- Residual Russian
- 128 Collision
- Fire Smoke
- New Stadium
- Fruit Quake
- Supes Meet
- Mendocino Color
- Rudd Stop
- $1,200 Settlement
- Labor Day
- Grassroots Coalition
- Catch of the Day
- Sam's Jonesing
- Summer Sun
- Rockabilly Rendezvous
THE RUSSIAN RIVER is like the mighty Colorado in miniature. It's drying up. There are too many draws on the Russian, an ongoing natural fact made even clearer by the drought. And with this week's news that there's even less water for summer releases from Lake Mendocino, the Russian is a lot less rushin' and more like a residual pool here, another there.
THE RUSSIAN RIVER Flood Control & Water Conservation Improvement District's and the Sonoma County Water Agency's requests to reduce flows in the Russian River has been granted. Some water, most of which is owned by Sonoma County, has to be kept back for the few fish which, in theory, still spawn in the Russian. And some of that water is, like, the water that comes out of faucets from Ukiah to Healdsburg.
* * *
IN AN AUGUST 26 report in the Ukiah Daily Journal by Justine Frederiksen entitled “Outflow from Lake Mendocino Reduced,” Ms. Frederiksen includes this cryptic paragraph: “[Russian River Flood Control District Manager Sean] White said the reduced [out]flows will require ‘a bit more coordination’ amongst water diverters, who will need to give the [Sonoma County Water Agency] 72-hours notice before they divert water. That way the agency can release a ‘buffer’ amount of water to ensure the minimum flows are met.”
Hmmm. There are two primary “water diverters” — and we presume from the wording of the sentence that they mean downstream of the dam after the outflows are reduced: cities (like Hopland, Cloverdale and Healdsburg) and grape growers. The loosey-goosey style of all this gives you a good idea of how ill-managed the Russian River water is. They’re going to keep more water in Lake Mendocino (most of which belongs to the Sonoma County Water Agency which sells it to municipal water districts in Sonoma and Marin Counties for a nice markup) by lowering the outflow, but if the “diverters” downstream of Lake Mendocino take water out of the Russian River’s reduced flows, they will “need to give notice” to the Water Agency so the Water Agency can tell Sean White to release more water from Lake Mendocino (and not Lake Sonoma) to replace what the diverters took. But no one enforces any diversions on the Russian River so there’s no reliable way Mr. White or the Sonoma County Water Agency can find out about diversions from the lower flows — until they’re gone. And there’s no incentive for them to notify either: Why would a “diverter” tell anyone their diverting if there’s a chance they might be told they can’t? But don’t worry. Everything’s under control because Mr. White and his water pals are going to do “a bit more coordination.”
BAD HEAD-ON Tuesday afternoon on Highway 128 a little after 2 near Navarro. A Dodge sedan driven by William Johnson, 54, of Mendocino crossed into the oncoming lane and crashed head-on into a Ford driven by Aurens Gilmore, 48, of Hopland. Johnson was freed from the wreckage of his vehicle by a jaws-of-life device, and airlifted to Memorial Hospital in Santa Rosa where he remains in serious condition. Gilmore was taken by Anderson Valley Ambulance to Adventist Hospital in Ukiah where he was treated for minor injuries and released. Highway 128 was closed in both directions for 90 minutes.
AS OF AUGUST 27 at 4pm the Lodge Complex Wilderness Fire outside of Leggett/Laytonville was still not quite contained at 97% containment at 12,535 acres. Three engines and one clean-up crew staffed by 60 firefighters were all that remain on scene. The bulldozers, choppers and water tenders were all released. On Wednesday evening CalFire reported that “Crews continue mopping up and looking for hot spots within the containment lines; steep terrain hampers access and control efforts. Interior portions of the fire will continue to burn and may produce smoke for an extended period of time in the Laytonville and South Leggett area.”
A READER WRITES: Levi’s Should Stick to Pants
I knew we were in trouble right away when the parking attendants couldn’t tell us where the stadium was. I took the first opportunity to park after getting totally confused trying to figure it out ahead of time online. It is amazing that the stadium was built with so little adjacent parking. It was $40 to park and then we walked an actual mile to the park. The trouble didn’t end there. The attendant ticket taker, who was a ringer for Sergio Romo, told me that I couldn’t take my purse into the park. I asked some other women going into the park and found out that there was a place to check your purse, information that Sergio could and should have given me and didn’t. Finally into the park and glad we left home so early, I began to try to find our actual seats. The first employee gave me directions to the wrong area, the second one suggested I go ask at an information booth, the third said he didn’t know and the fourth actually gave me good directions. Don’t they provide an orientation to the people who work there? If not, why not? My first impression of the park was that it looked like something built by a 13-year-old with an erector set. Modern, clean and without any character or real architecture that I could see. Of course my opinion is colored by a lifetime of Kezar and the Stick. Maybe the place will grow a soul.
People were lined up to get their pictures taken with the 49er Nuggets, for a price of course. The ‘Niner Noise,’ and it was definitely more noise than music, was a ‘band’ playing at Gate A as we entered.
We were given complimentary tickets for the game, and I really did go with a positive attitude. The seats were plush in a private suite, but we were in a corner of the North endzone, so the game was pretty far away, with a number of TV sets to help follow the action. The scoreboard is on the opposite/south end of the stadium and the lettering is white on a red background. Neither of us could read it.
We were the first ones to arrive at the suite and were greeted by an attendant who would be our waiter. He gave us a menu. $40 for all you could eat popcorn seemed to be the most reasonable item available. We abandoned the suite and went downstairs to check out the food vendors. I ended up having lamb curry which was delicious and very un-ballpark like. My husband stuck with a hot dog and seemed pleased with it. $10.25 for a Budweiser was about the same as AT&T. Because we were early, the food and beer lines were short. When I ventured down after half-time, the lines were ridiculously long. I saw a sign for soft-serve ice cream and decided that would be a good idea. When I looked for the end of the line, I couldn’t believe it. I informally counted about 100 people in line. It was the only booth with any kind of desserts, and boy was it popular. There clearly aren’t enough food vendors for the crowds.
Maybe it’s a perfect park for the majority of the people who are there for the experience, the internet, to drink and socialize, to take “selfies” and all the other things you can do without watching the game.
The good news was that the 49ers not only scored, they won the game! After the hike back to the car, we got to the freeway fairly quickly and got home in Marin County in an hour and thirty minutes. I don’t think we will be making the trek again anytime soon. And are they really the ‘San Francisco’ 49ers when it takes at least 30 minutes to drive to the city from the stadium?
