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Subi
Subi Memorial






Have you seen our gray and black striped tabby Moti?
Missing since early September.
He has ID chip.
Last seen corner Gambier and Felton st (Portola/Excesior)
Call 415 584-4367

301 Gambier Street
Pray for Moti!


Rescued from a kill shelter in Manteca, Petey Pumpkinhead III entered our lives 7 years ago. Abused by a previous owner he was skittish and nippish. That changed with love, affection and attention.

He was a majestic furry orange tabby. His coat emitted a perpetually lovely fragrance. He had the sexiest strut with an ever present erect tail and endearing behind.

Petey had simple needs. Belly rubs topped the list. He loved resting in his backyard igloo. He would prance out when I entered the yard and open wide for belly rubs and rolly polly.

He bonded with Klimey who also was rescued from a shelter. Klimey loved licking Petey and taught Petey how to love back. They were inseparable.

Petey-Weedy (as we called him) evolved into the sweetest and most gentle of companions. When hungry, he would jump into bed and delicately place his paw on my face. No histrionics, just a love tap and breakfast was on.

He loved sleeping inside the space between my legs or alongside the curve of Clara's thigh. His body language suggested the most delicious of dreams. He also had the squeakiest yawn when awakened.

Petey had a ravenous appetite and wore his weight well. That changed last October when he dropped 2 pounds in short order and was diagnosed with congestive heart failure.

He continued to lose weight but his sweet demeanor never changed. Although not a lap cat during his youth, lately I would place him in my lap in the back yard and we would stay together for long periods. These were cherished moments. Klimey would join us and stay by Petey's side.

Strong medication was required every 8 hours to dissipate the fluid in his lungs. No matter how much lasix was dosed, it could not stay on top of the progression of his heart disease.

Last week Petey hit a low point and could hardly breath. He hadn't eaten for 2+ days. We upped the lasix and he recovered miraculously. His breathing appeared normal and he started eating - but only food fresh out of the can. He ate more than he had in months. He had playful sparring sessions with Klimey, tons of rolly polly and belly rubs, his tail was erect and he slept next to my face the other day.

Today he had a good appetite in the early afternoon. I didn't see him the rest of the day. When the thunder rumbled and the rain came pouring down I went outside.

He was in the igloo. I tipped it and he ran inside. But something was wrong.

His breathing was labored. Petey could not catch his breath. He had breathing attacks before and I had feared the worst, yet Petey always persevered.

An hour or so later when Clara came home, Petey's condition had worsened. When he walked from under a table to lie down in the litter box that was an alarming signal. I picked him up and he let out a cry. Petey went under the bed where Klimey was and continued to make anguished yelps.

We left him alone. Petey soon emerged and we put him in a blanket by the heater.

He wanted to be left alone.

Petey-Weedy barely could walk and stumbled out the bedroom and down a few steps to the cat door. Somehow he pushed himself through. The igloo was two feet from the door.

We let him be.

An hour later Clara checked on Petey.

His fur was gorgeous. His body still warm.

But Petey had passed.

He never made it to the igloo.


Back from exhilarating Tangents Turkey Music Tour;
Next tour 2016
if conditions allow.

To be in the loop, email:
 





Advertisement on wall of Nardis jazz club in Istanbul where 2014 Tangents Turkey Music Tour saw Turkey's most famous jazz musician, drummer Okay Temiz,  among 11 world class concerts in 16 nights.. 


Listen to Tangents
Sat. nights, 8-mid, KALW 91.7 FM, S.F.
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also webcast on Berlin's multicult.fm

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Click to make contribution to MECA that provides emergency aid to children and families in Gaza

Gaza Facts
Click above to get the real facts about Gaza, a collaborative project by Jewish Voice for Peace Bay Area (JVP-BA) and the Council on American-Islamic Relations San Francisco Bay Area (CAIR-SFBA).

Songlines Music Travel
(click for details)

Shares the Tangents philosophy that nothing beats experiencing music at its source.

2014 Trip:

Cuba  - New Year Celebrations
December 29 2014-January 12 2015

2015 Trips:

Cuba - The Music of Cuba
May 2-16, 2015

Morocco - Gnawa Festival
May 14-18, 2015

Borneo - Rainforest Festival
August 2-11, 2015

Romania - At Home with the Gypsies
August 15-23, 2015

Colombia – NEW TRIP
August 2015*

India – Rajasthan Musical Adventure
October 17-28, 2015

Senegal – Never Mind the Mbalax
November 20-29, 2015




Excellent new album by Palestinian oudist Adnan Joubran with Indian and flamenco influences.

Gaza Corner
Click above for Archive
(Archive does not view in Google Chrome)


Saturdays 11p on Tangents, 91.7 fm SF, kalw.org

This weekly feature includes news from the Middle East often ignored by the mainstream press coupled with music from the region.

Gaza Corner was conceived to help focus attention on relieving the humanitarian crisis in Gaza which has been under a severe economic blockade imposed by the Israeli occupation since 2006.

 Click headlines below for full stories.


Illustration by Sam Kalda for BuzzFeed

My Last Day In Yemen
Yemen was like a home away from home for me — until the day I was nearly abducted in broad daylight, and narrowly missed suffering a grim fate similar to other journalists drawn to covering, and living in, the Middle East.

