Laid Off? Party On.

The proprietess of a popular club near here told me that the normal caelndar of holiday parties, office parties, and birthday parties have slowed to a trickle, but she has lots of "layoff parties" lined up.

Grim humor in a drinking town.

Continuing my "back to nature" theme these slightly idle days, the photo above is from Baker Beach, the nicest spit of sand in this city, which stretches from the swanky Seaside neighborhood, home to billionaires, to the rocky outcrop of the Golden Gate Pass.

Despite the placid looking waters, currents here can be deadly, as the Bay alternatively sucks the Pacific through this narrow opening or out-tides its daily detritus along the foamy, ever-shifting tideline.

The far end, near the bridge, is a well-known hangout for nudists, including, alas, those who really shouldn't be. The hillsides above are colonized by a colorful assortment of ice plant, Golden Poppies, and scrubby bushes angling into majestic Monterey Pines of The Presidio.

Over four decades ago, Otis Redding made his way out here from Georgia to write his classic "Dock of the Bay," while sitting on one in the pre-gentrified Sausalito. Above Sausalito sat the predominantly black Marin City, which had been constructed for wartime shipyard workers.

Another poet, rapper Tupac Shakur spent several years in Marin City in the 1980's, attending Tamalpais High School in Mill Valley for a minute. Other writers who lived here, albeit briefly, were white -- Jack Kerouac and one of my buddies of the early 1990's, Annie Lamott.

Today, the area has been redeveloped. Gone is the flea market; in its place is a super-sized shopping mall dominated by discount stores, such as Ross Dress for Less. The charming cottages form the 1940's, with hardwood-floors and million-dollar views of the Bay, have disappeared among hundreds of monstrously huge condos that march up the hill like voracious creatures dreampt up by nearby resident George Lucas.

One quality everyone named in this column shared except George was a degree of poverty for most of their lives. "Starving artists" was not a cute name for a moving company but a reality -- one that may soon return.

If indeed we are entering a Depression, who the hell is going to hire writers, musicians, and other artists? Who indeed?

But nature is free, though around these parts, extremely hazardous as well. There is always a rip-tide ready to sweep you away or a steep ravine to challenge your ability to cheat gravity. Little edible food can be gathered here, mainly little-known wild greens that few people (except chefs in exclusive restaurants and the very poor) can appreciate.

Though we have few biting insects, we have spiders that like to chew on humans any chance they get, including the dreaded Brown Recluse. It's politically incorrect to hunt birds, deer or other game; and most of the fish in the Bay are contaminated with toxins.

Hunting and gathering, thus, is not much of an option -- dumpster diving is probably a better alternative, given the amount of food we still waste.

That there is poetry in these activities is a given. I wonder how many will be on the road again soon...

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