Signed: Purseless in Levi’s
WE ALL WANT to enjoy the fruits of the quakes, so we all have to prepare for the downside too. — Ross S. Stein, United States Geological Survey, Aug 24, 2014
DAVE GURNEY'S IMPRESSIONS OF TUESDAY'S SUPERVISOR'S MEETING:
Sup. Pinches at last showed some good old fashioned horse sense, in urging more than 2 weeks - 30 days for conservation groups to come up with a proposal. Why not six months to give them time?, he urged. No one listened.
Also, we heard from a mysterious new biologist telling us that bird habitat surveys won't be done for a few months. Apparently, some of the Supes also didn't hear him. So now we'll have to endure another needless meeting, in a month's time.
Speaking of time, some of the more corrupt Supes in our flouescent halls of financial sin have come up with a new definition of time - as they flaunt the Brown Act that protects open public meetings.
McCowen and others on the board have begun filing last minute "addendums" to their agendas late on Friday afternoon, instead of on the previous Wednesday as they are required to do. Thus extremely important issues, many budgetary, that the public should be aware of - are being slipped in under the radar - and called "timed items."
These "timed" items are not timed at all - there is no stated time limit. The only people being timed are the public, if they dare to speak - 3 minutes.
The so-called "timed" items are really things that have been placed on the schedule at the last minute. And ironically, these last minute items were not listed as to what time they were to actually to be heard.
Thus "timed" items are not timed at all - they are last minute items added to the agenda.
Though McCowen might think it's clever - using the weekend to cover the mandatory 72-hour Brown Act requirement for last minute emergency additions to an official Agenda - his slippery idea is not an original one. See: http://www.cdispatch.com/opinions/article.asp?aid=32027
My take? When they start corrupting the language, you have probably just scratched the surface of corruption.
A READER WRITES: “Street Color — While this temporary display was approved by County Planning and did not need a Coastal Development Permit it did run counter to the owner’s opinion of acceptable. Taken down yesterday on the far west end of Main Street, Mendocino.
ON JULY 23, 2014, Mendocino County Sheriff’s Deputies responded to the S&B Market, at 19400 South Highway 1, Manchester, to a reported burglary. Deputies were advised that the suspect had purchased three boxes of ammunition and stole cash and personal items belonging to employees while in the business. During the course of the investigation, deputies identified Aaron Rudd, 26, of Gualala, as a suspect in the burglary. Rudd is a convicted felon and has an active parolee-at-large warrant out of the state of Connecticut. The report was forwarded to the Mendocino County District Attorney’s Office for the burglary and a be-on-the-lookout (BOLO) was issued for Rudd. On August 20, 2014 at approximately 3:30pm, Mendocino County Sheriff Deputies conducted a traffic enforcement stop on a vehicle in the 39000 Block of South Highway 1, Gualala. Rudd was found to be driving the vehicle with a male adult passenger. Deputies conducted a search of the vehicle and discovered a loaded .40 caliber handgun beneath the driver’s seat. Additionally, deputies located metal knuckles and evidence linking Rudd to the burglary of the S&B Market within the vehicle. Rudd was placed under arrest for the listed violations without incident, and transported to the Mendocino County Jail where he was booked in lieu of $25,000 dollars bail.
AS WE REPORTED TWO WEEKS AGO....
Agreement Reached With Service Employees’ International Union (SEIU), Local 1021 — Following 15 months of negotiations, the County of Mendocino and the employees represented by the County’s largest bargaining unit, Service Employees’ International Union, Local 1021 received approval from the Board of Supervisors for a Memorandum of Understanding. On August 26, 2014, the Mendocino County Board of Supervisors voted unanimously to adopt a Resolution reaching an agreement. The term of the agreement is from July 1, 2014, through June 30, 2015. It includes a one-time payment of $1,200, one additional personal leave day, and no increase in the employee portion of the healthcare premiums during the 2015 health plan year. The County had been in negotiations with SEIU, since June, 2013, in an effort to reach an agreement with the bargaining unit. “The County is still in a serious financial position due to increasing retirement costs and limited discretionary revenue, however, the Board determined it was appropriate to provide a one-time benefit to the SEIU employees,” stated Board Chair Pinches. SEIU voted on August 14th and 15th and approved the Tentative Settlement Agreement with 92% of the ballots reflecting a “yes” vote in favor of the agreement. In taking yesterday’s action, the Mendocino County Board of Supervisors recognizes the dedicated service provided by County employees. — Carmel J. Angelo, Chief Executive Officer
MENDOCINO COUNTY'S DEEP DEVOTION TO WORKING PEOPLE, FEW OF WHOM ARE PAID A LIVING WAGE, WILL BE RE-ESTABLISHED THIS LABOR DAY BY A DAY OFF, UNPAID, FOR MOST WORKERS
County Offices Will Be Closed In Observance Of Labor Day — County offices will be closed on Monday, September 1, in observance of Labor Day, and will resume their normal hours of operation on Tuesday, September 2. All branches of the Mendocino County Library will be closed on Monday, September 1, as well. The County wishes residents and visitors alike a safe Labor Day. For more information, please contact the Mendocino County Executive Office at (707) 463-4441. — Carmel J. Angelo Chief Executive Officer
COALITION FOR GRASSROOTS — Politics Bulletin
CATCH OF THE DAY, August 27, 2014
JENIFER BORGES, Fort Bragg. Burglary of dwelling, probation revocation.
CHRISTOPHER BRIGGS, Suisun City. DUI.
TUCKER CHESTER, Fort Bragg. Burglary of dwelling, possession of burglary tools, probation revocation.
NAPOLEON CLARK, Sacramento. DUI.
WILLIAM CRIST, Concord. Pot cultivation, sale; armed with firearm, possession of armor-penetrating handgun.
RICKIE CURTIS, Willits. Drunk in public. Probation revocation. (Frequent flyer.)
HEATHER DEWOLF, Fort Bragg. Drunk in public. Probation revocation. (Frequent flyer.)
LUCILA GIRARD, Buenos Aires/Willits. Resisting arrest.
DONESHA HATTER, San Francisco. Vehicle theft, receipt of stolen property, possession of burglary tools. (Photo not available.)
MARC MONAHAN, Fort Bragg. Court order violation.
IDO NATAN, Willits. Pot cultivation, sale; renting with intent to distribute illegal substance.
TIRZA NATAN, Willits. Pot cultivation, sale; renting with intent to distribute illegal substance.
