NTMG Holiday Guide 2012 by New Times Media Group, San Luis Obispo

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HOLIDAY 2012 FALL/ GUIDE WI NTE R 2012

HOLIDAY GUIDE AND

A N E W TI M E S M E D IA G R O U P SPE C IAL PU B LI CATI O N

YO U R S E A S O N A L G U I D E T O A R T S

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D CA NARY) NOW PRESENT

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HIL RE W I N F RO N T O F A RO A R I N G F I

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N I NG LI E S , M I S T RU T H S & HOL I D

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Holiday Guide 2012

Neglected, abandoned and abused children need their voices heard. Locally, over 600 children have been rescued from lives of neglect and abuse. They need safe, loving homes . . . and they need advocates to speak out for them. That’s where CASA comes in. Our volunteers work tirelessly to help children’s voices be heard here in Santa Barbara County. Your financial support will help CASA train more volunteers and serve children who are waiting for an advocate. Lift up a child’s voice. Send your tax-deductible gift to CASA of Santa Barbara County today, or make a donation online at www.sbcasa.org/donate. Volunteer. Donate. Get Involved. volunteer@sbcasa.org • (805) 739-9102

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N E W T I M E S and T H E S U N present N E W T I M E S AND T H E S U N PRESENT

AWAY

THE BASEMENT HOLIDAY

GUIDE

The holidays

Be warned that such fictions aren’t always pretty. A Christmas Carol is, after all, nothing more than a ghost story— albeit, one that ends happily. Frosty melts. Rudolph is a victim of bullying, and It’s a Wonderful Life is the tale of a man hellbent on committing suicide on Christmas Eve. We are a flawed species, whatever the season, and our holiday fictions are nothing more than a brazen attempt to reconcile our own shortcomings with the expectant joy of the season. So expect ghouls and bullies, as well as glistening turkeys and stomachs that shake like bowls full of jelly. I kidnapped the writers and forced them to produce their own holiday fictions in the hopes that these might worm their way into your holiday feasts and merriment. Read them aloud ‘round the fire. Or visit newtimesslo.com and listen to a recording of the enslaved writers reading their stories. Disregard any groans or pleas for help. They like my basement quite well. -Shredder

are all about fiction— countless fictions, really. The fiction that overweight men clad in scarlet are in the habit of stuffing themselves down chimneys on cold, winter nights. The fiction that humans aren’t so bad, and when all is said and done, we’re capable of setting aside our endless, petty gripes and animosities and holding hands round a roaring fire. That a pumpkin spice latte and a sheet over your head pass for some kind of significant cultural happening. The fiction that, come December, your wallet will somehow stretch to encompass all of your loved ones, even if all of your money is emblazoned with George Washington’s head. But something magic starts to happen when we live with those fictions over the course of several generations, and they begin to work their way into our rituals and memories. The part that’s fiction morphs into a kind of truth: We do sit around the fire swilling heavily-spiked eggnog and feasting on a turkey carcass, if only because our fictions tell us we’re supposed to. And that’s why, dearest reader, in honor of the fictitious season of giving, I’m gifting you with that greatest seasonal lubricant of all: fiction.

Publishers Bob Rucker Alex Zuniga

Executive Editor Ryan Miller

Managing Editor Ashley Schwellenbach

Contributors

Matt Fountain Ashley Schwellenbach Anna Weltner

Jay Alba Reid Cain

Chris White-Sanborn Ana Korgan Ryan Miller Colin Rigley Maeva Considine

Assistant Art Director

Illustrators

Editorial Design

Irene Flores Annamarie Fella Neal Breton Jeff Chang Maeva Considine Lena Rushing

Holiday Guide 2012 HOLIDAY GUIDE 2012

Heather Walter Jenny Gosnell

Advertising

Rhonda O’Dell Tracey Joyner Scuri Katy Gray

Leslie Neighbors Rene Rodriguez Meg Korgan Laura Reese Georgia Shore

Production Jenny Gosnell Tony Koster Dora Mountain Brendan Rowe

COVER ILLUSTRATION BY HEATHER WALTER

Holiday Guide

is published annually and distributed in San Luis Obispo and Northern Santa Barbara counties by New Times. For more information or to be included in next year’s publication, please call us at (805) 546-8208.

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Stuff their stockings with tickets to the PAC! Choose from more than three dozen shows and make sure family and friends get what they really are hoping for this holiday season!

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N E W T I M E S and T H E S U N present N E W T I M E S AND T H E S U N PRESENT

MERRY CHRISTMAS, YOU’RE

DEAD BY MAEVA CONSIDINE ILLUSTRATION BY MAEVA CONSIDINE

Holiday Guide 2012 HOLIDAY GUIDE 2012

December 24, 2012 at 9:30 p.m. Donnie McKinny was seated in the midsection of the city bus on his way to a night shift at Millet and Samson Mortuary and Embalming studios. There had been a freezing rain on his six-block walk to the bus stop. He had tugged expectantly at the collar of his coat and rubbed his hands raw as he waited for the No. 46 bus to pull around. The ride had been uneventful, save for a raving man carrying a solitary bicycle wheel who insisted that this particular bus used to have a stop in Tokyo. Donnie watched as the other riders tried to stifle their laughter. Donnie didn’t find crazy people particularly funny. Not because he had some Mother Teresa-sized soft spot for the downtrodden. Donnie did not find crazy people funny because they were always the body bags that went unclaimed, tossed in some state-funded, unmarked grave. They were most of his work, and the most work to bury. The bus came to a jolting stop two blocks from Millet and Samson, and Donnie disembarked, dreading the night ahead. The clouds had parted sometime during his ride, and in their wake they had left a big, cool moon basking the outline of the city in an iridescent glow. Donnie reached into his jacket pocket and brushed the tips of his fingers against the screw cap of a whiskey bottle. “Merry Christmas, you bastard,” he mumbled to himself. He tried his best to shake off the feeling of an unrequited Christmas spirit and made his way to the front door of the building. Under a streetlight some feet ahead, Donnie could make out the figure of a slight man with knobby knees and cheap loafers flicking the embers of a cigarette onto the icy, black pavement. He nodded to the man as he got closer. “Evening Niles.” He picked up his pace, not really interested in furthering the conversation with the knobbykneed man. “Hey there Mic,” Niles responded. “You’re in for a long night old boy. Lots of work to be done down there. Wait, didn’t you have plans with your lady friend? I heard she’s got the best rack this side of the Mississippi.” Niles was the kind of man that was easy to hate. But Donnie could never quite understand why he disliked him so much. Maybe it was his use of antiquated expressions like, “Old boy” or how he could never seem to stop raving about the Ivy League college he attended for two semesters. “Sounds about right,” was all he replied before the automatic doors shut behind him, successfully drowning out Niles’ useless rebuttal. The lobby was completely devoid of anything suggesting anyone living actually worked there, let alone that there was an impending holiday. It had been an upper-management decision that customers, or “The bereaved” as they were supposed to be referred to, would find it offensive to have to see anything cheerful at a funeral parlor during the holiday season, when grieving was especially hard and fresh. Because the world stops spinning every time someone dies. It’s true. Or, at least Donnie had come to believe it was true. When he was a kid his army medic grandfather would take him for rides in his old Buick and tell young Donnie about every man he lost in the war. “That’s just the thing kid,” he’d say as he balanced a beer in his lap and adjusted the cruise control, “things don’t stop just ’cause you were dumb enough to get blown up in some godforsaken jungle. People will cry over ya’ a bit, but then they’ll find something more romantic to be depressed about. And really, when you’re dead you’ve got better things to worry about.” It was a gruff sentiment, and one Donnie wished to be true, but the old man’s voice would always waver in the end, damming up the last bit of delusion and sadness right before it reached his tear ducts. Later Donnie began to understand that the world did stand still for each death in tiny ways. Donnie reached the elevator lobby and was about to take a pull from the whiskey bottle in his jacket, when a voice from behind brought his arms to attention at his sides. “Donald!” The one voice he had hoped not to hear. His boss, Mr. Shaw was a man in his late 40s, but his bald spot and ill-

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N E W T I M E S and T H E S U N present N E W T I M E S AND T H E S U N PRESENT YOU’RE DEAD from page 6 fitting suit made him look closer to 60. In the three years Donnie had been working at the mortuary, he had managed to speak a total of only 115 words with Mr. Shaw. It was his favorite of all the solitary games he had created to occupy himself at work. Once he reached 200 words with Mr. Shaw, he promised himself he would quit. “Donald! Just the man I wanted to see!” Mr. Shaw, despite being relatively fit, broke out into sheets of sweat at the slightest physical exertion. “Evening, sir.” Donnie curled two fingers in on his left hand. He was determined to get out with no more than four words. He probably could have dropped the “sir.” “Amy called in sick this evening so you won’t have your embalming assistant down there and all the freezers are full. I’m going to need you to tack on three hours to your shift. Now, normally this would result in overtime pay, but I’m going to pull it from your over-extended sick leave.” It was times like this that Donnie was convinced Mr. Shaw knew about the game and was just fucking with him. “Okay.” Donnie pulled the last bit of his emotional reserves together at the thought of the bottle in his pocket. “Great. I’m headed home now. Marcus, the new intern, should be coming in to help in the early morning, but he’s still pretty useless. Until then, you are flying solo.” With that, Mr. Shaw flung a bead of sweat from his temple and turned on his heels toward the door. Donnie congratulated himself silently, and pressed a thumb into the down button of the control panel. “Oh, and one more thing, Donald.” Mr. Shaw poked his head through the automatic doors. “Merry Christmas.” Shit. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Shaw.” Donnie shook his head and stepped into the elevator. The walk from the elevator to the freezer was unusually long. Donnie counted the scuffmarks left by rickety gurney wheels along the wall. He couldn’t quite understand why he was dreading this

Holiday Guide 2012 HOLIDAY GUIDE 2012

particular shift, but the idea of pumping formaldehyde into rubbery dead bodies on Christmas Eve had him feeling homicidal. In his three years at Millet and Samson, he could only recall hating one night shift more. It had been an intensely hot summer day, and several old folks had died of heat stroke. He didn’t have anything against embalming old people, other than it took more work to get them looking vibrant and … alive than it did the younger bodies. But this particular heat wave had left five people in a retirement home dead, and since Millet and Samson was short staffed Donnie had to cart, bag, and tag all five bodies in three trips. On his third trip out of the Maple Springs Senior Community Donnie had transported a woman in her early 80s from an apartment with two twin beds inside. He assumed the woman had a roommate, and that the staff at the home had notified her of the death. But when Donnie reached the porch, a paper-thin man with a full head of silver hair approached him. The man pushed his walker as close to the gurney as he could and laid his left hand on the cold, black bag. “Is this my Martha?” The old man searched Donnie’s eyes. “I’m sorry sir, but I can only release the names of the deceased to relatives.” Donnie watched the old man gently attempt to stroke the dead woman’s hand through the wall of odor-resistant plastic. “It’s alright, Mr. Hadley. Remember we talked about Martha … it just got too hot for her, remember?” A nurse in Mickey Mouse scrubs appeared at the old man’s side. “Let’s go back inside and let this young man make Martha look gorgeous for the next time you see her.” The nurse began to lead him back inside by the shoulders. A number of platitudes ran through Donnie’s heat-exhausted brain, but none made it to his mouth. The old man turned back one last time and looked at Donnie and then his wife in the bag. “She was always gorgeous.” And with that he slipped through the automatic doors and left Donnie alone with his wife. Back in the freezer Donnie took a swig of whiskey and

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grabbed the intake clipboard hanging from the freezer wall. All five freezers held a body. Two men, two women, and one child. As he went down the list of bodies—causes of death, age, burial requests, one name called Donnie’s eyeballs to attention. Archibald Hadley. Age: 86. Cause of death: pneumonia. Next of kin: none. Please contact Maple Springs Senior Community Director for grave plot number. To be embalmed and buried with his wife, Martha Hadley. It was the first time Donnie had buried a couple, years apart. He had been at Millet and Samson too long. The next names on the list held no meaning for Donnie. He took another lick from the bottle and thought about how crappy it must be to die on Christmas Eve. “I guess it means more turkey and mashed potatoes for everyone else.” His sense of humor could have used some embalming. The other man was in his 20s had died in a motorcycle accident. That would be a rough fix. The two women had been the victims of a faulty gas line, and the kid had been playing with his dad’s pistol. He pushed open the heavy metal door and was met with the familiar, if not overwhelming scent of chemicals and plastic. He took the bottle from his pocket and polished off a third of the warm whiskey. He washed his hands in the industrial sink and slipped into his white labcoat and blood smock. The watch on his wrist said 11:30 p.m. “All the time in the world,” he mumbled to the first freezer drawer. Inside, the lifeless body of Archie Hadley was waiting to be dolled up for a funeral that no one would attend (except by those paid to like him). Donnie pulled on the handle and the drawer slid open with a loud, grating rush of metal. Archie looked the same as he did when Donnie saw him two years ago. Maybe there were a few more wrinkles. Rigor mortis hadn’t done the body any favors, either. It was going to be a lot of primping. He pored over the paperwork of

YOU’RE DEAD continued on page 8

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8 8 YOU’RE DEAD from page 7 requests and demands and thinly veiled threats written by the funeral director. He was feeling the effects of the whiskey as he transferred the relatively light body to the embalming table. He almost dropped the old man twice and he had managed to put a major slice in the corpse’s sensitive skin on the sharp edge of the table when he laid him down. It took him 30 minutes to complete the work that needed to be done. Afterwards he threw the soiled smock into the biohazard waste bin and slumped into an office chair in the corner of the room. Next to the chair was a small end table with a half-used bag of chew and a radio. He fired up the radio, praying for a station playing anything but Christmas music. The first six he scrolled through were classical Christmas, and the last four he scrolled through were pop/rock interpretations of classical Christmas music. He turned off the radio. There wasn’t much left in the whiskey bottle as he tipped it back and braced for the potency to hit his tongue. He knew that Niles kept a flask taped to the bottom of the end table. It was normally another reason to hate Niles: his unwarranted paranoia. But tonight Donnie was glad that, when he reached under the table and felt the edges of the duct tape, no one had gotten wise to Niles’ liquor stash. “Thanks old boy.” His words sounded harsh, and he regretted them a bit after they had left his mouth. After all, it was Niles who was going to make this Christmas shift bearable. It didn’t take him long to polish off the entire contents of the flask, and by the time he had finished he was feeling sufficiently drunk. He checked the time on his watch. After several blinks, he was able to make out a 1, 2, 3, and 0. 12:30 a.m. “Merry Christmas, everyone,” he laughed, and raised the empty flask back to his mouth one last time for good measure. It was silent for only a few seconds before an answer came. “Merry Christmas, Donnie.” The voice wasn’t loud, but it sure as hell was coming from somewhere in the room. Donnie dropped the flask on the slip-resistant tile floor. Suddenly feeling very sober, he began eyeing the entire room desperately. Could the intern have showed up early? No. The voice sounded too old to belong to the intern. Was it Mr. Shaw? “Shit,” he mumbled. “SHIT.” Armed with his newfound sobriety, Donnie scanned the room and found himself alone. He walked around each embalming table and peered underneath. “Son, I’m too goddamn old to be ducking under tables.” Donnie slowly, and drunkenly, got off his knees. The voice was close behind him. “You drunk idiot. It’s nothing. It’s nothing. It’s nothing,” Donnie chanted the words, but they became less convincing each time. Turning around was out of the question. If there was something there, if there was someone there, Donnie would have to quit drinking for good, and that was just an absurd proposition in his line of work. Before Donnie could weigh his options, another voice registered in his foggy brain. “What’s this for?” This new voice was also coming from inside the basement room. This voice was young and timid and attached to a boy no more than 13 years old. He had his back turned to Donnie, and was trying to turn on a suction tube that had been left lying on the table. He had a mop of thick, brown hair, and his shirt had been ripped down the middle methodically, as if a pair of surgical scissors had done the job. Donnie, momentarily relieved that the intruder was just a kid, began to scold him for scaring the shit out of him. “Hey, Jesus kid! You can’t be down here, how did you even get down here? You do know you’re in a room full of dead bodies, don’t you?” The boy set down the suction tube and turned to face Donnie. Donnie didn’t hear the primal scream escape his throat, but he could feel it crushing his larynx. He stumbled backward into the chair, and it spun around aimlessly a few times. When it came to a stop, Donnie once again examined the sight before him. Just below the boy’s temple—partially hidden under a Raphaelite curl, some blood, and gunpowder residue, was an entry wound, probably from a small-caliber firearm—Donnie thought. “Now’s not the time to be clinical. There are teenaged zombies in your office … .” His brain was screaming multiple directions all at once. “Run … no, don’t run … this isn’t real, you’ve just been slipped

N E W T I M E S and T H E S U N present N E W T I M E S AND T H E S U N PRESENT something … by who? Zombie boy? Oh god this is real, run. NO! Shut your eyes and open them; it’s like a reset button for drunk brains. Shit, is this a prank?” Before Donnie could go about telling his brain to shut up, the older voice returned from behind him. “Damn son, you really did a number on the booze in this place. Shame, I could have used a slug or two. Now, kid cover up that gaping wound in your head, You’re creepin’ everybody out.” The old man, Donnie could see now, was Archie Hadley himself. Freshly embalmed and wearing a suit that was much too loose around the midsection. As if the old man were reading his mind, he said, “You would think that after I dumped me and the old lady’s life savings into that hell-hole retirement home, the least they could do was bury me in a suit that didn’t belong to some circus sideshow freak.” He tugged at the fake leather belt a bit, and leaned up against a table. “Wait a minute, wait a minute.” Donnie squeezed his eyes shut. “You’re not real. You can’t be real. I’ve just worked here too long, that’s all. It’s starting to get to me. Wait, why am I even talking right now? This is absurd. No one is here. I’m leaving.” Donnie got up from the office chair and tried not to look at the kid as he made a break for the exit. But as soon as he reached the double doors, two faces appeared in the dirty windows. One of the faces belonged to the motorcyclist. He was banged up and bruised pretty badly, but it wasn’t as bad as Donnie had envisioned. The other face belonged to a woman in her early 60s, and if she wasn’t dead. Donnie would have assumed nothing was wrong with her. She must have been the gas poisoning. “Holy shit!” Donnie ran back to the chair and began rocking in the fetal position. Both figures in the windows appeared back inside the studio. “Great, now let’s all do introductions. I’m Marty, I died on my bike after some asswipe in a Beamer decided that he could make the light. You met the kid, Frank, who should have been old enough to know that playing with guns is bad. This is Amelia; she and her daughter died in their house after someone left the pilot light on.” The motorcyclist made a circular motion with his finger by his ear. “No, no, no!” Amelia interrupted. “It was the gas man’s fault. He hit a line!” The two began to argue, but Archie interrupted. “Shut up, the both of you. No one cares, and it doesn’t matter … you’re both dead as dirt.” Donnie, who had managed (and he wasn’t quite sure how) to remain silent up until this point, squeaked out the most pathetic, clichéd string of words imaginable, “What do you want from me?” To dead Archie’s credit, he didn’t mock Donnie, or laugh. “Well, kiddo, we all died at sort of … inopportune times. We need you to set a few things straight. Since our bodies are about as useful as a fart in church, we need you to be our grunt man.” “Give me a minute.” Donnie stood up from the chair and began to pace the room. His eyes would occasionally land on the one freezer whose body didn’t appear before him. Twenty minutes later, he came to a decision. “Okay, since this appears to be some sort of ... Christmas Carol situation, I’ll play ... but only because I’m pretty sure this is a very lucid, alcohol-induced nightmare. But, I’m going to lay down some ground rules. I’m not going to kill anyone and I’m not going to do this forever. I want you out of my head by Christmas morning. And, most importantly … I need to know who’s in the last freezer and why she isn’t talking to me.” “See! I told you honey, he doesn’t care and he’s not scared anymore! Morticians have seen it all!” Amelia yelled in the direction of freezer five. It took a second or two, but finally a young woman appeared. Her skin was pale and smooth, and apart from having a serious case of bedhead, she too looked as if nothing had happened to her. She tried, unsuccessfully, to tame the wild, blond locks in the back of her head. Donnie and the dead girl locked eyes for a few minutes. There was something understated about the young woman’s beauty. Some of her features seemed smaller than they should be, and others seemed too large. But somehow, the person they formed looked utterly perfect to Donnie. Archie and Marty cleared their throats. “Right,” Donnie said. “And you are? It’s crazy I am even asking … ” The young woman stepped forward and extended a hand, before retracting it with a laugh. “Sorry, I forgot for a second. I’m Grace. I believe you met my mom. I am really sorry if we scared you. We just didn’t know

Holiday Guide HOLIDAY GUIDE2012 2012 how else to get your attention. I came home for Christmas. I’m in my first year of grad school. So much for that … ” Donnie shook his head and the two began to stare again. “Right, well now that’s settled, let’s get down to brass tacks. Donnie, we won’t be needing you to kill anyone, and I have a feeling we’ll be gone by morning light, so it’s crunch time. We all have one item of unfinished business … well actually the young people had several, but we’ve all weeded it down to one thing you could help us with, and we will be sincerely thankful if you could do these things for us. We’ll start with the easiest: Marty. Marty, you want to tell him the mission, son?” Marty nodded and reached into his jacket pocket. He produced a piece of folded paper, which he carefully opened and held up for Donnie to see. “On my way to this address, I was hit. I need to deliver a package to this house. The package is in my bag of personal belongings I came with. It’s a little brown box.” Donnie held up a hand to stop Marty. “Wait,” he said. “I don’t have a car.” Everyone furrowed his or her brows. This was going to be a problem. Suddenly, the smallest voice appeared once again. “You could take the hearse. There are three parked out back.” Frank had covered the hole in his head with his hair. His shirt was still cut open, and Donnie noticed some large bruises on his abdomen. Before he could ask Frank all the questions running through his head, Archie interrupted, “Good idea, Frank! Donnie, you can drive that old boat, right?” “Yes, but Mr. Shaw would go apeshit if I did. He doesn’t trust me to drive the cars.” Everyone was silent. Donnie thought about his unpaid overtime. “You know what? Okay.” And with that, Donnie walked over to Marty’s personal belongings and plucked out the box. Outside, it had begun raining again, and all the surrounding buildings and houses had turned their Christmas lights on. Marty sat in the passenger’s seat and navigated. After a few minutes of driving, Donnie got comfortable enough to breathe again and began thinking about the little brown box in his lap. “So … what’s in the box?” Donnie asked. Marty cracked a devilish smile. “So, two weeks ago I met this girl at a Jason Mraz concert. She was so hot, I’m telling you … this girl … anyways, I worked up the balls to talk to her, but when the concert was over I wanted more. I couldn’t remember feeling that way about anyone I had just met—” Donnie looked back in the rear view mirror to see Grace playing some sort of game with Frank. “Problem was, I couldn’t think of any good reason to ask for her number that didn’t sound creepy. But then she asked if I sold weed.” Donnie couldn’t stop the shocked look from spreading across his face. “Do you?!” He asked. “Of course not ... but my roommate does. So I told her I did and bought some off my roommate, and I was going to make a delivery. She told me to come to her Christmas party.” “So, let me get this straight: There’s just weed in this box, and this is your unfinished business. To give some stranger weed?” Marty laughed. “Look man, I’ve been with a lot of girls. A lot of girls. But this one was different. She’s wild, but smart, and I think I feel the L word for her. I died, but I made a promise to this hottie and I am going to keep it. So when we get to the house, tell her that I died and that you are delivering it in my place.” “Isn’t that kind of terrible? Telling someone something like that at Christmas?” Donnie looked concerned. “Maybe, but chicks dig sob stories, and there will be plenty of other hot girls, to you know ... comfort her at the party.” “Are you telling me that you’re hoping for a dead three-way?” Marty just smiled. “Just get us there, Donnie … you’ll see.” The house was alive with music and drunk people shouting. Donnie took a minute to adjust to the change of scenery before knocking on the door. A girl in an ugly Christmas sweater answered the door, and Donnie knew immediately that she was Marty’s girl. Everything went as Marty said it would. She cried, two girls showed up to comfort her, and as Donnie turned to walk away, Marty flew up the steps into the house.

YOU’RE DEAD continued on page 10

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10 10 YOU’RE DEAD from page 8 “Wait! Where are you going?” Donnie yelled after the dead guy only he could see. “It’s my in, Donald-man! I’m taking it.” And with that, Marty disappeared. Back in the hearse, Archie had moved to the passenger seat. “Me next, kiddo. This should be easy. Take me to the retirement home.” Donnie parked at the curb, and Archie flew out of the car. Donnie didn’t know old people could move like that, let alone dead people. “Come on, son, I need you to open this can for me!” Donnie followed the sounds of Archie’s voice to the back patio where the old man pointed to a covered pile of cat food and a can opener. “You want me to feed some cats? Seriously?” Donnie was starting to question the sanity of this mission. “After Martha died, I was really beat up. I came out here to think one night, away from the bingo and the bullshit, when I heard this tiny, pathetic meow coming from the bushes. Well, I’ll be damned if it wasn’t the most pathetic cat I have ever laid eyes on. We clicked immediately, and I wanted to take her in, but the bastards here said, ‘No.’ So I put a blanket in the bushes and she’s stayed ever since.” “How do you know it was a she?” Donnie began to open a can. “Open that … and you’ll see.” Archie eyed the bush expectantly. Soon enough, a tabby appeared, and in tow were four little kittens that kept close to her hind legs. “Martha was always so good with animals, and I know she wouldn’t want this family to go without a Christmas meal. They’ll find their way after this. Now … all I want to do is see my wife again.” Archie’s head hung a bit. Donnie was about to say something mildly comforting when the sounds of a piano came from inside. It was much too late for anyone older than 50 to be up. “I know that tune ... Martha!” Archie hitched up his pants one last time and walked toward the warm light coming from inside the lobby. He turned around and looked at Donnie. “Kid, take it from me: Don’t waste you’re life worrying about the big D. Get a new job. Live. People move on when you die, but they also move on if you stop living.” And with that, Archie disappeared inside. When he returned, somehow Donnie knew Frank would be sitting in the passenger seat. When he got in the car, Donnie waited for some instructions, but they never came. “Okay, Frankie, where to?” The boy was silently examining his sneakers. “Well, you’re going to have to help me out here kid.” “It wasn’t an accident.” His voice was low but Donnie heard the boy’s words. Still, he asked him to repeat himself. “It wasn’t an accident. I knew it was loaded.” Frank didn’t loosen his visual grip on the shoes. “But why? You’re so young.” Donnie’s apathy was beginning to crack around the edges. Frank didn’t speak for a while, but finally he seemed to muster the courage up from somewhere. “There’s this boy in my home skills class … he’s the best. He taught me how to sew a secret pocket into things. We could laugh about the stupidest stuff, like how our teacher’s mole looked like a cat’s butthole. One day, I kissed him in P.E. class, and he kissed me back. I thought we were alone, but some other kids saw. They called me a fag in the halls. I could take that. But then they followed me home and my dad heard them. He asked me if it was true.” Donnie wanted to see the kid’s eyes, but they were still pointed downward. “I told him it was, and he called me a pervert and hit me. He told me that when I was 18, I wasn’t his son anymore. So … I took his gun and pulled the trigger. “ It was silent for a minute. “I thought it would hurt more.” Donnie looked back down, and the kid looked up at him. He knew that Frank was done telling his story. Donnie didn’t feel anything, and that bothered him more than anything. “So where are we going, kid?” “To my school. I made him something, and sewed a note into it. It’s in my locker. I need you to put it in his. Locker 32.” They drove in silence to the middleschool. Grace gently stroked the hair on Frank’s head from her seat in the rear of the hearse. “You know, Frank, the guy who invented the computer liked boys too.” She was talking to him like he mattered, like an adult. She was kind, but not condescending. Donnie liked that. He wished he knew how to do the same.

