“Some people see things that are and ask, ‘Why?’ Some people dream of things that never were and ask, ‘Why not?’ Some people have to go to work and don’t have time for all that.” —George Carlin
No one can dispute the importance of dreams. They inform our goals, fuel our imaginations and give us hope. At the same time, having dreams dashed can be heartbreaking, sending one spinning into a depressing world of disappointment, self-loathing and drug abuse.
But enough about me.
Seeing your dreams destroyed can also free you up and help open new roads for exploration.
This is all by way of saying that Jack Krystal has once again been told his plans for a shoreline hotel in southern Marin won’t cut it.
It’s at least the fifth time he’s come forward over 37 years with a plan to put a hotel on a piece of shoreline just north of the helipad on a spit of land between Sausalito and Mill Valley. For years, his property has been a storage yard for trucks and equipment while it waited for its big break as a waterfront lodge.
The design has morphed from 12 stories to eight stories to six stories to four and finally three. And still, no dice. So does size really matter?
I wrote a story [“Bayside Denied,” Sept. 2009] in this very periodical about his quest to build an inn on the water.
You can’t say that Jack lacks gumption or determination. The 70-year-old has remained steadfast in his quest for the hotel in a way that makes Captain Quig’s pursuit of Moby Dick look like a lighthearted afternoon cruise.
After one of his designs was rejected, Krystal calmly lit a match and set the model on fire. As the supervisors looked on aghast, eyes as large as dinner plates, Krystal said in a measured tone, “You will never see that design again.”
And while I have no problem giving him props for his ability to keep his project on a metaphorical respirator, I do feel that the hotel presents a stunning example of how the planning process in Marin has become a sacred cow of almost biblical proportions.
A cow that’s (of course) free range, free of rBST and gives organic milk.
Please understand, I’m not advocating for the project or, for that matter, more development in Marin. What I am saying is that, at some point, this particular saga became a comedy that might have found life as a show on A&E. I mean, if you can televise “Duck Dynasty,” this thing has legs.
You can’t accuse the county of not being open to the project. But at some point—say, after 23 years or so—maybe it was time to say, in public, “Jack, we’re going to approve oil drilling off Tiburon before you build this sucker.”
If he disagreed or felt the county had essentially downzoned his property and stolen its value, he could turn his attorney loose to maul the county’s sharks in court.
And while I’m questioning how this thing has played out, at some point, maybe Jack should have looked at his lack of progress on bringing more room nights to southern Marin, and said, “Hey, my Kool Aid tastes like crap.”
Your Marin moment
Assemblyman Mark Levine has succeeded in getting a bill passed that will allow for wine tasting at farmers markets. Levine, a pro-business democrat, saw an opportunity to provide the struggling California wine industry, which has failed miserably at gaining much in the way of notoriety or popularity, a platform where people might discover the fledgling vintners.
At the same time, it perhaps helps farmers markets draw a new niche, those who love farm-fresh produce, supporting local farmers and ranchers, and wouldn’t mind catching a light buzz while looking for organic stone fruit.
Putting a damper on the celebration was Alcohol Justice, a San Rafael group that believes letting folks sample a spirited Zinfandel while they pick up heirloom tomatoes sets a bum example for kids.
Since I’ve already endured the wrath of the Agricultural Institute of Marin (I took umbrage with Marin County’s ballot language regarding AIM’s permanent location at the Civic Center, which, by the way, passed with the voters), this item might seem like a naked attempt to get back in its good graces.
It ain’t. There’s something to be said for being disliked in the right circles.