LINDA PAGE, San Francisco. Resisting arrest. (Photo not available.)
OXANA REIF, London. Resisting arrest.
EVA RIZOU, Willits. Pot cultivation, sale; renting with intent to distribute illegal substance, child endangerment.
JULIAN SALAZAR, Hopland. Possesssion of drug paraphernalia, resisting arrest. (Frequent flyer.)
THOMAS SANDERS, Willits. Drunk in public. (Frequent flyer; Sanders has been arrested three days in a row.)
JEWELITA SILVA, Lakeport. Misdemeanor domestic battery, probation revocation.
RICHARD SUPER, Talmage. Probation revocation.
THE NATIONAL INSTITUTES OF HEALTH is soliciting proposals from cannabis farmers who can “harvest, process, analyze, store and distribute” 12 acres of marijuana. The pot is needed for research purposes, of course, according to a posting on the Federal Business Opportunities website. And the federal pot growers will have to meet enough stipulations to kill your high. They must have a “secure and video monitored outdoor facility” and “demonstrate the availability” of a DEA- and FDA-approved vault to store 400 and 700 kilograms of marijuana-related products. The proposal doesn't exactly mean the feds will get 420-friendly any time soon. But considering the government still officially considers marijuana on par with heroin, it may just be mellowing out a bit. Before you know it, Congress may even start getting stoned.
Great is the sun, and wide he goes
Through empty heaven with repose;
And in the blue and glowing days
More thick than rain he showers his rays.
Though closer still the blinds we pull
To keep the shady parlour cool,
Yet he will find a chink or two
To slip his golden fingers through.
The dusty attic spider-clad
He, through the keyhole, maketh glad;
And through the broken edge of tiles
Into the laddered hay-loft smiles.
Meantime his golden face around
He bares to all the garden ground,
And sheds a warm and glittering look
Among the ivy’s inmost nook.
Above the hills, along the blue,
Round the bright air with footing true,
To please the child, to paint the rose,
The gardener of the World, he goes.
— Robert Louis Stevenson (1885)
ROCKABILLY REDWOOD RENDEZVOUS
by Joe Don Mooney
The ninth annual rockabilly in the Redwoods gathering at Scotia on the first weekend in August was another blast from the past celebrating the Fabulous Fifties — sex, booze, and rockabilly.
The rockabilly staff met periodically during the year at Be-Bop’s Diner in Ukiah to hammer out plans for the event.
We purged the process junkies who wanted a “vision committee” and assembled a hard-nosed rockabilly task farce, since a committee is essentially a group of people who can individually do nothing but together decide that nothing can be done. The process junkies, like so many killjoys, use procedure to stifle action. Somebody has to tell people what to do. Set up the campground here, the stage there, dig the latrines downwind… Just do it!
The task farce unanimously agreed to limit attendance to the capacity of Scotia’s miniature livestock arena: 250 people.
And since Rockabilly in the Redwoods is actually a gathering of the tribes, we changed the name to Rockabilly Redwood Rendezvous. It’s a family picnic, not a festival.
The global festival glut is totally overwhelming, making the serial events meaningless as expanding hordes of jaded zigzag zombie festifarians march, like army ants, from festival to festival to festival on an endless quest for constant entertainment and the ultimate high.
We had a great lineup this year for our Dust Bowl theme, including the hilarious Emmet Otter’s Jubilee Frog Hollow Jug Band from Waterville, Arkansas, followed by the Boogie Woogie Wranglers from Horseshoe Bend, Idaho on Friday night.
The main event on Saturday featured Dusty Rhodes and the Tumbleweeds from Amorita, Oklahoma followed by the super hot Payday Plow Girls from Honey Grove, Texas.
The Mooney clan’s secret old world recipe for quadruple-distilled home brew (Mooneyshine) was entrusted to me by my Uncle Eddie Money at the clan’s annual Saint Paddy’s Day gathering last year. My first batch, made from rye, barley, and Scotia corn, was dispensed on July 4th to rave reviews. Numerous jugs were hauled to the Rendezvous in a two-wheeled teardrop trailer hitched to my methane-powered turbocharged V-8 1943 Czech Tatra.
Ranche Puerco, my compound on Duncan Peak west of Hopland, is ideal for moonshining since it’s remote with limited access and is defended by a herd of testy, slashing Oklahoma Razorback hogs led by Sharpie, a thousand pounds fully mature stud boar.
The Okie Razorback, a hybrid cross of Peccaries (brillo pigs) and Arkansas Razorbacks, is a fearsome beast that eats pit bulls like candy and can effectively deal with coyote, bear and mountain lion. And they make good pets. Ranchers and pot growers pay me big bucks to supply them with these reliable watch-hogs.
At the crack of dawn on Friday, August 1, I packed the trailer with essential camping gear, food, water, hooch and weapons, bid farewell to Sharpie and his herd, saddled up my rig, then zigzagged down the mountain past the pygmy forest to Highway 101 in Hopland and drove north to Ukiah (Hookiah) for a hungry traveler’s breakfast at Be-Bop’s Diner on South State Street, the official planning headquarters for Rockabilly in the Redwoods.
Be-Bop’s Diner has a fabulous retro menu and a vintage Wurlitzer jukebox with the best selection of rockabilly in America. It reminds me of Tulsa, Oklahoma’s Nite-Owl Drive-In during the 50s where perky ponytailed carhops wearing skimpy tops and Apache shots made curbside deliveries gliding on roller skates, their cute little buns pumping up and down and their ponytails flapping in the breeze.
The history of the jukebox can be traced to November 23, 1889 when Louis Glass installed a coin-operated Edison phonograph in the Palais Royal Saloon in San Francisco. For a nickel, four patrons using listening tubes could hear the machine’s single selection. The apparatus was dubbed “Nickel-in-the-Slot.”
The Gabel Automatic Entertainer, which emerged in 1906, used disc recordings instead of wax cylinders and offered a choice of selections. Then in 1927 the Automatic Music Instrument Company introduced an electrically amplified model inaugurating the true jukebox era.
Some music historians believe the term “jukebox” was derived from a southern roadside tavern or “juke joint,” but others claim a “juke joint” or “juke house” was actually a brothel. Some trace the word to an African root “jook,” meaning “to dance” or “to jute,” suggesting that black workers in jute fields carried the name to the local roadhouses.
