Ever shoploaded a shitlift? Don’t get too excited! Most accidents happen within five miles of the home…
Ever shoploaded a shitlift? Don’t get too excited! Most accidents happen within five miles of the home…
Here’s some photos of the Guadalupe at Virginia St on Saturday morning, not only big and beautiful again after last night’s rain but also moving fast, as I got it at about 8 in the morning this time. It’s kind of best that it’s being unceremoniously pumped out to sea, as no one in San Jose, especially not Willow Glen, deserves this life-giving water. You’re just gonna water your organic lawns with it.
I know it’s hard not to be an innovator every second of your existence, but try not to focus on the real estate at the margins of the photos, like your liberal president would. In other news, 17 North is blocked again. Time to consider that this road was a bad idea and do something different… remember the train tunnel?? It’s gotta still be there, right?
Went to the Women’s March this morning, a response nationwide to Trump’s inauguration, and hoped to see a bunch of little 12 year old girls rule motherfuckers on their special day. But of course that kind of confidence and ownership takes time. This is your world, girls, do your thing! There were lots of teachers, lots of retired liberals, lots of babies and lots of pussy hats. Some generally bored-looking men, some obligated-looking men, some young girls scoping the whole thing out doubtlessly trying to figure out where they fit in.
Here’s the crowd at Shitty Hall, fourth and Santa Clara:
The whole thing remained pretty Hwite, I’m sorry to report, unless there was a section of people of color on the other side of the street that I never saw. The crowd was of such size and I was with a group of people of such size that once the thing got moving you were often stuck where you were.
As far as I saw there was only one elderly man in a contrary position, up on the balcony of the Rotary building’s parking garage with a sign that said we were bullying Trump by marching. Can one bully, can one be bigoted against, those who have all the power?
Apropos bullying, my favorite sign is the one about the mango:
All in all the day was a success, because any day when car traffic is barred from downtown is a good day. The convocation at Plaza César Chávez devolved into a bit of a pissing match for local politicians en lieu of a better-organized guide to groups represented in the march to inform the interested. There was even a shameless appearance by Sam Liccardo himself, él de la mayor desvergüenza, hijo de puta y mamón de su propia verga, so I left before it ended. A good time was had by all and we practiced being squished together on the streets!
Here are some photos of the Guadalupe River taken from the Virginia bridge in downtown San José on 11 and 12 January 2017. The river has risen during the “pineapple express” that has made major problems for Santa Cruz, Hollister and Gwairnville, to name a few. These are photos of the spillway, in fact, full to the ramp from the expansion of the river from the levee at west where it remains confined during most of the year. One begins to wonder why Coyote, which flows admirably for a creek, is a creek, when Guadalupe is a river, and flows no better than a creek.
Here is the spillway facing south on Wednesday, Harliss St at east:
In all photos if you look close you can see the highwater mark in the grass from the early morning when it was still raining. At 3pm when the photos were taken each day, the water has slowed its roll. I wish I could’ve photographed the river form above by the lurid streetlight at 6AM when I drove up onto the 680 ramp and could see the river really moving in the rain, at its peak volume.
Here’s Wednesday facing north:
Here’s Thursday to the south at about the same time and the same angle as Wednesday:
Only wish I’d picked up even more trash than I had all autumn thanks to you asshole landlords and gentrifiers making sure that our own neighbors can’t afford housing. One fun thing is that a lot of people were out just looking at the river same as me. A chance to get to know your neighbors, pendejos!
One not fun thing is the continued streak of uncritical incompetence on the part of the Murky News, who without a second thought parroted the grossly irresponsible suggestion by NOAA themselves that the drought in California is “over.” HELLO. You reading this just bought a bag of almonds grown with thousand year-old water drilled out of a mile-deep well in Tulare to make a salad that’ll impress your yuppie mother in law. That doesn’t refill with four inches of rain. Incidentally, KCSM played “I’ve Known Rivers” this morning…
This incompetent call shows the idiocy of our water supply measurements in California, which favor surface levels in reservoirs (luxury items) rather than considering the TRUE hydrological realities of local aquifers. In any case, California has no “drought;” we are a dry state and we use our water stupidly including paving the whole state so the rain can’t soak in and gets piped into the ocean. Break some pavement up today!
