The theme of the month is that Vashon has turned awful, it used to be good, and it’s all California’s fault. We start with this rant:
Our biggest issue is not with litter but with their bad taste. I mean, who drinks Twisted Tea? As one commenter says, “Corona? You can dip a tastier one out of Mukai Pond.”
One says, “might as well drink MD 2020 
Fun fact. MD doesn’t stand for Mad Dog, but rather Mogen David, the company that makes the wine, which is Kosher and a competitor to Manischewitz. So whoever left this mess not only drank terrible alcohol but also probably didn’t even say the correct prayer before drinking it.
One person confusingly uses the Niemöller poem to summarize the situation as follows: “First they came for the wine coolers because they were Californian, and no one liked Californians…”
And speaking of hating Californians, we have this post:
Complaint is a birthright; You cannot complain about a place unless you were born there. That’s just facts. So my daughter, who moved to the northwest at age 4 months, can’t complain, but my younger daughter, who was born here, can. It causes a lot of sibling rivalry, but rules are rules.
One commenter says, “Most of the people I see complaining are locals.” Okay, but have you checked if their grandparents were born here? You’re only local if your parents sprouted from the (arsenic-laden) dirt of Vashon. Anyone else is a transplant.
One person suggests that the complaints are a result of a lack of vitamin D. They say, “Unless you ski naked or mainline salmon fillets, you probably need a supplement.”
To this, an islander replies, “I get my D delivered directly to my chocolate starfish.”
I didn’t understand what this meant, but someone posted a helpful picture. Turns out it means sunbathing naked on your back, legs spread apart in the air, so the sun can reach the inner depths of your butthole as if it were an ancient Celtic megalith on the solstice.
Since we’re on the topic of who are truly locals and what it means to be a local, we have this post from an islander using the time-honored tradition of posting anonymously on the internet:
Counterpoint: Write a blog where you blast your controversial opinions to the whole island.
Many other long-time islanders chime in. One says, “My parents moved to Quartermaster Drive in 1956, two things resonate during my 63 trips around the sun so far 1.) Believe half of what you see 2.) Believe half of what you hear, growing up and living in Vashon.”
Okay, but what if I choose the wrong halves? I’d be wrong all the time. I’d be better off either believing everything or nothing.
One person says, “My family was here in the late, late eighteen hundreds.” I haven’t decided which half of this sentence to believe.
One person adds, “‘99-2005 were the golden Vashon years. Fight me”
Another says, “1963 to 1974 were my golden Vashon years.” Those were also my golden years. That was a time before I was born and was still part of the cosmic ocean of consciousness, not yet distilled into a separate entity, an isolated water drop cognizant of my smallness.
Also, could people stop saying the world was better before I was born? It’s really bumming me out.
Another person says, “Vashon was a refreshing place in the good ole days because you could talk to people. Why people seek out controversy is beyond many of us who grew up here. It’s just not necessary to compel others to think exactly like you do. Individuality is what made Vashon great.”
I don’t know what kind of conversations you guys are having at the grocery store, but I want to be invited. I tend to talk to people about mundane things like how their kids are doing, what they’re growing in their garden, and how we’re going to create a world free of the hegemony of corporate capitalism.
One person brings up this point: “Unfortunately, NOW is the time to post those polarizing and controversial opinions!” They make a good point. We can’t keep our heads down while our government is being robbed by the world’s dumbest billionaire.
Speaking of controversial opinions, I can’t stand ai writing.
Someone decided to have ai write a roast of Vashon Island. It goes on for multiple paragraphs, but I’ll spare you the tedium. I have a rule about AI: if someone can’t be bothered to write something, I won’t be bothered to read it. I broke my rule solely for the purpose of this blog, and I regret it. Here’s the beginning of offending text:
One islander notes, “I could write a better one”
Another islander, who is clearly bereft of imagination, asks, “How ??? You didn’t exist in the 50s or 60s or have parents or grandparents or great grandparents living here so how would you know the real story?”
This response makes no sense. Not only was ChatGPT not around in the 1950s and 1960s, but it has also never lived on the island—in fact, it has never lived at all!
The person who rightly claims they could do better asks, “what’s the real story?”
The incredulous commenter says, “Actually experiencing growing up and living during that island period, cupcake”
Why does the old-timer think that a computer trained on Wikipedia and tweets would know the island better than a living, breathing person blessed with the gift of consciousness who has experienced the island with their five senses? Why do people think computers can be smart? It would be like printing out the works of Shakespeare and then saying your printer is a genius because it wrote Romeo and Juliet.
One person points out, “You don’t have to be old enough to collect social security to know that the ferry sucks and rich nimbys abound. It is all new stuff mentioned in the roast. Some kid who rolled into town 5 months ago from California could probably write a better roast.”
Imagine writing so bad that people say a transplant from California could have written it. I hope no one ever says something so cutting about this blog.
I rolled into town 13 years ago from Pittsburgh. Can I roast Vashon better? Let’s try.
Ah, Vashon Island–the place where Seattleites go to ditch their old washing machines on the side of the road. You call yourself an island, because you are one. Like, you perfectly fit the definition of an island. Anyone who says you’re not an island can’t read a map. And what’s with your ferry boats? Why does the Chetzemoka look like there’s an evil clown on top?
Someone points out that chaptgpt will base what it says on things you’ve said to it before. They gave it the prompt to make a roast, and it came up with this:
Bike chains rust in the rain, so no one would put a sculpture involving them outside. Mostly people just have those metal trees with old colorful glass bottles on their branches. The front yard art that strikes me the most is the one house that has Buddha sitting on an old toilet. There’s also those skeletons in a rowboat by the highway. I think they even had Santa hats at Christmas time.
Speaking of outdoor art, we have this beauty, spotted at KVI.
Some people are upset by the message. One commenter says, “We are of the keep going tribe.”
You know it’s great art because it caused a conversation about what our collective identity is.
Another commenter recommends these edits: “Next carved bit: add a question mark, then the word NEVER!”
Please don’t deface the public art. That would be like adding “peni” in front of the Stalk graffiti.
One person says, “Could have drifted there.” This would mean that it’s not an islander who feels overwhelmed, but an outsider. Phew.
Another islander identifies with the message: “I feel you, whoever you are. Don’t give up”
We have questions about the medium the artist used. “It doesn’t appear to be carved – just written with a wide marker.”
I thought it was written in charcoal. Whenever we go to the beach and find charcoal we write on the driftwood. My kids started out by drawing hearts and writing their names, but as my older daughter entered her teen years, she’s added doodles of dongs to her oeuvre.
One person sees it as part of the long tradition of Western Christian art. They say, “Maybe somebody is really into Lent.”
Let’s end on a happy note. Look at the beautiful boy:
His name is Prince and he lives in the area where this picture was taken. I have nothing to say about him; I just wanted to share this beautiful orb with you.
Others agree that he’s perfect. These are the comments left by Prince’s many fans:
“them cheeky cheeks.”
“that’s wild!!! I LOVE cheeky boys, especially when they’re responsible”
“Oh my god. LOOK AT HIM. HERCULES!!! The Father of All Cats. GIMME THAT CHONKY BOIIII!! 
“Omg what a big moon pie face 
I hate to ruin everyone’s day, but Prince was not on the island in the 50s and 60s, so he’s not nearly as chonky as the cats who were around in that era.