The golden age of jukebox followed the repeal of Prohibition in 1933 when three big manufacturers of the era emerged: Wurlitzer, Seeburg, and Rock-Ola. Wurlitzer’s designer, Paul M. Fuller — the Vincent Van Gogh of jukebox art — designed thirteen full-sized machines in eleven years. In 1937, Fuller and Nils Miller of the Seeburg Company, began tinkering with phenolic resins and illuminated plastics, concocting those Xanadu visions of colored lights and tubes that today mark the classic jukebox.
Fuller’s 1941 Model 850 is regarded by collectors as the highest achievement of jukebox designer art. Two exotic birds on the front of this Wurlitzer machine gave it the nickname “Peacock.” Through a novel arrangement of revolving polarized-light acetate discs behind the peacock glass, the birds continually changed colors before the customers’ eyes.
I threw some nickels in the jukebox, punched my rockabilly favorites, ordered breakfast, then kicked back to enjoy the tunes of Buddy Holly, Carl Perkins, Eddie Cochran and Wanda Jackson: “That’ll Be The Day,” “Blue Suede Shoes,” “Summertime Blues,” and “Let’s Have A Party.”
Soon, Be-Bop served up his primo breakfast special featuring free-range chicken-fried steak with country gravy, eggs, fried potatoes, toast, tomato juice and coffee.
For the road, I ordered a triple Big Valley Burger with teriyaki sauce, pineapple, sautéed mushrooms, cheddar cheese, lettuce, tomato and a Nehi Big Orange.
After breakfast, I motored north on State Street, the Champs d’Élysées of the Redwood Empire which some of my Italian buddies call “The Crappian Way.”
Last year Hookiah boosters approved a town theme suggested by an image consultant from Walnut Creek — “Hookiah, Far Out, Nearby.” The town’s official visitor’s guide is divided into six sections titled “Get Down,” “Keep the Faith,” “Good Vibes,” “Born to be Wild,” “Crash at our Pad,” and “What a Trip.” The cynical guy was obviously tweaking the old hippies, but damned if they didn’t swallow it hook, line, and sinker. Now the only travelers attracted to Hookiah will be ex-hippies and 60s wannabes. “Visit Hookiah, The High Hippy Haven.”
The entire length of State Street is a relentless visual assault with only four examples of distinguished architecture: Be-Bop’s Diner, The Marks Building (Ukiah Brewery), the crumbling Palace Hotel, and the Barra Winery Tasting Room — formerly Weibel.
Motoring north through Calpella past the UFO — like Barra Winery Tasting Room to West Road in Redwood Valley, I continued along the Russian River past withering vineyards to Tomki Road where the pavement eventually narrowed as I entered a green tunnel canyon which put me on full red alert — “Ambush Country.”
Following my close encounter with the Hell’s Angels last year, I acquired a .454 Casull handgun made by Freedom Arms in Freedom, Wyoming as a gift from my jungle buddy, Nat Ramboski of Saddlebags, Wyoming. The stainless steel .454 has a curved black grip, seven-and-a-half inch barrel, and fires a 300 grain bullet capable of shooting through an engine block. Armed with the Casull, AK-47, M-79 grenade launcher (blooper), Colt .45 service pistol, smoke grenades, pop flares and several sticks of dynamite, I was ready for anything in pot country.
Tomki climbed to Canyon Road where I veered west then north along Reynolds Highway skirting the Little Swamp Valley avoiding exposure to Willits (Skunktown) which is besieged by the CalTrans (CalTurds) juggernaut blasting a freeway bypass just east of town.
Since it’s an elevated freeway with an extensive 30ft high viaduct the appropriate term would be overpass not bypass. Locals call it the “Skunktown Embarcadero,” and a city councilman, Ronbo Ornswine, think it’s the most beautiful piece of public art since the Vallencourt Fountain in ‘Frisco.
Based on news photos I’ve seen, the viaduct support pillars have a weird tumbling hand grenade motif and from certain angles the concrete supports resemble Stonehenge trilithons marching to infinity. Local stoner woo-woos will gather under the viaduct for drumming, chanting and ceremonial processions through the linear “Stoned-henge.”
Local opponents have been successful in slowing down the project but their only hope for modification is to convince CalTurds to downsize the northern interchange and save a few acres of wetland.
Unfortunately, the enviros have embraced the fraudulent concept of “mitigation,” thinking that a natural wetland, which evolved for millennia can be replaced by throwing water on dry ground and planting it with posies.
Mitigation is like carpet-bombing Winchester Cathedral then randomly pitching pup tents in the rubble. It’s bullshit.
The enviro’s direct action pranks have CalTurds on full red alert and P.R. honcho, Twerpy Phil Frizzey, patrols the bypass route in a jacked-up, armor-plated fluorescent orange jumbo Humvee topped with a quad-50 gun mount. The diminutive twerp has to sit on pillows to operate the beast. The Indians call him “Little Big Truck Man.”
To up the ante, local enviros have called in the notorious coast activist Cheery Glazeer and her “Torpedoes, Not Bombs” shock troops who tactically use body parts as political weapons.
When confronting Twerpy Phil, Cheery will peel off her tie-dye Sherman tank top, whip out her twin .44s and pistol-whip him into submission. Fair enough, but Cheery is veering way out of control. If you have to get a separate plane ticket for your ta-tas, it’s time to lay off the silicone.
Local Skunktown boosters are hailing the bypass as a “catalyst for renewal,” thinking that a new Skunktown will emerge from the rubble like Phoenix rising.
They want to “brand” the town with an appropriate theme when the town is already internationally known for its Skunk Train and primo Skunk Weed. Why change it now?
The locoweed influence was obvious when the town’s annual July 4th Frontier Days celebration was called “Cowboy Winter Wonderland” this year, demonstrating yet another case of reefer madness.
Some local yokels call Frontier Days “Front ‘n’ rear Days” — a coming out party for T&A, and the town is gaining notoriety for its exhibitionist events including the annual late summer Screampunk Kinetic Carnivale, an elaborate costume party where everyone blows off steam screaming, “LOOK AT ME! LOOK AT ME!”
Regional travelers will be relieved when the bypass is finally complete. Skunktown is the Little Stinker — drive through and you won’t come out smelling like a rose.
At the Reynolds Highway/101 juncture, I spurred the peppy Tatra north up Oil Well Mill then down to Laidbackville, which will boom after the Skunktown Bypass is complete since Highway 101 is the main drag where travelers will spend some money rather than in Skunktown.