N E W T I M E S and T H E S U N present N E W T I M E S AND T H E S U N PRESENT Donnie began to drive faster when he felt the sun starting to rise. He didn’t even bother to park the car; he simply left it running in the middle of the street. They had arrived at the school when Donnie realized it would probably be locked. “Here,” Frank said. “They leave a key under the mat. I volunteer in the nurse’s office. I wanted to be a nurse.” Frank pointed to the mat, and Donnie lifted it to retrieve the key. Inside the kid’s locker was a red Santa hat. Donnie picked it up and felt a paper-like crunch. There was a secret pocket stitched inside the white, fuzzy lining. “This it?” Donnie held it up to the kid. “Yep. Just put it in locker 32.” Donnie trotted a few feet down and knew when he found the locker with a sloppy “Homo” scribbled on the outside that he had the right one. “The combo is 19-3-4. We’d leave each other notes sometimes.” Donnie slipped the hat inside and shut the locker. He turned to see Frank walking toward a classroom door that hadn’t been open when they arrived. “Hey, Frank!” Donnie wasn’t sure what he was going to say until the kid turned around, “I hope there are … a lot of … hot dudes up there for you.” Frank smiled and turned again toward the fluorescent light coming from the door. Once inside, he shut it behind him. Donnie could feel his heart racing at the thought of Grace in the passenger’s seat. But once he got outside, he found Grace standing in the dark, alone. She was leaning up against the hearse. Donnie saw the beginnings of a sunrise and started to jog over to her. “Okay, we’re running out of time. Who’s next? Where’s your mom?” Grace gave him a sad smile. “She’s gone. She said the only unfinished business she had was to see me happy, and I told her I could take care of that myself.” Grace started to walk toward the middle of the street, facing the impending sunrise. “What did she say?” Donnie began to follow her. “She didn’t say anything. She kissed me, smiled, and started to walk toward the football field. I think she was meeting my dad. He played college ball, but I didn’t know him all that well. He died when I was a baby.” She closed her eyes as early morning warmth began to bust through the night clouds. Donnie reached for her hand, but remembered as his fingertips felt nothing but the cold, Christmas morning air. They were quiet for a minute. “So, that leaves you. What do you have left to do?” Donnie looked at Grace expectantly. She paused and thought about it for a minute. “When I was a kid, I was a deep, deep sleeper,” she laughed. “I’d always try to get up like all kids do on Christmas morning: too early. But every year I’d sleep till 10 and my mom would have to come wake me up for presents. So, my unfinished business is to watch this sunrise with you.” Just then the warm, orange globe broke over the skyscrapers and Grace smiled. “Oh and,” Donnie opened his eyes again at the sound of her voice. His heart nearly exploded when he saw Grace’s face inches from his. “Since it’s Christmas, I also get a stocking stuffer.” With that, she leaned in, and Donnie could have sworn he felt the kiss. It was warm and full, and he felt a tingling in his legs. It was the best feeling he had ever had the pleasure of nearly having. But what he actually felt were the headlights of an old Volvo, and the heat of an engine as it met his kneecaps. He was airborne for a moment and looked up at the pastel sky, just as his body made its decent back down to the pavement. He didn’t feel much after that. He heard the sounds of a car door frantically opening and a young man in a suit got out, but it all felt very distant. “Donnie! Donnie! Holy shit, what the hell were you doing in the middle of the road? Oh my god, I’m calling 911, hang in there buddy!” He heard the sound of a dial tone and the young man’s voice again. “Hello! Hello? Yes, I just hit a man standing in the street with my car. I don’t think he’s breathing! Please send help! PLEASE! Why do you need to know my name? It’s Marcus. MARCUS. I know this guy! Please send help. ” Donnie stood up and faced the sunrise again. He felt light, almost drunk in fact. But he had sobered up hours ago when the bodies started to talk. He turned to face the car. When he looked back, he suddenly understood why he felt so light. There, in the middle of the street, he laid lifeless with his face fixed in a goofy smile.

Holiday Guide 2012 HOLIDAY GUIDE 2012 “Ouch.” Grace placed a hand on his shoulder. He turned around at the sensation and smiled. Why was he smiling? “That was gnarly, dude.” Her face glowed against the imploding morning sky. “So, Donald McKinny, what is your unfinished business on this fine Christmas morn—” She couldn’t finish the words because his lips were on hers and this time he felt it … all of it. “That,” he said, “was your unfinished business.” She punched him in the arm, and he felt that too. “What now?” She looked down the road. “Well, I still have my unfinished business to attend to.” Donnie reached for Grace’s hand. “And what is that, pray tell?” He thought about it for a second. “To say Merry Christmas, and to make you happy.” She smiled and reached for his hand. Then the two walked down the road, past the panicked Marcus, past the bus stop, and past Millet and Samson, where Donnie’s shift had just ended. ∆ Calendar Editor Maeva Considine can be reached at mconsidine @newtimesslo.com.

LEND A

HAND If you want to help out this holiday season, consider donating to, or volunteering at the following organizations: Hospice provides support and end-oflife care to the chronically and terminally ill in San Luis Obispo County. Since 1984, they have celebrated “Light up a life” in December, and this year is no different. From Dec. 2 to Dec. 10, members of the community are welcome to make a donation to help light memorial candles for those within the community who have lost someone important in their life. Whether the loss is recent or in the distant past, everyone is welcome to light a candle in memory. For a full list of candle lighting locations and times, and how to donate to the cause, visit hospiceslo.org/events. The Gay and Lesbian Alliance of the Central Coast (GALA) offers a variety of supportive lectures, classes, groups, and events for youths, adults, and allies in the LGBTQ community. On Dec. 25, they will be holding their PFLAG meeting (Parents Families and Friends of Lesbians and Gays) from 5:30 to 8:30 p.m. The best Christmas gift you can give a loved one in the LGBTQ community is your support, understanding, and love. Meeting is held at the GALA Center (11573 Los Osos Valley Road Suite B). For more info, visit ccgala.org.

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WHY WE EAT TURKEY AND HAM

FOR THE HOLIDAYS

BY ANA KORGAN ILLUSTRATION BY JAY ALBA

TIPS FOR COOKING YOUR MEAT To ensure your meat is fully cooked, make sure it’s fully defrosted. The best way to defrost is in the refrigerator, not at room temperature! Allow 24 hours of defrost time for every five pounds of meat. Exercise cleanliness when handling raw meat. Use a designated cutting board and utensils, and wash them thoroughly before using them for other foods. Also, wash your hands before touching anything else in the kitchen, and use paper towels (as opposed to dish cloths) for clean up. Use a meat thermometer! Turkey should be 180 degrees in the thigh and 165 to 170 degrees in the breast. Hams should be cooked until 145 degrees. In doubt? Call the Turkey Helpline, 1-800-255-7227.

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pigs’ hearts were achin’ from having babies taken, slaughtered, and sold for the holiday bacon.

They schemed and sought, they talked it over, they fought for a plot to make the Farmer want honey-baked ham, not. The oldest pig snorted, “Another need courted, one who is dumber; the Farmer be thwarted.” The turkey was chosen, of feathers golden, because she’d taste good with a salad ambrosian.

Because pigs are smart, they created a chart about how eating sausage is not good for the heart.

Baited breath they drew, for the Farmer to choose which life could live, and which one would lose. Orwellian not, the Farmer gave thought to what the pigs had done, and his temper ran hot. He sharpened his ax and made two swift hacks at the necks of both lives; which was hasty, perhaps.

And that, dear reader, is the holiday meter of what’s on the table for your upcoming eater. ∆

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THE

HOLY JOKE BY ANNA WELTNER

ILLUSTRATION BY LENA RUSHING

the longest night of the year, the Airwalker tribe traditionally sacrifices three pure white goats, extracting their still-beating hearts and bearing them on a platter to the high priestess, who eats them whole. Then, the Airwalkers await their judgment. If the sacrament is accepted, the sun will rise. If the sacrament is deemed unworthy, they must live a year in the dark. One year, legend goes, the sacrament was so pure that the high priestess herself began to glow like the sun, and was borne up into the air, where she hovered, weightless, above her adoring people. Their eyes burned, but they could not look away. As they stared, some of them even began to rise into the air, meeting the priestess high in the heavens. They all held hands in a circle, and began to spin faster and faster, glowing more and more radiantly. Until they exploded. And shards of gold rained down on the remaining tribespeople. This is one reason they call themselves Airwalkers. Since then, gold has held special significance to the Airwalker tribe. It is often exchanged at Sunnisar, or the winter solstice, among other seasonal gifts, such as exorbitantly decorated antler headdresses and scented pig fat candles. The ring of light is also a significant symbol. Each household who honors Sunnisar must create a Flamling, or ring of fire, and place it in front of their door. I. My mom always does this horrid thing where she invites some socially awkward misfit with an enormous appetite to our Christmas dinners. Then she doesn’t tell us until one or two days before. Since I’m the only one in our family who can cook, I’m always in charge of the meal, so this throws off my head count, and I often have to make a last minute run to the store. She conveniently forgets to chip in for gas or groceries. Then when

the weirdo arrives, my mom is always giving me a hard look, like, don’t fuck this up, Noah. At dinner, it’s all about the weirdo: his likes and dislikes, how his day was, where he went to school. Whenever I go for seconds I get a reprimanding pinch on my shoulder. Behold, a list of our surprise guests from the last few Christmas dinners: A Christian zealot wearing a promise ring A homeless kleptomaniac A computer programmer on speed An acid-tongued, volatile journalist calling himself “Shredder” “You should show a little compassion, Noah.” This what my mom says as I’m trying to make three servings into five or six. “With your anthropology degree, I would think you would be more interested in people from other walks of life.” Ugh. It only makes it worse that for the past several years, our guests either 1.) have had a history of substance abuse or 2.) have taken some kind of oath against succumbing to earthly vices. So champagne—well, booze of any sort—is rendered out of the question. After dinner my mom engages the weirdo in uncomfortably flirtatious conversation while my sister Jill and I clean up. After dessert (peach cobbler, lemon meringue pie, or tiramisu) we inevitably must watch slides from my mom’s exotic mission trips. My mom, with a beatific glow I barely recognize, can be seen embracing brown children in brightly colored clothes. She wears a bandana and a T-shirt with a cross on it. Afterwards, we watch my mom’s overfed dog do a trick. Then my sister and I retire to what is now the guestroom, where there is a mirror with the word “Obedience” emblazoned on it.

THE HOLY JOKE continued

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THE HOLY JOKE from page 12 My sister and I lie in our childhood beds, starkly sober, shittalking at a low volume until we drift off to sleep. II. After the high priestess receives the sacrament, the tribespeople sing a haunting, wordless song. It’s a plea for the sacrament to be accepted, for the sun to rise again. They form many concentric circles around the high priestess’ throne, each ring moving in an opposite direction from the one beside it. Their upturned faces are painted gold, and in the firelight they could just as easily be angels. III. It did not go over well when I told my mom I wasn’t coming to Christmas dinner this year, and when I told her where I was going, shit hit the proverbial fan. My mom hates reminders that she isn’t as open-minded as she believes herself to be. MOM TO ME, DEAD-FACED: A pagan cult. ME: Mom. First of all, the Airwalker tribe is not a cult. Second of all, the Sunnisar sacrifice should prove a highly enlightening cultural experience from an anthropological point of view. Third of all, don’t say stuff like that in front of Veena. MOM TO VEENA, CONFLICTED: Sorry, sweetie. VEENA: It is forgiven. I had met Veena a few weeks earlier at a college Christmas party, at which she was by far the tallest person. Airwalkers are extraordinarily tall, fair, and lean, with swanlike necks and frighteningly dexterous fingers and toes. But there was something immediately strange about her that went beyond the anatomical. First of all, the clothes she was wearing were terribly ill-fitting, both in terms of size and style. They were definitely secondhand—and not the ironic, hipsterish sort of secondhand. Granted, I’m not the fashion police, but there was something uncanny about this getup. She wore a shapeless gray sweater that was mysteriously short and wide, so that it rode up when she raised her long arms. She apparently wasn’t wearing anything under it. Complimenting the hideous sweater was a long black pleated skirt that reached her feet, where she had on a pair of black combat boots which made her appear that much taller.

Despite the discord of this ensemble, however, she had a kind of otherworldly elegance about her, the kind of beautiful-girlnot-giving-a-shit thing Urban Outfitters ads are always trying to capture. “How’s the weather up there?” asked some douchebag. Veena extended her swan’s neck to peer down at him with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. “That’s a joke,” said the douchebag defensively, taken aback by her unblinking stare. Airwalkers can go several minutes without blinking. At this, Veena jerked her long neck backward in shock, nostrils flaring, expelling air, as if someone had just blown smoke in her face. “Looks like someone could use a drink,” I said. Outside on the back porch, after I’d secured us two cans of PBR, Veena explained to me the sacredness of the joke to the Airwalker tribe. It’s an art her people have perfected, she said. Young children are taught the mechanics of the joke as soon as they have learned to speak, and it is their first joke that is cooed over and cherished, not their first words. A joke is a sign of supreme taste and intellect. The best joke can take years to perfect, and even then the joker must wait until exactly the right moment in a conversation to deploy it. An Airwalker would never say, “Hey, want to hear this joke I thought of?” No. To acknowledge a joke as such is to rob it of its power. IV. Now, this was all several years ago, before many people had even met an Airwalker in person. They had only appeared in San Luis Opispo County a few months earlier, having one day simply walked out of the forest and wandered into the nearby town of Atascadero, a curious sight in their off-white robes, peeking around the shops, bumping their heads on low ceilings, and appearing startled by the sight of cars and planes. People didn’t know what to do with them. They weren’t transients, but they rarely spent money and enjoyed napping in trees. They were the definition of foreigners, and yet they seemed to call a nearby forest home. And they could aquire a working knowledge of English within a matter of days.

Holiday Guide 2012 Holiday Guide 2012 V. Veena and I had been walking uphill for nearly two hours. She had asked me to drive her to a forest outside of town. I recognized the place. There were a number of walking trails, and I’d often been there with my family as a kid. “The Enchanted Forest,” we used to call it. It was already dusk when we’d rolled up to the trailhead, and fog was beginning to creep in, which worried me since I’d heard about people getting attacked by mountain lions in the forest on foggy nights. A number of hikers were returning to their cars. The trailhead, shrouded in trees, looked dark and foreboding. I understood why my hippie grandmother always told me to ask the forest for its permission before entering: the place looked like it could swallow you whole. “Your family lives here?” I had asked her, doubt beginning to seep into my voice. “Not just my family,” Veena had laughed, stepping out of the car. “All. Follow!” (Airwalkers are piercingly thrifty, almost haiku-like, with words. A little cryptic sometimes, too. When I first started hanging out with Veena, she walked up to a homeless man on the street and said, in total seriousness, “Crouching man, where is home?”) I got out of the car, reaching for a backpack I’d stuffed with water, a flashlight, a Swiss army knife, and two Clif bars, as well as a notebook and several changes of clothes. Condoms, too, in a side zippered pocket under my mountain socks. “What is that?” she asked, eyeing the pack. “I like to be prepared.” “One cannot bring possessions from the other side.” Reluctantly, not wanting to break cultural taboos the moment I set foot in the place, I put my backpack in the trunk, locked it, and dropped the keys into my pocket. Satisfied, Veena turned around and started up the trail. I followed, walking quickly to keep up with her long-legged gait. The other side? VI. The Airwalker tribe doesn’t have a creation myth

THE HOLY JOKE continued on page 16

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N E W T I M E S and T H E S U N present N e w T i m e s and T h e s u N present

THE HOLY JOKE from page 14 exactly. They believe that before their tribe walked on the earth, they had already existed for centuries in a place they call “Dreamspace,” which most ethnographers describe as a dimension parallel to our own. while living in Dreamspace, the legend goes, one of their tribe was harvesting wheat with a scythe when he spotted a gleam of light hanging in space. Thinking it to be an insect or stray spider web catching the light, he curiously swiped at it with the scythe. To his utter shock, the gleam of light widened, like a gash in the air. Terrified, the man took several steps back, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste to put distance between himself and the impossible apparition before him. But as he stared at the gash, his eyes began to adjust to the light that poured from it, and he was able to make out trees and hills, and hear the familiar song of birds singing. he stepped toward the gash and, hesitatingly at first, made a wider cut into it with his scythe. soon, it was big enough to step through—which he did, albeit with much trepidation. There was a new land on the other side, the legend goes, one apparently unpopulated by people of any kind. The man went back and told his entire village, and the people planned a mass exodus to the new land. A few diehards stayed behind, refusing to trust the strange portal. many among the older generation chose to stay behind, too, wanting to die on the land they had known all their lives. After several weeks, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the portal closed up, like a wound healing, severing the link between earth and Dreamspace. The myth does not explain how the Airwalkers truly came to be, nor does it clarify the origin of Dreamspace. if you ask a member of their tribe, he or she will simply shrug that the Airwalkers of Dreamspace traced their origin to yet another unseen realm, and another before that, suggesting an infinite and mysterious regression of dimensions all dogpiled on top of one another. The Airwalkers claim to have an inborn knack for finding weak points in the fabric of time and space, which is another reason they call themselves Airwalkers. VII. we’d been walking for nearly an hour when Veena

suddenly stopped. “here,” she said it was completely dark now, and the temperature of the air had plummeted from brisk to downright icy. As we walked, the wind had begun to pick up, whistling through the oaks like a ghoul’s rattling breath. i’m not going to lie, the sound was really freaking me out. i kept imagining i heard something creep up behind me, and had begun whipping my head around compulsively. i kept hearing things rattle in the underbrush. For some reason, i began thinking of Little House in the Big Woods, how the ingalls family must have woke in the night to the strange sounds of nocturnal animals, and how vulnerable and alone they must have felt. But now that we had stopped, i realized, it was silent. The sounds of birds and rustle of unseen animals had ceased, and the wind had stopped whipping through the trees. i looked back at where we had come. in the distance, the branches of the trees were swaying, but i heard no noise. it was as if someone had pressed a mute button on the forest. i realized then that the dead leaves were no longer making a crunching sound under my feet. i lifted my foot and brought it down over a pile of leaves. Nothing. “Veena,” i said, fear beginning to clench in my chest. “what’s going on?” my voice was sort of weird, too, like someone had recorded it in a studio and then dubbed it over. it had this distant quality, like i was hearing it from outside of myself. “we are very close.” i was in no mood to take this as an answer. “Close to what, Veena? You mind explaining what’s going on? why someone seems to have turned the sound off?” Veena extended her long arms to rest on my shoulders. “Noah. i cannot explain everything at this moment, but it is important to stay calm and still.” it was too late. i felt a rush of anxiety mixed with rage. “why we have to come out here in the dead of night? why nothing happens when i do this?” here i began stomping on the leaves to drive home my point. Now i was getting agitated. i began running in a fierce circle.

Holiday Guide 2012 Holiday Guide 2012 “why nothing happens when i do circle running?” i demanded. Veena was saying something, but i couldn’t hear her anymore. i ran faster. Now it was crazy time. Now there were tiny men clamoring under my fingernails. i was pissed. Now there was a big invisible bubble trying to swallow me. Fuck that bubble. i waved my arms at it, trying to shoo it away. Now i wanted to sink my teeth into giant foam blocks. i wanted a light saber and a hefty bag filled to the brim with pinky fingers. Now i wanted— Nothing. suddenly, the blind rage was gone. i opened my eyes. it was dark. Gradually, i came to understand that i was crouching on the ground with my arms over my face, rocking back and forth. i lifted my head, blinked a few times, and looked around. i had to struggle to make out lines and shapes, like waking from a deep sleep. There were forms all around me, big, tall, white blurs. Birch trees ... i thought, delusionally, feeling a kind of warm, gooey joy building in my stomach. I love birch trees. The birch trees seemed to be singing through some kind of hole in their trunks. No, that wasn’t singing. They were speaking to one another. One of them was speaking to me! “Noah, are you well?” it was a girl tree. she was rubbing my back with her branch. No, it wasn’t a branch. it was a hand, pale and slender. Veena. “Good. Good. Fine. Delicious,” i assured her, mumbling through the lingering mental fog. i put all of my efforts now into ascertaining my whereabouts. my mind felt heavy, saturated, and difficult to navigate, like a pile of wet newspapers. still sitting on the ground, i trained my eyes on the other white forms, which, after a moment, proved not to be birch trees after all but a small crowd of Airwalkers. After Veena, they were the first i’d ever seen. i studied their faces. Like Veena, their faces were fairer and slightly longer than any i’d ever seen, with high, regal-looking foreheads. Their hair was, curiously, either honey-colored, like Veena’s, or

THE HOLY JOKE continued on page 18

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18 18 THE HOLY JOKE from page 16 a kind of blue-black. They had on simple white robes of a rather coarse material, and wore durable yet delicate-looking leather shoes. The closest one, a sturdy-looking male with a long blonde braid, extended a hand. i stared at it for a second, and, after searching his features to be sure this was what i was supposed to do, allowed myself to be helped to my feet. my body felt limp and weak, but i took it step by step. my muscles sloppily obeyed. The man said a few words to Veena in an elegant, tonalsounding tongue. i kept catching myself listening intently, like i expected myself to understand something—as if it were spanish or French and i actually stood a chance at catching a few phrases. Alas, Airwalker and english share no cognates. “Let’s go,” Veena said finally. “The priestess is expecting you.” she pointed in the direction of a small hill. We’d made it, i thought, ecstatic though i was beginning to feel like i had the worst jetlag of my life. The silent place in the forest, it was like a door! in my weary brain, still recovering from its short-lived but powerful bout with psychosis, this thought was accepted without question. (By the way, i asked Veena later if she ever experienced any side effects when crossing over. “No,” she said. “But it feels like,” here she paused, searching her vocabulary, “like sparkles. in my whole body.” (interesting.) we walked in the direction of the smoke. The muscled blond man—Galran, Veena’s older brother—led the way. Following them was a gaunt-looking man with a black ponytail and a long, pointy nose, accompanied by blonde woman with a rounder face than Veena’s. it was her younger sister, sydda, and sydda’s boyfriend (i guessed), Florn. Veena and i followed, and behind us walked an older man with a long white beard. his name was Yan, Veena’s father. As we continued to walk, we approached a sort of gate, which, oddly, stood in the middle of a grassy field and had no fence attached to it. Just a gate all by itself, enormous, made of

N E W T I M E S and T H E S U N present N e w T i m e s and T h e s u N present wrought iron, cast in intricate designs. The gate marked the beginning of a narrow walking trail lined with stones, which we followed over the hill and down into a wide, shallow valley. i could see the lights of a small community burning in the distance. As we neared the village, i could make out many small wooden houses built in a circle around some kind of clearing, a central gathering place of some kind. in four lines coming from the center clearing were what looked like four main streets, with bigger buildings that i presumed held some commercial purpose. On the outskirts of the village i could see pens with farm animals in them: horses, hogs, cows, deer, and goats. i spotted irrigated fields where some kind of plant i didn’t recognize was growing. so the Airwalkers were subsistence farmers, i noted to myself. On a hill on the other side of the valley, i could make out an imposing stone structure. sun stones, Veena clarified. “Veena,” i asked, “where is this place exactly?” in my mind were accumulating several necessary but probably extremely daft-sounding questions. “we call this place hillma,” Veena replied. “i don’t know how you express it in your language. Perhaps ‘homeland’ is the closest translation. But it’s more than that. homeland is a physical place with borders. hillma means that, too, but it’s something else. hillma is … the pursuit of the essence of home.” “Okay, but where on earth are we? where are we in relation to where we were earlier?” “where we were, it’s—” Veena motioned toward my jacket pocket. “well, it’s like what this is. how do you call it?” “A pocket?” “Yes, a pocket!” she answered, pleased. “where we were was a kind of pocket. There are many pockets.” “how do you know your home isn’t a pocket, and my home isn’t the whole sweater?” Veena stared at me. slowly, her mouth began to curve into a surprised smile. she bared her teeth in that way Airwalkers have, pleased but somehow containing a dangerous edge. “Galran!” she called excitedly to her brother. she relayed

Holiday Guide 2012 Holiday Guide 2012 something to him in Airwalker, and this time, i caught my name in the jumble of foreign sounds. Apparently, she was translating what i’d said. Galran and the others looked at one another, then to me, with the same expression of boundless glee. Galran made a low, throaty noise, and the others joined in heartily. Laughter, i realized after a few seconds had passed. Oh well. i smiled and nodded to show my good nature. And that’s as far as i got with my pressing questions: Their home is a feeling, and my home is a pocket. surely, something had been lost in translation. VIII. when we got to the village, i realized it was far larger than it had appeared from the top of the hill. Darkness was again upon us, and glowing rings of light could be seen in front of almost every door. The houses, too, were bigger than they had appeared. They were tall, elegant structures whose pointed rooftops seemed to reach toward the sky. At the point where the path entered the village, a tall woman with long black hair stood, waiting. her clothes were of a finer material than the others’, i recall, and they had a silkier sheen. Certainly, this woman didn’t milk goats or work in the fields. she stood, staring impassively, until our group was standing a few feet in front of her. Then, looking straight at me, she spoke, in the same unintelligible tongue i’d heard Veena using. “may the sun always embrace you, and your children, and your children’s children,” Veena translated. There was a moment of silence, in which it dawned on me that i might be expected to say something in return. “Thanks?” i muttered, hoarsely. Veena said something to the high priestess, apparently translating my reply into something appropriate. more exchanges followed, to which i was not privy. Finally, satisfied, the priestess moved aside, gesturing for us to proceed into the village. Veena’s family’s house was simple yet spacious. except for the entrance to the home, there were no doors in the place, and each of its many rooms was connected to one central common

THE HOLY JOKE continued on page 20

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N E W T I M E S and T H E S U N present N E W T I M E S and T H E S u N present

