge saw that sliced it like butter.

Similar to this, but not as illuminated as this.

Each cutting operation was controlled by an operator who sat in what looked like the cockpit of a wheat combine. The darkness surprised me. It would be depressing to work in such sensory deprivation. The heavy duty ear protection made it impossible to exchange quips and gossip with co-workers. I wouldn’t want to be a cutting operator.

One occupation did strike me as potentially inviting. Outside, I asked our guide, “What’s that job where guys pull lumber off the conveyor belt and stack it?”

“The green chain,” he replied.

The green chain beckoned me. If I worked the green chain, my only concern for eight hours each day would be to pick up the next board and stack it. I could hum endless loops of Beatles’ and Rolling Stones’ songs. If someone yelled at me, I’d point to my ear protection and apologize while thinking, Thank God I can’t hear you, bitch. Best of all, I could possibly drink in the mornings before work instead of having to wait until after work.

Working the green chain became my meditation. Whenever life got overwhelming, I closed my eyes, imagined myself dressed in jeans, heavy boots, and a hooded sweatshirt. I picked up a board and stacked it, picked up a board and stacked it . . . . My heart chakra would eventually open, allowing me to carry on.

Mother’s Little Helper

Posted on January 11, 2013 by Kate

The experience of mucking out the garage qualified me to help my friend, Marcia, with the process of sorting through the cavernous workshop her father had built 30 years before his death. Her 87-year old mother, Doris, had sold the property and was being forced to downsize.

I arrived on a Saturday morning to find Doris sitting on a plastic molded chair in the middle of a warehouse of boxes, lumber, furniture, tools, model airplanes, and building materials. In front of her was an open box from which she pulled a wrapped object.

Marcia was chucking cardboard, lumber, sheets of plastic, and various whatnot outside the open roll top doors while her husband, Jerry, sorted and stacked.

“Look at this,” Doris said, holding a clear glass serving bowl.

Marcia whispered, “She admires everything she unwraps. This is going to take forever.” Louder, she said, “What do you want to do with it, Mother? Keep it or put it in the garage sale?”

“I certainly don’t want to give it away,” Doris said. “This is crystal.”

I silently lusted after the bowl. I have an obsession for bowls and chairs. If left untethered, my house would be filled with them.

Doris pondered the bowl’s beauty for a few moments before holding it out to me. “Would you like it?”

I felt guilty—as if by telepathy I’d hypnotized her into the offering. I thanked her and snatched it away before she could change her mind.

Before I continue, I must make a disclaimer similar to the one I was forced into when I had teenagers. Until I was a parent of that age group, I judged others by the behavior of their teens. After my kids became that age, I had to mix a bitter cocktail of my ignorant words and chug it, thus ending those days of judgment.

Current Disclaimer: A person who finds 85 cans of paint hoarded in her garage cannot judge the contents of another person’s storage area.

That being said, here are some of the interesting things Doris discovered in her boxes:

Ten three-ring binders holding sheets of poetry. Over several decades, whenever she found a poem she liked, she’d type it and store it in a binder. She rarely read the poems again. She took comfort in knowing she had them saved for posterity.

Four large recipe boxes filled with 3×5 cards of typed recipes. The largest box was marked, Recipes I Haven’t Tried Yet.

Two boxes labeled Cat Books. She held up one book and said, “If anyone gets a new cat or dog, I have a book to help with names.” The title: Dog and Cat Names. (Fun fact: her cat’s name is Kitty.)

Dozens of wire hangers embellished with crochet. Doris admitted she has far more of these than she had clothes to hang them on, but she was unwilling to part with a single one.

The best find of the day was when Doris opened a box containing at least 15 spiral notebooks. She placed her fingertips to her lips and giggled. I was intrigued. What had this pure, dearest of ladies uncovered to embarrass her?

We’d already discovered a 1939 edition of “Marriage and Sex” that she’d purchased shortly before her marriage. This hadn’t raised a blush to her cheeks.

Marcia and I anxiously looked over her shoulder as she opened one of the notebooks. There, in perfect penmanship, on narrow line after line, margin to margin, front and back of each page was—

“When you kids were young, I started copying the Bible.” She giggled and reddened, her darkest secret revealed.

Marcia howled with laughter. “I didn’t know you were doing that.”

“She didn’t drink or smoke,” I said. “What else was she supposed to do to stay sane with three kids running around?”

She made it to II Samuel and by the looks of it (15 notebooks) it took her a very long time.

Young mothers, take note. There are other ways to relax while raising young children besides sucking vodka through the straw of a juice box (“No, honey, the Berry Blast is mine; you get the strawberry.”), smoking pot behind a bush in the back yard, or saying you’re taking a vitamin when it’s really the dog’s pain medication.

Buy some spiral notebooks and start copying the Bible. It worked for Doris.

Plastic Bag Passion

Posted on December 28, 2012 by Kate

The man in front of me at The Purity is asked by the clerk if he’d like to buy a grocery bag.

“Damnit! I left mine in the car!”

The clerk says, “It’s only 10 cents.”

“Damnit! Shit!”

The clerk remains silent.

“Okay, I’ll buy the goddamned bag!”