Needing a pit stop to fortify myself for the Ka Ka gauntlet, I pulled in to Boomers Saloon, which was surrounded by slick Harleys — no choppers — indicating a congenial crowd. Inside, the bar was crawling with pudgy leather-clad doctors, lawyers, accountants and stockbrokers getting juiced for Ka Ka in the River, the annual Reggae festival at Frog’s Camp. After chugging two hits of Jamison, I joined some bikers heading to the exit, thanking them for sharing the Harley experience — the raw, throaty roar, not degraded by a silly muffler.
Heading north through the oak woodlands of Lumpy Gravey’s Hog Farm Camp Winnacashflow, where the Kate Wolf Festival is held in late June every year, I wondered what Kate herself would think of the festival which has grown into a multi-stage extravaganza with huge crowds and music playing simultaneously. She was a kind, gentle soul who preferred small intimate venues.
The traffic north of Laidbackville was heavy as the Mooney caravan passed over Rattlesnake Summit down to the Spy Rock Road exit for Two Rock Ranch, the domain of my Oklahoma school days chum, Buddy Roach, who, as a Rockabilly staffer, went a day early to help set up camp.
Pushing onward in a sluggish river of vehicles from Cummings to Leggett to Piercy, the traffic slowed to a crawl at the Dreadboldt County line where a dense cloud of pot fumes mingled with the smells of diesel, gunpowder and shit to trigger an Apocalypse Now flashback.
Passing through Ka Ka in the River portal was like a trip into the depths of Dante’s Inferno aswarm with festifarians who live in the otherworld realm where drugging, trancing, feasting and rutting are perennial occupations.
The South Fork Eel had dried up to a series of slimy, stagnant cesspools creating a serious public health problem that will be relieved “if” winter rains come, at which time the downstream folks can have a Brown River Rendezvous. Without rains, though, next year’s festival will be Ka Ka in the Arroyo.
State water quality, fish and wildlife agencies describe Ka Ka in the River as an “environmentally destructive event,” but the festival sponsor, Poteel Communal Center, successfully “lobbied” the Dreadboldt County Supervisors to approve raising attendance levels from 8,000 to 10,0000.
Traffic north of Ka Ka was minimal as I goosed the Tatra through the refreshing Richardson Redwood Grove, which will soon be butchered by CalTurds in a highway widening scam allowing monster pot delivery trucks quicker access to the Bay Area.
At Bongbow, a large billboard advertised the “Big Bong Theory”: the bigger the bong, the better the vibe.
Reluctantly, I took the exit for Ganjaville/Dreadway, the Mile High Emerald City, where I used my Oklahoma credit card to induce fuel from KBUD Radio’s gasbags.
From my antenna atop Duncan Peak, I get a strong KBUD signal, and, as a member, listen to it exclusively for music and in-depth news. The station has by far the best news team in Northern California anchored by great plains native Terri Klemetson, whose crew of talented reporters includes Dan Young, the Mendo beat guy.
KBUD’s best music programs include the blues, R&B, honky tonk, western swing, folk and bluegrass, but rockabilly is given little play.
Unfortunately, KBUD has lapsed into a downward spiral of blatant commercial advertising that is way beyond “underwriting,” and the station has become a 24/7 pot opera with “cannabis” the main topic of discussion on most programs. “Cannabis isn’t everything, it’s the only thing.”
I’d been warned to avoid the Emerald City, land of Ozzie, the Wizard of Pot, because it had degenerated into a criminal stronghold which was clearly evident as the streets were crawling with hordes of festifarians, trimmigrants, thugs, thieves, mopes, dopes, high grunge Mad Max road warriors and ganja dancers — a local version of gandy dancers — who intimidate, assault, vandalize, trash and shit on the community. The local cannabis industry has become an international thug magnet.
Local merchants and townspeople are up in arms, afraid to walk through hostile gauntlets of “homeless” people, and a re disgusting with cleaning up broken glass, mountains of trash, and piles of shit.
In late June they called a town hall meting in Dreadway where over 200 people ranted and raved, demanding that the country sheriff provide more police protection, including roving patrols 24/7.
This is way beyond the sheriff’s capabilities. The local pot gentry should pony up a bundle of cash and hire Lieutenant Harry Calahan of the San Francisco Police Department. He’ll have the place cleaned up in a week. “Go ahead, punk, make my day.”
It’s interesting that an alternative community that condones, promotes, and romanticizes an outlaw culture, and collectively thumbs its nose at straight American society in general and blue meanie cops in particular, now shamelessly “demands” that law enforcement deal with the unwashed outlaws while giving the outback pot gentry a free pass.
And it’s also ironic that a community that piously promotes cultural and biotic diversity totally depends on the economic benefits of an environmentally destructive, water-hogging intoxicant monoculture.
Gladly departing the barbarian dystopia, I zipped along an uncongested Highway 101 through the majestic Avenue of the Giant Redwoods, stopping at Founder’s Grove for a bag lunch, followed by a veggie-gathering foray along Shively
At Scotia, the campground was already filled with vintage cars, camp trailers, and happy folks guzzling beer from long neck bottles, roasting weenies and grilling burgers.
At first glance I recognized a 1937 Chevy roadster, a 1936 Ford roadster convertible and a primo 1933 Chevy Eagle five window coupe with a stovebolt straight-six engine. But the 1957 Chevy Bel Air convertible with small block V8 engine instantly conjured fond memories of my delinquent youth as a clueless drag racer.
Displayed front and center was this year’s blue ribbon “best of show,” a Dust Bowl-era 1937 Ford John Dere pickup painted emerald green, with chrome barrel grille, sculpted fenders, running boards, and a flathead V8 engine.
After parking my rig and quickly setting up camp, I took a gunnysack of veggies to Buddha Bud, the human beer keg on stilts, who tossed them on the pile of contributions for this year’s mystery stew.
The Rockabilly Redwood Rendezvous is a non-electronic event requiring all attendees to leave their devices behind. People are also responsible for providing their own food, drink, utensils and water, and since no vendors are allowed, local merchants can benefit economically for hosting the event. Rockabilly does provide the Saturday evening meal made with donated food.
Wandering into the arena, I spotted Buddy Roach and his crew assembling the stage, and since it involved pitching hay bales, I offered to help. Buddy looked good all dolled up in his 50s garb: cuffed Levis, no belt, short sleeve white tee-shirt with cigarette packs rolled up in one sleeve and black Converse All Star basketball shoes. His arms are so huge, though, that the cigarette pack looked like a small box of matches. He still wore a 50s clerical tonsure hairdo — bald head with side fenders and a triple ducktail in back. I started to giggle, but stifled it just in time.
