Image provided by: Upper Left Edge; Cannon Beach, OR
About The upper left edge. (Cannon Beach, Or.) 1992-current | View Entire Issue (June 1, 1998)
"UPPER LEFT EDGL VOLUME y FREE! NUMBER 4 SUMES W , UPPER LEFT COAST PRODUCTIONS * P O BOX >(Z22 CANNON BEACH 0 « IW O A 503 2145* bbuHst pX.Ctr.com a www.upptriefUy.coM Summer People. Some're Not. Qev. Hults Editorial { Now & Then We here at the Upper Left Edge have been criticized occasionally for our disparagement of what Prof. Lindsey calls "the slack jawed cretins" that visit our town annually. Folks at the Chamber of Commerce encourage us to be more forgiving, and to remember w'hat side our bread is buttered on. Yes, we know, it is the side that ends up face down on the floor. Sitting at Bill's on the Memorial Day week end, a gentleman noticed the grimacing your beloved editor is prone to do when alleged human beings act foolish and rude. He smiled and made a comment that indicated that not all of our visitors were like those we were surrounded by. Yes, we agreed, we have guests and we have tourists. There is a difference. Guests bring their brains and their hearts to this beautiful we place live in; tourists bring only their money and their attitudes. So as the silly season begins again, we would like to welcome our guests to our place by the Sea, and hope that the tourists don't get too crazy. And now for some shameless self promotion: Richard Cranium and the Phoreheads, as constant readers know, is your beloved editor's new band. The most reverend Hults has come out of semi- retirement to join with these older men of dubious morals but time tested talent. Kenneth Turtle' Van De Marr is arguably one of a dozen guitar players in Oregon who can deal with the whole spectrum of musical styles with craftsman-like genius. Peter 'Spud' Seigel is a gifted mandolin player, and vocalist, and performer. He can play any number of instruments and styles. David Reisch plays bass and sings in a wonderful understated but powerful way. And to be truthful if not modest, the old guy on the washboard, Billy Lloyd Hulks, is not too bad. And these guys play such a wide range of styles, from jazz, to country, to bluegrass, to rock & roll, and some stuff that is hard to classify. Anyway, the Phoreheads are the official houseband of the Upper Left Edge. They will be playing Bill's Tavern June 2nd, which oddly enough is your beloved rev.'s birthday. Hint: real estate is always a welcome gift; failing that just show up and help us get Sally's book printed. We will be joined by some special guests, and we are determined to have much fun. If you have some lame excuse, you can always just send money for a copy of Sally's book, or a donation to the Left Coast Group. And you can catch the Phoreheads at several venues around Oregon this month. (See the schedule on the Music Page.) StLVBTAVEfyVz i ils ä X rF o iL * LEFT COAST CRpUP or (¿ILDLIFE. OUSEL- A k . » I n S upport P ublishing CORRECTED FOR PACIFIC BEACH TIDES J une - T id e s on the n (\nnstS 0»ic\wiotis> r UnTURf 1« iwt t w WASHINGTON AND OREGON COAST TIDES DAYLIGHT SAVINGS TIME -me llrec^Lirr Cowtcu. OF 0\CXON H IG H TID E S A lso -'» X CÛlCMELgl v ‘ AUTHOR I "jwcixCl)l\E 5 t 0V (tUIDE. T O v THk K ehl ÛKf&ÛBÎ (o ^ r Viu-ÿwl Mb THE, C opies of Hu ¿ ? L U H L ^ w y í)L L f\lb THE ( ai T j ÏL (^ /c b o L L A ^ w io tf Is S uggested ntSbffl 3ÍIKE 2ÏÏ 8 " » L a t. 5 ilu <W l \ w • Gww B each Once upon a midnight dreary, fingers cramped and vision bleary, System manuals piled high and wasted paper on the floor, Longing for the warmth of bedsheets, Still I sat there, doing spreadsheets: Having reached the bottom line, I took a floppy from the drawer. Typing with a steady hand, I then invoked the SAVE command And waited for the disk to store, Only this and nothing more. Deep into the monitor peering, long I sat there wond'ring, fearing, Doubting, while the disk kept churning, turning yet to chum some more. "Save!" I said, "You cursed mother! Save my data from before!" One thing did the phosphors answer, only this and nothing more, Just, "Abort, Retry, Ignore?" 