THE HOLY JOKE from page 18 area, in which a fire was kept burning. The stone floors were covered in animal skin rugs. I was shown to a simple room, in which a simple bed was suspended from the ceiling, like a hammock. I was offered food, drink, and a citrus bath, but I suddenly found I could hardly stay awake. Thanking my hosts, I retired to my hammock-bed, which had little back support but gave one a pleasant, cocoon-y feeling. IX. I’m not ordinarily a dreamer. I mean that literally: My sleep is solid, thick, and dark, like a heavy wool blanket. While among the Airwalkers, however, I noticed I began to have the wildest dreams. I dreamt I was in a canoe, and if I balanced directly in the center of the craft, I could make it fly and I dreamt I was sick in my childhood bed, and I could speak to the trees, which were outside my window, rustling and dancing. Were their roots still firmly entrenched in the Earth? I strained to see, but I couldn’t tell and I dreamt I was running in the forest, and I came across a fawn with glowing blue eyes. But most of all, I dreamt of Veena. Wandering through an abandoned Victorian house, I found her hiding in the closet in a white nightgown. She had a map, and we looked for treasure and boarding a crowded train, I looked out the window just in time to see her exiting another car. I called to her, but she didn’t hear and walking through a wintry field, I saw her slender hand reaching out of the snow. I took it and pulled her out, and her eyes opened mechanically, like a doll’s. Her body was white and stiff, but I gave her a cup of liquid fire, and the life returned to her immediately. Her cheeks were again rosy, and delicate vines began to curl from her temples. “You are not one of us,” she said. X. When I wasn’t dreaming, I was helping Galran with the preparations, though I got the feeling he could accomplish his tasks much quicker without me getting in the way. There was much to be done. There was wood to be chopped, to keep

the fires burning. There were animals to be fed. There was a winter plant to be harvested. It was called zhat and it was a sort of herb that was dried and crushed and used for all sorts of things, like sauces, teas, seasoning, and bread (yes, they had bread). The Airwalkers fermented wild berries, wheat, and a mixture of grains and honey into various alcoholic beverages, which, harvested in late summer, were finally ready in time for Sunnisar. (They were served either at room temperature, I noticed, or heated with citrus and spices.) With all of these preparations, the days seemed to pass by quickly, as if speeding up in anticipation of the shortest day of all. As they passed, I discovered, I began to understand the Airwalker language. The children of Hillma drew great joy from teaching me new words, pointing to objects and saying their names, and then laughing hysterically at my pronunciation, which was abominable. Speaking was difficult, but for reasons I’ve never been able to explain, my listening comprehension seemed to grow rapidly. I was as if the language were being downloaded into my brain. After a few days, I could pick up on simple conversations, though joining in was nearly impossible. There was one activity to which I wasn’t invited, which was the yearly hunt for the forest gazelle, an elusive beast about which little was known but much speculated. Men in top physical form would don animal skins, arm themselves with darts and spears, and trek off into the forest, sometimes staying out all night. I wasn’t to come, Veena explained to me, because it was too dangerous for someone unused to the ways of the forest. I protested, but Veena merely shook her head. “You are not one of us,” she said simply. The words gave me a sudden chill. “What did you say?” I asked. Veena didn’t respond right away. She looked up from the pile of dried zhat she had been idly working on, pulling the leaves off the branches, crushing them in her hands and sprinkling them into a wooden bowl. “I had a strange dream last night,” she finally said, eyeing me suspiciously. “I can’t remember most of it. Only that all around me it was white and cold, and I couldn’t move. I thought, surely, this is death. Then suddenly, you were there. You gave me drink of something burning hot, and I was alive

Holiday Guide 2012 Holiday Guide 2012 again. What was it, Noah? What did you give me?” “What do you mean?” I laughed nervously. “It was a dream!” “It was more than an ordinary dream. It was too real. I woke up feeling like I was burning. Sydda was convinced I had a fever. What did you give me?” “It was ah … ” Was this actually happening? I shifted my weight uncomfortably. “I think it was, uh … liquid fire.” “Liquid fire? Why couldn’t you have given me something nice, like honey wine?” “I don’t know. Suddenly it was in my hands! Jeez, I can’t control what happens in my dreams!” Veena gaped at me, incredulous. “You can’t?” So that was that. We’d shared the same dream. This apparently was something that happened. The implications of it were exhilarating and terrifying. That night, I was afraid to fall asleep, wondering if I’d see Veena again, if I’d do something stupid or embarrassing, unable to control myself, if I’d pull her down into my childhood traumas and fears, or if she would pull me into her own dreamland, an exquisite thought that brought with it images of a lush jungle filled with exotic songbirds. Waterfalls. Caves. Stalactites. Without realizing it, I’d fallen into a deep sleep. XI. The three men huddled close together. It was late, and in the distance, the village appeared to be largely asleep. Hardly any lights burned in the huts. The only ones that could be seen were the rings of fire burning in front of each door. The bearded one, Hronta, spoke first. “My friends. May the sun always embrace you, and your children, and your children’s children.” He bowed to the other two. “May the sun embrace you,” the other two replied, almost in unison, returning the bow. “Now. What shall be done with this … dreamer? What crimes has he committed?”

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THE HOLY JOKE from page 20 The dark-haired one, Simryn, was quick to reply. “He comes to me in my sleep and shows me things I don’t want to see. He sets fire to my crops. He sleeps with my wife. Three times, he has shown me my own death. Since he is in this place, I haven’t been able to rest.” Hronta’s brow furrowed, but he didn’t say anything. The fair one, Serif, chimed in. “I heard something crashing in the house last night,” he said. “It was my children, walking single file out the door, in a kind of trance. I shook them to wake them up, and do you know what they told me? The dreamer had visited each one of my little ones in their sleep, and told them to throw themselves in the river!” Now Simryn spoke. “It is my humble opinion, Hronta, that with such a dark force in the village, the sun may not see fit to shine on Hillma.” “I suggest, Hronta, we catch him when he is at his most powerful,” Serif said. “Catch him while he dreams.”

XII. I woke up in a cold panic. It was dark, and the house was still. At first, I didn’t move. I just held still, eyes scanning the room, on high alert. In my dream, several cloaked figures had been standing over me, brandishing spears. I had strained to see their faces, but it was like there was nothing there. I couldn’t eat at all that morning. I was too busy trying to sort out what I’d seen in my head. The dream had had an uncanny weight to it that I couldn’t shake off. And for

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Holiday Guide 2012

the first time since I had arrived, I wanted to go home. I missed my sister and my mom and even my mom’s fat dog. I missed Christmas specials on television, and glazed ham, and shitty jolly music in department stores. “Veena,” I said. “I need to go.” “What? Why? You can’t go! The sacrifice is tomorrow night.” “Trust me. I need to leave. You were right. I’m not one of you.” “Noah, that isn’t what I meant.” “Veena, I can’t explain it, but something terrible is going to happen if I don’t leave before tomorrow. I just know it. I’m not meant to be here. This place doesn’t want me. How do I get out of here?” “Noah, you’re not well. Look at you— you’re cold and sweating. Go back to bed. I’ll fetch some medicine from the priestess.” With these words, Veena darted out the door. After about 10 minutes, she returned, holding a small vial of ambercolored liquid. “What is that?” I asked. “Drink,” she said simply. “What, straight from that vial? How much? All of it?” “Yes. Drink!” she replied, and I took the vial from her hands, pulling out the stopper and giving the liquid a sniff. It had a scent I can only describe as rainwater mixed with caramel. I tasted it. It had a syrupy sort of consistency, and it burned a bit going down. It wasn’t bad, though. I rather liked it. And as soon as I’d gotten it all down, I

THE HOLY JOKE 23

continued on page

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N E W T I M E S and T H E S U N present N E W T I M E S and T H E S u N present THE HOLY JOKE

from page

felt inexplicably better about things. How foolish Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve been, I thought. No one was trying to kill me! It had all been but a fearsome apparition, now banished by the light of day. I went outside to see if Galran needed help doing anything manly. XIII. But that night, the cloaked figures returned in my dreams, looming over my bed. Again, I strained to make out their faces, but their features seemed to perpetually shift, like watercolors. There were three of them, each carrying a spear in his hand. I tried to move, but it was as if I had been paralyzed. As I watched, one of them lifted his spear, preparing to strike. You know how in dreams you always wake up before you are about to die? Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s as if the mind doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know how to simulate death. Just before the spear came down, I awoke. But to my great horror, the figures remained, three very real figures whose faces I now could distinguish. As far as I knew, I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t recognize them. I had a feeling screaming would be detrimental to my cause. And so I tried to plead for my release in broken Airwalker. What actually came out of my mouth, I still canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t explain. I had tried to say something simple and to the point, like, â&#x20AC;&#x153;Please donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t kill me,â&#x20AC;? or â&#x20AC;&#x153;Spare me; Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m innocent.â&#x20AC;? What I actually said, I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t remember. I must have been babbling like an idiot. But something in that babble made my aggressors freeze. They looked at one another. They looked at me. Slowly, their mouths began to curve into surprised smiles. My heartbeat was deafening, my pulse throbbing in my head. They bared their teeth in that way Airwalkers have, pleased but somehow containing a dangerous edge. Surely, I thought, they were toying with me. Surely, they had some new torture in mind. But I was wrong. The men dropped their weapons. And they laughed. They laughed for probably 10 minutes. They laughed until great tears spilled down their cheeks. Then, one by one, they hugged me. The bearded one kissed me on the forehead. â&#x20AC;&#x153;May the sun embrace you, dreamer,â&#x20AC;? he said. Then they were gone.

Holiday Guide 2012 Holiday Guide 2012

XIV. I still debate whether or not I should have stayed for the sacrifice. It was what I had come for, after all. But Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d stared death in the eye, and I wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t keen on doing so again. That night, the longest of the year, as the rest of the village painted their faces gold and offered their pleas to the high priestess, their connection to the sun and therefore all living beings, no one noticed Veena and me leaving the center and making our way over the hill, through the wrought iron gate, to the spot where Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d first arrived in Hillma. Even from a great distance, I could still hear their wordless singing. I could hear the solemnity of it; itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s plaintive invocation. For all they knew, the sun might decide to never come up and the night might go on for all eternity. What must that be like? Veena, her face and hair covered in gold dust, eventually stopped, signifying that we had found the right place. Did she believe it too, I wondered? Was she afraid of living in the dark? If she was, she didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t show it. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re here,â&#x20AC;? she said, and I could tell from the distant, disconnected sound of her voice that she was right. â&#x20AC;&#x153;You go,â&#x20AC;? she said. I was aghast. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Arenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t you coming?â&#x20AC;? â&#x20AC;&#x153;You go. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll follow. I know the way.â&#x20AC;? Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m a fool. I should have said something. I should have kissed her. I should have grabbed on to her hand and not let myself vanish without her. But it all happened so fast. One minute I was standing with her, unable to say anything, and the next I felt a terrible falling sensation and the world around me seemed to dissolve into a sort of murky solution. I was dissolving too. I was water. No. I shut my eyes tightly, convinced this time not to go batshit insane. Just once I opened them too early, and I thought I saw a fawn with glowing blue eyes standing in front of me. I shut them again, and waited for the world to right itself. My mom and my sister were happy to see me when I rolled up into the driveway on Christmas Eve. Puzzled, perhaps, at my early return, but happy nonetheless. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d arrived at the perfect time, she said. Jill hadnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t even started the turkey, she

23 23

Winter solstice

in Slo

On Saturday, Dec. 1, from 7 to 10 p.m., check out the Windham Hill Winter Solstice 2012 at The Congregational Church of SLO, located at 11245 Los Osos Valley Road in San Luis Obispo. Admission is $20; get your tickets at brownpapertickets.com. said, if I could believe that, and her attempts at baking had been disastrous. We had some very special guests this year, she added, and we couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t disappoint them with a store-bought cake. I nodded, hardly listening. Setting my bag down on the couch, I made my way into the kitchen to commence damage control. I never saw Veena again. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s been two years to the day. A few times I went back to that place in the Enchanted Forest, but nothing happened. For a while I really expected that she would turn up, wearing some god-awful getup, and we would laugh about how I escaped getting skewered to death that one time. I wondered how she explained my sudden departure to her family. I wondered if their sun had indeed risen. In dreams, though, I see Veena all the time. Of course, I havenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t told my girlfriend this. She wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t understand. I always wake up feeling a mixture of disappointment and guilt, but what can I do? You canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t expect me to control my dreams. If I could, I would never wake up. â&#x2C6;&#x2020; Arts Editor Anna Weltner can be reached at aweltner@ newtimesslo.com.

Â&#x20AC;Â&#x17D;Â?Â?Â&#x192;Â&#x17D;Â? Â?Â Â? Â&#x2122;Â? Â? Â?Â Â&#x192; Â&#x201C; Â&#x192; Â&#x201A;Â&#x192;Â&#x152;Â? Â&#x2026;Â Â?

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24 24

N E W T I M E S and T H E S U N present N E W T I M E S AND T H E S U N PRESENT

AN EVENING WITH

ELVIRA BY CHRIS WHITE-SANBORN ILLUSTRATION BY JEFF CHANG

Why,

of all nights, did it have to be tonight? Elvira seethed in fury as she whipped the cake batter into a frenzy. Her Book Club had unanimously nominated her in charge of the evening’s refreshments, a position which had by default meant complete preparation of everyone’s Thanksgiving dinner. Didn’t they realize that only a few wee hours were left before Black Friday would begin? But of course they did. They had done it out of spite. Never mind that her child had

earned a particularly nice Christmas this year, the Agatha Christie was now complete—“and besides, Elvira, you’ve shimmied your way out of helping the group for two whole months. You owe us.” And how her child had been good! Such a delightful boy, following all of his mommy’s orders and making very beautiful, carefully-scheduled memories with her. A boy like that was too special for just any Christmas present. If

Holiday Guide 2012 HOLIDAY GUIDE 2012 Elvira was going to show her love to her son, it had to be with something as unique and priceless as he was— for example, the most heavily advertised gaming system of all time, the Chagrintendo BS. The BS was a magnificent handheld console in such high demand that people actually bartered with it at Farmer’s Markets and dealerships. It was available in a stunning two colors, Neon Beige and Electric Tan. She was having trouble figuring out which to get for him. In the end, it didn’t matter, however. Her 12-person Book Club had demanded a large hearty dinner for themselves and their families, and really didn’t care about her predicament. If she didn’t get out to the shopping mall soon, she would be forced to come up with something less exciting as a present—for example, her grandfather’s priceless pocket watch. Right then, from her kitchen window, Elvira observed her group’s familiar van nose nonchalantly into her driveway, followed by four more cars. As the van door sniggered open, and the group of women sauntered out, Elvira pretended that she was not currently making a whirlpool out of sticky batter but was instead manning a gatling gun. How many of them could she take out at this rate of mixing speed? Six? Seven? She could at least put a dent in Mrs. Carrow, a behemoth of a woman who required any recipe to be tripled, at the least, to be effective. The haggle of hungry hags grunted their hellos as they

AN EVENING WITH ELVIRA continued on page 27

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N E W T I M E S and T H E S U N present N E W T I M E S AND T H E S U N PRESENT AN EVENING WITH ELVIRA from page 24

walked past the kitchen. None of them noticed Elvira adding a secret ingredient. Mme. Gaggle made a point of criticizing every-littlething Elvira did that night, though naturally in the sweetest tone any woman with a voice like a horse chewing on a tuba could muster. “Elvira, you really SHOULD have chosen a table-cloth of a different color than your rug. Why, when the dog eats his chow over there on the ornamental he practically looks like he’s dining at the table with us!” The only thing keeping a pleasant smile on Elvira’s face as she went to take the potatoes out of the oven was the thought that maybe rather than the timer going off she was actually hearing the steady beep of Mme. Gaggle’s vital signs dropping. It took all of Elvira’s strength to muscle her way through the evening until finally the bottle of Benadryl she had emptied into the gravy took effect and her fellow Book Club members were asleep. Though the evening’s events had been exhausting for everyone involved, and though Elvira’s migraine could easily have been mistaken for the mating call of a humpback whale, her pains and troubles nonetheless faded away once she reached her destination. It is common knowledge that Black Friday is the most important holiday of the religious calendar, and its spiritual power was not lost on anyone at that mall. Groups of little children, too young to participate, stood eagerly at the side of each line; each hoping to be the first to receive the Pope’s blessing. As some of the stores had decided to begin their festivities earlier than usual, the area was already full of men and women sobbing violently with what Elvira naturally assumed was religious fervor. It was a holy evening. Digital clocks beeped out the arrival of midnight (Elvira found it necessary to double-take to ensure it wasn’t the timer again), and a large line of devotees stood hushed in front of the great doors. The entrance creaked open dramatically, fluorescent lighting bathing the crowd in an angelic glow. The

Holiday Guide 2012 HOLIDAY GUIDE 2012

products silently awaited, eager to bestow redemption, mend relationships, and even heal the sick. The crowd gasped in awe at the sight of the interior. An even larger gasp escaped the doorman, when he realized that those anxious, ravenous stares, very much like a pack of wild, stupid animals, were all aimed at him—and he was standing in their way. The doors clicked in place, signaling commencement. The doorman fled in terror. It is hard to describe the beauty of that evening. Even Thomas Kinkade never realized the intense spirit of brotherhood that could be captured in such a thing—the profound glory of grown men and women arguing over how much toilet paper is fair game and who has seen the cheap, imported toys first. Elvira, however, understood it perfectly. It was half the reason she was grinning. Triumph, it was fair to say, was emanating from her every feature. She had gotten the last word in the end—none of her Book Club would experience this for themselves! They wouldn’t see the blood-caked angel statuettes, used today as bludgeons and tomorrow as symbols of peace in someone’s flower garden. They wouldn’t bask in the invigorating scent of pepper spray enveloping an old man’s face. They certainly wouldn’t hear the spontaneous snaps of fingers breaking under tennis shoes; the rips, tears, and creaks of bones and merchandise alike being destroyed and cast upon the floor. Not one of them would experience this—not the insufferable Mme. Gaggle, not even the lumbering, bloated Mrs. Carrow! Elvira’s ecstatic laughter could have eclipsed anything save the decibels already emanating from all around her. She took a deep breath. Newfound spoils in hand, Elvira thanked the Lord for the sensational event and disappeared into the night. As it happened, Mrs. Carrow, though an enormous woman, was nonetheless a light sleeper, especially where neglected-things-in-the-oven-rudefully-decidingto-test-home-insurance-policies were concerned. Checking the time in alarm, she hurried over to the shopping mall herself, and entered the same 99-cent

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27 27

store Elvira had just left. But as she stepped inside, the overbearing scent of Febreeze in the air and telling crunch of candy underfoot were merely more proof of what she already knew. Carrow glanced at the shelves, disheveled yet empty—some of their boards dangling or even ripped off completely. She inspected the cold, pale faces of cadavers littered unceremoniously across the ground. Finally, she let out an anguished sigh. “Damn,” she said. “Missed it again!” ∆ Chris White-Sanborn is a New Times intern and Cuesta College student. Send comments via Managing Editor Ashley Schwellenbach at aschwellenbach@newtimesslo.com.

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BLACK FRIDAY

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Around Downtown November 23

and

THE SU N

present

Holiday Guide 2012

Friday, November 23 - Opening Day rd

Founders Community Bank’s

Santa’s House Opening Day

Through December 24th

December 7 th

Court Street presents

Dreaming of a Downtown Holiday

37 th Annual Holiday Parade 7 p.m. Downtown SLO

December 3 rd ~ 24 th La Cuesta Inn presents

Classic Carousel in Mission P laza

December

Cal Poly Fraternities & Sororities present

Holiday Tree

in Mission Plaza

10:00 10:00-3:00 11:00-4:00 11:00-12:00 1:00-2:00 2:00-3:00

Santa Arrives SLO County Band Free Treats & Refreshments - Cowboy Cookie & Jamba Juice G. Brothers Kettle Corn SLO Friends of the Library - Crafts Jamba Juice SLO Friends of the Library - Magician Jim Wilson Civic Ballet of SLO Shanks Family Quartet

10:00-3:00 2:00- 3:00

SLO Friends of the Library - Crafts Dance Obispo

11:00-4:00 12:00-3:00 2:00

Beverly’s Fabrics & Crafts - Craft Tables Cuesta Jazz Mark’s Balloonies

12:00 2:00

Enchanted Faces - Face Painting Mark’s Balloonies

11:00-3:00 12:00-3:00 2:00 3:00-5:00

SLO Friends of the Library - Crafts Music by: Atalanta Running Mark’s Balloonies ABC Kids Choir

11:00-3:00 1:00-2:00 2:00

SLO Friends of the Library - Crafts SLO Friends of the Library Music for Kids - John Beccia & Emily Bruzzo Mark’s Balloonies

12:00-4:00 12:00-3:00 2:00

SLO Symphony - Musical Petting Zoo Music by: Phil Cisineros Mark’s Balloonies

12:00 2:00 4:00-5:00

Enchanted Faces - Face Painting Mark’s Balloonies Opera SLO

1:00-3:00 2:00

Something Ridiculous Variety Performance Mark’s Balloonies

2:00

Mark’s Balloonies

Saturday, November 24 Saturday, December 1 Sunday, December 2

Saturday, December 8

Sunday, December 9

Saturday, December 15 Sunday, December 16

Saturday, December 22 Sunday, December 23

Call (805) 541 - 0286 or visit www.DowntownSLO.com for more information

Events are FREE, open to the public & subject to weather for more info call 541-0286 or visit www.DowntownSLO.com

N E W T I M E S and T H E S U N present N E W T I M E S AND T H E S U N PRESENT

Holiday Guide 2012 HOLIDAY GUIDE 2012

FLOTSAM BY RYAN MILLER

They

went to the beach on New Year’s Eve, and the boys started throwing fireworks into the water about an hour before midnight, whooping and leaping with lighters in one fist and strings of miniature explosives in the other. The waves were full of red and green and yellow lights—miniature stars burning so hot not even the Pacific could douse them—all crashing into each other and hissing and fizzling out like drunk and luminous jellyfish. Theresa and the others had hiked through the dunes, under the light of a just-waning full moon, to welcome 2013 far from any of the coast’s iconic piers and overzealous police officers patrolling for underage drinkers. There was beer in the coolers the kids had carried, then dragged through the sand. No one had thought to bring a bottle opener—and for some reason their friend with the fake ID hadn’t thought to get actual cans of beer—so a few of the guys took it upon themselves to demonstrate various inventive and often orthodontic-inviting ways to remove a cap. Carter attempted to pry one bottle open with his ring and gashed his

ILLUSTRATION BY IRENE FLORES finger. The wound wasn’t deep, but a dark line trickled down his wrist and dripped thick spots into the sand where they sat like ellipses or rubies or something equally valuable and mysterious. Theresa found a piece of driftwood and drew a circle around the drops, red like lips even in the weak light of the moon. She had never been kissed at midnight on New Year’s Eve. Never been kissed at any midnight. Never been kissed at all, truth be told. Yes, her mother and father had brushed their lips against her cheek, her forehead, even her own lips throughout her childhood—at bedtime and before the tardy bell rang and as she mounted the bus steps for camp—but such contact didn’t count. Wasn’t even a kiss, really. More like proof of their relationship, closer to a handshake, a contract signifying that her parents would still be there when she woke up, when she got out of class, when she came home at the end of a summer—nose still peeling from a burn that never quite turned into a tan, frayed friendship bracelets cutting off circulation in each wrist, and diary pitifully empty of stories of sneaking down to the lake or behind the

29 29

first-aid cabin to steal a moment with any one of the lanky, squeaky-voiced boys growing increasingly dust-streaked and feral throughout the long July days. At the end of sixth grade, she had set a goal for herself. Wrote it down and everything, on a piece of flower-scented paper she got from her grandma a birthday or two ago. It was something like a to-do list with only one item to be accomplished before she started seventh grade: “Get kissed.” She had briefly considered crossing it out and writing instead “Kiss someone,” but she decided she wanted to receive the kiss. That way she could hold onto it forever, savoring it like a hard candy that never quite dissolved on her tongue. Summer had ended, blazing out with a particularly aggressive heat wave in late September and early October. She had started class at Bear Valley Middle School sweaty and unkissed. After biking home the first day, Theresa had cursed her house’s lack of air conditioning and erased the deadline on her to-do list, penciling in “before graduating seventh grade” instead. The perfumy paper was practically gag-inducing in her muggy room. The flowery paper wore thin, even tore a little under her repeated erasings and hasty scribblings: “Before the end of summer.” “Before my birthday.” “Before graduating eighth grade.” “Before high school starts.” *** Theresa had come to the dunes with some fellow juniors from Bear Valley High to burn the paper. Actually, pretty much all of the students had come to blow off steam. She was the only one who knew about her list, and she planned to discreetly toss it into the bonfire, once that got going. The two Aidens had together lugged a Christmas tree

FLOTSAM continued

on page

30 30

Holiday Guide 2012 HOLIDAY GUIDE 2012

N E W T I M E S and T H E S U N present N E W T I M E S AND T H E S U N PRESENT

FLOTSAM from page 29 between them, and the plan was to get a small blaze going at some point, then toss the six-foot bone-dry Douglas fir onto the flames at midnight. The resulting fireball would probably catch the attention of any patrolling officers and would put a spectacular end to their night and year. Theresa wanted her kiss deferred to disappear in that burst of heat and light. She wanted to step into a new year without its phantom weight on her lips. But the promised fire showed no signs of coming to life anytime soon. Carter, despite now sporting a thick makeshift bandage on his index finger, was using the only remaining lighter she could see to ignite fuses and chuck fireworks farther into the ocean than anyone else. Theresa had a good inch or two on him and played forward on the school’s girls’ basketball team, while he was more of a drama geek, but he made the act of lobbing each sparking packet of chemicals and paper look effortless: A faint glowing point would leave his hand and trace an arc up, up, to briefly join the stars, then plummet into the sea where it would explode into a whirling blaze of purple or gold. Carter’s unnatural fires bobbed in the tide, illuminating successive sets of breakers webbed with seaweed. Theresa stood where the water just reached her toes and watched neon colors spread and bleed and die. Then someone lit a strobe, the kind that always hurt her eyes, and she squinted but watched anyway. The blinding flashes, blue-white, like fluorescent light filtered through a glacier, seemed to make the water colder. Theresa took a step back onto firmer sand and squinted again as a second strobe joined the first, their staccato visual bursts briefly syncopating to create a brilliant visual headache. And as the harsh glare died, Theresa saw a head, wreathed in bubbling and popping orange foam, lit up like molten rock, bobbing just beyond the rainbow-streaked breakers. It glided toward shore, moving with an incoming surge of salt water, but holding fast against the outgoing pull. It was clearly wooden or plastic—not human—but her breath caught in her throat just the same. She thought for just a moment,

then rolled her jean cuffs up to her calves and gingerly picked her way around tangled piles of rotting plants to fish it from the surf. The thing was smooth and round like an oversized croquet ball, red, with a recessed little rectangle for a stark white face. The nose was lined underneath and bracketed with a paintedon black mustache. The mouth was a simple and slightly frowning line, while the eyes were circles about the size of her thumbprints. In the second strobe’s sputtering last gasps, they seemed to wink at her. The head felt like a melon Theresa had just pulled from a fridge, slick and chilled and firm in her hands. As she moved it, a comet-like tail described its path through the air, trickling out between her fingers before fading. “What is that?” Carter’s haphazard firework-tossing had led him closer to her, and he pocketed the lighter and reached out his now empty hand to palm the head. “Did you just find this thing?” Theresa nodded. He was very close, and her hand strayed to the tattered paper in her pocket. She and Carter had come close to dating once before, if there was even such a thing. Either you were dating or you weren’t, and they most certainly weren’t. They had been getting to know each other, then getting to know each other better, eating lunches together and making plans to study for midterms, when he was cast as John Proctor in the school play, The Crucible. It was something of a coup for a sophomore acting among juniors and seniors, all expecting to get lead roles according to the time and effort they’d put into working their way up from chorus members and extras as freshmen. After the final show, she’d brought him a flower, adding it to what quickly became a massive bouquet built by friends, family members, and fans. He was talking to Kirsten Ringer—who’d played his wife in the play—when Theresa slipped her blossom in among the others. He winked at her, but didn’t stop his conversation. Kirsten had laughed, loudly, at something he said, brushing her hair back from her eyes and touching his arm with an obviously possessive and flirty intensity. She clearly was hoping their scripted relationship would carry offstage—not that the Proctors were a couple to emulate, Theresa thought.