Buddy’s a Dick Butkus lookalike with a bowling ball head like the actor Peter Boyle. At Oklahoma University, the football jocks hung out at an off-campus saloon called The Stables and entertained themselves by racing across the dance floor and butting heads. They called themselves “The Water Buffaloes.” Losers had to buy a round of drinks. Buddy never lost. A good guy to head your security team. But Rockabilly is a self-policing event like most family gatherings, and Buddy rarely has to bust heads.
The Rockabilly stage made from one layer of hay bales topped with a portable hold-up hardwood floor was assembled in the center of the 180 degree arena amphitheater set in a natural bowl. Loose hay was scattered along the perimeter to cushion falls and allow for instant torching if any performer lapses into World Music.
Walking back to the campground, I spotted a familiar face in the crowd — Earth Angel had returned. She still rode her vintage Indian motorcycle and was clad in the formfitting emerald green leather riding suit with full-length front zipper, and knee-high black boots. But now, her golden locks cascaded from beneath a teardrop pink ladies Stetson with a red, white, and blue concho band — a rockabilly convert.
As we approached, I embraced her in a playful Okie hug, which involves a stiff thumb, and she lightly slapped me saying, “Naughty, naughty.” Humiliating, but better than a knee to the groin.
She’d had a tough year as a nurse at Mendo Coast Hospital and was thwarted by local snobs in her attempt to organize a doo-wop music festival. But she was able to gather some friends for a bonfire doo-wop singalong at Big River Beach during the Mendopia Music Festival in July. Complaints were made. Middle fingers were raised. It’s a beginning. Rockabilly started with a similar gathering at Sonova Beach near Jenner.
In early afternoon, a thunderous blast echoed through the arena as Buddha Bud fired his antique 15th century blunderbuss into the heavens announcing the festival parade as a dead seagull hit the ground with a thud. Earth Angel screamed and Buddha Bud tossed the bird on the stew pile.
As the rockabillians gathered along the perimeter of the miniature livestock arena, a silver 1929 Ford, Harley-Davidson Model A dry lake racer emerged pulling an antique redwood hay wagon carrying the “Rockabilly Belles” from the Redwood Empire Fair wearing red, white, and blue string bikinis and knee-high western boots. They high-fived blew kisses and waved the rockabilly flag.
In second order came the Jubilation Marching Handbell Choir — sleek, white-gloved dames in leopard-skin bikinis, pink tam-o-shanters and combat boots, a bell in each hand, playing “When the Saints Go Marching In.” Then the crowd favorite all-girl Sans Pantalon French Horn Marching Band from Parix, Texas was disrupted from the rear by the fast-marching, goose-stepping Kielbasa Drill Team from Krakow, Iowa resulting in a baloney pile-up. Undaunted, the Dreadboldt Roller Girls, dressed as tie-dye ‘50s carhops with dreadlock pony tails, skated around the squirming pile doing a hoochie koochie Heather Graham Boogie Nights routine as the county sheriff’s Weed-Whacker Drill Team emerged followed by an enormous man dressed as Bozo the Clown juggling tabby cats. Bringing up the rear sitting in the wooden bed of a 1923 Ford Model T Texaco pickup truck, the beloved Emmet Otter Jubilee Jug Band played rockabilly favorites.
After a cheering ovation from the crowd each parade entrant was awarded a blue ribbon, and the Rockabilly staff cleared the arena and began setting up for the evening’s tribute to a forgotten rockabilly artist — a new tradition.
This year Rockabilly honored Charline Arthur, the daughter of a Pentecostal preacher who grew up in Paris, Texas where she learned to play guitar and wrote her first song at age 12 — “I’ve Got the Boogie Blues.” She was influenced by the blues and honky tonk singers Ernest Tubb and Hank Williams.
After winning a talent contest in 1945 at age 16, she appeared on a local radio station and toured with a medicine show a year later. She then performed in local clubs and honky tonks, culminating in a session with Bullet where she made her first recording.
From tiny Paris, she jumped to cosmopolitan Kermit, Texas, working at KERB Radio while cutting a recording session which she sold to Imperial.
While in Kermit, she was discovered by Colonel Tom Parker, who set the stage for an RCA contract in Dallas, where she recorded two hit contracts.
Frustrated by the stifling studio system, Charline resisted being tapped as another Kitty Wells. She wanted to be an original: a boogie woogie blues singer.
Despite attaining some success, she was never comfortable with RCA. After touring with Elvis and working her ass off on stage, she became disillusioned with the music business and left RCA in 1956.
Soon she hit the road traveling from gig to gig, periodically recording on small labels, and after poor health forced her retirement in 1980, she moved to a trailer in Pocatello, Idaho until her death in 1987 at age 58.
Charline Arthur was a feisty, tempestuous country singer whose bold, brassy approach didn’t sit well in a male-dominated business, so she never got the breaks her talent deserved. However, despite living off a meager old age pension, she cherished her memories of the music business.
She recorded some superb music — some ahead of its time — and had a significant influence on Wanda Jackson, Brenda Lee and Patsy Cline.
After evening cocktails and chow, a well-lubricated rockabilly mob packed the amphitheater as the Emmet Otter Jubilee Jug Band opened with a few cornball jokes, then played some Dust Bowl novelty tunes including “Chapped Lips, Chapped Butts, Chapped Nuts.”
Then the Boogie Woogie Wranglers, wearing Stetsons, checkered shirts, bandanas, Levis and western boots, opened their first set with Ernest Tubb tunes: “Rainbow at Midnight,” “Driftwood on the River,” “Slippin’ Around,” “Hillbilly Fever,” and “Mean Mama Blues.”
After a rousing applause, they played some Hank Williams hits: “Hey Good Lookin’,” “Lovesick Blues,” “Move it on Over,” “Settin’ the Woods on Fire,” and “Honky Tonk Blues,” followed by a shooting, cheering standing ovation from the crowd.
The tribute finale featured Charline Arthur songs including “I’ve Got the Boogie Blues,” “I heard About You,” and “Lookin’ at the Moon and Wishing on a Star.”
The misty-eyed crowd stood for a prolonged and respectful applause, then filtered back to the campground for some nostalgic sing-alongs around the bonfire.
The warm tribute to Charline Arthur reminded me of what a sick society we have that divides people into two categories: winners and losers. It’s a shame that so many talented people never get the breaks and recognition they deserve.
