Welcome to the blog of writer and musician Andrew Martin. Here I'll post original photographs and observations as I encounter the history and culture of the San Fernando Valley, the City of the Angels, Alta California and the far-flung Pacific Rim… but mostly the Valley.
Not only did the Tories fumble Ireland and piss of the Scots again, which nobody in their right mind ought to do, they apparently forgot all about Gibraltar until the last minute! When Spain reminded them it had fallen out of the hole in Boris Johnson’s Saville Row trousers, BoJo just waved, “That bit? Keep it as a tip, hombre, I can’t bother about small change.”
Read it to believe it. The full article — brief dispatch, really, below in the Independent:
In one episode of Yes, Prime Minister, Sir Humphrey and Bernard and two or three other Civil Servants are briefing the fuddled Prime Minister on a tense political situation in the far-off former British overseas island colony of St. George’s. The discussion of politics couldn’t be duller — what makes the scene hilarious is, it is clear to the audience that nobody around the table knows or cares where St. George’s is. They all pretend to know what they are doing, but they are faking it, absorbed in their own inter-office squabbles. Later PM Jim Hacker sneaks off with Bernard to a secretary’s office, to have a peek at a dusty old Replogle desk globe. They spin it round and round looking for this supposedly strategic island …hilarious.
The Arms of Gibraltar: Argent, upon a base gules a castle triple-towered of the same ported and windowed sable with a cord issuant from the portal, pendent therefrom a key Or.
Just last week I was fretting about the parched sands in the foothills; then yesterday our first big winter rain arrived. It whitened the peaks, cleared the air, and delighted the chaparrall. Beauty and good feeling result! View Little Tujunga Canyon:
The fresh air and the clouds were so sweet — one wrapped itself in a funnel, and puff! — blew me a smoke-ring kiss, like Santa. One momentary curl of condensation refracted an amazing spotlight, conveniently pointing exactly to Valley Village!
First an excellent editorial from the Guardian on why the Brexit bait-and-switch is, for the nation as a whole, disastrously unsound. It explains the effects of economic rent (whence the term rentier) and the difference between a productive or producers’ economy and arentier economy(whence the game Monopoly). The working and middle classes aren’t nodding for Brexit — their heads are just jerking and bouncing at the ends of taut nooses, slipped around their necks by 250 years of Tories. Since Thatcher, their flailing feet don’t even touch the ground.
“Karl Marx wrote in The Eighteenth Brumaire of Louis Bonaparte in 1852 that “the Tories in England long fancied that they were in raptures about royalty, the church and the beauties of the ancient constitution, until a time of trial tore from them the confession that they were only in raptures about rent”. His assessment of early 19th-century Tories applies with unerring accuracy to today’s Conservatives.”
— Thus Spake The Guardian, December 27, 2020. Mirabile dictu, the Guardian is quoting Karl Marx!
Yes, BoJo did cut a deal on fish give-backs, and EU fishers will only have to give back 25% of the fish they’ve caught in British waters. (One assumes — hopes? — that is means a digital credit/debit arrangement, not a schlepp-the-fish-back -and-forth from one port to another arrangement.) That leaves them 75% of their catch. British fishwives are out already, hands flared around their mouths, calling salty oaths around BoJo’s cave-in. In a surprise rip-current, Scotland’s Nicola Sturgeon hails the deal and downplays Caledonian grousing. Seems she’s much more slippery on Scottish independence than her retired mentor, Mr. Salmond, was; but she’s in power, and he isn’t. But in England, the fisherfolk are throwing harpoons at Bojo:
I knew “The Shoals of Herring” as beautifully covered by the Corries; but here is the Songwriter Himself, Ewan MacColl, hypnotically chanting a distillation of the lives of thousands of men who lived on the sea. The Victorian herring fleet out of Great Yarmouth was one of the industrial wonders of the world. It makes a fascinating counterpart to “The Song o the Fishgutters” from the previous blog: they were, of course, the girls in the packing plants on shore in “Yermouth toun.” Hairk:
The Bard of Prestonpans, Davy Steele, sings his great Fareweel tae the Fishin’.
Hear the delightfully incomprehensible ’10 Dreg Song.” I couldn’t find the lyrics, but I did find a whole website about “Dreg Songs!” In the nineteenth century, Scotsmen fished for oysters in the Firth of Forth by dragging dredges over the oyster ‘scalps’. To maintain a steady speed they sang as they rowed. Overfishing brought the industry to a close near the turn of the twentieth century and with it, the use of the dreg songs. For years the songs were hidden away – lost.… Read more below!!