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They were holding hands the next day. Carter and Kirsten, that is. Not Carter and Theresa. *** “What do you think this is?” Carter was holding the head in one hand, balancing it on his fingertips, like Hamlet considering Yorrick. “I don’t know,” she said with a shrug. And she didn’t. “I’m glad you came tonight,” he said. “I mean, it’s good to see you. Or, not just see you, but, you know, talk to you. I miss our lunches.” She snorted. Carter started to say something else, but some particularly frenzied shouting began down the beach, and several silhouettes detached themselves from the main body of high schoolers to splash into the water. “Oh man,” Carter said, laughing. “The Aidens said they were going to try to get everyone to go skinny dipping.” While he started walking back to the others, another body detached from the crowd—Everett, maybe, struggling to pull his shirt up and over his head while he ran, hoots and catcalls following him down to the waterline. Carter started jogging, too, pausing to turn and toss the head back to Theresa. She caught it easily and wrinkled her nose at him. “Are you joining them?” He blanched. “What? No way. I’m not stupid. That water is cold.” He pronounced it cowled. “I think I should get the fire going so nobody dies of hypothermia or loses any of their, uh, extremities to frostbite.” Carter winked at her—again. “Come join me when you’re done being alone over here,” he called, and he loped back to where some students had piled driftwood over a few broken pieces of a pallet. She looked back at the head. Its left eye was a large white circle with a black spot in the middle. Its right eye was just an empty circle. Blank. A noise—something more than the hiss of water on sand and the click of rocks being patiently worn down—made her turn around. A few paces back, a writhing black mass swirled and dissolved in the tide, melting and breaking into smaller pieces as

FLOTSAM continued on page 32

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FLOTSAM from page 30

she watched. Some of the stuff pooled and began to run, oddly, in a stream that trickled up toward the dry sand. They were beetles. Big ones. A few of them flicked their hard shells open to reveal shiny green wings underneath, and one took to the air, briefly, only to land on a Styrofoam box—like their cooler for the beers, but smaller—bobbing amid a swirl of thick foam. A surge of seawater pushed the box onto the shore, where it tipped and broke apart, exploding into another shimmering pile of beetles. They ticked and whirred in the semi-darkness, their mechanical sounds just barely audible over the waves. Theresa wasn’t squeamish—she’d been the first in her class to cut into their fetal pig for dissection in biology—but she also didn’t come out on New Year’s Eve to look at bugs. She realized, suddenly, that she was alone on her stretch of the beach. A flickering glow some ways away indicated that the group had finally started the fire, and she heard Carter’s laugh bounce across the distance, loud and genuine. A flicker from the ball in her hand—firelight reflected in its still-glistening surface—drew her attention, and she looked again at the head, one pale lid permanently closed. Like Carter, always flirting, one eye bright and twinkling opposite a wink. But it didn’t mean anything. Theresa hauled her arm back and threw it at the sea, regretting the action almost immediately. She heard it hit the water with a solid slap, then sighed. The grimacing ball felt like something she wanted to hold onto—plus she had some frustrated energy to burn off—so she began tugging off her jeans. She’d worn a swimsuit under her clothes in case the group decided to swim, but she didn’t want to float among a pack of naked boys. After folding her clothes into a pile just above the water line, Theresa ran a few steps and dove into an oncoming wave. She was a confident swimmer, and the water wasn’t actually as cold as Carter had been making it out to be. She saw the head floating a few yards out and kicked toward it, but the object was actually a small plastic buoy streaked with black lines. Several of them bobbed around her, like inquisitive seals popping up for a breath. She saw another cooler, too, and a translucent jug, like an oversized milk carton. An afterimage of each object faintly

shone against her eyelids when she blinked. A few strokes took her away from the cloud of debris, and she spotted her winking head still farther out. Behind it, a huge hump rose out of the water, black and monstrous. Her heart kicked in her chest, and the water grew much colder, but she stopped herself from panicking. Took a deep breath. Began easing her way back to shore, away from whatever was surfacing in front of her. And then the shape slowly resolved itself in her mind, and it was much bigger yet than it first appeared. It was a house. White curtains billowed in a large picture window frame, their waterlogged ends sucking and dragging as dark salt water flowed in and out of the open hole. The sea lapped at a metal handle a few feet to the side, and she could just make out two wooden steps sunken below that. A door. She swam a length or two closer. Small swirling lights schooled and pulsed around her legs, streaming up to the handle, which dropped back into darkness as the house eased backward. Theresa treaded water for a moment. Then she kicked one leg out and probed until her toes felt a rough plank. She pulled herself up. Climbed the steps. Cradled the wooden head in one arm and opened the door. *** On March 11, 2011, an undersea earthquake pushed the entire Japanese island of Honshu eight feet to the east. Waves reaching 30, 60, 100 feet into the shifting sky pummeled the country’s northern islands, obliterating cars, homes, and people, then dragging the wreckage back into open sea where it began drifting east. More than 15,000 people died. *** Theresa slowly waded down the hallway, seawater up to her waist. The house had only one story; no stairs led to a dry upper floor. Patterns wavered and danced along the ceiling, shifting from green to blue to purple, like the boys on the beach had managed to hurl some of their fireworks inside. She could see clearly, and the space was surprisingly bare. Theresa had expected to find

Holiday Guide 2012 HOLIDAY GUIDE 2012 furniture jumbled and tossed into soggy heaps with clothes, appliances, and the assorted clutter of life. But everything looked orderly. Neat, even. There were no pictures on the walls, no light bulbs in the fixtures. She pushed open an interior door, leaning hard against the wood to guide it through the water, and found a kitchen alive with motion. The cabinets were studded with barnacles and anemones, every surface feathered with pink and orange and yellow filaments waving in the water and air. Seahorses, slim and frilled with gauzy fins, coiled and intertwined with silvery fish and bright, mottled eels. The floor was thick with delicate glass shrimp and wobbling medusa like storm-inverted umbrellas. And everywhere, everywhere were tiny glowing specks, hovering and floating like struck matches, tongues of vibrant fire licking around an invisible core. The spheres bobbed like corks, passing through walls and creatures alike, with smoky wisps floating out behind them. A room opposite the kitchen, a den or study, was similarly populated. Dinner-plate-sized crabs with rippled shells that resembled human faces scaled the curtains of another glassless window, this one taken up by a pure-white heron perched in the center that blinked and clacked its beak when it saw her. Farther down was a bathroom, iridescent kelp twining up to a towel-rack trellis. Milky, bulging starfish blanketed a hanging lamp in the center of the room, swaying like a lazy pendulum. Each successive room seemed brighter, and the water, she realized, was down around her knees now. She sloshed back into the hall, where a human form stood silhouetted against the open doorway. She gasped and ducked back into the bathroom, but the figure ran down the hall and caught her wrist. “Theresa?” It was Carter, dark hair plastered to his forehead, water streaming over his bony shoulders and from his plaid boxers. His teeth were chattering. “Carter!” she barked. “What are you doing here?” “What am I doing here?” He released her hand and wrapped his arms tightly across his chest, shivering. “I saw you take off

FLOTSAM continued on page 33

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FLOTSAM from page 32 into the water, but you didn’t come back. Are you crazy?” She wasn’t cold, but folded her own arms anyway. Didn’t say anything. “Do you have any idea how dangerous this is?” “What?” “This whole house thing!” He jerked his head to indicate the walls around him. “One good swell and it’ll sink.” She cocked an eyebrow. “Now?” she said. “Really? It’s obviously been floating for a long time.” He reached out to push the bathroom door open wider, taking in the plants and animals inside at a glance. “Yeah,” he said. “I guess. But that doesn’t mean it’s going to stay up forever.” “I’m not going to be here forever,” she said. “I’m not planning on moving in or anything.” She turned and waded toward the back of the house. The water was at her ankles. “Hey!” Carter splashed behind her. “Hey, we need to go. Everyone else is back up on dry land.” She turned a corner and found another door, rimmed with coral. She pushed it open and stopped mid-step, Carter crashing into her back. For the smallest fraction of a second, she thought she’d seen a child in the room, a small boy holding something. A paper lantern. She hadn’t even had time to take in that much detail, but she could still see his outline like a pale halo in the air. A single, flickering light—blue like a spring morning—wavered in the space where he’d have been, if he’d really been there. It spun

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Holiday Guide 2012

a tight circle, swooped at her, then shot through her chest. She turned to follow it, only to find Carter staring at her. “We weren’t anything,” he said. She blinked. “Kirsten and me.” He shrugged. “We weren’t boyfriend and girlfriend or anything.” She started to say something, but he stopped her. “I know what it looked like, and I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. And I suppose I liked the flirting—” Theresa rolled her eyes and moved to push past him. “—but,” he continued, “it never went anywhere. She tried all kinds of stuff like grabbing my hands in the halls and getting all cozy and stuff, but it never went anywhere.” He shrugged again. “But you did,” he finished. A striped shrimp flicked itself across his toes, and he jerked one leg up. “Are you finished?” Theresa said. He nodded, scratching at his foot. She stared at him. “Can I talk now?” He nodded again. “I thought we were something,” she said. “I thought you were interested in me, like I meant something to you.” “I—” he started. “No,” she said, pushing past him into the hall. The blue light was there, zigzagging in and out of the other rooms, collecting more lights around it as it went. “No. You never even kissed me.” “What?!”

FLOTSAM continued on page 35

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N E W T I M E S and T H E S U N present N E W T I M E S AND T H E S U N PRESENT FLOTSAM from page 33 She kept walking, but he slogged down the hall and grabbed her elbow. “Is that what this is about?” he asked. Theresa heard water dripping, trickling like it was funneling down a drain. She didn’t turn around. A white sphere was forming near the door, growing in intensity and glowing like the strobes from earlier that night. Behind it came an even brighter flash, a blast of orange like a slow sunrise compressed into a few seconds. The Aidens had thrown the Christmas tree onto the bonfire. They were close. The house had drifted almost all the way to shore, and Theresa could see the group staring, mouths open in disbelief, at the looming structure, illuminated by the explosion on the beach. “Happy New Year,” she said. Carter tugged at her elbow and she turned, spots swimming in front of her. Something thumped into the sodden floor at her feet, and she realized she’d finally dropped the wooden head she’d been cradling all this time. “I thought we were something, too,” Carter said. “I think we are something.” He put a hand on the back of her neck and pulled her face closer to his, standing just a bit on tiptoe to reach her. Their lips met. And then everything started falling apart. There was a tremendous, grating crash. The whole house shuddered and shrieked. Water rolled down the hall, piling into a flowing wall of creatures and foam that crashed into the couple. The bridge of Carter’s nose banged into Theresa’s chin, and she bit into her tongue as she fell backward onto the front steps. Carter fell face-first on top of her, and she felt the wood beneath her split and crumble. The doorframe rippled and blackened, then flaked apart, raining buzzing insects into the sea. A crack, like thunder despite the clear sky, tore the air. Some of the kids on the beach started screaming. The waves were carpeted with rafts of madly waving legs and antennae. The house folded in on itself, deflating, melting into the surf. Theresa felt things pinging into her face, felt Carter scramble

Holiday Guide HOLIDAY GUIDE2012 2012

off of her and then drag her up onto the beach. She spat three times, clearing the rusty taste from her mouth, leaving a line of red spots in the sand, and shakily stood. The whole group huddled together, their backs to the fire, watching the walls and roof settle into a black mound and slowly disperse with the currents. From behind the pile, a white heron, its head swiveling at the end of an impossibly sinuous neck, took to the air, trailed by a glowing white ball. By the time the crowd could no longer see its light, the house had vanished. Most of the bugs had, too. Theresa realized Carter’s arm was around her waist. “Oh man,” one of the Aidens said. “Yeah,” the other Aiden agreed. “Really.” Nervous giggles erupted, phones were checked to see whether photos turned out, and everyone started talking at once, trying to make sense of what had happened. Theresa detached herself from Carter and took a few steps away. He moved to walk with her, one eyebrow raised in concern. “I’m good,” she said. “I’m just going to get my pants.” He nodded and went to put his hands in his pockets but realized he was still in his underwear. “I should do that too.” Theresa spotted her clothes a ways off. As she adjusted her shirt and zipped her jeans, she slipped her hand in her pocket, fishing for her to-do list. Her fingers brushed, instead, something round, like a rock worn smooth by the tides. She pulled it out to reveal a huge beetle, sitting placidly in the center of her palm. It twitched once, twice, then whirred to life, flying back toward the spot the house had run aground, touching land for the first time in years. And there was something a few yards out from there, something that hadn’t dissolved away. Something round and red and winking in the moonlight. As Theresa watched, a dark spot—the beetle, shining like wet obsidian—landed on the top of the ball and trundled down to settle onto the empty white circle. The head stared straight at her, both eyes open wide, taking her in. ∆ Contact Executive Editor Ryan Miller at rmiller@newtimesslo.com.

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RING IN

THE

NEW YEAR

San Luis Obispo Buddhist Temple, 6996 Ontario Road, will hold a New Year’s Eve event starting at 8 p.m. on Dec. 31. Attendees will help ring the temple’s bell 108 times, a reminder of the 108 blind passions—sometimes referred to as the defilements of man, snares and delusions, or emotional desires—in every person. Organizers split the ringing among the people present, so 108 guests would each ring the bell once. Two people would ring it 54 times each. And so on. The temple will hold an early service—a short service—on New Year’s Day. For more information, visit slobuddhisttemple. org or call 595-2625. The Guadalupe Buddhist Temple is at 1070 Olivera St. in Guadalupe. Call 343-1053 for information on New Year’s Eve and Day activities.

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had been three days since anyone last saw the Fat Man. He was holed up in his office, and the only things that escaped a small gap between the floor and doorway were the acrid stench of peppermint schnapps and mutterings of foul language. Tinkle, a meek little elf with a voice that sounded like an effeminate helium balloon, tried to approach the door. His toe bells jingling nervously, he pressed an ear against the dark oak

N E W T I M E S and T H E S U N present N E W T I M E S AND T H E S U N PRESENT frame, but a rumble inside sent him scurrying back to his work station. Most of us pretended not to see the damp spot on his tights. The elation of our victory had long since vanished. We’d spent maybe a few hours singing and dancing, prancing about like a pack of drunken boisterous chipmunks—the air thick with high-pitched squeals of delight. But after the glee of it all had sputtered and died, and we’d nursed our hangovers, we

Holiday Guide 2012 HOLIDAY GUIDE 2012 began to realize that, really, nothing had changed. We’d cut off the snake’s head, but there we were, the body, wriggling and thrashing about in the dust. We happy brethren of elves had accomplished little more than to delay our work—and piss off our boss. After all, it was November, and we still had a job to do. We were behind schedule, meaning some corners would have to be cut to make deadline. You can’t have an elf coup d’état without

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BY COLIN RIGLEY ILLUSTRATION BY NEAL BRETON a few shoddily built toy trains. So the kids this year would have to take one on the chin in the name of the proletariat. By that third day, the swell of pride we’d surfed on was nothing more than a ripple. The smiles faded and the clatter of mugs bouncing off each other in celebration gave way to the steady humming of tiny hands completing tiny tasks on an immense assembly line. You really have to turn off your mind in this type of work. Busy thoughts might mean a finger lost to the jaws of a piece of machinery, or getting your sleeve caught in one of the gears. Snowflake lost the better part of her left arm that way. At its finest, the factory becomes a pumping, writhing organ. Each elf knows his or her part, and they know it well. While the building itself is occupied, at any given time, by as many as 50,000 elves in departments ranging from engineering to packaging, the main assembly lines usually swell from between 500 to 750 handy-elves. We’re the grunts who keep this whole thing moving. Working on the line is the epitome of controlled chaos. Thousands of tiny hands flutter effortlessly over the conveyor belts and if you stop for a moment to listen, you’d swear the room was dead empty aside from the buzz of heating ducts. But with that door breathing and seething in the corner, it was hard to maintain your focus. I’ve been working this line for 150 years, through the worst of his tantrums. I’d seen that bulbous blowhard fling elves across the room like they were Nerf footballs. He’s cursed at us, beaten us, and even burnt us when he was drunk enough. But I’d never seen an act so violent or cruel as what he did to Dudley. No one ever paid much attention to Dudley. Dudley was quiet and unassuming. Even by elf standards he was shrimpy, standing no more than two feet and barely able to reach the conveyer belts. He typically had to stand on top of an old wooden pallet. It’s probably for these reasons that he was so taken aback when the Mrs. gave him that look as she clomped through the factory on one of her many trips between bed and the kitchen. She was a ghastly woman, almost as ugly as the Fat Man, with a pair of pointed ears and a nose that might make the features of most elves appear subtle by comparison. Perhaps the only thing that softened her features was a drooping expression that tugged at her jowls. None of us had ever seen her even attempt a smile. But on that strange, terrible day—either drunk on liquor, depression, or both—her face contorted into a bizarre, furtive grin that looked as if she’d

THE FAT MAN continued

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THE FAT MAN from page 36 never moved her facial muscles in that way before. As surprised as we were by her horrifying glance, even the Mrs. seemed slightly perplexed by her ability to modify the bag of gelatinous mayhem she called a face. She probably hadn’t attempted a smile in years, and it certainly didn’t suit her well. No one, however, was more astonished than Dudley—poor Dudley—who nearly fell off his pallet. He only managed to stay on his feet by grabbing hold of a nearby column of stacked and boxed action figures, all lined in rows near one of the conveyor belts. But the stack wobbled briefly before it toppled into the next stack and the next one like a row of dominoes. Ironically, Dudley’s fumble ended up knocking the carefully stacked boxes of dominoes on the other side of the room. What do you mean that’s not the proper use of “irony?” I Googled it and someone in a forum said there are multiple uses. Yes, I know there are other definitions beside hipster irony. But … yes, I have a dictionary; it’s just that it’s easier to run an Internet search. … Wait! NO! Please don’t put me in the cage. Anything but the cage! The interns can’t figure out how to crap in one corner and it’s everywhere—they’re animals. I’ll do anything, just don’t lock me up again. What do I need to do? Uh huh. Yeah. Well … but, but that doesn’t make any sense. OK, you’re right. I’m sorry. I’ll re-write it. Yes, I understand. That’s actually much better, now that I think about it. But don’t you want me to delete that last section first? No? Um … sure thing. So Dudley realized that his friends were all a bunch of slack-jawed, self-aggrandizing, barely literate, dullards who felt that reading a few chapters of out of a 101 political science textbook entitled them to make lame attempts at vague social commentary despite a severe lack of intelligence and overabundance of undeserved ego. Also I’m a pretty princess and I wear pretty princess dresses to make me feel pretty. Then Dudley sneezed, or something, and knocked over some boxes, which made a loud noise. Suddenly the room exploded. Boxes and toys went flying across the assembly line. A decapitated doll’s head whizzed

across the room and grazed my check before crashing into the wall behind me, sending shards of gleaming razor-sharp porcelain on a course toward Winky, Blinky, and Sam. All we managed to see was a red blur as the Fat Man barreled out of his office toward Dudley. He grabbed the poor elf by the foot and spun him around his head like a lasso. We all heard the sound of Dudley’s ankle twisting and cracking with each snap of the Fat Man’s arm. After eight or nine spins the Fat Man released Dudley and let inertia carry his ragged, broken body through the air, trailed by a mist of sweat and tears that all went smacking into a nearby shelf stacked floor to ceiling with Stretch Armstrong dolls. Dudley collapsed on the floor, sputtering and crying, barely able to suck in air through a mouth of broken teeth and a tongue that had swollen to the size of a chicken breast. For a few moments we all just stood there, gaping at our literally fallen comrade. The air stunk of sweat and some other odor I could only compare to warm milk. I felt tears congealing in the wrinkles of my left eye and my hands shook uncontrollably. My ears buzzed with white noise and I had trouble catching a thought long enough to process what had happened. It’s hard to avoid clichés in these moments because it truly feels like watching a movie, and it’s only later that your brain finally sends back the message that this has all really happened right in front of you—and you’ve done nothing to stop it. And there stood the Fat Man. His chest heaved with each breath and he had to grab a nearby stool to right himself. He muttered a string of something under his breath I could only assume were obscenities and he glared at Dudley, shaking with rage, clenching the stool until I heard his knuckles pop from the pressure of it all. It takes a lot of energy for a man of such girth to perform any menial task, let alone attempted elf homicide, and the episode had clearly taken a toll on this ancient, jolly tyrant. His sleeveless undershirt was stained yellow and he’d torn one of the seams running down his pant leg, exposing the milky white skin and tangled hair beneath. In that moment, I think we all finally saw this horrible beast for what he truly was. Over the years and decades and centuries, the Fat Man had somehow developed the notoriety

Holiday Guide 2012 HOLIDAY GUIDE 2012 of someone who was much more powerful than he actually was. There he was, a pathetic wheezing child who’d just had a temper tantrum, but he could barely stand under the weight of his own belly. It was a damn shame that poor Dudley had to sacrifice the majority of his upper teeth and the use of his right ankle to show us the true nature of the Fat Man.

THE FAT MAN continued on page 39

CHASING

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The Mrs. let a small, frightened squeal escape her gargantuan lips and it triggered something in all of us. Maybe weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d finally reached a boiling point, or maybe we suddenly realized there were far more of us than there was of him. It was Teacup who threw the first blow. He roared a tiny elf roar and darted across the room with his fist already clenched and barreled it into the back of the Fat Manâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s knee. With enough force applied in the appropriate place, you can bring down any large structure, and the Fat Man crumpled with ease. Before he could stand again, Blinkin was on him. The grizzled old elf grabbed the Fat Man by the beard and smashed his fist into that globular cherrycolored nose over and over again until blood trickled down his beard and dripped onto some nearby teddy bears. A violent flurry of jingle bells and pointed hats surrounded the Fat Man and forced him to the ground. The elves squirmed in a massive pile, throwing punches at anything they could. The Fat Man finally emerged, his face spongy and stained violet with bruises. I flung a train engine as hard as I could toward his head and it connected, shredding his ear nearly clean off. The Fat Man kicked and screamed, panicked and frantic like a small animal caught in a trap. He managed to kick a few elves off and made a dart toward his office. Some elves clung to his arms and legs, biting, scratching, and generally doing anything they could to inflict damage. The Fat Man shook free just shy of his door and

fell into his office. He was just barely able to slam the door shut before Pepper got a wedge in. And he was gone. But that was three days ago. Weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve mended our wounds with ointments and booze. Dudley finally spoke for the first time yesterday. No one could really hear what he said, but Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m almost certain I heard, â&#x20AC;&#x153;Keep him away.â&#x20AC;? And those of us who were able to work got back to the grind. The rest with breaks or sprains were allowed to take lower quotas. The ones who werenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t able to work took shifts watching the door. Weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re not sure where to go from here. No one knows how to operate that flying contraption the Fat Man uses, and really, without him making deliveries there isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t much point in finishing our work. A few elves have tried to draft a petition that we just burn the whole lot. Personally, I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t think anyone could simply throw it all away so nonchalantly. No one has seen or heard from the Mrs., which is probably for the best. And at some point, we know that old bear is going to come back out of his office. I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t think heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d be foolish enough to do to anyone else what heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d done to poor Dudley, but then again, itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hard to predict what a beast like that is capable of when you take away everything else. Me? I hope that door stays closed forever. â&#x2C6;&#x2020;

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Contributor Colin Rigley can be reached at crigley@newtimesslo.com.

The Last Picture Show

& Winter Fair

STORY continued on page 39

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Spend Your Holidays With Us! Delicious Food· Live Local Entertainment· Warm Cozy Atmosphere

Join us for a Delicious Traditional Thanksgiving Buffet Featuring Roasted Turkey with all the trimmings, Honey Baked Ham, Slow-Roasted Prime Rib, Fresh Seafood & lots of dessert choices. Enjoy entertainment after dinner in the Fireside Lounge.

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Gather ‘round children, grandparents too, nothing too young, or likely to boo; I’ve a clam of a tale to tell to you. And you’d best listen closely, or there’s no telling what Shredder will do. Not to you, safely nestled round a rip-roaring blaze, but I’ll be ground with a pestle while you carol and carouse in an eggnog-swilling, mistletoe-lurking holiday haze:

Reginald P. WhiteBeard is a clam shucker by day. By night, a pirate, or so they say. By the light of a full dune moon-that fat nudist orb, he plucks up his quarry, pronouncing: “I’m sorry, dear fellow, but I intend to slit your belly. You’ve no right to complain, for you make such lovely chowder, so succulent steamed with a cup of white wine, or deep fried as fritters, gritty and refined. No, no, don’t struggle. Do be a sport. You are who you are, and pair excellently with port.” With this counsel, he tucks his take into a taut blushing tote, “A death sentence, a penitentiary,” say the clams, to quote. You couldn’t envision a lonelier figure than the man with the sack raking clams with his digger. He was as much a pirate as he could possibly be having spent no time at all in the rollicking sea. Though his treasure was buried, always the same in that liminal tract where water takes leave from the sad, rooted earth, which knows only to cleave. Those same windswept sands that succored the poets the dunites, the lunatics, the visionaries, and all-know-its, long stretches of dune, nothing but sand and the plovers called snowy

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THE TOUGH

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PIRATE.

SHUCKER.