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 time LO W TIDES fit. time ft. time ft. time ft 5:49 6 9 Mon Tue G 6 59 6.4 Wed 8:11 6.2 Thu 9:19 6.2 Fri 10:19 6.3 Sat 11:12 6 5 Sun " Mon Tue 0 06 6 6 Wed © 0 4 0 8.7 Thu 1:15 8.7 Fri 1:53 8.7 2 34 8.6 Sat Sun 3:19 8.4 Mon 4:10 8.0 Tue 5:11 7.4 Wed 9 6 2 5 6.9 Thu 7:46 6.6 Fri 9:05 6.6 Sat 10:15 6.7 Sun 11:19 7.0 Mon 0:17 7.2 Tue Wed W 0:32 9.4 Thu 1:18 9.2 Fri 2:03 8.9 Sal 248 8 4 3:34 7,9 Sun 4:22 7.3 Mon Tue 5:16 6 7 7:21 8:12 8:59 9:42 10:21 10:57 12:01 11:32 12:47 1:31 2:13 2:54 3:35 4:17 5:02 5:49 6:40 7:33 8:27 9:19 10:09 10:58 11:45 1:10 2:01 2:49 3:34 4:18 5:01 5:44 6:28 7.4 7.5 7.7 7.9 8.2 8.4 6.7 8.5 6.9 7.0 7.1 7.2 7.2 7.3 7.4 7.5 7.7 8.0 8.4 8.8 9.2 9.4 9.5 7.4 7.6 7.6 7.6 7.6 7.5 7.5 7.4 0:15 1:21 2:27 3:29 4:23 5:10 5:54 2.8 2.6 2.3 1.7 1.1 0.5 00 12:40 1:34 2:28 3:19 4:07 4:51 5:34 0.6 1.1 1.5 1.7 1.9 2.1 2.3 6 34 7:12 7:49 8:25 9:02 9:39 10:20 11 05 11:55 0:44 1:56 3.06 4:11 5:09 6:02 6:53 7:40 8:25 9:08 9:50 10 30 11:10 11:51 -0.4 -0.6 -0.8 -0.9 -0.9 -0.9 -0.7 -0.4 00 2.2 1.7 0.9 0.1 -0.7 -1.2 -1.6 -1.7 -1.6 -1.3 -0.9 -0.5 0.1 0.7 6:15 6:55 7:35 8:15 8:58 9:44 10:36 11:36 2.5 2.6 2.7 2.7 2.7 2.7 2.6 2.5 12:51 1:52 2:54 3:53 4:51 5:45 6:38 7:29 8:19 9:08 9:57 10:48 11:41 0.5 1.0 1.3 1.6 1.8 2.0 2.1 2.2 2.2 2.3 2.4 2.4 2.4 DATE BASEBALL Bob Dylan singing 'Take Me Out to the Ballgamc" for Harry, some kid who can strike out his age. everybody hits, everybody's hungry, it's June and the Cubs are solidly in Second. How can this he? Can this be? The year? Oh, my! Go, Cubbies! Was this some occult illusion? Some maniacal intrusion? These were choices undesired, ones I'd never faced before. Carefully, I weighed the choices as the disk made monstrous noises. The cursor flashed, insistent, waiting, baiting me to type some more. Clearly I must press a key, choosing one and nothing more, From "Abort, Retry, Ignore?" With my fingers pale and trembling, Slowly toward the keyboard bending, Longing for a happy ending, hoping all would be restored. Praying for some guarantee, Timidly I pressed a key. But on the screen there still persisted, words appearing as before. Ghastly grim they blinked and taunted, haunted, as my patience wore, Saying "Abort, Retry, Ignore?" I tried to catch the chips off-guard — I pressed again, but twice as hard. I pleaded with the cursed machine: I begged and cried and then I swore. Then I tried in desperation, sev'ral random combinations, Still there came the incantation, just as senseless as before. Cursor blinking, mocking, winking, flashing nonsense as before. Reading, "Abort, Retry, Ignore?" BILL’S Tavern & Brewhouse 188 N. HEMLOCK CANNON BEACH, OR 97110 436-2202 Bill says, “ I f you’re in a hurry, you don’ t belong here.” There I sat, distraught, exhausted; by my own machine accosted. Getting up I turned away and paced across the office floor. And then I saw a dreadful sight: a lightning bolt cut through the night. A gasp of horror overtook me, shook me to my very core. The lightning zapped my previous data, lost and gone forevermore. Not even, "Abort, Retry, Ignore?” To this day I do not know The place to which lost data go, What demonic nether world is wrought where data will be stored, Beyond the reach of mortal souls, beyond the ether, in black holes? But sure as there's C, Pascal, Lotus, Ashton-Tate and more, You will one day be left to wander, lost on some Plutonian shore, Pleading, "Abort, Retry, Ignore?" Author Unknown UPPER. LEFT EDG.E TUNE M l I -j