– LETTER OF APPRECIATION –
Greetings and solidarity to each other and all who participated in our initial Hunger Strike to end the arbitrary use of solitary confinement and inhumane treatment in Santa Clara County Jails.
Before we set off into the body of this letter we would like to extend our respect and appreciation to all who participated and sacrificed to provoke change. Although we came from diverse backgrounds be it race, religion, color or creed we set out differences aside, inter-locked arms forming a formidable force through civil disobedience in solidarity.
Allow the sacrifices each participant has made be inspiration to others to join in our struggle, allow our peaceful protest to demonstrate the power of unity and the positive changes that can be effected when we view each other not as classification of inmates defined by the color of clothing issued to prisoners by administration but instead as human beings who share the same oppressive conditions.
For decades prisoners have been slammed down in solitary confinement, locked away from education and rehabilitation programs or barred from participating in fellowship of their faith due to administration beliefs … Meanwhile our families are being exploited with practices that amount to price gouging through exorbitant commissary and phone rates. While they survive in a region with rising rent cost plagued by a homeless epidemic in city with ordinances that throws people in jail for having no place to live… Let’s be thankful we have religious leaders and community organizations like De-Bug who rally behind us to champion our cause and see us different, who are the difference, who see us as human beings, who are not persuaded by those in positions of authority whom define us by our allegations and classification rhetoric to pump fear in the heart of the public in their effort to kill our support base when they are preoccupied beating us to death like Michael Tyree … In the spirit of thankfulness perhaps one might consider reaching out to their family and friends letting them know they are appreciated; we appreciate you and yours for your support so Thank You!
Before we bring this letter of appreciation to a close we would like to abreast the prisoner population that our hunger strike has not ended, it has been momentarily suspended. We gave administration (30) days to bring about tangible changes for the benefit of all prisoners. We will continue our efforts until all of our core demands have been met. We will not be duped by the superficial such as movie night and a snack, we must persist as a collective that stands firm on principle. We must not be deluded by a carrot on a stick offered to us by an oppressed system that is fueled by greed and political ambitions.
To prevail in our struggle for prisoners human rights we respectfully ask the prisoner population to exercise diplomacy for it is not in our own interest to engage in combat with one another when we are fighting together to improve our conditions of confinement. We ask those of you who sway influence in our housing unit to work with each other to resolve conflict peacefully by promoting prisoner solidarity. Let’s try not to provide ammunition to the administration that allows them to justify the reasoning for the use of solitary confinement. Our goal is to promote our cause by unifying like-minded people to support our next planned Hunger strike.
In closing, we thank you for your time.
PRISONERS UNITED OF SILICON VALLEY
Newsletter #1 contents:
Letter Of Appreciation
We Are the 13th Amendment! by Jose Valle
Write to De-Bug San Jose
Prisoners United of Silicon Valley
Download, Read, or Print entire newsletter:
Link to full newsletter: http://tinyurl.com/gwhq2hp PRISONERS UNITED OF SILICON VALLEY ▼ December 22, 2016 – Newsletter 1 – LETTER OF APPRECIATION – Greetings and solidarity to each other and all who participated in our initial Hunger Strike to end the arbitrary use of solitary confinement and inhumane treatment in Santa Clara County Jails. Before we […]
Did we all bike to work on the 12th to prepare for Bike Fest ’16? Of course not, dipshit, you drove like you do every day. Aren’t you embarrassed? If I had the same executive position at Cisco for the past fucking ten years like you, I think I’d have learned to not sit on highway 87 by now. For an hour, which is the same as sitting on the light rail for some parts. Anyway, that’s just me.
Went to the History Park in central San Ho to see SV Bike Fest ’16 and took some pictures of just a few of the bicycles. Sorry bikers, this was not a motorcycle show! But take a look anyway. Captions tell the stories of some bikes.
Santa Clara Valley Brewing donated the money from beer sales to the Fest. VTA was there too, to get people to come to transit meetings so we can propose that they spread their upcoming budget better between freeways (which we know are a lost cause) and bike/pedestrian improvements (which are proven improvements).
Some merchants were selling soap and stuff too, and there was also a guy from the Tour de Coop, who are combining bike touring with people’s urban gardens. Is that a sweet idea or what?? It’s September 17, and already on September 18 is the return of the righteous Viva Calle.