HUMAN. BY ASHLEY SCHWELLENBACH ILLUSTRATION BY ANNAMARIE FELLA

HOLIDAY GUIDE41 2012

on pitter patter feet, more shy even than Whitebeard faster to beat a retreat. He forged through bone-chilling gales with good cheer, and tides that ripped at his waders with glee, not stately or handsome, just Reggie. Twice Whitebeard was caught, tell-tale clam in hand, the dangerous ranger let him off with a demand: “Forfeit your take, to my supper stew and I’ll throw away this ticket, but I’ve got my eye on you.” Whitebeard wept for his clams, in the maw of a boor ripped by incisors, and crushed by his molars, trapped in a cavern of fetid, foul breath and the worst yet to come, the fate of all mass that passes through the stomach and comes out of yourPeace, peace wretched Shredder, I’ll stop soon enough, though I’m not yet finished and your standards are tough. On Whitebeard’s second dance with the law, he received a beating that left him quite raw and a harsh word of warning: “Three strikes and you’re out. We know how to deal with a scummy pirate lout.” “But ranger,” the pirate petitioned, “Before you pass judgment, consider the following condition: It is a question neither ethical nor moral; where’s the harm in a victimless crime or a fight where there’s no quarrel?” But such philosophical rambling held no appeal for the fuzz, no pleasant sensation, intellectual buzz. The law’s black or white and there’s no room to quibble, so WhiteBeard resolved to turn a new leaf, to dot every i and cross every t, leaving the clams in their beds and his chowder bowl empty. What WhiteBeard forgot was the pull of the season when we spend and we eat in spite of all reason. For winter had settled upon Reggie’s dunes and while the oceans rage, the humans feast. I quite understand Herr Shredder, you cold-hearted beast. You’re a fiend and a Scrooge and I’m on to your gameno heart, no soul, no love, and no name. And if I were bigger, braver, not on my third strike, I’d rouse the peasants and place your head on a pike. You see, WhiteBeard’s personal life had gone stale and decayed. Since the girl he’d loved ever since the eighth grade married another, he turned in his pomade, set his Sunday best adrift with the tides, and bought himself a clam rake in lieu of a bride. There’s no point in pretending, in feeding lies to yourself; she was his Christmas, his leatherbound books stacked on a shelf,

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REGGIE P. from page 41 his birthday wish, his warm laundry fresh from the drier, those first prismatic flames that rise from the fire, numbing and warm, culminating in his funeral pyre. With the slap of elastic sliding round waists the revelers anticipated their yearly repast. But in kitchens and pantries cooks’ spirits were low anchored by the worst sort of culinary sorrow. The main course is still clucking, and there will be no feast tomorrow. The turkey is dry, and so earned a reprieve, the ham is still grubbing around in the leaves. The dinner certainly won’t be a winner without some protein! The butcher’s in Fresno, the geese all flew southa feast’s a disaster without flesh in your mouth! With a toss of his sack and a flourish of rake, WhiteBeard could treat them to a feast of a bake, but the ranger was watching for evidence of illegal take. Strident Canary, don’t look so wary, for I’m bursting to speak as surely as there’s a song in your beak. “I’m just a pirate, a rogue of the sea, not a church, not a soup kitchen, not a 501c3. The punishment for piracy is two months in the stocks, and a lifetime of exile from those sweet little mollusks. I’ll sacrifice life and I’ll sacrifice limb, but I’ll not surrender my gastronomical privilege to a meal so tender; I’ve been many a thing, a shoe-gazer, an ambulance-chaser, a sous chef, a bed-wetter, but I’ll not be a martyr to the advantage of another. Though I suppose I’m a human, 10 fingers, 10 toes, and countless nucleic acids, all spiraling in rows.

THINK OUTSIDE

THE BIRD Chef Shaun Behrens of Luna Red: Crispy deep fried quail stuffed with dried figs and cornbread on Oaxacan mole sauce or pan-seared sweet potato gnocchi with almond butter, roasted heirloom squash, thyme, and lemon. Chef Giovanni of Vieni Vai: Pumpkin, ricotta, and zucchini lasagna. Christina Kartsioukas of Wild Donkey Café: Nothing beats stuffing with chestnuts, yams, and cranberry sauce on Thanksgiving ... The rest doesn’t matter! Try some lamb. Have some Moussaka! Phil Lang of Bon Temps: We like to do an andouille sausage and cornbread stuffing. Crawfish stuffed mirlitons. Cranberry bread pudding. Honey-rum sweet potatoes with tasso ham. Jacob Moss of Lido at Dolphin Bay: Short ribs, grilled bok choy, and sticky rice with a citrus sesame sauce. Alejandro Araizaga of Santa Maria Inn Restaurant: I don’t like to mess with traditional meals either BUT I have done non-traditional dishes. Instead of traditional stuffed turkey ... if it’s a family of four people I’ve done individual cornish game hens instead of cooking an 18 lb. turkey. Everybody gets a portion. Their own 12 to 14 oz. Cornish game hen. We can get creative with the stuffing. Either go traditional with onion, celery, and butter or be more elaborate adding sausage, apples, and cranberry and so on ... Side dishes I wouldn’t change that much ... maybe a traditional green bean casserole, mashed potatoes, and gravy. Maybe a seasonal soup like a butternut squash soup with rosemary cheddar cheese biscuit. For dessert ... to avoid traditional you can have a pumpkin cheesecake, pumpkin creme brulee, a pumpkin flan which I’ve done all of those. If pumpkin is not your cup of tea, maybe chocolate is more your thing ... We can do a lava cake that’s cake-like in the outside and gooey in the inside.

REGGIE P. continued on page 43

Are the Holidays a Struggle? We Can Help.

S L O A R C

Stay focused on sobriety. Don’t be drawn into unhealthy party activities just because your friends are.

Leave a party if it becomes uncomfortable. Politely excuse yourself after you have fulfi lled your obligation. The unpleasant “face” of alcohol and/or drugs usually shows itself later in the festivities. Always have your own ride home or another escape plan. Organize: If your office is planning a party, volunteer to be the “organizer” or another position besides, bartender or the person who goes to the store to buy all the champagne! Action: This is the MOST important thing when you want to stay clean and sober! Don’t just think you are not going to drink or use drugs. Take ACTION! When you get restless call a sober friend or go to a 12-step meeting. Meditate! Eat! Food can be a very effective way to stop craving for drugs or alcohol. Respect other people’s right to celebrate. Remember; YOU are the one with the issue of addiction. Control: You CAN NOT control other people’s actions! People change when they ingest alcohol and other mind altering chemicals and that’s not your problem. If you become uncomfortable, politely disengage yourself from the situation. The only thing you CAN CONTROL is your RESPONSE to situations, and it’s always better to “respond” to things as opposed to “reacting” to them!

Do yourself a favor, call today for a same day appointment!

805-541-0632

Visit our website at www.SLOARC.com for more information. Dr. Dane Howalt

San Luis Obispo Addiction Recovery Center

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REGGIE P. from page 42 And it’s true my neighbors have done little for me, a cup of sugar here, or packet of Sweet-NLow there, some Dungeness crab, a soft wheel of brie, but though you can substitute sugar, and imitate crab there’s no packet of love or jar of camaraderie. So he planned one last caper, to benefit them all, he’d play Robin Hood to their hungry, with one final haul. Wearing his best red suit, the better to woo clams from their beds and into his view. Concealed in the fog, from the scrutiny of the ranger, he whistled “Jingle Bells,” sang “White Christmas,” and hummed “Away in a Manger” till the sack at his back was bigger than ever. “That Reggie sure is clever,” he could already hear. The clams would be tender, and mix well with cider, but before he could claim their affection and thanks, he had just one problem to decipher: How to avoid the former sweetheart with whom he had quarreled and deliver his payload to cooking pots to be boiled? He couldn’t bear for them to surmise that his good intentions were merely thinly disguised efforts to ingratiate himself with his lost love,

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so he decided to approach them, invisible, from above. He’d funnel the clams down their chimneys with care in the hope that no fire would destroy them once there. And if anyone was alarmed by the rooftop clatter and arose from their bed to see what was the matter he’d merely insist they were having a dream. Who would believe a red-suited meme would arrive on their roof, cram clams down their chimney, and be gone with a poof? On Feastday morning the Dunites awoke to find their pots brimming with protein to spare! A Feastday miracle! Their plates wouldn’t be bare! And Reggie P. Whitebeard feasted alone on a cup of weak tea and a blueberry scone. It might be time for Reggie to find a new life, an apartment, a shelter dog, and-dare he say it?-a wife. Clams were fine for awhile, but tastebuds cry for change, so Reggie resolved to become a culinary Cousteau, supping on oysters in the Gulf of Mexico, the world was his oyster, the ocean his pantry. Not a bad life for the shucker we call Reggie P. ∆ Send comments to Managing Editor Ashley Schwellenbach at aschwellenbach @newtimesslo.com.

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N E W T I M E S and T H E S U N present N E W T I M E S AND T H E S U N PRESENT

From

his dingy eighth-floor office window, a spent Dale Capgras peered bitterly out at the plant’s four monolithic smoke stacks as they continued to churn out the sickening blackened fumes for which they were infamous. The toxic wafts had just begun to catch the early evening onshore breeze and wash a begriming canopy over the setting sun’s horizon, blanketing the towering high rises of Chesterport in darkness. He’d seen the sight from that small office window a million times, and he had resigned himself to the fact that tonight would be the last. Capgras lifted his last picture frame, last coffee mug, last pack of cigarettes from his desk, and placed them conclusively in the company-provided cardboard box under his arm. “Happy New Year,” he breathed solemnly, turning his back on the room that had been home for every on-theclock hour of the last 10 years of his life and quietly closing the door on his way out. Descending the crusty stairwell and stepping out into the street, the winter’s air singed his eyeballs as they fixed upon Main Street, which was already beginning to brim with the usual stream of bleary-eyed drunken revelers, ready for a night of undignified fornication and debauchery. They lined the streets, swaying and overcompensating aggregates of torn flannel, greasy jeans, and frayed skull caps. Gazing down the crowded avenue, 12 blocks seemed like a hell of a long walk home. But Capgras had little choice tonight—Mr. Worley, his long-time supervisor, had confiscated

HOLIDAY

in favor of their newer plants and cheaper labor in Fairfield and Manchester, some 500 and 800 miles south. The city’s longstanding mayor and council members obediently courted the board like dogs, while the ever-growing lower rung of the city starved. Of course, life was going just swimmingly for the council and Chesterport’s top administrative brass, most of whom were former CarniCorp employees themselves, shipped in after retiring with a cushy care package from the utility’s regional headquarters across town, which had also scaled back its local operations but remained as a retreat, of sorts, to the directors and their families. In recent years, the eight member-board had singlehandedly dampened the lives of Chesterport’s 500,000 residents— a maddening third of which were either out of work or holding on to it for dear life. Capgras had just become one more example of collateral damage in CarniCorp’s unspoken war on the people of Chesterport. As a mid-level assurance supervisor to one of its smaller accounting contractors, his “nonessential” position went up as so much smoke over the once prominent shipping liners heading out to sea. As one foot trudged past another, he thought about Dinah, and how she hadn’t spoken to him in days. The generally tender and understanding Dinah already had one foot out the door; the consequence of his latest ill-conceived drunken exhibition with some long-legged stranger who happened in on a rainy night to the Concho Bahr, the dark haunt with which he had become far too familiar.

IN CHESTERPORT BY MATT FOUNTAIN ILLUSTRATION BY REID CAIN his company-issued bus pass. Hot breath smoked from his mouth in the early evening chill. Grasping the sagging box under his arm, he flung his coat over his shoulder and headed into what was to be the final night of a very crummy year. In the good days, it would be a rare sight to encounter more than a handful of bottomed-out sots in those same 12 blocks; toothless men blinded by hunger and burning with cold, yet clutching on to their brown paper bag as if it were affixed to the body via some umbilical apparatus. Now, however, it was a complete sorrow factory. There were days Capgras thought his job was abject and that his penchant for the drink had gotten so bad he would lose it soon anyway. But these days he was a tie-wearing Gary Cooper compared to what seemed like half the city. In Chesterport, the seaside CarniCorp power plant hadn’t operated at full capacity for the better part of a generation. It was at one point the economic crux and largest employer of the once-blossoming city, building in its wake a small ocean of business and residential rises dependent, in one fashion or another, on its prosperity. These days, however, the plant’s once-voluminous staff roster dwindled to just a few hundred—the result of the CarniCorp Board of Directors’ shift

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The Concho Bahr was no place he ever expected a soft and unexceptionable girl like Dinah would be caught dead in. It was aged and rough around the edges. The kind of place a man could slink in quietly to escape the ominous cloud of discontent while slamming heavy shots of whiskey in fullthroated swallows without a care. Except for where the next might come from. There was no glitz, no vanity, never a line at the bar. Only the velvet ropes of an alcoholic cloud, within which Capgras would proverbially linger five or six nights a week. Dinah worked there as a waitress, though she never had much to do. The food wasn’t much of a draw for the six or so usual stool ornaments that frequented the joint. But she was a flare of light in a room otherwise solely illuminated by the neon green interior signage bouncing off the red leather stools. And Stenny, the old barkeep, liked having her around—as they all did. The building itself seemed to be held together mainly by one lone horizontal load-bearing beam, running straight down the bar. Some day, Capgras thought, that sucker’s gonna give and take everyone with it. And until he met Dinah, that would’ve been A-OK. She had the night off—thank god—so Capgras rounded the corner to his block, sights set squarely on the banister to the modest studio the two shared. Creeping past the Concho Bahr, thumbing a meager wad of bills in his pocket, Cap-

CHESTERPORT continued

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HOLIDAY CHEER IS AT

BLACK FRIDAY BLOW OUT SALE Friday, November 23, 9am-6pm

Don’t miss Le Vigne’s Black Friday Blow Out Sale! After your early morning shopping, stop by and “wine” down with Mimosas served 9am-12pm, first one on us, while finishing your holiday shopping! Great Door Busters 9am-12pm starting as low as $24/case! We will be sampling a vast assortment of Gourmet foods including artisan cheeses, mustards, olive oil and balsamic vinegars, and much more! Take advantage of our pre-made gift baskets and gifts all at 25% off or 30% off for La Famiglia! All Le Vigne Wines and most of the Kiara wines will be on sale for prices so low you will be amazed! 3 Free Cannoli for $50 purchases 6 Free Cannoli for purchases of $80 or more

HOLIDAY SPECI ALS

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46 East Holiday Open House Sat. Dec. 8 · 11am-5pm

Polar Express Reading · Sunday, Dec. 9 & 16 4:30pm, 5:30pm, 6:30pm & 7:30pm

ALL ABOARD!!! Join us for our traditional holiday fundraiser for the Family Care Network Climb aboard Le Vigne’s 1947 Pullman Train cars for the reading of the holiday classic “The Polar Express.” Kids will be treated to hot chocolate & Christmas cookies. Adults will be treated to wine & cheese. $20 donation per person. Each reading is limited to 30 people. Kids with the best pajamas will win a prize. Space is limited.

RSVP Required. Tickets: $20 Adults, $10 Kids La Familia $15 Adult info@levignewinery.com

FOR MORE INFORMATION CONTACT US AT:

Le Vigne Winery 5115 Buena Vista Dr. Paso Robles 805.227.4000 · 800.891.6055

www.levignewinery.com · info@levignewinery.com

Holiday Happenings in Downtown Paso!! Holiday Craft & Bazaar

at City Park Friday Nov 23rd 10am-4pm FREE Admission

Downtown Holiday Lighting Ceremony

City Park Bandstand Friday Nov 23rd 5:30 pm 6pm Mrs Claus Lights the Downtown – Live Music, Caroling, FREE Cookies & Hot Chocolate

51st Holiday Light Parade

Entry deadlines Tues Nov 20th — Cash Prizes! Parade — Saturday Dec 1st 7pm

Vine St Victorian Christmas Showcase Stroll Down Vine St Between 8th & 21st Saturday Dec 8th 6pm-9pm

22nd Annual Victorian Teddy Bear Tea

Saturday Dec 15th 2pm-4pm Visit with Special Guests, Music, Gingerbread Cookies to Decorate, Pictures to Color and Door Prize Free Souvenir Teacups Seating is limited

805-238-4103

pasoroblesdowntown.org

Travel back in time & enjoy an old fashioned holiday celebration. The Lighthouse will be trimmed for the season, candles glowing. Stroll the Lighthouse Station at your leisure – Friendly knowledgeable docents on hand. TROLLEY/SHUTTLE DEPARTURE TIMES AVAILABLE: 11 AM • 12 PM • 1PM • 2 PM • 3PM

$50 per Adult/$25 per Child

RESERVE TODAY - 805.540.5771 [limited seating] Inclement weather does NOT cancel this event – We call it Lighthouse Weather www.sanluislighthouse.org Musicians: Carolers “The Other Reindeer” Harpist: Midori Feldman Refreshments: Scrumptious Appetizers, & Freshly Baked Homemade Desserts, Champagne & Seasonal Refreshments RAFFLES INCLUDE: Gingerbread Point San Luis Lighthouse [totally edible] & Cookie Bouquets Delivery of raffle prizes available for SLO COUNTY only Out of the area raffle winners must arrange to pick up of their price on Sunday, Dec. 16, 2012 Point San Luis Lighthouse Keepers, non-profit corporation 501(c)3 P.O. Box 13556, San Luis Obispo CA 93406.

N E W T I M E S and T H E S U N present N E W T I M E S AND T H E S U N PRESENT CHESTERPORT from page 45 gras’ mouth watered as the dastardly side of him savored the thought of slipping in for a quick one. “Not tonight, you bastard,” he said to himself. “You’ll be damn lucky to get out of this night alive already. Best behavior is paramount to survival.” There remained not the slightest trace of natural light in the night’s sky, the moon either drowned out by the soot and exhaust or wisely keeping its distance on the far side of the planet. The couple’s neighborhood wasn’t the best part of the overall scummy town, nearly 10 blocks from the Main Square, and the primal roar of townspeople gathering there flew over the block’s aging brick buildings. Making his way up his building’s stairwell, Capgras happened past Monkey Brains Mosley, his upstairs neighbor— who also happened to be the biggest speed freak this side of the Ozarks—who was descending the stairwell with two others. Upon seeing his neighbor, the checkered-mouthed Mosley proceeded to knock Capgras’ box out from under his arm, personal effects crashing to the floor, and begin to spew something about a “bitch” and how he was going to “kick ass.” He then left Capgras standing in the stairwell, coat and key in hand. Dinah wasn’t home. Instead, a note on the table: Stenny asked me to work tonight. Don’t show up. Let’s talk about it next year. –D Any hopes for an easy New Year’s Eve reconciliation were as unlikely as Mr. Worley suddenly bursting in tap dancing the Nutcracker and begging him to take his job back. Certainly, explaining how his hand found its way down the skirt of another woman and why he was suddenly unemployed presented enough of a challenge, and now it appeared Dinah still couldn’t even look at him. To make matters worse, the home was devoid of anything resembling a decent apology meal. Leftover pizza, half a jar of peanut butter, a can of beer. He knew if he was to get anywhere but thrown out tomorrow, the blow must be softened. And he hadn’t cooked her a meal in months. He loosened his tie, leaned over the sink and splashed cold

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water on his face. Clearing the water from his eyes, he caught the glimmer of a bottle resting on top of the fridge. “What’s the harm at this point?” he thought, reaching up and pouring a healthy swig down his throat. He grabbed his coat and jerked back out into the street, back toward Main Street and the nearest grocer a few blocks down. Passing again the Concho Bahr on the street corner, Capgras looked for any sign of Dinah through the tinted windows, to no avail. Rounding the street corner, he dodged a couple street drunks before he suddenly heard a shout from behind. “Hey! Lucius!” There was only one lowlife in town who knew Capgras well enough to call him by his loathsome middle name. “Where you going? You’re missing all the fun.” He turned slowly to see a toothy mustachioed grin and a silver flask bobbing back and forth in his face. “How you doing, Deaglan?” Deaglan was a good guy, and in Capgras’ time at the Concho Bahr, the two had had some nights together, and though they were fuzzy, he knew they were a riot. And in Capgras’ mind, which had begun to buzz thanks to his plentiful quaff a moment before, the man was someone he could at least trust not to further ruin the night. “On my way to the store,” he said, pointing down the road. “Gonna try to patch things up with Dinah. Thinking about cooking her a proper New Year’s dinner.” Deaglan let out a long, drawn-out chuckle. “Oh, yeah. I hear she’s none too happy with you, my friend.” “I know,” Capgras snapped. “That’s why I’m trying to cook her dinner.” “Hey,” Deaglan said, throwing his arm around his friend. “Got something for you.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out two small pieces of paper, which he held up like playing cards. “You know what would make a great centerpiece?” Oh, yes, Capgras remembered—they were holding the annual New Year’s Eve Turkey Raffle in the Square. It was the same spectacle every year; the eight CarniCorp directors and their cronies, flanked by the mayor and his cronies, would present and raffle off 10 gargantuan turkeys to the poor masses as a display of goodwill.

Christmas Around the World

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The turkeys cost the directors nothing, of course, and the proceeds from the raffle just poured into the city’s coffers. Everybody knew it, but no one cared. A bird like that could feed a family for weeks, and tickets only cost a buck. Capgras never cared enough to partake; he didn't enjoy crowds. And after all, why waste a perfectly good drinking night lusting after some turkey, shivering in the cold with half the town? “Come on, old boy. You just said you’re going to the store for food, did you not? And these are winning tickets. I guarantee it,” Deaglan said, slapping Capgras on the shoulder. “C’mon. Drawing’s in 15 minutes, you mopey bastard. Go with me.” Capgras peeked behind his friend, and saw through the tinted glass Dinah’s shadow behind the bar, pouring a shot to some vague, slumped-over figure. “I don’t know, man,” Capgras wavered. “You know it’s not really my thing, and I’ve had kind of a rough one.” Deaglan again reached into his jacket, and this time shaking temptingly a glistening flask in his friend’s face, its content bubbling and gurgling inside the tin. “Aw man, alright,” Capgras gave in, grabbing the flask and taking a healthy quaff. “The store will still be open afterwards. Give me another swig.” Deaglan put his arm over him and off they went, rambling down Main Street amongst the hungry and the drunk. Just a couple of turkeys.



It wasn’t as if Capgras had any delusions of taking one of them birds home with him. But the whiskey had begun to warm his gut and, frankly, it didn’t matter anymore. Dinah wouldn’t let him in the bar, Deaglan looked like he was on a good one, and the grocery store was open 24/7. There were what appeared to be thousands of patrons in the street well before they squeezed their way to the Square. Many were drunk, but near all looked emaciated, their sunken gazes fixed intently upon the 10-story high Christmas tree

CHESTERPORT continued on page 49

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present

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N E W T I M E S and T H E S U N present N E W T I M E S AND T H E S U N PRESENT CHESTERPORT from page 47 still standing dead-center in the Square, strung about with what appeared to be miles and miles of Christmas lights of every color. At its massive base, the grand stage, occupied by no less than the entire CarniCorp board of directors. On a side stage, the mayor, in his trademark top hat with that obscenely obese wife of his and children—faces smeared with some gooey substance—at his side. In fact, Capgras could just make out, the entire council and their families. “Pigs,” he spouted, draining Deaglan’s flask in a final gulp. “Hey, what’s your number?” Deaglan shouted above the roar of the crowd, trying to examine his ticket. “3768.” “Shit, I got a bad feeling about this one. Let’s trade,” he spat, swiping at Capgras’ hand. “Piss off,” Capgras chuckled, pulling away and looking at his watch. It was 9 o’clock. “Ladies and gentlemen!” cried the loudspeakers in the Chairman of the Board’s signature squeal. “Happy New Year's to all!” The masses roared, arms waving tickets under the stage light. Christ, Capgras thought, these people are going to be whipped into a frenzy. He hadn’t studied the crowd much, but now noticed under the flared lights just how his fellow citizens appeared. He couldn’t see anyone who could claim to be over the age of 50, nor under the age of 16. Punks, scrubs, rags, scags, junkies, degenerates—all of them. Starved with bloated bellies, sunken eyes and jutting cheekbones. It was the Night of the Living Dead—and the two friends were deep within their midst. And what’s worse, in a moment of clarity, both men realized that

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they had put themselves in this precarious situation. “Turkey!” the crowd shouted. “Me! Please! C’mon, man!” “I know things have been hard this year— they’ve been hard on all of us,” Chairman confided into the microphone. “But this year will be something special. Your own government leaders—along with your family at CarniCorp— have a plan to bring more jobs to this fine city. More jobs for you! And you! Food on your table, my friends!” The stage’s velvet curtains rose, unveiling five rows of 10 wrapped headless turkeys, stacked high above the directors, and proudly exhibited by models in tacky glittery tights. Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony blasted its epic opening notes over the sound system. The noise was overpowering; thousands of wild throats screaming into the toxic night. “We’ve seen an unprecedented turnout in our beloved Square this year. The board and I want to thank each and every one of you with a chance at no less than 50 of the finest holiday birds this side of Appalachia!” Chairman gleamed. The ground trembled with the crowd’s yearning. Capgras glanced nervously at Deaglan, who just smiled back apprehensively, and motioned back up at the stage. Raising both arms slowly, the Chairman bellowed: “Long live Chesterport! Let the turkey gettin’ … begin!” An unseen announcer began sounding off numbers in rapid succession. People screamed, waving their hard-earned tickets in the air. Fifty lucky revelers were finally going to catch a break. As the numbers went by, ecstatic partiers

CHESTERPORT continued on page 51

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N E W T I M E S and T H E S U N present N E W T I M E S AND T H E S U N PRESENT CHESTERPORT from page 49 jumped onstage and clutched their prize with both arms. The winners dared not descend back into the madness of the crowd, instead electing to step off to the far corner of the stage. As they began jamming up on the sidelines and the stacks of turkeys started to dwindle, something began to change within the air of the crowd, which began to grow ominously silent as a dangerous disappointment started sinking in. Capgras and Deaglan began to pick up on this vibe. “Another winner! God bless you, son!” bellowed the Chairman. Another number. This time, one of the councilmen reached over and grabbed a prize. Then another. Then the mayor approached for his. Then the wife of one of the directors. Capgras, who had already resigned himself to defeat, began to notice that no one around him had moved to the stage yet. In fact, not a soul from behind him, either, that he noticed. Instead, every winner so far—and there had to be forty-something of them by now—were either from the stage, or in the very front row. Nobody seemed to have trouble making it on stage to collect their prize. In a crowd of thousands. “150.” It was then the Chairman himself’s number, who held his hands to his chest as in disbelief, shaking off the notion. “What is this?!” shouted a voice within feet of Capgras. “No shit!” cried a voice behind him. “It’s a fix!” another, much angrier voice bellowed from just feet away. It was a matter of mere seconds, just enough time for Capgras and Deaglan to catch one final doomed glance before being torn from each other as the crowd exploded in all directions like a steel pot boiling over. Capgras felt himself pulled, lifted, jabbed, thrown. He swung blindly, using his arms and elbows to keep them off, trying to reach for Deaglan, screaming with a fury he knew not he possessed. Next he knew, he was caught in the undertow, and then he was on the ground—the very last place he wanted to be. He managed to writhe himself to his feet in time to catch

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sight of the entire stage capsizing. He vaguely made out the Chairman’s massive frame being tossed into the air, a small fleet of directors, wives, and Chesterport PD in riot gear all following that darned law of gravity before disappearing into the ravenous frenzy below. Then came the turkeys. Even where Capgras stood, massive 20-pound birds flew through the air and landed close enough they could have taken a shoulder off like a cleaver. The bald-headed jerk who pulled him down just seconds ago got one square on the crown of his head, which suddenly ceased to exist being. Capgras felt something warm on the side of his face. Well, it was on now. “Screw Deaglan,” he thought. “He can take care of himself.” He turned around, where he thought was from whence he came, and shoved like he had never shoved. He felt a hard knock to his right ear, and the world was an instant blind and deaf struggle for life. “Just let me get back to the Bahr,” he could only think again and again. “I swear I’ll never drink again. Just let me get back to Dinah.” He made his way to a clearing; somewhere he could move; run, even. Ahead, the site was no less murderous. People—each and every one appearing as no more than black silhouettes save for the violent reflections when their eyes— tearing at each other as they struggled over bits and pieces of stomped turkey. As he began to navigate through the scene, what seemed like hundreds of eyes gazed in Capgras’ direction as they caught the light of the Christmas tree. Green eyes. Yellow eyes. Red. And they all seemed to be zoning in on him as if he was easy meat. He followed close to the edge of the brick businesses, sprinting with the last of his quickly dying energy to make it back down Main Street before the inevitable caught up with him. Bottles smashed above his head. He fled the mass explosion of gunfire behind him. A figure lunged roughly ten feet ahead of him, smashing what looked like a baseball bat through a business’ glass window. “Jesus,” he thought. “Who brings a baseball bat to a turkey raffle?” He didn’t wait around to figure that out. Finally

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breeching Main and Eighth, he veered left. “Gotta get off this godforsaken thoroughfare,” he thought. He could catch the alleyway to Ninth, and from there, E Street to Tenth. Tenth to Eleventh Street on E should be a breeze, he figured. “Oh god, oh god, oh god.” Passing around the corner to E Street, he slammed into something that didn’t feel like a building, and which grunted like a bear. Capgras stepped carefully back, realizing that two men in greasy mechanic suits were wrestling an intact turkey from the arms of some screaming woman he could barely make out in the shadows, who appeared to be on her back, kicking and wailing. Perhaps instinctively—though it was an instinct he had little knowledge of—our protagonist charged the nearest mechanic, who tripped and fell back. Then his ankle caught the woman’s leg, and again, Capgras felt the cold grit of the pavement. The woman fell silent. Capgras looked up just in time to see the other mechanic hovering clear over him, hoisting the frozen turkey over his head. And then blackness as it came down.