Bushed by a long grueling trip through the bowels of Ecodopia, I stumbled to the bonfire and passed the Mooneyshine around the horn for one hit, then retired to my camper for a big sleep.
Rising at dawn, fully recharged, I feasted on a breakfast of gorp and stale coffee then took a tour of the campgrounds and arena.
Rockabilly has finally matured, limited itself to a sustainable attendance of 250 and avoiding publicity that would create the need for growth. The gathering always occurs in early August to coincide with the ancient Celtic celebration of Lughnasa to honor the harvest — a time of feasting, revelry and games.
It’s reminiscent of the 1930s threshing rings on the great plains when farmers, accustomed to solitary labor, would gather in cooperative effort in the grain threshing ring, anxious to finish the harvest at which time all the families celebrated with food, song and dance.
The arena was buzzing with activity preparing for the annual fun and games which started with the completion of the banana slug race from last year. After six more hours, the race ended in a photo finish dead heat and the five winners were given blue ribbons and returned to the redwood forest. Maybe the slugs were sending a message. They had obviously synchronized their movements like a leaderless school of fish. Cooperation, not competition, is the way to go.
The cat dog trials were a bust. Dogs were bred to resemble large rats in an attempt to herd the cats, but some jokers released a flock of canaries and the cats went ape-shit.
The riding lawnmower was won by the team from Kalamazoo, Michigan, which averaged 300 pounds a man.
Ferndale’s undefeated unicycle basketball team won the Rockabilly regional tournament and advanced to the state finals.
The leaf blower contest was won by Blow Hard Willie Clinton from Mopes, Arkansas who blew a big maple leaf a hundred yards in one whiff of hot air. He got a standing ovation for his world record blowjob. Runner-up was North Coast political gadfly Andy Carefree with a blow of fifty yards.
The Rockabilly poetry reading contest — a real hoot this year — was won convincingly by Gordon Bleak, a smug, bloated, foppish, classically-trained terminal programmer for an obscure, backwater radio station in Mendopia. His stentorian rendition of Onie Wheeler’s “A Booger Gonna Getcha” was, like, totally awesome.
Last year’s winner, Shakespeare Man from Fort Dragg, was runner-up with an emotional reading of Terry Fell’s “Wham, Bam! Hot Ziggity Zam.”
Due to the popularity of last year’s gerbil gymnastics, the kids were treated to another pet event: miniature racing pigs featuring the “pocket pigs” of Pennywell Farm in Devon, England, which are small enough to hold in the palm of your hand. It was hoped that this event would be similar to the Alaskan pig race held in the past at the Mendo County Fair in Boomsville. But at the starting gun the tiny porkers started jumping and jiving, giving hifgh-fives, cuddling and hugging each other. None of them even crossed the starting line. By selecting for smallness, the breeders eliminated aggression. The human race should take note. The darling little pigs were each awarded a tiny blue ribbon.
With dusk approaching, the dinner bell rang and the ravenous rockabilly herd galloped to the feed trough for the evening pig-out. Buddha Bud’s gourmet dinner included hobo potluck roadkill stew prepared in 20 gallon stainless steel trash cans over hot coals, simmered spam hocks and lima beans, Scotia non-GMO corn on the cobb, iceberg lettuce wedges with hollandaise sauce, wonder buns, and Bud on tap, followed by hand-cranked ice cream provided by the Ferndale Future Milkers of America. Those brave few who ate a second helping of beans formed a conga line of green apple quick-steppers racing to the latrines.
Bloated and boisterous, the rockabilly mob stormed the arena ampitheater at dusk as Dusty Rhodes and the Tumbleweeds, with the ragged, tawny, weatherbeaten look of high plains drifters, strolled on stage and opened a Dust Bowl set: “Cool Water,” “One More River to Cross,” “River of No Return,” “Tumbling Tumbleweeds,” “The Last Roundup,” “Will There be Sagebrush in Heaven?,” “Roundup in the Sky,” and “It Ain’t Gonna Rain no More.”
After a subdued applause, the five bombshell Payday Plow Girls tiptoed on stage wearing nothing but broad-brim straw hats and Payday-brand blue denim bib overalls.
They amped up the pace with “Hot Hot Mama,” “Boogie Woogie Country Girl,” “Chicken Bob,” “Milk Cow Blues,” “Moo Moo Mama,” Hillbilly Fever,” and “Jitterbug Jive.”
After a hooting, whistling applause, the Boogie Woogie Wranglers joined the ensemble on stage in a brief medley of Woody Guthrie tunes, closing with “This Land is Your Land.”
Then the Plowgirls unbuckled and dropped their denims, stomping and gyrating in a primitive, hypnotic impromptu rain dance as the whole ensemble sang a local version of “Pennies from Heaven”: “Every time it rains, it rains C-Notes from Heaven…”
As Dusty Rhodes and the Tumbleweeds beat a tom-tom crescendo, a loud thunder clap and flash of lightening slip the sky as thousands of greenbacks fluttered down on the mesmerized crowd, which soon realized that the C-Notes were IOUs.
Dejected but stoked, the rockabilly mob gave a romping, stomping, yelping, snorting standing ovation, then bee-lined to the bonfire for boozing and schmoozing.
At the bonfire circle I joined Earth Angel and Buddy for a game of pass the bottle. Due to his volatile nature, Buddy goes easy on the booze, preferring his homegrown menthol pot called “Spy Rock KOOL”. I never liked the effect of pot and quit smoking anything after watching my uncle die a prolonged, miserable death from lung cancer. My grandfather smoked ditch weed in his corn cobb pipe because it relieved his rheumatism. He also used Mooneyshine as an all-purpose elixir. I prefer the buzz of booze, and since Mooneyshine is so smooth, flavorful, and powerful, a little dab will do ya. Two hits will get you through an entire day.
Buddha Bud joined the circle and when asked about the high-tech pyrotechnics he flashed a Cheshire cat grin, then described how he climbed a giant redwood tree behind the amphitheater, and at the appropriate moment, fired his greenback-packed blunderbuss while flashing a hand-held strobe light creating a lw-tech special effect.
“C-Notes From Heaven” was a reminder that Mother Nature can’t be bought. No amount of money can convince her to drop rain. She’ll bide her time. It may be ten years. That’s how long the drought lasted during the Dust Bowl. The stubborn farmers were optimistic that it would rain “next year,” so they plowed and planted, plowed and planted more and more every year until the topsoil was blown away. When they finally swallowed their pride and asked the government for help, it was too late. As historian Donald Worster said in Ken Burns’ Dustbowl, “When your back’s against the wall, your ideology goes out the window.”