Finished the first major draft of my “break novel” today, that I’ve written over six months while taking a break from Magnetic Water and Worms. Here’s a sneak peek at my new satire, the gentri-fi novel Meat Ladder to Mars! Should be out, and in physical copies, by Spring! Enjoy and remember, all the offensive material is real stuff that people volunteer to tell me!
From chapter 2:
Evening brought a breeze off the ocean and the brilliant red sunset permeated the smog until, saturated, it dispersed in purple and crimson scraps on a great yellow atmospheric puddle. Zosime didn’t have the humor to go out to Bushmeat, but she had to get something to eat. And if Gopman or Chesky were there, she could maybe set down the pigshaped stone lodged in her right ventricle, which thudded against her soft heart tissues and restricted her lungs. Time and routine had weakened her show of propriety. Just as before she’d let go and laughed at Clayton, she now felt ready to talk to her superiors if the situation should arise.
She took the bus to Agege, where a train ended and didn’t connect at all to the central Lagos station, and waited in the street, feeling charitable toward the North Dakotan. She peered carefully into the flux of people streaming past, the carts and taxis and bicycle rickshaws or scrimshaws or what the word was in English, in case she saw Clayton wandering around. But she didn’t peer too long. She joined the throng of bodies, the muddy, spicy odor of moving night, and walked or waded toward the stadium, around a rain-cracked stucco façade and into the roofless confines of the bar.
Launch systems analyst Gopman set his bottle of Star down and whispered hey to launch chief doctor Chesky. –That’s the intern. The ex-intern.
–Ah god, where?
They hunched over their beers at the bar, surrounded by anonymous foreign workers but still trying to form a private space. Here at Bushmeat the two men tended to let go of their pretense of professionalism, a custom they clung to here in Nigeria in case anyone back at home looked.
–So you had any dates yet? Chesky teased his colleague, who scratched his gel-stretched blond curls and rolled his eyes. –I don’t know dude … I just keep thinkin, yknow, in Africa, that they’re just gonna think my dick’s too small. His chief stuttered out a loud laugh. –Serious shit! Haven’t you thought of that?
–I don’t know … Chesky’s eyes looked up from his beer, turned left and collided with those of the bright young former intern.
–Doctor Chesky! Godsend said in Chinua Achebe’s stately English, –so it’s true you have dinner here!
–We’re launching our space shuttle tomorrow full of cargo going to Mars, Chesky boasted to his beer, to the barkeep, –tonight we’re drinking.
He didn’t stop the kid from sitting down, who ordered a plate of chicken in half English and half Yoruba. Despite the heat his shirtsleeves, chest and back were still fresh as morning. He had the focus of a student about him, wide, attentive eyes.
–Ah, to Shango himself! the intern said, –some real men must be preparing to travel to him. But as far as who sends them up, have you consulted with the boss about finding me a new position?
–Look, Iyiola, it’s like I told ya. We already got a launch systems analyst, he gestured with upturned palm at Gopman’s beer, –your role, as well as his, have been reevaluated according to what we need for this mission, and that job’s gonna come out in the shape it comes out in, once we know what we need. We don’t know just now. We’ve got a launch tomorrow, and then maybe a launch as early as next month. There’s no time to learn all the systems.
–Yes, Iyiola persisted, –but the last launch was only your first, correct? And you learned. The two Americans regarded him uneasily, unable to lie. They were new here, too, as if their habits didn’t give them away. –The only jobs we have are in loading.
–Ha ha! Iyiola laughed an obscure laugh, genuine, scornful or both. –Who would take an unskilled job with training like mine?
Chesky’s close-set brown eyes crept up his long nose as he watched Zosime sit down at the bar to Iyiola’s left. She nodded at the young man, who stood coolly and said nothing to her. But it wasn’t all him. She would’ve said something to him any other time, or sat with him rather than with her bosses, if not for this gravitational field her bosses had, and this vibe that she had an unlisted duty not to talk to former employees.
–I’ll be at the university library when you need me. I can quit there any day! He took the plate of chicken just as the barkeep handed it to him. He found a seat next to three older black men at the long yellow bench under the outstretched limbs of the bar’s plump Ivory Coast almond.
A leathery rope of elder woman, wrapped in her most attractive striped kaba, drew into the patio with a big basket in her arms. –Chicken and rice! she called out, –made at home!