Capgras began to regain consciousness, and a strangely familiar neon green began to come into focus. Three fuzzy figures loomed over him, and a trembling hand was slowly caressing the sore side of his face. It felt better than the top of his skull, though, which he couldn’t quite feel at all. But even in this state, he could sense something was vividly ajar deep inside. Into focus shot a familiar logo—“Enjoy the High-Life.” Ah, he was back home at the Bahr. Underneath his spine crackled long-discarded peanut shells. He mumbled some indecipherable jargon, squinting in the darkness. “Did I fall down again?” His mouth felt 10 times too large. “No, honey,” a strange female voice said. “You were great.” “Dinah?” “Yes, baby. It’s me.” Dark curls hung over his head, red

CHESTERPORT continued on page 52

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52 52 CHESTERPORT from page 51 lips pursed, and sparkling green eyes stared caringly into his. Though they were beautiful, they were completely foreign to the woozy Capgras. The woman reached behind his head and helped sit him up. She had a soft touch, whoever she was. Bang! Bang! Bang! “Ah, shit—they’re coomin’ again! Get that door!” a growly Irish brogue down the bar irritably shouted. Bang! Bang! Bang! “You crazy bastards!” the voice roared. Bang! Bang! Bang! The racket jerked Capgras back into full consciousness, and he picked himself up, leaned against the bar, and reached hazily for the nearest bottle—which just happened to be his beloved John Powers. The background chaos faded and he scanned the bar for the first time. Looks like Stenny, the old barkeep, had made some interesting renovations. Either that, or Capgras had just never noticed the 2-by-4s boarding up the windows before. It was the six or so regulars, hunched around the front door. There was apparently some fuss being had, but Capgras was still coming to, after all, and figured the staff could manage it, whatever it was. It briefly occurred to him that there might be something going on, some reason the entire bar was trying to keep somebody out, but he couldn’t be bothered at that moment. Maybe that Bud Lydon had had too many again was starting trouble, that degenerate. Stenny cocked and leveled his shotgun, and the patrons cleared away from the door—and suddenly the banging ceased and there was some scurrying about outside. “Damn turkeys,” grumbled Stenny. He was an old timer— probably going on 80 or so. There may have been a riot right outside the door, but it was sure as shit his bar, and he wasn’t going anywhere. “I remember me granddad telling me the same thing happening in the 1890s—the Great New Year's Turkey Riots of 1893, if I remember. Took a decade for this city to get back to normal. Guess it’s bound to happen every 100 years or so.” Capgras saw Deaglan hunched over solemnly at the end of the bar, chugging a beer. “Don’t discount the hungry, lads—or the poor,” Stenny bellowed, but nobody was listening. A small hand reached

N E W T I M E S and T H E S U N present N E W T I M E S AND T H E S U N PRESENT around Capgras’ neck, and cold lips pressed against the back of his neck. A voice completely alien to him breathed: “Dale, sweetie? You alright?” “What’s going on here?” he puzzled. The dark beauty wiped blood onto her apron and pulled out a bar rag, dipped it in a nearby glass of whiskey, and pressed it against the wound on Capgras’ forehead. It burned with an intensity that forced him to slam a fist onto the bar. “Christ!” “Sorry, baby. You don’t remember anything?” He shot a pathetically perplexed glare at the woman as the pain subsided. “What are you talking about? Hey, Stenny! Who is this lady?” “Dale, listen to me. There’s a riot outside. Deaglan found you on the ground across the street,” she said, pointing to Deaglan, who lifted his beer in a melancholy toast back to his friend. His coat was torn; his long hair matted with something dark. Lying idle on the bar in front of him was a baseball bat with various chips and scags. “Did I fall down again?” Capgras repeated. “Honey, listen,” the woman spoke softly, moving her face close enough to his to land a wet one on him. “There’s some bad stuff going on out there. You got hit. Hit in the head. Deaglan found you. Now, we’re sitting in here until the police get control of the situation.” Capgras turned to Stenny, who was returning to his familiar spot behind the bar. “What’s this all about, Stenny?” he laughed, tapping his shot glass casually as if he’d been there all day. “And who is this girl?” “What are you, brain damaged? Get over it, Daley boy. There’s a fookin’ riot out there,” the old man replied, knocking back a shot himself and breaking out a box of shotgun cartridges. “And we’re staying put right here.” The sour scent of alcohol now back in the air, the rest of the crew came limping up to the bar. There was Deaglan; Wormwood, an incomprehensible drunk whose voice only came through when he tinkered on the piano in the corner whenever he was on a good one; Wanda, the former Miss Chesterport whose looks didn’t last, and who now spent her days squeezing free drinks from the drunk CarniCorp employees who hap-

Holiday Guide 2012 HOLIDAY GUIDE 2012 pened to stumble in to the Bahr; Ray, a solemn fellow who apparently used to run cargo out of the port; the well-dressed Schlumberger, Chesterport’s very own attorney with a heart of gold, who had at one time represented CarniCorp in a number of unemployment claims against its own employees and now spent his guilt-stricken days slugging back shots with Wanda when he didn’t have to be in court; and then there was Kurt. No one really knew how Kurt paid for his drinks, but he was always there, always drinking his way through the smoggy days. Stenny poured out seven shots. “Looks like you got one pretty hard right in the head, huh?” he consoled Capgras. “Least you’re upright—which is more than I can say about some of the fellas out there.” Ah, yes. It began to come back to Capgras—the raffle, the flying turkeys, the poor lady in the alley. “They got me— How’d I get here?” he asked the bar. “Deaglan saved your sorry ass. Picked you right up,” Kurt replied, pointing to Deaglan. “There are two greasy fellas out there who ain’t so lucky,” Deaglan said intensely, staring straight forward, the usual humor in his voice long-gone. “Dinah, please tend to him.” He turned himself around to see the green-eyed raven looking deep and concernedly into his eyes. Except that wasn’t Dinah. Those weren’t Dinah’s green eyes and certainly not Dinah’s immaculate jet-black hair. Those were not her curls that he saw, nor were they her soft hands he felt. A perplexed Capgras tilted his head. “Darling? What’s the matter?” “You’re not Dinah. Who are you? Hey guys! Who is this? Where’s my Dinah?” Some confused mumbles came from somewhere from the back of the bar. “What are you talking about, baby? What’s the matter?” He had never been more sure of anything in his life. That was not his Dinah, if it was supposed to be. If there were mad rioters outside, surely she was an imposter. He recognized everyone else holed up in the Bahr, but he was certain she was one of them.

CHESTERPORT continued on page 53

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the piano player, who stubbornly refused to get off his stool. Wanda never stood a chance. The green eyed ravenette grabbed Capgras’ bottle of Powers off the bar, raised it over her head and brought it down with a crash. Holding the jagged edges up to her face, she paused a moment as the booze ran down her arm. “Wanna get outta here, Dale?” Capgras didn’t know why, but at that moment fleeing with the stranger seemed preferential to be torn to bits by the mob, even if it meant prolonging the inevitable. Her alien hand clutched his left while he snatched a leg from a shattered barstool off the ground with his right and together they kicked open the emergency exit and fled into the street. And they ran. Straight down Eleventh Street. Down to Tenth. An incoming marauder ran up like a banshee. Capgras didn’t have time to make out what the bastard was carrying. All he had time to do was swing the barstool leg and feel it land into something crackly. And slushy. More warm stuff. They jumped over motionless bodies of the two mechanics and the unfortunate woman who lost her turkey. “Where are you taking me?” Capgras huffed at the petite stranger, who had shed her heels and was galloping over the debrisstrewn avenue. “The Buick is in the garage—I’ve got your keys,” she gasped back, holding tight to his hand as she pulled him through the chaos. Down to Ninth Street. Grasping the

“What have you done with my girl?!” he screamed, shaking her by the shoulders. The green eyes teared and the spy turned away. “Dammit, Dale. You gone loony on us?” Deaglan screamed, jumping up and separating the two. “We ain’t got time for this.” “That’s not Dinah—it’s not!” “Oh, you’re completely sideways, man.” Stenny strolled over, leading with his gut as usual, pulled Capgras from the bar by the back of the neck and looked him square in both eyes, his straggly eyebrows jetting up and down. “You gone delusional?” Capgras stared right back. Stenny wouldn’t lie to him. Had she gotten to him, too? “Look, everyone. We’re gonna hold up here. Just keep your ears open to what’s going on outside,” Stenny rumbled, gulping another quaff from the bottle. No sooner had the devil juice made it down his pipes than a brick crashed through a slot in the window and came tumbling in front of Capgras on the bar. “They’re comin’ through the windows! Get over to the door!” Another crash, and suddenly the Concho Bahr had some new patrons. Deaglan was right. And he was the first to be swallowed up by the savages, some holding bats and steel pipes. Next was Stenny, the poor bastard, who was brought down from behind as he emptied his shotgun into the mass. Then Schlumberger, releasing a blood-curdling gargle as a hundred hands brought him down to the ground. Then Wormwood, CHESTERPORT continued on page 54

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CHESTERPORT from page 53 foreign hand as tight as he could muster, they flew around the alley corner to E Street. Her black hair fluttered before his eyes. Around the corner to Main. Dodging bodies, both horizontal and vertical. The street reeked of a death beyond the usual burnt aroma. Burnt hair. Not a police presence in sight. They were either dead, or rightly keeping their distance from Ground Zero. Yards away, two figures hunched over a smashed turkey, chomping at bits of flesh and gravel. At least Capgras hoped it was turkey. The unknown lady jabbed with the bottle in her left hand at anyone who would leap out in her path while nearly dragging Capgras with her right. More warm stuff all over. They leapt over a downed motorcycle on the side of the road, flames escaping from its side. Ahead he saw it—the Square, its bright Christmas tree still standing, unscathed as far as he could tell, except for a few fires encircling the base. From the flames of the Square, down their direction came charging three or four silhouettes, each holding something over their heads. “Christ!” he screamed, trying to stop the mystery woman and turn to run the other way. “No! We’re going for them,” she cried, yanking him forward and letting go. Before he could contest, they were at them—it was Monkey Brain Mosley and his fellow bottom feeders. “Howdy, neighborino!” a crazed Mosley cackled, reaching out with his oversized talons to seize Capgras. The Drunk and the Stranger swung what they had in their hands. Capgras swung at Mosley's shin. Crack! Down flat on his back he went, arms aflailing. Another crack on the noggin and Capgras did believe—maybe it was the booze, maybe the thought it would be over soon—at that moment he was getting better at random violence. Then he felt a swath of hot steel across his back and turned to see a bearded grin just before it caught the Powers bottle. “Why doesn’t she just throw me to the wolves?” Capgras thought of his increasingly vicious companion. “Maybe she needs me as a shield before she does me in.” But before he knew it, he was whisked

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around by the arm. “Come on, baby!” And they were off again. “Where?” The petite warrior woman reached out to the flickering parking garage straight ahead, across the Square, strewn about with debris. It could have been 100 yards, could have been 1,000. Capgras could see his black Buick—and as far as he could tell, unscathed—on the second level of the lot, facing the Square. Salvation? Perhaps—but he still had to shake this mystery woman if he was going to find Dinah. They flew across the Square; over flames, over bodies. They leapt over the Chairman as they flew. “Faster!” she screamed into his ear. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw quickly approaching four figures—one completely in white, one in red, another in black, and, leading the pack, one pale, unrecognizable figure that held above its head a long staff affixed with a jagged blade. They were at the mouth of the Square, some 50 feet from them—and closing fast. They spoke not a word, seemed to float rather than run, but were undoubtedly affixed upon the Drunk and the Stranger, as if they were there for them. “We don’t have any turkey!” Capgras shouted in their direction. There was no response. The black-haired, green-eyed imposter pulled harder as they crossed the Square, but something made him pause. He stopped and listened as a deafening crackle erupting from directly behind them. He pulled the mystery woman back, turned and looked. The towering Christmas tree, now fully engulfed at its base, teetered over them. At first, he believed he had fallen down again; lost his sense of perception—but, nope, that sucker was coming down. And it was coming down right on top of them. Call it chivalry, call it gratitude: That same instinct he didn’t know he possessed earlier appeared to still be with him. Drawing a heavy sigh, Capgras heaved the pretty greeneye aside with all he had and turned to the four rioters, now stopped dead in their tracks as they stood, staring aghast at the heavens for the calamity that was about to befall them. Capgras raised his arms to the night’s sky and caught eyes with the pale marauder as if to say: “You killed my bar. You’ve killed my friends and stole my girl and sent me out into the

Holiday Guide 2012 HOLIDAY GUIDE 2012 night with this possessed demon woman. But you didn’t get me—and now it seems I’ve got you.” And as the thunderous techni-colored lumber crashed down on them all, he felt a relief in the crushing weight upon his skull as so many blackouts he’d known before. “Happy New Year, indeed.”



Then there was nothing. Nothing at all—but silence. Minutes went by that seemed like hours. “Not dead?” Capgras thought. “Christ, will this year ever end?” Two soft hands reached him from under the burning brush. They pulled, but they pulled softly. Out from the needles and the gravel, his body slid face up toward the night’s sky. And would you guess it? Is that what the moon looks like? Then there were those green eyes. He knew those eyes. And those black curls, slightly frazzled, but familiar and beautiful and wonderful nonetheless. “Dinah?” “Who else would it be, baby?” she asked. “Can you stand?” “I don’t know. Did I fall down again?” “You sure did, doll. Let me get you up.” Up he went, a little wobbly, but the knees locked and held him up. As he scanned the Square—sure enough—it was a wreck, consumed in flame, but it was the most beautiful he had seen Chesterport in years. Through the orange glow surrounding him and Dinah, he could hear nothing. Neither did he see any remaining rioters, no blood-hungry beasts of the night. No turkeys. Somewhere in the distance, the bell tower tolled a familiar, 12-note sequence. He knew the tune. “Happy New Year, baby,” Dinah breathed to him, holding him up in an embrace as the heat swallowed them up. “You can kiss me now.” He was more than happy to oblige her. ∆ Staff Writer Matt Fountain likes his turkey with a side of Powers. Let him sleep it off on your couch at mfountain@newtimesslo.com.

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Holiday Guide 2012 Holiday Guide 2012

Holiday

events

VINE STREET VICTORIAN SHOWCASE 14 blocks of front yards and decorated homes including Victorian homes, Scrooge, Santa, the Grinch, and entertainment including carolers on Dec. 8. 6-9pm, Vine, between 9th and 21st Streets, Paso Robles. Free. More info: 238-4103, mainstreet@tcsn.net, pasoroblesdowntown.org. ILLUMINATING EVENING The celebration will include the ceremonial lighting of a towering Christmas tree, a special holiday music performance, mulled wine, local apple cider, and homemade cookies Nov. 30. Please bring an unwrapped toy to benefit our local Toys for Tots organization. 6-8pm, Vina Robles Hospitality Center, 3700 Mill Rd., Paso Robles. More info: 227-4812, vinarobles. com. 2012 HOLIDAY OF LIGHTS The parade begins at 16th St. and travels west down Grand Ave. and finishes at the Ramona Garden Park Center (993 Ramona Ave.) This is one of the only daytime parades in SLO County. Bring the entire family and enjoy entertaining floats and service groups. Volunteers are welcome and appreciated. Dec. 1. 11am6pm, Grover Beach. Parade entry fee is an unwrapped gift for a child 0-17. More info: 473-4580, grover.org. SANTA’S WORKSHOP AND HOLIDAY TREE LIGHTING This event immediately follows the Grover Beach Parade. Come visit over 40 artists and crafters who have created unique, handcrafted gifts for you and your loved ones this holiday season. Festivities include a visit with Santa, fun activites for the kids, demonstrating artists and crafters, and live music. To reserve your space at the Art and Craft Faire, call the Grover Beach Parks and Recreation Department at 473-4580. Dec. 1. Come early to help decorate the city tree! 11am-6pm, Ramona Parks Garden Center, 993 12th St., Grover Beach. More info: grover.org. HOLIDAY LIGHT PARADE The Paso Robles Main Street Association welcomes you to the annual Holiday Light Parade on Dec. 3. This year’s 50th annual parade will include cash prizes. Get your entry form at the Main Street office (835 12th St. #D). The theme is “Celebrate the Season.” 7pm, 835 12th St. , Paso Robles. Free. More info: 238-4103, pasoroblesdowntown.org. TREE LIGHTING CEREMONY The Julefest Tree Lighting Ceremony will take place on Dec. 7 at 5pm, Solvang Park, Corner of Mission Dr. and First St., Solvang. More info: solvangusa.com. HOLIDAY LIGHTING CEREMONY AT SUNKEN GARDENS Enjoy an evening of holiday fun, art, and wine as the trees at Atascadero’s Sunken Gardens Park are illuminated amidst music and cheer. Santa will be onsite serving hot chocolate on Dec. 7 at 6pm, 6550 El Camino Real, Atascadero. Free, but organizers are seeking businesses to sponsor the event. More info: 470-3472, atascadero.org. HANNUKAH: MENORAH IN MISSION PLAZA The lighting takes place above the steps at the Old Mission church on Dec. 8-16. See website for times, Old Mission Church, San Luis Obispo. More info: 426-5465, jccslo.com. 2012 HOLIDAY OF LIGHTS Sponsored by the City of Grover Beach Parks, Recreation and Beautification Commission, and the Grover Beach Parks and Recreation Department. Show your spirit by decorating your home or business for the holidays! There will be awards for the best decorated businesses and homes. Preliminary judging takes place on Dec. 8

PHOTO BY MERLE BASSETT

Happy 100tH,

Jim Buckley!

and Dec. 9 from 5:30-9pm. THE SOLVANG ANNUAL Final judging takes place CHRISTMAS TREE on Dec 12 from 5:30-9pm, BURN is supervised by the The founder and artistic director of Cambria’s Pewter Grover Beach. More info: Santa Barbara County Fire 473-4580, grover.org. Department as one of the largPlough Playhouse, Jim Buckley, is turning 100—and est fire safety demonstrations HOLIDAY MAGIC AT you know this cool cat will be partying in style. From and community gatherings on THE ZOO On Dec. 21 join Nov. 16 all the way to New Year’s Eve, the PPP will be the Central Coast. All area the animal care staff at the residents are invited to bring zoo as they make and give commemorating Buckley’s 100 years on Earth with the their tree (stands and orna“special” gifts to the animal original musical September Song, written and directed ments must be removed) to residents and visit with Santa. the burn pile between Jan. 4 For ages 7-12. Join the zoo on by Viv Goff and David Manion. Tales of Buckley’s rich to see this powerful spectacle Dec. 22 to watch the animals and varied life will be accompanied by tunes from Cole ignite the New Year at 5pm, open their gifts from 11amPorter, George and Ira Gershwin, Oscar Hammerstein, Old Mission Santa Inez, 1760 2pm, Charles Paddock Zoo, Mission Drive, Solvang. More 9100 Morro Rd., Atascadero. and more. Tickets to the Gala Opening Night (Saturday, info: 688-7529, cityofsolvang. More info: charlespaddockNov. 17 at 7:30 p.m.) are $30. Most other shows are $22 com. zoo.org. MEMBERS AND FRIENDS ATASCADERO HIGH (regular) and $20 (student/senior). For reservations, CHRISTMAS PARTY SCHOOL CHOIRS call 927-3877 or visit pewterploughplayhouse.org. The WINTER CONCERT at the Elverhoj Museum of Playhouse is at 824 Main St. in Cambria. On Nov. 28 at 7:30pm, History and Art. Celebrate Atascadero Junior High in traditional Danish style. Baro Gym, Atascadero. $5 Live music, singing, dancing for students and seniors; $7 general admisaround the Christmas tree, Mrs. and Mr. Nov. 17. The 5k begins at 8:30am. Boys and sion. More info: 462-4328, MizEmilia@ Claus, Danish open-faced sandwiches. Dec. girls ages 7-14 are invited to participate in the msn.com. 2. 5:30-8pm, Elverhoj Museum of History fun run beginning at 8:45am. Registration LIGHTED BOAT PARADE IN and Art, 1624 Elverhoy Way, Solvang. More is $25. Fee includes a T-shirt and finisher MORRO BAY Features local boats decoinfo: 686-1211, elverhoj.org. medal. Register at the Recreation and Parks rated with lights for the holiday season, VICTORIAN CHRISTMAS AND dept. 8:30am, Recreation and Parks Office, cruising the harbor after dark. Enjoy live CANDLELIGHT TOURS Enjoy the 615 S. McClelland St., Santa Maria. More music and shopping on Dec. 1 at the marisplendor of a Victorian Christmas with info: ci.santa-maria.ca.us. nas. See website for parade time, Morro self-guided tours at the Jack House. Hot DOWNTOWN PASO ROBLES Bay. More info: 478-9477, morrobay.org. cider and cookies are served in the Victorian HOLIDAY EVENTS Santa’s Holiday SLO HOLIDAY PARADE The parade kitchen and visitors may enjoy unique items House is Dec.9-24. Times vary, Paso kicks off at 7pm at the corner of Palm and for sale in the Wash House Gift Shop. Dec. Robles. More info: 238-4103, pasoroblesChorro Streets. Entries include nearly 100 2, 7, 8, and 9. Times vary, Historic Jack downtown.org. colorful floats, jammin’ music, marching House, 536 Marsh St., San Luis Obispo. VICTORIAN TEDDY BEAR TEA This bands, animal groups, and classic carolers. $2. More info: 781-7300, recnews@slocity. event takes place on Dec. 15. Check website Dec. 7. Visit the website for more details. org, slocity.org/parksandrecreation. for times, 1600 Country Club Drive, Paso 7pm, San Luis Obispo. More info: downNEW YEAR’S EVE GREAT Robles. More info: 238-4103 , pasoroblestownslo.com. GATSBY ELEGANT DNNER downtown.org . AND DANCE Ring in the New Year LOMPOC’S ANNUAL HOLIDAY LOPEZ LAKE TURKEY FESTIVAL with Robert Hall Winery’s Great Gatsby PARADE takes place on Dec. 7 and runs On Nov. 18, activities include a 10k Turkey Gala. Join us on Dec. 31 from 7pm-1am floats along H Street, followed with a tree Trail Trek, 5k turkey trek, and Tiny Mile for a spectacular evening of Champagne, lighting ceremony at Centennial Square. turkey trot. 8am, Lopez Lake recreation area, wine, appetizers and a four course dinner Check website for times, Lompoc. More 6800 Lopez Dr., Arroyo Grande. More info: by Two Cooks catering. The band, Blue info: 736-1261, cityoflompoc.com. 788-2386, slocountyparks.org. Latitude, will be playing all night to help JULEFEST PARADE On Dec. 8 The TURKEY TROT On Nov. 23, there will you ring in the new year. Tickets are availparade is downtown. Santa Claus will be be a turkey-tastic 5k! All particpants receive able at roberthallwinery.com and are $155 available for visits and photos in Solvang a shirt and the proceeds go to a local charper person (Cavern Club Members $125). Park post-parade. 11am, Solvang. More info: ity. Register by Nov. 15 to receive a shirt. Reservations required and formal or period 688-6144, solvangusa.com. 10am, Solvang. $12 entry fee. More info: attire is requested. 7pm-1am, Robert Hall STAGED READING OF MRS. BOB 688-5575, cityofsolvang.com. Winery, 3443 Mill Rd., Paso Robles. More CRATCHIT’S WILD CHRISTMAS ALTRUSA HOLIDAY OF TREES info: 239-1616, events@roberthallwinery. BINGE In this departure from Dickens, Enter a raffle to win a pre-decorated tree com, roberthallwinery.com. young Scrooge’s exclamations of “Bah, and the presents beneath it for just $1. The humbug!” are an undiagnosed “kind of 16TH ANNUAL TURKEY TROT event takes place Nov. 25- Dec. 11, and seasonal Tourette’s Syndrome.” Mrs. Bob AND KIDS’ MILE FUN RUN The proceeds benefit local scholarship and grant Cratchit takes center stage here, she is in a city of Santa Maria Recreation and Parks foundations. 11am, 1447 S. Broadway, rage: She’s sick of Tiny Tim, she hates her Department invites runners of all skill levels Santa Maria. More info: altrusaclubcentwenty other children and she wants to get to participate in the trot and mile fun run on tralcoast.org.

drunk and jump off London Bridge. The plot morphs into parodies of Oliver Twist, The Gift of the Magi and It’s a Wonderful Life. And to make matters worse, Scrooge and Mrs. Bob seem to be kindred souls falling in love. Nov. 16-24. 7pm, The Spot, 116 W. Branch St., Arroyo Grande. $10. More info: 474-5711, thespot@thespotag.com, thespotag.com. OCTAGON BARN HOLIDAY LIGHTING AND GIFT SHOP The Land Conservancy of SLO lights up the barn to celebrate the holiday season on Dec. 7 at 5:30pm, 4440 Octagon Way, SLO. More info: 544-9096, lcslo.org. THE ORCUTT LIONS ANNUAL CHRISTMAS BAZAAR Come on Dec. 1 from 9am to 3pm at the Orcutt Lions Den, 126 S Broadway, Old Orcutt, for Christmas crafts, jewelry, baked goods, and more. Lunch is also available. Info: 934-1246. 51ST ANNUAL OLD TOWN ORCUTT CHRISTMAS PARADE Watch it on Dec. 8 at noon, rain or shine, on Broadway and Clark in Old Orcutt. This year’s parade honors Orcutt’s pioneer women. For more info, go to oldtownorcutt. org or call 863-2842. SANTA MARIA PARADE OF LIGHTS This Rotary-led event brings floats and marchers down Broadway, starting at 5:20pm on Dec. 1. The theme is the Joy of Giving. Info: smparadeoflights.org.

