Hey, let’s not jump the gun

I have to admit that I’m becoming a tad bit concerned over the growing number of disgruntled Californians – and probably a half-dozen Iowans – who are loudly demanding the recall of Gov. Gray “I Am Not A Weasel!” Davis.

Oh, sure, he’s managed to successfully annoy millions of voters year after year, and he’ll gladly back anyone who’ll donate more than a 12-pack of Schlitz Malt Liquor to his campaign efforts, but he’s still the governor and he’s still got a lot of political savvy California’s going to need in the coming months of statewide turmoil, chaos and despair.

Consider the cost of fuel. Gasoline prices have jumped to more than $2 a gallon at the pumps for no readily discernible reason (although major petroleum producers will tell you that a broken pipe in the executive men’s room at Chevron’s Richmond refinery caused a significant slowdown last month).

Gov. Davis apparently became aware of soaring gasoline prices sometime last week. He promptly frowned, rolled up his sleeves and boldly indicated that he’ll probably think about looking into the causes of the price hike to make sure that there’s no likelihood that gouging might be going on.

He’s mad as hell and he’s not going to take it anymore. At least not for long. Probably. I mean, he could be really annoyed and be considering taking some kind of action in the not-too-distant future. Really.

We’ve got to give Gov. Davis a chance to think about turning this gasoline crisis around.

After all, he’s almost done it before.

Remember two years ago when gasoline prices skyrocketed and the petroleum producers said cost increases were necessary because there’d been a Dumpster fire behind the Martinez refinery and a pump broke at the Sebastopol Shell service station?

You better believe Gov. Davis was on top of that crisis. He repeatedly shook his finger at the petroleum industry and warned them if they didn’t do something to regulate themselves soon, he was ready to think about calling for volunteers who might like to perhaps consider investigating the situation.

The big oil boys were no match for the governor. They quickly capitulated and sent in their campaign contributions.

And what about the so-called energy crisis?

Gov. Davis stared those crooked energy producers straight in the eye and promptly bought up all the energy reserves in the Western United States. And he didn’t care what it cost, either.

That’ll teach those pinstriped punks to call Gray Davis’ bluff.

And now a few whiners want to recall Gov. Davis before he’s even had a chance to fix the gas crisis…

Sorry, disgruntled voters, but this is the time to exercise a little restraint and show some patience. Give Gov. Davis a chance to think about maybe doing something eventually.

Besides, who knows what we’ll wind up with once we recall Davis? If we just wait a little longer, though, outgoing Minnesota Gov. Jesse Ventura will have enough time to establish residency in California and enter our next gubernatorial race.

And that, amigos, will be a win-win situation…

Originally published March 23, 2003

Goooood morrrrrning, Vacaville!

There’s nothing quite like Northern California’s unfettered wildlife to remind us all of our great outdoor heritage.

Big-toothed beavers paddling placidly through sewage treatment ponds, raucous raccoons power-lifting garbage cans from one’s back porch and playful bears smashing through the windows of snack-bearing Subarus all remind us that the Golden State was once home to more than herds of beady-eyed Yuppies driving $60,000 sport utility vehicles.

Unfortunately, some of California’s original inhabitants have been known to intrude on the daily routines of the state’s frenetic 21st century suburbanites. A small but quite vocal flock of undomesticated loudmouths recently descended on a strategically unimportant corner of south Vacaville and they’re letting their presence be known shortly before dawn each morning.

As luck would have it, that strategically unimportant corner of Vacaville is about 30 feet from my bedroom window.

Perhaps I should explain.

(Sure, why not?)

I count myself fortunate to live in an apartment complex filled with trees. As dawn approaches, squirrels begin gently scampering from limb to limb, a lone owl hoots gently and mourning doves begin their, er, mourning. You can almost make out Henry David Thoreau’s ghost hovering near the volleyball net in the misty courtyard.

I’ve always rather enjoyed these early morning sounds. And then the crows arrived, vowing in their raspy-throated way to turn up the excitement at about 4 o’clock every morning. Within days, they were joined by a rowdy bunch of scrub jays with their own chorus of gargle-shrieks.

Don’t get me wrong. I like birds. They’ve got feathers and they fly around and stuff. Many of them chirp. Chirping’s cute. And some of them are quite tasty with wild rice and a light madeira sauce.

The guys who recently flew into my little corner of the apartment complex, however, do only one thing well. It sounds kinda like kwar-kwar-kwar! (crows). And screek-screek-screek! (scrub jays).

This is a whole lot worse than the former neighbor who used to howl like a wolf every other Friday night after a refreshing 12-pack of Schlitz malt liquor.

Worse, these characters are locked in a perpetual battle of vocal one upsmanship. For every crow’s kwar there will be two jays’ screeks until there are roughly 200 birds simultaneously dissing each other before sunrise.

It’s kind of like living on a street populated by two rival motorcycle gangs that thunder home shortly after the bars close each morning.

I’ve even learned to translate a few pre-dawn squawks and phrases.

Screeeeek-squawrk-screek-gaaaaah! for example, roughly translates to “Hey, road kill breath, ya wanta piece of me? Huh? Eh?! C’mon, c’mon…”

Whereas “Kwar-kwar, kwark-gacack!” means “Yer mother was a green-tailed towhee!”

There is, I suppose, a positive side to all of this. I no longer have to set my clock radio to awaken me at 6 a.m., since the crows and jays get the job done about an hour earlier.

And, as one of my bright-eyed, sprout-eating coworkers gleefully trilled, “Just think, spring is here and soon there will be lots and lots of baby birds, too!”

Oh, joy…

Originally published April 14, 2002