In Memory of My Dumb Friends

In October, I will celebrate ten years in California. I've managed to pack a lot of living into the past decade, though it's still hard to believe so much time has passed. I lived first in west Berkeley, then various spots in Oakland, then spent three years in Los Angeles. A graduate degree and a wedding later, my wife and I returned to the Bay Area to live in idyllic Alameda, an almost absurdly Rockwellian fantasy of a hometown of the kind most Americans would not believe still exists. We love it here.

A few blocks from our home is Jackson Park, located on Park Avenue. Park Avenue happens to be one block southeast of, and run parallel to, Park Street, which is the main street on this side of the island. Kind of an odd arrangement, though oddly charming, that would certainly fuck up visitors to the island, especially those navigating by Google, if anyone who didn't live here actually came here.

Anyway, Jackson Park is long and narrow, just one block wide. At the west end, is a strange, curved, cement, bench-like structure that has become a hangout for whichever one of the island's hundreds of roving teen tribes gets there first. Carved into the base are the words, "In Memory of My Dumb Friends."



I believe this is a reference to animals; the cement thing may have once been a watering trough for horses. I'll have to check with the Alameda Historical Society on that one. But I also thought the phrase would make an excellent title for this blog. I have many fond memories of my dumb friends; my smart ones, too.