On December 10^th, the Fort Bragg Advocate News posted on their Facebook page:

Starting today, Monday, the City of Fort Bragg’s carryout bag ordinance will prohibit supermarkets and large drug stores — Safeway, Harvest Market, Purity, CVS, and both Rite Aid stores — from providing plastic bags at the check stand and will require a minimum 10 cent charge for paper bags. Only “carryout” bags given out at the check stand are affected by the ordinance. Smaller bags for produce, bread, prescriptions and other items aren’t restricted and may still be plastic.

The 60 comments from passionate community members are roughly divided into half who support the ban and half who do not. The folks who support it can be summed up by the following two:

I LOVE LOVE LOVE that the area I live in is proactive about the environment. Our future generations depend on our actions to provide a healthy planet for them. This is one small action that will make a HUGE impact for the children & the earth we reside on.

After seeing a perfect photo opportunity on the Pudding Creek trestle a couple months ago, ruined by 2 of those controversial plastic bags pasted against the cliff by wind and weeds, I did the HAPPY DANCE when I heard they were going to be outlawed. I’m going to put on my big girl grownup pants and bring my own dang bags or pay .10 for forgetting.

There are a variety of theories espoused by those against the ordinance:

The Conspiracy Theory:

this is the LAMEST law ever…. why restrict one type of plastic bag and not another? sounds like a profiteering conspiracy….

Big Brother strikes again!

The Stupid Yuppie Scum Theory:

Stupid scum yuppies from the Bay Area moved up the coast and ruined it ,,, this is just another one of their stunts!!

Rebuttal: I’m “a local and not a bay area yuppie” and I’m 100% for this law. A plastic bag might be gone in anywhere from 10 to 100 years (estimates vary), but scientists report they never fully decompose. Americans only recycle 0.6 percent of the 100 billion plastic bags they take home from stores every year; the rest end up in landfills or as litter. Landfills are few and far between, making the costs of transporting our garbage more expensive all the time. And then there is the carbon pumped into the atmosphere from trucks moving garbage long distances. And as the Advocate stated there is a destructive impact on the environment, particularly wildlife and fisheries.

Rebuttal to rebuttal: I rest my case ,, the people that have a problem with what I said are NOT LOCALS!!!! I don’t like plastic bags either ,, my big problem is all the people making the decisions on the Mendocino Coast Have NO right to say anything!!! If you don’t like what was out nice logging and fishing community then GET OUT!!!

The Pet Waste Management Theory:

How will we take care of cat poop? I’m so stressed!

The First Amendment Right Theory:

I have to repeat this every time in these same tired arguments: get rid of all your foolish bags — plastic, paper, and cloth. Get yourself a BOX! You can get one at the store. You can bring one from home. I’ll give you as many as you want. The box can hold more than the bag. It’s easy to carry. It won’t tip, rip, or drip. Get a BOX!!! And another benefit of the box: you won’t have to go on like an idiot arguing this lame culture war over bags. Yeah, you. I said shut up!

Rebuttal: This is America, and no we don’t have to shut up.

The Germ Theory:

I would be concerned about the increase in germs coming into the store. Do the baggers touch peoples bags from home? Maybe they should start wearing latex gloves that have to be disposed of.

Great idea? Make sure that you wash your reusable cloth bags after each use to protect yourself from contamination, food poisoning, illness and death.

Can you imagine all the germs and bacteria all those cloth bags have in them.

Rebuttal: what about the germs on your mustache? your breath? keyboard, your chair? Did you wipe of that soda can before you drank out of it? Germs???? THEY ARE UNAVOIDABLE! Bring your own bags

The I Can’t Classify These Theories:

Well, that will save the world!

For decades it has been trees vs oceans. Oceans are winning currently. And recycling is a sham. Reusable is the best for the environment, but having to bring your own when you are a volume shopper is absurd. Wal-Mart has it right, stores like Safeway should pay attention!

I think it is only a get-rich scam. If people who wanted to bring their own bags would have done so to begin with, the plastic wouldn’t have been a big problem, it sounds like. I’ve hated it since Wal-Mart enacted it in Ukiah (only to line their pockets even more because who remembers to bring in the millions of bags we’ve been forced to buy floating around in the back of the car now), and I’ve boycotted Lo Bucks in Willits because I am SICK of their paper bags ripping as I’m trying to carry my bags up the driveway.

what’s not to love about half-measures? I mean, we cant starve the Great Pacific Garbage Patch floating out there…it might sink or something….we have to feed it little bags.

And the Theorist who waxes poetic:

Plastic bags are a byproduct of making gasoline !
Now what to do with it?
Burn it as waste!
Thanks to all your tree hunger
Al gore lovin
Obama freak
Assholes

Taaka Goes Home for the Holidays

Posted on December 21, 2012 by Kate

The Christmas season wouldn’t be complete without a special Taaka visit home to The Purity.

Spreading cheer among some of my favorite things.

If you haven’t tried Alden’s Vanilla Ice Cream, you must.

Gary’s favorite section.

Look! The Purity has coffee beans you can grind yourself!

If you don’t want to grind your own coffee, pour yourself a ready-made cup.

Uh-oh, where’s the rest of Taaka’s family?

Haaka Taaka Christmas

Posted on December 14, 2012 by Kate

Since the discovery of Taaka Vodka at The Purity, Gary, Wilson, Little Mister, and I have created a new Christmas tradition. It’s a game called “Where’s Taaka?” We take turns hiding and searching for the Taaka bottle among the holiday decorations.

Little Mister gets so excited that he has to be sedated.