Run, Rico, Run!
This is concerning Rico Gardiner’s letter (October 16) in response to letters from other Reader readers who took exception to his rather harsh views of San Diego.
Mr. Gardiner, you failed to address the question posited by one, if not both, of your critics, which I will now restate: if you hate it here so much, why don’t you leave? You are obviously a person of discernment and sophistication who doesn’t fit in with San Diego’s lowbrow beer-and-burrito culture (or what passes for culture around here). How it must gall you to be surrounded on a daily basis by such a knuckle-dragging bunch of rubes, yokels, and slack-jaws.
You need to spread your wings and fly, man, fly! Off to the big city you should go, the sooner the better. Why waste your life in this Podunk when you could be basking in the refinement and culture that is the essence of that shining city to the north, Los Angeles? While we San Diegans lack the necessary wit to appreciate such things, you obviously do not.
Again, I must return to the original question of what is it that keeps you here, moldering in the provinciality that defines San Diego? Is it a job? No problem, there are jobs aplenty in L.A. An ankle monitor? Don’t worry, parole doesn’t last forever. Whatever it is that keeps you here, I hope for your sake that you can overcome it and escape from this awful place.
A few caveats about L.A. They also have “silly sports teams,” as do most of the other “real” cities in the U.S., so you will still have to live with that. They also occasionally eat burritos, as well as drink beer up there, but I’m certain that a bon vivant such as yourself will be able to cope.
Run, Rico, run, while you still can! And don’t let the door hit you in the a**.
Brown Has Big Feet
As Matt Potter was preparing his October 2 story (“Breaking News”) about the referendum challenging secretly negotiated changes to Stockton’s general plan, I wish he had taken the time to call the Alliance for Responsible Planning. The alliance was the group sponsoring the referendum, with the support of the Stockton Peace Officers’ Association, community and business leaders, the A.G. Spanos Companies, and myself. We came together because we were outraged that the Stockton City Council, by a 4–3 vote, had dramatically changed the City’s general plan that took five years and hundreds of public meetings to prepare.
Jerry Brown rode into town, threatened a costly lawsuit to a financially strapped city, and left no time for public input.
Just so Mr. Potter does not fret about it, he should know that Mr. Spanos did not support me for mayor. He supported my opponent.
Attorney General Brown’s overambitious quest to be California’s next governor has led him to trample local planning efforts.
Fortunately, more than 25,000 Stockton residents signed our referendum petitions — nearly the same number of people that voted in the last municipal election — and the imminent referendum led to a settlement with the City that guarantees the public will be able to participate as changes to the general plan are discussed in the future.
Gary A. Podesto
Former mayor of Stockton, 1997–2004
Matt Potter responds: The item never said anything about Spanos supporting Podesto for mayor. We fully reported Spanos being behind the measure and Attorney General Jerry Brown’s role in the planning controversy. A follow-up item noted the City’s settlement.
The Dreaded Santee Bloc
Re Reader Puzzle. I have stopped submitting entries because of the huge Santee bloc of entries each week — the people who don’t add a comment line.
And when the Santee bloc gets one letter wrong, they are all wrong.
Something underhanded is going on — several entrants have voiced that even in their comment line.
Entering the puzzle is no longer fun, when you see such a large bloc of people from the same place all winning together and each one never makes a comment.
There are always those people who ruin it for all the rest because of greed!
According to a phone call to the Reader, many of the entrants come from a Santee nursing home. — Editor
LL Dull J
I find it baffling that you continue to pay Josh Board for his “Crasher” column on a weekly basis. It commits two journalistic sins that should be unforgivable: it’s very poorly written and is insufferably dull.
By all means, the column should be an interesting one; the premise of it is, in theory, wide open to a varied and entertaining column each week. But the pedantic manner in which Mr. Board describes the parties he attends might as well be the result of an autistic person describing their trip to the DMV. Focused on minute and unimportant details and written in one-sentence paragraphs, a style more befitting the “See Dick Run” series of reading primers, the columns turn parties at James Cameron’s mansion or a record-release party for LL Cool J, events at which interesting things conceivably must be occurring, into deadening affairs of soul-crushing tedium.
Mr. Board’s tendency to focus on his own actions during these parties (his most recent column diverged from the party to explain how he left, went to a Mexican restaurant, and tried to order a series of items only to eventually leave without eating when none of them were available) only further serves to suggest that he is uninterested in the parties and would be better off updating a Twitter feed instead of writing about them. Journalism that is primarily focused on the journalist can work. Hunter S. Thompson routinely turned himself into the story. But the life-sapping diversions into Mr. Board’s own affairs are reminiscent of what Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas would have been like had it been written by Andy Rooney.
I attended two of the parties that Mr. Board “crashed” for columns within the past six months. One was for his column “Sumo Follies” (August 6), where Mr. Board spent a substantial portion of the column talking about how he played another partygoer in horse on the outskirts of the party. The other party was the recent Intense Individual party (October 23), in which Mr. Board begged out of paying the charitable cover charge and went on to write up an eclectic party in a manner in which I imagine that a blind person’s fed-up personal assistant would describe it to them minutes before quitting in disgust.