Albany Bulb

Albany Bulb

The western tip of the Albany Bulb, about an hour before high tide early Friday afternoon. Not sure where the bulb name comes from, but Albany is the next town north of Berkeley, a little patch of stucco bungalows squeezed between the foot of the hills and the shore. The bulb is the old town dump, and juts several hundred yards into the bay just north of Golden Gate Fields, a working horse track. Unlike Berkeley’s dump, the bulb hasn’t been reclaimed; there’s lots of debris and broken concrete everywhere among the thickets of wild grass and fennel; but it has turned into a park anyway; as you get out to the western end, the terrain becomes more hummocky and overgrown, and people have set up impromptu art installations with stuff that’s worked its way out of the dump (and, by the look of things, with plenty of fresh rubbish and artsy castoffs).

In Memory of Emily Wagner

Here’s a home-made memorial along one of the paths: “In memory of Emily Wagner,” Oakland’s 33rd homicide victim in 2004. I remember hearing about the case briefly at the time — she was run down by a driver who was having a fight with her boyfriend and died a month later.

Albanybulb082506C

And this — you tell me what this is. Out on that spit on the western end of the bulb, there was a rotting carcass of some kind (at least I think it was a rotting carcass; it smelled dead, and Scout was determined to sample it). The part closest to the camera looks like a head and beak to me. But the head and beak of what I can’t tell, and the rest of the “remains” were too gelatinous for me to poke around much to see if I could identify more body parts.

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Hotsy Totsy

Hotsy

San Pablo Avenue runs from downtown Oakland through Emeryville, Berkeley and Albany as it heads toward industrial Contra Costa County. Up there, it passes the old dynamite-making village of Hercules and the current oil-refining town of Rodeo before ending near the big C&H sugar mill in Crockett (home of Aldo Ray).

Albany’s a little bedroom community that borders Berkeley on the north. Most of the town is solid middle class, angling for genteel. But where San Pablo cuts through it, it still shows a little bit of its less staid self in a series of bars along the street: The Ivy Room, Club Mallard, and, my favorite (namewise, anyway — I’ve never gone inside any of these places), the Hotsy Totsy Club. I’ve always loved the sign.