(Gregory D. Johnsen, Buzzfeed 11/16/14)

Gregory Johnsen is a Michael Hastings National Security Fellow and author of The Last Refuge: Yemen, al-Qaeda and America's War in Arabia.


excerpt:

Cairo was exotic but crowded and Jordan’s eastern desert was drab and dreary, more volcanic rock than sand. But Yemen was different. Vibrant and stark, it felt like the underside of a rainbow. Sanaa had character and a wild, intoxicating charm.

I was 24 years old and I was hooked.

I went back to Yemen again and again over the next several years, neglecting my Ph.D. dissertation to write a book about the country and cobbling together grants for visits. In late 2012, after the Arab Spring
and the uprisings that forced Salih to step down, I scheduled another quick trip. I had lived through the revolution in Cairo, and
had seen the expectations of change and a better life inflate and then burst leaving everyone more confused than ever. Yemen had changed as well. No one seemed to know the rules anymore. Salih was out and security was evaporating. There was a mad scramble for power that fall, and for the first time I felt physically unsafe. It was just a feeling, impossible to quantify, but I couldn’t shake it.

Western embassies issued travel warnings, but they were as vague as everything else. Yemen was bad — maybe not Iraq bad — but the speculation kept getting worse.
Still, earlier this spring I decided to go back one more time. I pitched it to my editors as a three-story trip. But in my mind, it was a final farewell. I was getting married in a few months, and I wanted to move on.. On March 6, I boarded the plane for my last trip to Yemen.

Sixteen days later I was done. I had my three stories. But I didn’t want to leave, not yet. Something was still missing. Instead of flying home early, I compromised: One more story.

I already knew the one I’d do. Mine was a tragedy that started with a Guantanamo interrogation.

The detainee, Adnan Abd al-Latif, was a mentally unstable man who had suffered severe brain damage as a result of a car crash in 1994. Twice he had been cleared for release, but each time something went wrong and he remained locked in his cell.  
On Sept. 10, 2012, he committed suicide.
He had been in Guantanamo Bay for more than a decade.

Latif’s case seemed to get at all the horrors of that lost decade: a handicapped man who confused al-Qaeda with a Yemeni village of the same name, locked up as the worst of the worst.

He was a man with a history and a family, and I wanted to write about them, to tell his story.

Since arriving in Sanaa I had been working with Shuaib, a young fixer and friend, who knew how to get things done in a country where nothing worked.

(fast forward to later in story)

Shuaib wanted breakfast.  Stepping up onto the sidewalk, Shuaib bumped into a soldier who was coming out of the restaurant, catching his windbreaker on the man’s rifle. “Sorry,” he mumbled, as he reached over to untangle his jacket. The man just looked at him, taking in Shuaib’s youth and his slight frame. And then he saw me. I was used to it, the attention and the double takes. Yemenis tend to stare at obvious foreigners, observing them as if they were under glass. But this time the lack of words was disconcerting. We were in the man’s space, inches from his face with Shuaib’s jacket hooked on his rifle. The whole thing was too intimate for silence.

That was it, a few seconds on the street before breakfast. It was nothing and he was no one, a soldier with a gun in a country that had plenty of both. We were already past it.
He wasn’t.

Fifteen minutes later, the man was waiting for us. I saw him as soon as we left the restaurant: Ten yards up the road next to another man in a military uniform. Both of them were young, and both had guns.
The first man, the one Shuaib had bumped into, crossed the space between us surprisingly quickly and grabbed his arm.

“Who is this?”

“He’s my friend,” Shuaib replied.

“Is he a foreigner?”

“Yeah,” Shuaib said. “He’s an American researcher.”

“OK,” the man said, pulling Shuaib toward the street. “Come to the base with us. We need to ask you some questions.”

“Sure, why not,” Shuaib shrugged.

Somehow the other man had circled around behind me. Grabbing my arm, he started pulling me toward the street. My eyes followed my body and I saw the yellow-and-white taxi: driver inside, back door open. And then I knew.

I had played through this scenario dozens of times. Get in the car and you’re kidnapped, resist and you’re dead.

When the moment came, my body didn’t give me a choice. I couldn’t get into the car.

I jerked my arm back. The man pulled harder, and we were scuffling. There was no punching or screaming, none of the things I would have imagined, just a weird one-armed tug-of-war over a few yards of asphalt. I was older and stronger, but he had a gun. His hand slipped down past my wrist, catching on the backpack that I had slung over one arm. For a second, I thought about dropping the backpack and running. But it had $600, my passport, and all my notebooks from two weeks of work. I tugged.

Dropping Shuaib’s arm, the (other) man grabbed for his gun. That’s when I thought he would start shooting. Shuaib moved fast, escaping up the street and scrambling for cover. The second man let go of my backpack to chamber his own bullet, and then I was running too.

I remembered to zigzag as I ducked into a different restaurant and headed for the back. My plan was to run through the kitchen and escape out the back and then make a big loop back to the American Institute, where I was staying. I made it to the rear of the restaurant, but as I tried to go through the kitchen, one of the Yemeni workers blocked me.

“Mam nu- ‘a,” he said.

“Forbidden,”

I was trapped.

end of excerpt

note:  Click
here to read the full story.