Unnoticed by the other men at the benches, she approached Gopman and Chesky and repeated her solicitation. No thanks, they said, no cash.
–Not here, the lithe barkeep reproved her with a surprisingly sonorous basso voice, –my kitchen’s cooking here. The woman reproved his uncooperativeness with a scowl and went on her way.
–Anyway, Gopman continued right where he’d left off, –it can’t be that hard. I’m just being a pussy. There’s whores here, right?
–There has to be.
–Plus people don’t shower here as much, so I don’t think they’ll criticize anything about me. Hey. You ever pull down yer pants and confuse the smell of come with the smell of yer regular dick? Serious shit! He looked at his phone. –Where’s the fuckin food, already?
Just then doctor Chesky perceived who the woman was two stools away. –Shut up! he told Gopman, –Shush! He turned to Zosime. –Hey … you’re our loading shift leader, right?
Zosime was trying to swallow her shot, and even though it was expected that he should await her response until she finished, she was annoyed that he said something to her midswallow. –I am, she addressed the empty shot glass with its miniature stem and foot, –unless you have something better. She nodded after Iyiola.
–Hah, yeah really. Whatcha drinking? Pernod? Sounds good. You tried the local beer?
Zosime shook her head. –Yep, Gopman observed with relish, –Star dappa doo dar. That’s why we’re in Lagos, Nigeria. Not cause of the equator, but cause the beer matches the company.
–I wish it wasn’t so far, Chesky talked through his swallowing, –the boss’ll probably never come out from California to see us.
–Why don’t you think? Zosime asked.
–He’s lived in airplanes all day for ten years! Chesky explained. –He’s reinventing the world all day, by the time he gets to Silicon Valley to check on his money, he’s gotta go back down to So-cal to check on the Mars mission!
–He’s a genius, Gopman added.
–He’s the innovator of innovators, Chesky gushed, –you’d wanna work for him no matter what, to be part of the future! To really make your mark on the future of the human race.
He paused to remember. –I remember when his biography came out, I was just an undergrad, I tried to get a copy so, yknow, it’d be a conversation starter. I couldn’t even afford to buy it, my rent was so high for my studio. There was … I remember it, seven holds on each of all their copies, in town and down in Oakland.
–I tried Frisco. A hold on thirty-nine copies. I even tried to get it from San José. Multiple holds on all nine copies. So, I mean, yeah, I got it on my phone. But the boss … he’s like, bigger than Steve Jobs!
–Serious shit! I mean Steve Jobs … he’s just like, digital! The boss is like, voluminous, yknow, like he says, physical. He knows the drag coefficients for everything he builds.
–He’s like, the definition of innovation. I mean, the sheer achievement.
Zosime was beginning to perceive another unlisted duty: adulate the boss. –I don’t really know anything about him. I haven’t had time to look. Before I was hired I thought I was working for New Sky Lines, I didn’t know it was Star-X. The two young men looked dumb at her, then carried on.
–So, we’re gonna make a lotta money off this job, Gopman suggested to her across his boss’s chest, –my advice to you is work hard in the silo, and get into real estate now, while there’s nothin holdin our money down.
Chesky sneered at his analyst. –You’re really gonna jump in and buy houses here?
–Cmon, chief! Remember the famous Airbnb class at Berkeley? I was in that fuckin class! I already got people findin me property all over, right here in Africa. Fix some places up, flippem. It’s the same everywhere.
Zosime found his idea absurd, but he seemed to know what he was talking about. –Where is the good real estate?
–It’s wherever they’re redeveloping. One neighborhood at a time, they’re redoingem, makinem more upscale.
–Are the neighborhoods abandoned? Zosime asked, smelling a rat.
–I don’t know, Gopman threw his free hand in the air, –but the poor people’ll go somewhere. Who lived there before the redevelopment aren’t gonna wanna pay higher housing prices. There’s plenty space. There’s a new economy now. Innovators like us need room! We need space to innovate. It’s a process.
–They’ll move until there’s nowhere to go. Gopman goggled at her. –The slums in Lagos have to, how do you say, take in the people who lose their homes. But they can’t all go to the slums if you send them out,
–That’s ridiculous! Gopman chugged his beer, –you’re not even re-tarded. That’s pre-tarded.