Fables of the reconstruction

Fables of the reconstruction

My Friday path was diverted by a five-axel truck that nearly jackknifed in front of me at the corner of University Avenue and Middlefield at 12:59 p.m. I noted the precise time because I was able to shoot a photo of the incident with my cellphone, and it has a time-stamp feature to boot.

I was on my way to see the rabbi about his “Fifth Friday” service but instead diverted to Palo Alto Main to rant a bit about Palo Alto becoming like a war zone in terms of all the building and rebuilding going on.

I’ve never been to Beirut, or Baghdad but how much worse could it be?

My first impression of Clermont–Ferrand, on tour with a musician client, was that it must have been flattened by a blitzkrieg and then quickly rebuilt, but then I was relieved to see that no matter who is to blame for the ugliness of their most modern and boom-built section, at least they had, I figured out later, despite the jetlag, an old city, a beautiful old city, with a cathedral and everything. Streets way to narrow to try to bring a long truck, plus they probably have zoning or some such French nonsensical complication.

When Americans speak of reconstruction we typically think of Atlanta after the failed Southern Rebellion; I’ve been to Atlanta, have read Wolfe’s “Man In Full” and of course have seen both halves of “Gone With the Wind” in one night even.

But what are we reconstructing from, here, the war on Democracy? This is like a Passover plague. You know: locusts, frogs, then worst of all, the first and third buildings on every block shall be struck down.

I’ve done the tiniest bit of actual research to back up my hyperbole: the Palo Alto Weekly, in its yearly supplement, has a table that says that the value of commercial real estate here rose from $5 billion total in 1985 to $25 billion in 2010, a twenty billion dollar delta.

I’ve been asking, in slightly different voices, sort of like a cross between Rich Little and Chicken Little: so who benefits from this twenty BILLION (with a “B” as in bullion, bricks, bombs and bombast) creation of wealth? And, likewise, how has our local attempts at self-government been impacted by this change, this creation, this elephant in the room, this behemoth? (which reminds me that although I have conveniently forgot the actual name on the truck I shot, it's logo looked suspiciously like a model of Bruegel's "Tower of Babel": let's call them Shining Shoring and Scaffolding.)

When I applied for the Palo Alto Planning and Transportation Commission earlier this year, a seat eventually filled by corporate lawyer Mark Michael (with votes also going to Sunny Dykwell and Daria Suma), council member Yiaway Yeh asked me if my being an “activist” would impact pejoratively my ability to be on a commission (of seven members, in this case).

Now when the Chronicle Pink Section (Dan Oullette) once called me an arts activist for the fact that my small business Earthwise Productions, and its creative re-use of Cubberley Community Center theatre and auditorium for concerts with national and international rock folk and jazz acts, and a penchant for doing benefit events for local ngos, I took that as a compliment, because relative to my peers and idols in the biz per se, I did have a bigger heart, or a more easily diverted business plan, and path to profit.

On the other hand, to summarily dismissed, even as a neophyte and fledgling voice –offering to lend a hand, or fill a chair, or take a "warm handoff"--- as “activist” I bristled. Hey, I don’t do actually get to do anything here, in politics, or policy, so how can I be an activist?

What I actually said was, and these sessions are archived and a public record:

I’m a writer before I’m an activist. And I was a team sports player, for Gunn High and Terman, in basketball, football and tennis, so my upbringing is dribble, look to pass, set a screen, help out on defense (the basketball part stuck, plus I'm Linsane).

The environmental ethos is “reduce, reuse, recycle.” It is not “reconstruction”.

Anyhow, good luck to Above the Zoning Limits Scaffold or whoever you are; we hope the union workers survive their conscription into the war on gravity here in Palo Alto. But for my renter's dollar I prefer quiet enjoyment followed by indie rock or skronky jazz, not jackhammers and clanging metal.