Tom Sawyer Days
I read your article about the redwood tree removal on Airport Boulevard and the sale of taxpayers’ trees for the company’s profit (“Deadwood Hwy.,” Jan. 30). That money should be at work patching the potholes or employing someone. Instead, the owner of Ghilotti Bros. is already planning that vacation or new car.
I grew up along Mark West Creek when they built the freeway. My brother and I used to fish that creek for trout, steelhead, blue gill, turtles, frogs, toads, salamanders, crawdads—it was all there, like Tom Sawyer. Then they built the freeway and Wikiup, and after a few years of construction the creek changed. Now water flow is blocked and swimming holes are dried up to be little more than moss-covered ponds.
Vineyards stealing water resources, new construction and now the theft of the taxpayers’ trees—all thanks to officials who did not grow up in Sonoma County. Thanks for your armed robbery without a gun, only with profit in mind.
Cool Down, Man
Reading your letters edition, I was blown away by the radical letters from J. B. Grant and Moss Henry. Obviously these people don’t like the government or President Obama. (I like the president, but I don’t like the war we’re in.)
J. B. Grant takes the Ron Paul copout that violence overseas brings violence here—jive! Moss Henry: whistleblowers, torture—please!
Are you guys men or are you babies? You remind me of a bunch of Republicans. Raids on pot clubs, the war in Afghanistan—those things I could complain about, but this other stuff is nonsense. I like Obama. He is cool. You other guys are crybabies, radicals and malcontents.
Grow up, people. Would you rather have Romney running the country? I think not.
I told my girlfriend the other day, “Love is but lonely voids. Baby, I know it sounds weird and super emo, but I heard even Einstein believed love was empty space. To exist in space is to be lonely. To exist in space is to be in love. You wouldn’t be lonely if you didn’t need love. You wouldn’t be in love if you weren’t lonely. Lonely love = ‘lovely’ forever and everywhere always . . . even when we’re assholes about it.”
Stars undulate, giving birth to each other, filling empty space for the loneliness of it all. But I feel bad sometimes, feverishly questioning everything worth believing in, out of fear for the loneliness of it all. Shit’s cold up there between warm bodies. She gets scared at things I say, and I can’t blame her. Things like, “Love may be an abstract neurosis beyond the necessity for survival” and “I wonder if the planets ever feel like they’re being held hostage.” Or even, “Love is but lonely voids.” I’m aware that sometimes I fill the aforementioned empty space with stone-jaded plugs of an asshole. But please print this so she knows how much I love her, empty spaces and all.
I am not eager for the development of Sonoma into a resort destination and wine country theme park. (Even though many citizens might argue we are already beyond the tipping point.)
The proposed luxury hotel brings us closer to the selling of the town, the plaza for profit, not for the people who live and work here. Perhaps a better vision for Sonoma is one that takes pride in our historic past, our beloved plaza and a community rooted in agriculture. An authentic place, not “branded” to enrich investors. Why would we be eager to install a luxury hotel whose investors profit by Sonoma’s intrinsic values, all the while eroding what we love about our town?
The photo for your cover story (“Worst. Date. Ever.,” Jan. 23) is puzzling. A slickly dressed young man with a cigarette in his hand flirting with a young lady with a plunging neckline states confusing messages. Is he waiting for his Johnnie Walker Blue Label scotch while the target of his affection is waiting for a highly rated Russian River Pinot Noir?
Let’s be more responsible and take that cigarette out of his hand.
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