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CAL POLY ARTS NOVEMBER Performances for Cal Poly Arts in the month of November are: Nov. 3 Eddie Izzard, Nov. 11 Les Ballets Jazz De Montreal, Nov, 25 Ades’s The Tempest. Times vary by show, check website for details, Cal Poly, 1 Grand Ave., SLO. More info: cparts@calpoly.edu, calpolyarts.org/performances/date.php. VOICES FOR CHILDREN Celebrate the holidays with CASA at the Madonna Inn. Be entertained by a local children’s group as well as live and silent auctions and the ever-popular Jewelry with a Past. Dec. 5. 11:30am-1:30pm , the Madonna Inn , 100 Madonna Rd., San Luis Obispo. More info: 541-6542, amaddren@slocasa. org. TRIBAL FUSION FAIRE IX From Dec. 6-8. Live Music Mixer starts Thursday night at Farmers Market. Celebrating all tribes with dance, music, food, and shopping workshops. 10am11pm, SLO Vets Hall, 801 Grande Ave., SLO. $10. More info: 544-7662, wendybalisle@yahoo.com, meddevi.com/tribalfusionfaire. SLO COUNTY CHESS CHAMPIONSHIP A 4-round chess tournament rated by the U.S. Chess Federation; plus a 5-round scholastic event with both rated and beginner sections. See slochess.com for more details. Nov. 17. 9:30am, Morro Bay Community Center, 1001 Kennedy Way, Morro Bay. More info: 540-0747, barbara@slochess.com, slochess.com.

 Winery events 

2ND ANNUAL ARMED SERVICES DAY benefitting the Wounded EOD Warriors Foundation, is on Nov. 17. Celebrate with J and J Cellars and Tackitt Family Vineyards as we give thanks to our US Military, past and present for their dedicated service to our country. Enjoy grilled hamburgers, sides and purchase wine by the glass. The KRUSH radio station 92.5 will broadcast live here 2-12pm. 12-4pm, 2850 Ranchita Canyon Rd., San Miguel. $10. More info: 467-2891, info@ jjcellars.com, jjcellars.com/events.

EVENTS continued on page 58

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HANNUKAH 2012 at the Mission Saturday, December 8 路 6pm Candlelighting & songs

Hannukah Party at the SLO Museum of Art

Includes dreidel contest, menorah-making, olive-oil tasting, nosh, & schmoozing!

Come join us light at the Mission all 8 nights of Hannakah!

*NEW!*

Hannukah SongContest! Create a video performing your favorite Hannukah song & win a chance for a cash prize (gelt)!

Submit your video by uploading it to YouTube or Vimeo & email the link to info@jccslo.com. Call 805-426-5465 with questions or visit www.jccslo.com

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Pours 4 Purrs fundraiser, Nov. 16, 17 and 18. Participating wineries donate a portion of their weekend proceeds to NCHS. Shoppers get their maps and â&#x20AC;&#x153;Purrs-Portsâ&#x20AC;? at any participating winery or by printing them out at slonchs.org. With 3 â&#x20AC;&#x153;PurrsPortâ&#x20AC;? stamps shoppers are entered into drawings for prizes! 10am-6pm, North County Humane Society, 2300 Ramona Rd., Atascadero. Free. More info: 4665403, slonchs.info@gmail.com, slonchs.org.

EVENTS from page 56 WINTER WINE EDUCATION: RIEDEL GLASS SEMINAR On Dec. 1 attend the Niner Wine Estates Riedel Glass Seminar with Riedel Director of Sales, Sylvie Laly, and learn what a difference a glass makes. Learn to coordinate the appropriate wine to the appropriate glass, common mistakes made, and how the mere shape of a glass can drastically impact a wine. Tuition includes a Vinum XL Red Tasting Glass set of 3 glasses ($100 retail value). Reservations required, class size is limited, club discounts apply. 11AM-1PM, Niner Wine Estates, 2400 Highway 46 West, Paso Robles. $85. More info: 239-2233 x 11, info@ninerwine. com, ninerwine.com. VINA ROBLES HOLIDAY OPEN HOUSE Explore the Paso Robles Wineries on Highway 46 and enjoy an abundance of tasting and purchasing options, as well as holiday cheer on Dec. 8 at 10am-5pm, Vina Robles Hospitality Center, 3700 Mill Rd., Paso Robles. Free. More info: 227-4812, vinarobles.com.

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CASAâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;S VOICES FOR CHILDREN HOLIDAY CELEBR ATION LUNCHEON Celebrate the season of giving on Dec. 5. CASAâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Voices for Children Luncheon will feature lively entertainment by emcee Dave Hovde, KSBY TV6, a childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s musical performance by the Central Coast Childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Choir, silent auction, and a live auction. 11:30am-1:30pm, Madonna Inn, 100 Madonna Rd., San Luis Obispo. $50 per person, $400 for a table of eight. More info: 541-6542 , staff@slocasa.org, slocasa.org. POURS 4 PURRS Enjoy our beautiful wine region, shop for gifts and entertaining needs, and support SLO Countyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s only no-kill humane society and cat adoption center at North County Humane Societyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s

Holiday Guide 2012 Holiday Guide 2012

PHOTO COURTESY OF CAL POLY ARTS

TempesTuous! New York Cityâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Metropolitan Opera presents The Tempestâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;and you can watch it right here on the Central Coast. The â&#x20AC;&#x153;Met: Live in HDâ&#x20AC;? series brings live broadcasts from the venerated opera house to theaters around the country, including Cal Polyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Performing Arts Center. The Tempest is directed by Robert Lepage, and stars baritone Simon Keenlyside (pictured) as Prospero. Composer Thomas AdĂ¨s wrote this new version of Shakespeareâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s classic, and conducts as well. Catch the screening at 2 p.m. on Sunday, Nov. 25. Tickets are $12 to $27; visit pacslo.org or call 756-ARTS (2787). For more on the â&#x20AC;&#x153;Met: Liveâ&#x20AC;? series, visit metoperafamily.org.

St.Patrickâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Catholic Church 501 Fair Oaks Avenue, Arroyo Grande, CA 805-489-2680 â&#x20AC;˘ www.stpatsag.org

Weekly Mass Schedule: Our Lady Of Guadalupe Saturday: 5pm Sunday: 7:30am, 9am, 10:30am & 6pm Daily Mass in the Chapel: Mon., Wed., Thurs. & Fri.- 7am Tues. - 5:30pm

Misas en espaĂąol: (Iglesia de San Patricio) Sabado : 7:00pm Domingo: 12:15pm Martes: 7:30am (capilla) Jueves: 6:30pm (capilla)

CHEAP COMEDY NIGHT EXPERIMENT AT THE Z! Former cast members of the local cult television show Fishmasters will host an evening of music, stand-up comics, sketch comedy, and an open mic. Cheap Comedy Night Experiment at the Z happens the second and fourth Tuesday of each month and features local comics and tourings acts. The open mic segment of the program is open to anyone experienced or not. 8pm, The Z, 2010 Parker St., San Luis Obispo. $5. More info: 5412353, davidcarledge@gmail.com. SLO TEASE BURLESQUE SHOW Ready for an night of fun, sassy, smoking-hot neo-burlesque? SLO Tease is at it again! Join us for a night of hot burlesque dance and variety acts, great drink specials, and titillating fun! Doors open at 8:30pm, show starts at 9:30pm. After the show, weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll push back the tables and spin some sexy beats, so you can get your own bump and groove on! Join us. Nov. 16. Doors open at 8:30pm, The Z, 2010 Parker St., San Luis Obispo. Seats for $25 or $20, standing room $10. More info: 242-TEAZ, slotease@ gmail.com, slo-tease.ticketleap.com. SHATNERâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;S WORLD Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s William Shatnerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s world ... and we just live in it.

He will be performing a 100-minute, oneman show on Jan. 19 at the Cohan Center. 8pm, Christopher Cohan Center, 1 Grand Ave., SLO. More info: 756-6556, cparts@ calpoly.edu, calpolyarts.org. IN LIVING COLOR is an original stage work by Randy Schwalbe which incorporates many familiar songs of years past. Through Nov. 18. Fri. and Sat. shows are at 7:30pm and Sun. shows are at 3pm, Cambria Center For The Arts, 1350 Main St., Cambria. $20-$25. More info: 800-8383006, brownpapertickets.com. HAIR Broadwayâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s exuberant, Tony Awardwinning musical is an electric celebration. Young Americans seeking peace and love in a turbulent time strikes a chord with all ages. Come see a performance of Hair at the Cohan Center on Jan. 10. 7:30pm, Christopher Cohan Center, 1 Grand Ave., SLO. More info: 756-6556, cparts@calpoly. edu, calpolyarts.org. ITâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;S A WONDERFUL LIFE comes to the San Luis Obispo Little Theatre from Nov. 30-Dec. 23. Performance times vary, San Luis Obispo Little Theatre, 888 Morro St., San Luis Obispo. More info: 786-2440, kevinharris@slolittletheatre.org, slolittletheatre.org. THE HOLIDAY EXTRAVAGANZA The grand Melodrama holiday tradition continues as they present their most popular show of the year. Nov. 15- Dec. 23. Showtimes vary, 1863 Front St., Oceano. $18-$22. More info: 489-5539, info@ americanmelodrama.com, americanmelodrama.com. THE WIZARD OF OZ Donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t miss this musical adaptation of a true classic. Follow Dorothy down the yellow brick road! Through Dec. 26. See website for showtimes, PCPA, 800 S. College Dr., Santa Maria. More info: 928-7506, pcpa.org. PEWTER PLOUGH PLAYHOUSE

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12/12:4am MaĂąanitas / 5am Misa en espaĂąol 7am Daily Mass in English (Chapel) 6pm PeregrinaciĂłn desde la escuela Haroloe a San Patricio. 6:30pm Misa oficado por Nuestro Sr.Obispo Ricardo GarcĂa.

New Yearâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s / Mary Mother Of God

12/31/12: 7pm â&#x20AC;&#x201C; VĂspera de AĂąo Nuevo 1/1/13: 9am â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Mary, Holy Mother of God 7pm â&#x20AC;&#x201C; MarĂa, Madre de Dios 1/5 - 1/6/13: Epiphany of the Lord St.Francis, Oceano (Corner of 17th & Beach St.) (Regular weekend mass Schedule) Domingo: 9am MiĂŠrcoles: 7:30am Viernes: 6:30pm

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MONDAY 12/24 â&#x20AC;&#x201C; CHRISTMAS EVE 4pm Church Mass Childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Choir 4pm Hall Mass Cantor / Piano 6pm Church Mass Youth Band 12/7: 6:30pm â&#x20AC;&#x201C; VĂspera de la 7:30pm Church (Misa) Spanish Choir Inmaculada ConcepciĂłn 12/8- 9am Mass - Immaculate Conception 9:30pm Church Mass Adult Choir TUESDAY 12/25 â&#x20AC;&#x201C; CHRISTMAS DAY 5pm Mass (2nd Sun of Advent) 7:30am Church Mass Cantor / Piano 7pm Misa (2nd Domingo de Adviento) 10:30am Church Mass Cantor / Piano 12:15pm Church (Misa) Spanish Choir 9am Misa en espaĂąol - St.Francis, Oceano

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60 60 EVENTS from page 58 PRESENTS SEPTEMBER SONG - THE GREAT AMERICAN SONGBOOK SALUTES JB’s 100TH The Pewter Plough’s 12th original holiday musical devoted to music from the Great American Songbook and celebrating a rare event: Jim Buckley’s 100 years in story and song. Jim Buckley, the theater’s founder will be celebrating his 100th birthday this December! During the show, the cast performs about 40 fabulous songs by composers from the Great American Songbook and tells stories of JB’s many exotic exploits: Fashion window display trendsetter in New York, TV Art Director, set designer, Disneyland, Movieland Wax Museum, many others, and founder of the Pewter Plough in Cambria! Special New Year’s Eve Bash includes musical Stage show, live cabaret music, an elegant supper buffet, Opolo champagne, party favors and fun! Nov. 16Dec. 31. Evenings 7:30pm, Sunday matinees: 3pm, Pewter Plough Playhouse, 824 Main St., Cambria. $17-$30. More info: 927-3877, boxoffice07@pewterploughplayhouse.org, pewterploughplayhouse.org. BABES IN TOYLAND Coastal Chamber Youth Ballet proudly presents the magic of Toyland with colorful characters including Mary Contrary, Tom Tinker, Bo Peep and her Sheep, the Three Blind Mice, beautiful Dolls, and many more. The costumes, music, and dancing will get you and your family into the holiday spirit Dec. 1 with showtimes at 1pm and 6pm, Clark Center, 487 Fair Oaks Ave., Arroyo Grande. $18$25. More info: 489-4944, clarkcenter.org. POPOVICH COMEDY PET THEATRE Voted the best comedy show in Las Vegas, this sensational, award-winning spectacular provides non-stop fun for all ages. There will be hilarious clown work and trained cats. Two performances will take place on Dec. 1. 2pm and 7pm, Spanos Theatre, 1

N E W T I M E S and T H E S U N present N E W T i M E S AND T H E S u N PRESENT Grand Ave., SLO. More info: 756-6556, cparts@calpoly.edu, calpolyarts.org. THE NUTCRACKER Presented by The Civic Ballet of SLO - Lori Lee Silvaggio’s version hits the stage on Dec. 8 at 2 and 7pm and Dec. 9 at 2pm. Times vary, Christopher Cohan Center, 1 Grand Ave., SLO. More info: 756-2787, pacslo.org. BALLET THEATRE SAN LUIS OBISPO PRESENTS THE VELVETEEN RABBIT This annual holiday performance happens Dec. 14-16. Times vary, Spanos Theatre, 1 Grand Ave., SLO. More info: 756-2787, pacslo.org, bt-slo.org. COMEDIAN PAULA POUNDSTONE will be performing at the Spanos Theatre on Dec. 14. 7:30pm, Spanos Theatre, 1 Grand Ave., SLO. More info: 756-6556, cparts@calpoly.edu, calpolyarts.org. NO SHAME THEATRE takes place on the fourth Friday of every month. Come to watch, or submit a piece that follows these rules: all work must be original. That means the performer (s) either wrote the piece or have permission from the author to perform the piece. All performances must be 5 minutes or less. Finally, nobody may break anything - including the law. Open to everyone. Free admission. Bring scripts at 10:30pm; perform at 11:30pm, San Luis Obispo Little Theatre, 888 Morro St., San Luis Obispo. More info: 786-2440, kevinharris@slolittletheatre.org, slolittletheatre.org.

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Film and TV HOW THE GRINCH STOLE CHRISTMAS Bring the kiddos to see How the Grinch Stole Christmas (original version) at the Los Osos Library on Dec. 1. 2pm, 2075 Palisades Ave., Los Osos. Free. More info: 528-1862, losososlibraryfriends.org.

Holiday Guide Holiday Guide2012 2012 WEDNESDAYS AT THE MOVIES Watch a flick and discuss it with friends on the fourth Wed. of every month at 10am, Morro Bay Library, 625 Harbor St., Morro Bay. More info: 772-6394, morrobayfriendsoflibrary.org.

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Music

PHOTO BY BARRY GOYETTE

Run, Rabbit, Run Just in time for the holidays, Ballet Theatre San Luis Obispo presents a delightful double feature. At the Spanos Theatre Dec. 15 and 16, see The Velveteen Rabbit (based on Margery Williams’ classic children’s tale), followed by the world premiere of Degas and Marie (His Little Dancer). Edgar Degas’ most famous subject, Marie Van Goethem, is immortalized in this original ballet. Tickets are $26 to 44; visit pacslo.org or call 756-ARTS (2787).

LIVE MUSIC WITH TIM JACKSON AND GUEST APPEARANCES BY DAVE MILLER Jackson performs folk and blues every Sat. evening and hosts an open jam session every Thurs. at 6pm, Vino Versato, 781 Price St., Pismo Beach. Free. More info: 773-6563, cindy674@ gmail.com, vinoversato.com. A ARON BOWEN LIVE AT GATHER WINE BAR A Southern California native and the son of four generations of musicians, Aaron Bowen has been a student of music, and in particular a student of the guitar, from an early age. His career as a songwriter and producer, however, has taken root and flourished within the last decade. His music continues the tradition of singer-songwriters like Harry Nilsson, Van Dyke Parks and Brian Wilson while creating something fresh and unique to share with modern audiences. His newest release, The Karaoke Fallback Plan is filled with complex harmonies, intricate guitar picking, catchy melodies and a permeating feeling of the joy of being alive. He will play at Gather on Nov. 17. 7pm-10pm, Gather Wine Bar, 122 East Branch St., Arroyo Grande. No cover for patrons - $10 for non patrons. More info: 474-4771, info@gatherwinebar.com, gatherwinebar.com. CAL POLY BANDFEST 2012: YEAR

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62 62 EVENTS from page 60 OF THE DRAGON On Nov. 17 the Cal Poly Wind Orchestra, Wind Ensemble, and Pride of the Pacific Marching Band will come together for a stellar performance. This concert celebrates the Year of the Dragon by featuring works inspired by the mystical as well as the natural and supernatural aspects of human existence. 8 p.m., Performing Arts Center, 1 Grand Ave., San Luis Obispo. $14 and $12 general, $12 and $9 seniors and students. More info: 756-2406, music@calpoly.edu, music.calpoly.edu/calendar/. CAL POLY INSTRUMENTAL STUDENT RECITAL On Nov. 29. 11am, Cal Poly Davidson Music Center Room 218, San Luis Obispo. Free. More info: 756-2406, music@calpoly.edu, music.calpoly.edu/calendar/. HOLIDAY CONCERT The San Luis Obispo Youth Symphony will present their Holiday Concert on Dec. 9 at the Clark Center in Arroyo Grande. 3pm, Clark Center, 487 Fair Oaks Ave., Arroyo Grande. More info: 543-3533, andrea@ slosymphony.com, sloyouthsymphony.org. SLO DOWN PUB NEW YEAR’S EVE PARTY Get down with music, food, and drinks on Dec. 31 at 8pm, SLO Down Pub, 1200 E. Grand Ave., Arroyo Grande. More info: 481-4067, slodownpub@aol.com, slodownpub.com. CAL POLY SYMPHONY FALL CONCERT: “MUSIC AND IMAGE” The Cal Poly Symphony performs music inspired by, and interpreted through visual art. The centerpiece of the concert will be a collaboration with Sky Bergman, an internationally exhibited and published photographer who serves as the chair of Cal Poly’s Art and Design Department. Bergman will re-interpret Modest Mussorgsky’s “Pictures at an Exhibition” with her own images of people and cultures across the globe. Also

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N E W T I M E S and T H E S U N present N E W T i M E S AND T H E S U N PRESENT Respighi’s ‘Trittico Botticelliano’ inspired by Boticelli’s paintings. On Nov. 18. 3pm, Performing Arts Center, 1 Grand Ave., San Luis Obispo. More info: 756-2406, music@ calpoly.edu, music.calpoly.edu/calendar/. TOAST OF TRILOGY with Beethoven’s buddies: Paul Severtson (violin), Grace Seng (violin), Michael Nowak (viola), Karen Loewi Jones (viola), and Nancy Nagano (cello). Come enjoy a little wine, a little food, and some great music at the Monarch Club. Nov. 18. Works by both Beethoven and Mozart will be performed. 3pm, Monarch Club, Trilogy At Monarch Dunes, Nipomo. $50. More info: slosymphony.com. KELLY MCFARLING On Nov. 20 Songwriters at Play presents soulful picker Kelly McFarling. Using her distinct percussive style of clawhammer banjo to back up her rich voice, she pays homage to her south-

StrikinG SceneS From Dec. 7 to 29 at the Steynberg Gallery, enjoy the lovely and haunting paintings of Kathryn Jacobi. She’s a master at striking and intense portraiture, like Girl with Bread (pictured), which Jacobi painted from life. But the artist pulls just as many images straight out of her head, which— going by her images of levitating heads, a woman turning into a tree, or the shadowy creatures she calls “night travelers”—is a pretty interesting place. Catch an artist’s reception at Steynberg on Friday, Dec. 7 from 6 to 9 p.m. The gallery is at 1531 Monterey St. in San Luis Obispo.

Holiday Guide Holiday Guide2012 2012 ARTWORK BY KATHRYN JACOBI

ern roots while giving them a new home in her original sound. 6:30pm, Kreuzberg, 685 Higuera St., San Luis Obispo. Free. More info: 204-6821, bonnien27@gmail. com, songwritersatplay.com. CAL POLY FALL JAZZ CONCERT Nov. 30 - University Jazz Band concerts feature everything from authentic performances of traditional jazz standards to cutting-edge repertoire of world music, hip-hop and more. From the big band “wall of sound” to spontaneous interplay in jazz combos, the Cal Poly Jazz Bands respect the tradition while expanding its boundaries. 8pm, Spanos Theatre, Cal Poly, 1 Grand Ave., San Luis Obispo. More info: 756-2406, music@calpoly.edu, music.calpoly.edu/calendar/. CA L POLY CHOIRS: “A CHRISTMAS CELEBRATION” Faculty artist Gabrielle Castriotta (oboe) joins the Cal Poly Choirs in an evening of special works for the holiday season including A Christmas Carol, a new work by Music Professor Meredith Brammeier for men’s voices and English horn. Seasonal favorites will be featured in the carol singa-long, as well as in the keyboard magic of university organist Paul Woodring and staff accompanist Susan Azaret Davies. Dec. 1. 8pm, Performing Arts Center, 1 Grand Ave., San Luis Obispo. More info: 756-2406, music@calpoly.edu, music.calpoly.edu/calendar/. SLO WINDS HOLIDAY CONCERT A yuletide gift for your entire family. An afternoon filled with peace, hope and joy. Join us as we get into the holiday spirit with some beautiful wind band arrangements of familiar tunes and the traditional audience sing-along! Dec. 8. 3pm, SLO United Methodist Church, 1515 Fredericks St., San Luis Obispo. $12-$15. More info: 456-3333, publicity@slowinds.org, slowinds.org.

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Santa Claus

at the Santa Maria Town Center November 23rd – December 24th

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64 64

N E W T I M E S and T H E S U N present N E W T I M E S AND T H E S u N PRESENT

EVENTS from page 62 VESPERS On Dec. 15 The Cuesta Master Chorale will present Vespers and Holiday Carols. 8pm, Performing Arts Center, Cal Poly, San Luis Obispo. More info: 756-2787, pacslo.org. FORBES PIPE ORGAN HOLIDAY CONCERT A traditional holiday show with an interactive twist. The fifth annual Forbes Pipe Organ Holiday Concert and Sing-Along will come to the Cohan Center on Dec. 16. 3pm, Christopher Cohan Center, 1 Grand Ave., SLO. More info: 756-6556, cparts@calpoly.edu, calpolyarts.org. THE IRISH TENORS Celebrate the holidays with a touch of blarney as the Irish Tenors (Finbar Wright, Anthony Kearns, and Ronan Tynan) return to San Luis Obispo, once again accompanied by our very own San Luis Obispo Symphony. Dec. 21. 8pm, Christopher Cohan Center, 1 Grand Ave., SLO. $38-$75. More info: 543-3533, slosymphony.com. W. TERRENCE SPILLER PIANO RECITAL An all-Beethoven recital. Concert pianist and Music Department Chair W. Terrence Spiller will perform. Jan. 11. 8pm, Spanos Theatre, 1 Grand Ave., San Luis Obispo. More info: 7562406, music@calpoly.edu, music.calpoly. edu/calendar/. CALIFORNIA MISSIONS TOUR Shunske Sato (violin) and the SLO Symphony Chamber Players will be performing in three concerts at three Central Coast Missions. The performances will feature Vivaldi’s beloved Four Seasons and composer Craig Russell’s beautiful recreation of early mission music. Jan. 12 at 2:30pm at Mission San Miguel. Jan. 12 at 8pm at Mission San Luis Obispo. Jan. 13 at 3pm at Old Mission Santa Barbara. Times vary More info: 543-3533, slosymphony.com.

Holiday Guide 2012 Holiday Guide 2012 PoPovich’s Pets

Gregory Popovich grew up in an animal-loving Russian circus family, and this is what happened. Popovich started out as a juggler and clown in the Moscow Circus, but began incorporating animals into his act after moving to the United States and paying a visit to an animal shelter. Moved by the amount of pets without homes, Popovich started giving the animals a second chance as stars in his show—and now they live better than most people (and can do way cooler tricks.) The Popovich Comedy Pet Theatre comes to the Cal Poly PAC Dec. 1 at 2 and 7 p.m. Tickets are $16-$32; visit pacslo.org or call 756-ARTS (2787). series features a different jazz combo performing every Tues. 7pm, Linnaea’s Cafe, 1110 Garden St., San Luis Obispo. Free. More info: 541-5888, linnaeas.com.

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Writers

and Literature AMERICAN STRING QUARTET will perform Beethoven on Jan. 12 at the Spanos Theatre. 8pm, Spanos Theatre, 1 Grand Ave., SLO. More info: 756-6556, cparts@calpoly.edu, calpolyarts.org. CAL POLY EARLY MUSIC ENSEMBLE: BACH IN THE MISSION III The Early Music Ensemble will be joined by student instrumentalists, Cal Poly faculty, and professional guest artists to perform great music

by the baroque master. Jan. 26. 8pm, Mission San Luis Obispo, 751 Palm St., San Luis Obispo. More info: 756-2406, music@calpoly.edu, music.calpoly.edu/ calendar/. CAL POLY JAZZ COMBO performs every Thurs. night at 8pm, Linnaea’s Cafe, 1110 Garden St. , SLO. Free. More info: 541-5888, linnaeas.com. CUESTA COLLEGE’S TUESDAY NIGHT JAZZ SERIES This music

WRITING CLASSES Join this 5 week writing class to find your passion and write about your life story, current activities, travel, career, creative stories or poetry starting in October. 1:45-3:45pm, SLO Senior Center More info: 489-1026, nightengayles@aol.com. BOOK CLUB The Paso Robles Library Adult Book Club meets on the third Thurs. of every month, 7pm, 1000 Spring St., Paso Robles. More info: 237-3870, prcity.com/ library. SLO NIGHTWRITERS Meets the second Tuesday of the month. A great networking experience for writers. Speakers attend each meeting. 7pm, PG&E

Education Center, 6558 Ontario Road, at the turn-off to Avila Beach, SLO. More info: slonightwriters.org. MORRO BAY BOOK CLUB The Morro Bay Book Discussion Group meets each 1st, 2nd, and 3rd Wednesday of the month to discuss books. Participants are encouraged to download the season series booklists at morrobaybookdiscussiongroup.org or pick them up at the Morro Bay Library, as the discussion focuses on a specific book each week. We also meet most 4th Fridays to discuss mysteries. 10am-12pm, Morro Bay Library, 625 Harbor St., Morro Bay. More info: 7726394, morrobayfriendsoflibrary.org. ARROYO GRANDE BOOKENDS This adult book discussion group is moderated by a library staff member. A morning meeting is offered the fourth Tuesday of every month at 10am, and an evening meeting takes place the fourth Friday at 5:30pm, Arroyo Grande Library, 800 W. Branch St., Arroyo Grande. More info: 473-7161, gkraft@slolibrary.org, slolibrary.org. SLO BOOK FINDERS meets the second Wednesday of every month in the third floor

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EVENTS from page 64 conference room from 10:30am-12pm, SLO Library, 995 Palm St. More info: 544-6108, slolibrary.org.