Many in the circle had roots on the Great Plains and remembered horror stories about the Dust Bowl from parents and grandparents. Pollyanna Californians are like those stubborn farmers. “Don’t worry, be happy, dude, it’ll rain next year.” Let’s hope so.
As the bonfire petered out, a deflated rockabilly mob staggered to the campground for midnight taps.
At reveille, after a good night’s slumber, the rockabilly faithful assembled for the high noon sunrise service led by Roamin’ Catholic priest, Father Guido Banducci of Frisco’s gritty south beach neighborhood — Sister Boom Boom’s stomping grounds.
He urged the flock to renounce capitalism and embrace Vaticanism, citing Pope Frank’s ongoing reform of the Vatican Bank.
Too late, Padre. The rockabilly rebels renounced capitalism a long time ago, preferring cooperative anarchy and the barter system.
After church, the rockabilly rebels decamped, hauling out their own trash, and I felt proud of our progress over the years. The original gatherings were rough and tumble but by deciding to remain small and focused we’ve created a peaceful, enjoyable annual gathering.
Earth Angel, bidding farewell, was riding north to Southern Oregon for some well-deserved R&R. As we embraced she gave me a slight peck on the cheek, then mounted her rig and disappeared into the fog.
Buddy and Buddha were driving full water tankers back to Spy Rock, courtesy of Dreadboldt Bay Municipal Water District.
Before departure I covered the slit trench latrines with organic compost and loose straw mulch. Next year on May 1, the ancient Celtic celebration of Beltain (beginning of summer), they’ll be planted with corn to be harvested for the next rendezvous.
There were complaints about wasted efforts digging multiple trenches, and some preferred digging one big D-9 cat hole, but cooler heads prevailed.
After final cleanup, I packed my rig with gear and dinner leftovers then headed to Rio Dell for a loggers’ buffet, which I paid for with 50 gallons of Scotia water.
Finally, road ready, I traveled south on the Redwood Highway past the Emerald City, Bongbow, and through Richardson Grove.
At Frog’s Camp, Ka Ka was winding down from Dante’s Inferno to Fellini’s Satyricon. The pot fume bubble was penetrable so I sped through and motored past two state redwood groves to Leggett then headed southwest on Highway 1 through Hale’s Grove.
Approaching the turnoff to Usal Beach north of Rockport, I considered visiting the Enchanted Forest, but nixed the idea since friends in the area had warned me that Usal each is overrun by ATV cretins and chainsaw-wielding thugs. I didn’t want to star in a grade-B horror movie, The Usual Chainsaw Massacre. Maybe next year with Buddy riding shotgun.
At Westport, I settled in for a leisurely cruise along Coast Highway 1 as sunrays penetrated the retreating fog. Looking west across the great salt desert Pacific Ocean, I recalled the old salt’s refrain, “Water, water everwhere, but not a drop to drink.”
Desalinization is our only hope, but it uses to omuch power and the mountains of salt have to be sequestered somehow. Since humans are 90% water and there are seven billion of us, maybe we can liberate enough water to get by. Fat people store more water than skinny people, so we should run the fattys in squirrel cages to generate power and harvest water from their sweat. A win-win solution: eliminate obesity while harvesting pure water.
At Fort Dragg, Main Street was packed with travelers, many of who were roving trimmigrants hoping to score big bucks during pot harvest. So far, the town has kept its identity and hasn’t been tarted up like Mendopia Village.
Mendo Village, in the early 70s, was a real place with real people, featuring Dick’s Place as watering hole, Seagull Restaurant as chow hall and the Art Center as cultural town center where genuine art was created. I really miss those days.
After resupply runs to Roundman’s Smokehouse and Harvest Market, I motored south to a secret camp spot, explored rock caves, tromped on the beach, then feasted at dusk on roasted weenies and marshmallows washed down with Mooneyshine. A balanced meal providing vitamins, minerals and essential amino acids.
At sunset as the great orange orb slowly sank beneath the waves, a green flash of light appeared around the sun for a few seconds then disappeared as the sky turned multiple hues of purple, yellow, orange and red.
After the painterly display, I crashed for the night, sleeping fitfully, wondering about the strange green flash and what the tinfoil hat people would say. Maybe it was just another Buddha Bud strobe light prank.
Late Monday morning, I packed the trailer, finished the weenies, marshmallows and damp coffee grounds, then traveled east on Highway 128 along the Navarro River to Boomsville (Anderson Valley) for a powwow with the esteemed staff of the last — and only — newspaper, the Anderson Valley Advertiser.
Bruce and Mark and Bruce were busy preparing the paper for printing, but gladly took a coffee break when faced with a complimentary jug of Mooneyshine.
They’re also members of a community taskforce trying to stop local vineyards from using ear-splitting wind machines to prevent frost damage. I suggested recording the fan noise on continuous loop tapes, then rigging big blast speakers on vans or trucks and playing them at full volume all night at vineyard owners’ homes. More remote vineyard owners’ homes can be accessed in similar manner, using helicopters like the Airborne Colonel Kilgore in the movie Apocalypse Now, who rigged loudspeakers on his Cobra gunship then blasted opera to intimidate the natives. “Death from above.” Tilting at wind machines — a noble cause.
On the homestretch, I traveled Highway 128 to Mountain House Road then north to Hopland for an early dinner at the Bluebird Café where I dined on primo salmon burgers and all the fixings, then teased the tired Tatra up the mountain to Rancho Puerco, home sweet home.
Sharpie and his herd were anxious for chow, so I slopped some roadkill stew into the trough. Based on telltale evidence in the compound, I surmised that Sharpie had successfully intercepted a home invasion that was attempting to rip off my secret stash of Mooneyshine.
Relaxing on the veranda with an ice cold Thunder Beer, I pondered Rockabilly’s future. Some of the young folks are “demanding” hat we lift the ban on electronic devices, but that won’t happen in my lifetime. The digital dystopia is driving people nuts and a new species has devolved — Homo Techloco.
On the other hand a surprising number of youngsters really groove on rockabilly and seem genuinely rejuvenated after the gizmo-free gathering.
Sadly, though, a vast majority of kids — and adults — are terminally trapped on the techno tarbaby treadmill, committing slow-motion suicide and enjoying every minute of it.
In 2015 we’ll celebrate the tenth anniversary of Rockabilly in the Redwoods, and as darkness engulfed the Sanel Valley below, I was already planning the event in my mind.