“Chuck Chaparral — #1 in the West Valley! How can I help you… I see sir…you ‘can’t deal.‘ Perfectly natural. You think humanity is ‘crazy’….you just want to get away? You want a place like on your T-shirt?? [off:] Stella, we’ve got a live one! [into phone] Sure, sir; well, no, I mean yes, of course that makes sense!. Humans stink, you say? And it must be the West Valley? If I may ask — oh, I see: because you’re sick of the East Valley! And Covid…the idiots everywhere? You just want to hibernate until the New Year? Who doesn’t! Yes, sir! I can help you find a cave. That’s my business, and I’m the best. I can help you escape into oblivion, with the most comprehensive listing of caves in the Simi Hills for the grouchy bear. [!] Sorry, I mean, the sentient patriotic American. Don’t eat your phone, sir…”
“Why not start at the top? There’s nothing like Munits’s Cave. The Garden of Allah is under McDonald’s parking lot; and Pickfair is only that crushed rubble in the garden paths of Pia Zadora’s much larger estate. But here, you get a surviving authentic California cave PACKED with bees, crow guano, and local history. Smell the fragrant Chumash shamans? Catch the dust and sweat of our ranching days? How ’bout that breeze redolent of the Malibu coast, just over that hill…? That chilly fog is part of the deal. It’s the “beards of the Elye-wun.” They’re out hunting you see –??Mythic romance? Priceless. Just look at your View…!
“Of course! it’s top dollar, sir! I understand, sir — you’re no performing bear with a TV series. No, I don’t think you were one of the Gentle Bens, or something. No need to use that tone of growl. If that’s ALL [ahem] YOU CAN AFFORD….there is ONE snug little excavation, still available in the Munits Cave-Adjacent Area…across the street…right…down… there.See it?”
“Small? Whaddaya want, a Great Room? Sorry. Yes…yes. YES, in full View of the looky-loos at Munits’s. Plus the echo of bird calls in the bowl is enchanting. Ravens croaking at 5:30 am? Like Mozart!
“I wouldn’t say the outlook is dreary, sir; I say, it’s spooky and mysterious! [cringes at the roar] But you and I are OF COURSE of one sympathy, sir! I know what you want! [listens; sighs; winds watch] Yes, sir, Covid, Brexit, democracy’s collapse, I get it! (thinks; thinks; thinks). So, I have a couple of ideas yet. Would you go a few miles north? Yes, ‘north of Victory Blvd.’ YOU WANTED RUSTIC, sir! Come on, we just have time before sunset. Don’t growl at me…just, calm down, get in the car, sir….I’ve got some hot chai in a thermos, here…got it? Don’t mind about my suit, it’ll dry, only, the backseat upholstery… [shakes off spilled tea] Thanks, sir. I appreciate it. Yes, I can open the windows. Turn on KUSC…? Zheesh. I mean, sweet!”
“So up here, we’re no longer Malibu-adjacent, but we ARE, out of West HIlls and into Chatsworth [gulp]. Thank God, eh sir? Tee hee. AND, we’re in the Santa Susana Pass State Park! Oh, you like it, sir? Well, this is a very exclusive neighborhood…but undiscovered, if you know what I mean. You do? [kaching!] Well, sir, let’s mosey up the pike. Yes, sure, take your mask off. Nobody comes up here. Why would they? There’s only Chumash cave paintings and California native plants! Ha ha! Ha ha ha ha! Ha…ha…ha…Here’s our first..well not a cave, but really, a modernist luxury canopy. Climb right in.”
“Well, sir, yes, that is graffiti. Those are NOT Chumash cave paintings, you’re right, they are the scribblings of idiotic local children who have no love in their lives, and live in video games, and must deface nature to yawp their pathetic existence. So, you’re right! I agree, it’s no den for a settled, mature bear. I just thought I’d show it to you, and — OK! I don’t like the look in your eye. Let’s move on, sir. This here’s a beauty. Look at the yard! Clamber in.”
“Drafts, you say? Well, these modern caves; all one big space. Sorry, that’s all I have, sir. That one up there? Hmmm, well, I don’t know, it isn’t on my listings… but here it is on CaveFax; and it’s available, sir! And what a fine View of the San Gabriels!”
“Quite a bargain, too. But you can’t want a cramped little cave like that, sir? Cozy? Really? With all your excess [ahem] Covid-lockdown bulk? Well, you’ll have nice rut appeal, and a lovely View if you ever decide to wake up…[thinks] and sir, you realize, it is right on the Old Santa Susana Stagecoach Road? I mean, right on it – you’d have Number One, Old Santa Susana Stagecoach Road as your address!! That’ll give you LA cred! You’ll take it? Well, sir, I’ll get the papers in order! I’m sure nothing at all is going to trouble your long winter’s nap. The gardeners come on Wednesday, wear your earplugs, sir. It’s a pleasure serving you, and remember, Chaparral Covers the West Valley! Happy New Year!”
The Valley Village View 