Thirty Years Ago
I would not complain that Jeannette De Wyze’s story on nudists (“What You See,” February 2) was completely one-sided. But still, De Wyze never once treated any of the serious objections to nudism.
For example, De Wyze must realize that there is more to the beginning of western civilization than naked Greeks and clothed Christians. Does she really think that non-Christian Hebrews and Romans, not to mention Egyptians, Etruscans, Chaldeans, were nudists?
— LETTERS: “ONE TOGA OVER THE LINE,” Abe Tashkow, February 5, 1978
Twenty-Five Years Ago
But the Hedgecock staff is more upset with O’Connor’s absence from a January 30 debate before the gay San Diego Democratic Club. Having refused to appear at two previous Democratic Club functions, O’Connor pledged to attend the recent session. She never showed, leaving Hedgecock alone to defend gay rights. “It’s okay to be with the pack [of other candidates] in backing gays,” commented one Hedgecock advisor, “but it’s dangerous to go it alone.”
— THE INSIDE STORY, Paul Krueger, February 10, 1983
Twenty Years Ago
It was seven o’clock in the morning, cold as a dog’s nose, and I was down on my knees, crawling through the brush on Volcan Mountain, looking for something that I knew damn well didn’t exist.
I had ditched my mountain bike in the bushes down by the locked gate at the base of Volcan Mountain and started up the hillside on foot. There were patches of sharp-smelling chinquapin that always give me sneezing fits, and thick stands of cedars and oaks. A covey of worried quail led me up a steep creek; when I got too close, they would fly on ahead.
Just about every tree on Volcan Mountain taller than eight feet has a sign tacked to it: “No trespassing — Violaters Liable To Arrest! Signed, E.C. Rutherford.” I didn’t expect Mr. Rutherford to understand that I was trying to find the headwaters of the San Dieguito River.
— “FIFTY MILES OF RIVER,” Steve Sorensen, February 11, 1988
Fifteen Years Ago
The sight of a bloated Fleetwood Mac dueting with martian-like Michael J., the unctuous strains of Loggins and Messina’s horrid old chesnut “Your Mama Don’t Dance,” the incongruous presence of Lou Reed and Los Lobos: a mockery of the ideals that real rock ’n’ roll cherishes.
— MUSIC SCENE: “THE TEENAGE WASTELAND LIVES ON IN A CHULA VISTA GARAGE,” Gina Arnold, February 11, 1993
Ten Years Ago
My experience at Horizon Christian Fellowship was not positive. I disliked the music. I disliked the fact that there were neither hymnals nor overhead projections of hymn lyrics. This might not have mattered so much if the musical portion of the service hadn’t lasted for 45 minutes. While I understand why a “non-denominational” church might not want to tie itself to traditional hymns, the result — no hymnals, no overhead projections — was a clanish, insider/outsider feel. Although I can’t imagine why anyone — even the most ardent born-again Christian — would want to commit any of these contemporary hymns to memory, much less print them on paper.
— SHEEP AND GOATS, Abe Opincar, February 12, 1998
Five Years Ago
“The image is of dignity, but the real picture of Native Americans is not such a beautiful picture,” Fallbrook resident Rita Coolidge tells me over the phone. “There are a lot of people who don’t benefit from casino money. Alcoholism is high; education is poor.
“Initially I came with Kris [Kristofferson] and thought, ‘What a gem; it’s so family oriented.’ Fallbrook has a little main street. I can wear my pajama bottoms out in public with my jacket. Who cares?
“I walk around my neighborhood with my Rottweiler. Sometimes I do an aerobic walk and go over to Rocky Peak and spend half my mornings there.”
— “GRACE AMONG AVOCADOS,”Jill Underwood, February 6, 2003