î &#x2020;â&#x20AC;&#x2030;Poetry î Ś

SECOND SUNDAY Open readings are held every month at 7pm, Coalesce Bookstore, 845 Main St., Morro Bay. More info: 772-2880, coalescebookstore@ gmail.com. SLO DOWN POETRY-NEW VENUE The fourth Sunday of every month from 5-8pm. Featured readers and Open Mic and great food. 5pm, Rock and Roll Diner, 1300 Railroad Route 1, Oceano. Free. More info: 473-0230, evycole@inbox.com, evelyncole.com. THE 29TH ANNUAL SAN LUIS OBISPO POETRY FESTIVAL The 29th Annual San Luis Obispo Poetry Festival takes place: Nov. 16, 17, 18 at various venues throughout San Luis Obispo. For further info go to languageofthesoul.org. 7pm, San Luis Obispo. $8 general and $6 for students and seniors. More info: 547-1318, kpsslopoet@charter.net.

î &#x201C; Art î &#x201C;

UNIQUE NIGHT PHOTOGRAPHY ON DISPLAY AT SCULPTERRA WINERY through Dec. 31. When the sun goes down many people pack it up and head indoors. Not so for photographer Marsha Kirschbaum. She puts on her hiking boots, checks her headlamp batteries, grabs her camera and tripod and heads out into the night. â&#x20AC;&#x153;What a lot of people donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t realize is that some of the best photographic opportunities occur after the setting sun.â&#x20AC;? Marshaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s unique fine art prints of night photography include images of the Paso Robles area, Sculpterra, and San Francisco.

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Holiday Guide 2012

11am, Sculpterra Winery, 5015 Linne Rd., Paso Robles. Free. More info: 226-8881, sculpterrawinery@gmail.com, sculpterra.com. SANDI HELLER PASTELS Sandi is showing pastels and cards through Nov. 30. , Sands Inn and Suites, 1930 Monterey St., San Luis Obispo. Free. More info: 544-0500, sandih5@sbcglobal.net, sandihellerart.com. STRONG WOMEN IN STRANGE COMPANY Studios on the Park invites you to dissect the arcane anatomy of a Lena Rushing painting and enter to win a locket featuring artwork from the show. Wine tasting by Clavo Cellars. Live music by The Tipsy Gypsies. 5-8pm during First Sturdays Art and Wine Tour. Artwork on display through Nov. 25. 5-8, Studios on the Park, 1130 Pine St., Paso Robles. More info: 238-9800, sasha@ studiosonthepark.org. NATURE PHOTOGRAPHY EXHIBIT Don Henderson will have an exhibit of his nature photography through Nov. 30 at the Budget Cafe. Open daily for breakfast and lunch. Call for hours, Budget Cafe, 3121 S. Higuera St., Suite J, San Luis Obispo. More info: 771-9961, catchlight@charter.net. TODD CARPENTER A stunning exhibit of photorealistic grayscale of California landscapes will be hanging at Vale Fine Art through Nov. 26. 6-9pm, 619 12th St., Paso Robles. Free. More info: 795-4680, valefineart@gmail.com, valefineart.com. PHOTOMORPHOSIS II Come see cutting edge, digital photography at the San Luis Obispo Museum of Art through Nov. 18. Contact gallery for hours, 1010 Broad St., SLO. Free. More info: 543-4518, mjohnston@sloma.org, sloma.org. DAY OF THE DEAD SHOW AND SALE Inspired by the personalities and the work of famous artists of the distant past, Cambrian artist Mary C. Barnhill pays homage to them in the traditional and visually extravagant style of Mexicoâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Dia de los Muertos celebration. The likes of Picasso, Van Gogh, and Frida Kahlo are memorialized in fantastic, hand-built ceramic skull masks on display now at The Vault Gallery through Nov. 30. Contact gallery for hours, The Vault Gallery, 2289 Main St.,

EVENTS continued on page 67

HAPPY HOLIDAYâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;S FROM OUR FAMILY TO YOURS!

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N E W T I M E S and T H E S U N present N E W T I M E S AND T H E S U N PRESENT EVENTS from page 65 Cambria. More info: 927-0300, cambriabound@wgn.net. WOOD AND WEAVING: SANTA YNEZ VALLEY WOODWORKING GUILD AND MARY ZICAFOOSE TAPESTRIES Bold, beautiful, and colorful wall hangings and woodwork will be on display from Nov. 23- Dec. 30. View during regular gallery hours, 1010 Broad St., SLO. Free. More info: mjohnston@sloma.org, sloma.org. ALISON WATT JACKSON The photography of Alison Watt Jackson will be on display as part of an exhibit titled “Say Goodbye To Yesteryear” from Dec. 7-31. View during regular gallery hours, San Luis Obispo Museum of Art, 1010 Broad St., SLO. Free. More info: mjohnston@ sloma.org, sloma.org. “LITTLE TREASURES” is a show comprised of local artists’ wares all priced under $100 for great holiday gifts. It’s on display through Jan. 2. Gallery hours are 10am-5pm, Art Central Gallery, 1329 Monterey St., San Luis Obispo. More info: artcentral1329@yahoo.com.

 Artists 

BAILEY KEARS displays artistic work through Dec. 31. Open daily at 6:30am, West End Espresso and Tea, 670 Higuera St., SLO. More info: 543-4902. KATHRYN JACOBI Steynberg Gallery will be showing Kathryn Jacobi’s work from Dec. 7-29, with an opening reception on Dec. 7 from 6-9pm, Steynberg Gallery, 1531 Monterey St., SLO. More info: steynberg-events.com.

 Openings 

And receptiOns FIRST SATURDAY - WINE AND ART Studios on the Park and other gal-

Holiday Guide 2012 Holiday guide 2012

leries in downtown Paso Robles unveil new exhibits and give the public opportunities to meet artists amidst music, wine, and fun on the first Sat. of every month. 6-9pm, Studios on the Park, 1130 Pine St., Paso Robles. More info: 238-9800, sasha@studiosonthepark.org, studiosonthepark.org. EMBARCADERO ART WALK On the second Friday of every month, several galleries in Morro Bay stay open late for artist receptions with wine and cheese. Visit the Seven Sisters Gallery, Fiona Bleu, the Gallery at Marina Square, and more from 5-8pm, Embarcadero Road, Morro Bay. Free. More info: 772-9955, morrobay. org/morro-bay-calendar.htm.

 gAlleries 

GALLERY AT MARINA SQUARE PRESENTS ARTIST ARDELLA SWANBERG Ardella Swanberg is a watercolor artist. Exhibit runs through Nov. 29, Gallery at Marina Square, 601 Embarcadero, Morro Bay. Free. More info: 772-1068, gallerymarinasq@gmail.com, marinasqgallerynews.blogsppot.com. CENTRAL COAST CRAFTERS Gallery at Marina Square presents Central Coast Crafters. Local artists display their work in media such as ceramics, glass, wood, jewelry, and mixed media. Exhibit runs through Nov. 29, Gallery at Marina Square, 601 Embarcadero, Morro Bay. Free. More info: 772-1068, gallerymarinasq@gmail.com, marinasqgallerynews. blogspot.com. DANIEL is a local artist specializing in layered subliminal imagery with the intention to provoke new revelations with every 90 degree rotation of any one of his pieces. View his work at PierceModern from through Nov. 30. 617 12th St., Paso Robles. Free. More info: 975-4860, piercemodern.com. POETRY FESTIVAL Come hear some delicious beats and verbs. Nov. 17. 7pm,

Steynberg Gallery, 1531 Monterey St., SLO. Free. More info: 547-0278, sgallery@charter.net, steynberggallery.com. PETER CASE at Steynberg Gallery on Nov. 15. 8pm, 1531 Monterey St., SLO. $15. More info: 547-0278, sgallery@charter.net, steynberggallery.com. LORENZO VIGNANDO Come hear some amazing ukuele on Nov. 18. Guests should bring their ukeles for the finale where they will be asked to join! 7pm, Steynberg Gallery, 1531 Monterey St., SLO. $10. More info: 547-0278, sgallery@charter.net, steynberggallery.com. THE UNIVERSITY ART GALLERY is a venue that nurtures creativity, empathy, and big-picture thinking by bringing bold thinkers, emerging and established artists, and creative professionals to campus. Receptions are held the day a new exhibit is installed. Gallery hours are Tues.-Sat. 11am-4pm, Building 34, Dexter Hall, next to the Cal Poly library, SLO. More info: 756-1571, artgallery.calpoly.edu.

 cAll FOr Artists 

UNDER $200 ART SHOW The Under $200 Art Show returns! Everyone (all skill levels and all ages) is welcome to enter one or two pieces in this unjuried show. Art may be submitted starting Nov. 20 until we run out of space (about 80 pieces last year). No cost to enter. The Opening will be on Nov. 30. This show will run through January. Call the ARTery for more info at 464-0533. 11am, The ARTery, 5890 Traffic Way, Atascadero. Free. More info: 464-0533, the1artery@ gmail.com, the1artery@gmail.com.

 clAsses  And WOrkshOps PHOTOGRAPHY CLASSES Take your camera out of auto mode! In this photography class we will cover the manual

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functions of your digital camera, as well as composition, lighting, and much more! You will finally be able to take control of your camera and get better results. Visit us at prophotoslo.com. Meets second and fourth Saturday of the month. Visit website for class times, 956 Walnut St. Suite #200, SLO. $89. More info: 801-0544, info@prophotoslo.com, prophotoslo.com.

 MuseuMs 

MUSEUM AND HISTORY CENTER OF SLO COUNTY The museum is housed in the former Carnegie Library Building, built in 1904-05. Open 10am-4pm, 696 Monterey St., SLO. More info: 543-0638 , historycenterslo.org. CHILDREN’S MUSEUM IN PASO ROBLES Dedicated to the heritage of the Paso firefighters, exhibits include an old fire truck, tractor exhibit, a live stage and puppet theater, an arts and crafts area, and Newton’s Playhouse. 10am-4pm, Paso Robles Volunteer Firehouse, 623 13th St., Paso Robles. More info: 238-7432, pasokids.org . CENTRAL COAST VETERANS MEMORIAL MUSEUM is seeking true stories for video interviews to include in The Veterans History Project, an effort to capture the true experience of soldiers. The museum also features a wall of honor and displays of uniforms, memorabilia, and more. 10am-3pm Wed.-Sat., 801 Grand Ave., SLO. Free, donations appreciated. More info: 543-1763, vetmuseum.org. CAMBRIA HISTORICAL MUSEUM The restored Guthrie-Bianchini House now serves as a museum with exhibits, relics, and documents that retrace the origins of a unique coastal community. Fri.-Sun. from 1-4pm, Mon. from 10am1pm, Cambria Historical Museum, 2251 Center St., Cambria. More info: 9272891, cambriahistoricalsociety.com.

THE SHAKESPEARE PRESS MUSEUM This unique space doubles as a working printing shop and is located in the Graphic Communication Department (Building 26, Room 116) at Cal Poly. More than ten presses, 500 cases of type, and various printing ephemera are maintained. Times vary, Graphic Communication Department (Building 26, Room 116) at Cal Poly, SLO. More info: 756-1108 or 909-292-7335. JACK HOUSE AND GARDENS A historic living museum of a Victorian home circa 1880 with original furnishings and ongoing events. Tour the historic and elegant Victorian Jack House for $2. 1-4pm, 536 Marsh St., SLO. More info: 781-7308, slocity.org/parksandrecreation/ jackhouse.

 Kid  Stuff

EXPLORATION STATION This center is designed for people of all ages, and is filled with interactive science exhibits that have been created to inspire and educate. We also offer birthday parties, extended experiences, field trips, and summer camps. Summer camps are for kids ages 5-9 and place an emphasis on science. There will also be forensics and LEGO building camps. Thurs-Fri 12-5, Sat. 11-5, Exploration Station, 867 Ramona Ave., Grover Beach. $2 for children, $3 for adults. More info: 4731421, youth@explorationstation.org.

EVENTS continued on page 68

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N E W T I M E S and T H E S U N present N E W T I M E S AND T H E S u N PRESENT STORYTIMES offered for ages 3-6 every Wednesday and ages 1-3 every Thursday. Pre-registration is required for toddlers. 11am, 6850 Morro Road, Atascadero. More info: 461-6162, atascaderofriendsofthelibrary.org. EARLY CHILDHOOD STORYTIME Young children are invited to hear stories every Thurs. and Fri. at 10:30am, Los Osos Library, 2075 Palisades Ave., Los Osos . Free. More info: 528-1862, slolibrary.org.

EVENTS from page 67 POTTERY FOR KIDS Anam-Creâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Pottery offers after school classes for children Tuesdays and Thursdays 3:30-5pm, and Saturdays. We teach kids how to throw on the potters wheel and hand build with clay. In creating and designing projects children are encouraged to learn the possibilities clay holds for them. 3:305pm, anam-Creâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Pottery, 570 Higuera St., san luis obispo. $20 per class. More info: 896-6197, anamcre@charter.net. CHARLES PADDOCK ZOO features a wide variety of exotic animals on the Central Coast. A new exhibit of colorful king vultures joins the monkey, tiger, flamingo, and kangaroo displays. The zoo hosts a puppet show on the second Sat. of every month, and facilities are available for birthday parties and even sleepovers. 10am-4pm, Charles Paddock Zoo, 9100 Morro Road, Atascadero. $4-$5. More info: 470-3172, charlespaddockzoo.org.

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THE SPOTTED WHALE LITTLE TOY SALE The Spotted Whale Little Toy Sale, November 17 from 11am-6pm at Grace chuch in SLO, will feature your favorite brands of toys, winter wear, and holiday apparel for children ages 0 - 12 at highly discounted prices! This event will be one day only! Come shop the deals. We will also be featuring a Made by Mom boutique with several local vendors, perfect for Christmas gifts. Find out more at www.thespottedwhale.com or on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/ TheSpottedWhaleConsignmentSale 11am-6pm, Grace Church, 1350 Osos St., San Luis Obispo. Free! . More info: 242-2213, info@thespottedwhale.com, thespottedwhale.com.

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SLO LIBR ARY TODDLER STORYTIME Toddler Storytime is for 0-2 years and takes place every Thursday at 10:10am. Songs and simple stories are enhanced with singing and fingerplays appropriate for the very young. Pre-school storytime is for 3-6 years and takes place on Tuesday mornings, also at 10:10am. Spanish storytime takes place the first Tuesday of every month at 4:15pm, San Luis Obispo Library, 995 Palm St., San Luis Obispo. More info: 781-5775, slolibrary.org. PRESCHOOL STORYTIME IN ARROYO GRANDE takes place every Wednesday and Thursday at 10:30am, Arroyo Grande Library, 800 W. Branch, Arroyo Grande. Free. More info: 4737161, slolibrary.org. ATASCA DERO LIBR ARY

Outdoors

SWAPâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;S WALK IN THE ELFIN FOREST On the third Sat. of every month, Small Wilderness Area Preservation leads an informative nature

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walk through this unique ecosystem. Wear comfortable shoes, leave pets at home, and park carefully to avoid mailboxes and driveways. 9:30am, Elfin Forest, 15th or 16th Streets, Los Osos. Free. More info: 528-0392, Call for details. SMALL WILDERNESS AREA PRESERVATION (SWAP) WORK PARTY Volunteers are needed to help with weed and erosion control on the first Sat. of each month. 9am-12pm, Elfin Forrest, 15th Street, Los Osos. More info: 528-0392, elfin-forest.org. TRAILWERKS Nov. 17. This is the trail youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve been waiting to build, the new trail from The Johnson Ranch Open Space on lower Hiquera to the Froom Ranch in the Irish HIlls Natural Reserve behind Costco. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s rugged so wear boots and work clothes. BBQ to follow. Meet at Laguna Lake Park. 8am, Laguna Lake Park, SLO. Free. More info: 547-9025, volunteer@cccmb.org, cccmb.org.

Lectures

and Learning SHEVON SULLIVAN Anam-Creâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Pottery holds weekly classes. Mornings, afternoons, and evenings give you the opportunity to find a class that fits your schedule. Students are given instruction on using the potters wheel and slab construction.There is still time to make your holiday gifts! Ongoing classes. 11am-8pm, Anamcre pottery, 570 Higuera St. $20 per class. More info: 896-6197, anamcre@charter.net, anamcre.com. LIVING HISTORY PROGRAM AT HEARST CASTLE Docents in vintage clothing will recreate the social atmosphere

Holiday Guide 2012 Holiday Guide 2012

of the famous landmark in the 1930s. Others will act as cleaning and serving staff, letting guests see what life was like at the castle through December during evening tours, Hearst Castle, Highway One, San Simeon. $36. More info: (800) 444-4445, hearstcastle.com.

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COOKING CLASS: HOLIDAY EATS WITH CHEF CHARLIE PALADIN WAYNE Holiday meal preparation seem like a daunting task? Then the Niner Wine Estates Holiday Eats Cooking Class on Nov. 17 is just the class to ease your fears. Learn the skills of preparing a delicious holiday spread with finesse and grace. On the menu: three-cheese mini macs, pancetta-wrapped sambuca shrimp, braised Korean-style pork belly butter leaf tacos with roasted beet fennel slaw, and much more! Includes family-style lunch. Class size is limited, reservations required, club discounts apply. 11am-2pm, Niner Wine Estates, 2400 Highway 46 West, Paso Robles. $145. More info: 239-2233 x 11, info@ninerwine.com, ninerwine.com. TAMALE MAKING CLASS Pismo Beach Recreation presents this Tamale Making class on Dec. 7. Taught by one of our finest local personal chefs! Join us for a hands-on tamale-making workshop where you will receive a variety of authentic tamale recipes. Enjoy a tamale-making demonstration, complete with tamale tasting, and youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll be leaving with ? dozen delicious tamales that you made yourself. 5:30pm -7:30pm, Pismo Beach Veterans Hall, 680 Bello St., Pismo Beach. $35. More info: 773-7063, cghiglia@pismobeach.org. COOKING CLASS: WINTER DINING WITH CHEF ROBERT TRESTER On Dec. 15 indulge in the Niner Wine Estates Winter Dining cooking class with Chef Robert Trester of

Gardens of Avila. Tempura-battered squash blossoms with a brown butter cauliflower emulsion, roasted brussels sprouts tossed with crispy chestnuts, bitter orange and toasted cauliflower florets, and grilled flat iron steaks atop root vegetables are just a few of the dishes you will learn to create. Includes family-style luncheon. Class size is limited, reservations required, club discounts apply. 11am-2pm, Niner Wine Estates, 2400 Highway 46 West, Paso Robles. $145. More info: 239-2233 x 11, info@ninerwine.com, ninerwine.com.

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Groups CAREGIVERS OF BRAIN-INJURED ADULTS Meets on first Thurs. and is for the caregivers only of an adult family member who has significant cognitive impairment due to stroke, brain injury, or other forms of serious brain damage. Meet in the Arts and Crafts Room. 6pm, Villages at the Palms, 55 N. Broad St., San Luis Obispo. More info: 534-9234. PASO ROBLES ALZHEIMERâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;S/ DEMENTIA GENERAL INTEREST Open to all, this group meets the second Tues. of the month. 5:30pm, Emeritus/ Creston Village, 1919 Creston Road, Paso Robles. More info: Elana Peters at 9758270. ARROYO GRANDE ALZHEIMERâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;S/ DEMENTIA GENERAL INTEREST This group meets on the second Wed. of each month. Call Amity House Adult Day Program in advance to arrange free respite 489-8894. 1pm, First Methodist Church,

EVENTS continued on page 70

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70 70 275 N. Halcyon Rd., Arroyo Grande. More info: 547-3830. HEALING ROOM OF SLO Receive spiritual healing every Thurs. evening from 6-8pm, Agape Church, 950 Laureate Lane, SLO. More info: 801-6617. LOS OSOS ALZHEIMER’S/ DEMENTIA SUPPORT GROUP for family caregivers who have a loved one with dementia meets every third Thursday. 1-2:30pm, Los Osos Baptist Church, 1900 Los Osos Valley Road, Los Osos. Free. More info: 534-9234, alycec@coastcrc.org. FIBROMYALGIA SUPPORT GROUP meets the third Sat. of every month. 10:30am-12pm, Arroyo Grande Hospital Annex, 345 Halcyon Rd. 9258075. More info: 925-8075. OVEREATERS ANONYMOUS The group meets every Thurs. at 7pm, Lutheran Redeemer Church, 4500 El Camino Real, Atascadero. More info: 260-3049. SAGITTARIUS RISING A meeting to share Reiki with newcomers and other Reiki practitioners is offered the last Tuesday of every month. 6:30pm, Coalesce Garden Chapel, 845 Main St., Morro Bay. Free. More info: 785-0518, alijordanbrown@hotmail.com. SLO AMERICANS FOR SAFE ACCESS SLO ASA meeting every Second Thursday of each month. Meeting dates are: Nov. 8, and Dec. 13. We will be having a potluck, so come join us and show your support. 7pm, Club House, 765 Mesa View Dr., Arroyo Grande. More info: 8014408, melissaziering@gmail.com. GATHERING OF MEN A group of men who meet twice a month on the 1st and 3rd Thursdays for 2 hours in SLO. We are a group looking for some new men to join us in discussion of issues relating to life, and provide support for each other as we work through these issues. We cover a wide

PHOTO BY LUIS ESCOBAR/REFLECTIONS PHOTOGRAPHY STUDIO

EVENTS from page 68

N E W T I M E S and T H E S U N present N E W T I M E S AND T H E S u N PRESENT

There’s no place like home From Nov. 8 through Dec. 26, Santa Maria’s PCPA stages The Wizard of Oz. Written by L. Frank Baum, directed by Mark Booher, and starring Britney Simpson (pictured) as Dorothy, The Wizard of Oz promises to be a family-friendly adventure, filled with spectacular music, puppetry, and beloved characters like the Cowardly Lion (Erik Stein) and of course, the Wizard himself (Peter S. Hadres). Visit pcpa.org for tickets.

Holiday Guide 2012 Holiday Guide 2012

range of topics but are not a political group. Times vary, San Luis Obispo. Donations are welcome. More info: 801-3597, slobollays@gmail.com. GRIEF SUPPORT GROUP Central Coast Hospice Grief Support Group is for anyone suffering from the loss of a loved one who is in need of support. This group meets every Friday from 10-11am at the Paso Robles Senior Center. This group is free and open to the public. For more information contact the Medical Social Workers at: 540-6020. 10-11am, Paso Robles Senior Center, 270 Scott St., Paso Robles. Free. More info: 540-6020, ami.manwaring@cchh08.com, centralcoasthospice.com. GRIEF SUPPORT GROUP Central Coast Hospice Grief Support Group is for anyone suffering from the loss of a loved one who is in need of support. This group meets the 2nd Thursday of each month from 6-7pm at the Central Coast Hospice office. This group is free and open to the public. For more information contact the medical social workers at: 540-6020. 6-7pm, Central Coast Hospice, 253 Granada Dr., Ste. D, San Luis Obispo. Free. More info: 540-6020, vanessa.james@cchh08.com, centralcoasthospice.com.

 

Volunteers MENTORS AND TUTORS NEEDED to make a difference in a child’s life. Become a mentor or tutor through the Family Care Network. Open daily. The need is ongoing, Family Care Network Inc., 3765 S. Higuera St. Suite 100, SLO. More info: 503-6242, jwilson@fcni.org.

ADOPT-A-PET EVENTS take place every Saturday. Cats and kittens are spayed or neutered, tested and vaccinated prior to adoption. A free vet examination is included. 11am-4pm, PetCo, Madonna Plaza Shopping Center, SLO. Adoption fees are $60 for one or $80 for two. More info: 549-9228, DebraHolt@AOL.COM, felinenetwork.org. CENTR AL COAST HOSPICE Volunteers must be able to commit to a four-hour block of time each week and provide their own transportation. Duties can include support and companionship to the patient and his/her family, caregiver relief, light chores, running errands, visiting, bereavement services, and other practical activities of daily living for the terminally ill. 9am-5pm, Central Coast Hospice, 253 Granada Dr # D, SLO. Free. More info: 540-6020, melodee.quiroz@ CCHH08.com. RSVP SENIOR VOLUNTEERS RSVP links hundreds of volunteers 55 and older to needy groups based on their talents and specialties. Call during normal business hours. More info: 544-8740 for SLO area, or 922-9931 for Santa Maria, rsvpcoordinator@srvolunteer.org, srvolunteer.org. AMERICAN RED CROSS Volunteers comprise 96 percent of the Red Cross workforce. They provide disaster relief, help with safety and preparation, and organize youth programs. Go online to schedule a new volunteer orientation. Open daily, SLO County Chapter, 225 Prado Rd. #A, SLO. More info: 5430696, slo-redcross.org. HOPE FOR THE HOLIDAYS It’s food drive season! Volunteer with us at one of our county-wide barrel locations. Through Dec. 31. Times vary Free. More info: 238-4664, slofoodbank.org. ∆

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Dress Up Your Home for the Holidays. Save September 15 — December 15 on select Hunter Douglas window fashions.* ’Tis the season for you and your guests to celebrate in style.

One Source Home Solutions 3982 Short St Ste 100 San Luis Obispo CA Mon - Fri: 10:00 - 5:00 Sat: 10:00 - 4:00 805-548-0110 www.onesourcehs.com License #839546

ENCHILADAS MEXICANAS three chicken enchiladas smothered with our special sauce, topped with sour cream, served with our own delicious potatoes CHILE RELLENOS a house specialty- 2 fresh, long green chiles, stuffed with cheese, batter-dipped and fried golden brown, topped with special salsa and served with rice & beans COMBO GRANDE chile relleno, enchilada de carne, taco de pollo, served with rice & beans ENCHILADA SUISAS two chicken enchiladas covered with green tomatillo sauce and topped with sour cream served with rice & beans

* Manufacturer’s rebate offer valid for qualifying purchases made 9/15/12 – 12/15/12. Ask a sales representative for information on qualifying purchases. All rebates will be issued in U.S. dollars, in the form of an American Express® Prepaid Reward Card. This rebate offer may not be combined with any other Hunter Douglas offer or promotion. © 2012 Hunter Douglas. All rights reserved. All trademarks used herein are the property of their respective owners. 32205

ENCHILADAS DE CAMARON two shrimp enchiladas topped with salsa, cheese and sour cream, served with rice & beans

MENUDO and POZOLE SERVED DAILY! A CENTRAL COAST TRADITION FOR 3 GENERATIONS!

O PATI NG I DINN BLE! ILA AVA

Pre-order our award winning salsa by the ½ gallon for your next family BBQ or event!

Santa Maria 110 S.Lincoln St. Ste 106

925-2841

Mon – Fri 8am-9pm

Sat & Sun 7am-9pm

Ne w T i me s

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Holiday Guide 2012