For the last two years, I have, like most folks, immersed myself in the daily (political) news, steeping in the vile stew and concocting a bitter brew indeed. Indignation, disbelief, horror, scorn, frustration, and sorrow combined in a toxic mix that kept me in thrall to CNN and NPR. With grim, masochistic satisfaction, I absorbed the daily litany of absurdity emanating from the campaign trail and later, the White House, waiting in vain for someone somewhere to wise up and put an end to the madness, but like a snowball rolling downhill its momentum and breadth grew exponentially as, juggernaut-like, it rolled over the forces of reason, moderation and humanity. I laughed and cried, pissed and moaned, ranted and railed, and continuously marveled at the new reality, convinced every morning that it was all just a bad dream.
And then I paroled, and had other, better things to do. I went a full week Trump-free and started to notice some changes in my outlook and personality. I smiled more. Food tasted better. I was less tense and slept through the night. My digestive system unclenched and started operating smoothly and efficiently. My sex drive returned and I once again took note of the grandeur of the sun's exits and entrances. I felt as if I'd shedded a set of heavy fetters and I had no illusions about the reason for it. Excising the Orange One from my consciousness gave it free rein to bask in other, more pleasant and salubrious stimuli, and it rewarded me with a flood of endorphins. I knew he'd had a hold on me but I don't think I knew just how deeply those tendrils had penetrated into my brain. One thinks, for comparison, of parasitic science fiction aliens glomming onto the back of one's neck and thrusting probes into one's cognitive apparatus.
I still needed, from time to time, to check in with the world, for weather and celebrity updates and such, so I would catch the second half-hour of the news, safely after the Trump reportage. I did so yesterday and caught the following notice on the crawl creeping across the screen: Kim Kardashian Visits White House to Discuss Prison Reform With President Trump.
Go ahead, let that sink in for a moment.
I'll wait.
That is IT!, I thought. No more. Ever. That is the proverbial straw that rendered the proverbial camel broken and braying, unable any longer to ply the sun-scorched dunes. I put a bullet through his head, shouldered his burden, and trudged off into the sand in search of reason and sanity.
History, I thought. that's where I'll redirect my focus. History is full of Trumps and Trumpian foolishness, but the beauty of it is, they're all dead and the issues are, one way or the other, resolved. As will be this one, one day, but I'm not going to watch anymore. They say that if you're not outraged, you're not paying attention, and that may be so, but why court rage if I can't do anything about it? I can't vote, and actively agitating in the streets could get my parole violated, so I'll leave all that to you fire-bellied strivers and take refuge in the safety of the bygone.
In that spirit, the following are some interesting historical vignettes about Mendocino and environs that you probably have not heard about. I know there are a lot of you out there who consider yourselves pretty fair shade-tree historians of a local bent and figure whatever's worth knowing about the region, you've got memorized and catalogued, but I'm here to tell you that there are sources and then there are sources.
For instance, you may not know that technically, Mendocino County is not actually a part of California, and by extension the United States, at all. Governor J. Neely Johnson put up the county as stakes in a poker game with the Chinese envoy back in 1856, drew to an inside straight and wound up ceding the whole shootin' match to the Middle Kingdom, but not before securing a 200-year lease on the property. It runs out in 2056, so my advice to anyone under 30 is to brush up on your Mandarin and clear your search history. You might want to keep this information out of the hands of a certain Comptche-based firebrand, it'd kill him. I'm pretty sure he doesn't read me, so mum's the word.
Going further back, the first white settler to the region was not Van Johnson, as most believe, but a Scotsman named Angus MacFergus Dunwoodie who washed ashore in 1420 on Point Arena after becoming caught in the Scapa Flow on a day trip to the Orkneys in a makeshift carrack. The prevailing indigenes welcomed him warmly and his influence can be felt to this day in the Scots-inflected habits and speech of the Pomo, their propensity for tartan plaids, their love of bagpipes, and their mastery of golf. They even developed a sort of marine version of haggis by cramming the inflation bladders of orcas with maize, fermented fish guts, and carrageen. A tight-fisted, whiskey loving bunch are they, and they owe it all to the waywardly intrepid voyage of Mr. Angus MacFergus Dunwoodie.
Most people consider Calpella nothing more than a place to get ice on the way to the lake or drugs on the way to the casino, but at one time that sorry little hamlet was home to the biggest brillo mine in the entire country, employing thousands as the country embraced cleanliness for the first time. Calpella brillo was widely and correctly perceived as the finest available due to a preponderance of borax veins permeating the raw material, and thousands of fortunes were made by miners, producers, and speculators alike. The region exploded in size and population and hosted many important cotillions, horse races, bearbaitings, and shivarees, and was considered a crucial stop on the Western tours of Continental dignitaries and crowned heads. Eventually, though, advancements in the Eastern steel industry and the production of synthetic brillo made the difficult and time-consuming process of extracting the raw pads no longer cost-effective. The boom years gave way to a period of slow decline, culminating in the great flood of '89 which washed away all the opera houses, mansions, auditoriums, and spas. Those who didn't drown fled for dryer pastures and the few remaining hardy souls who stuck it out stayed and rebuilt Calpella into essentially the same humble village you see today.
There now, you see? Not only have you learned some interesting and well-researched historical factoids with which to wow your friends and make you the toast of any gathering, but you stopped thinking about Trump for a little while. Criticizing the noble ostrich for his alleged habit of burying his head in the sand to avoid unpleasantness is just another example of human speciesism running rampant. We can learn a lot from the ostrich, namely, “If I don't hear it or see it, it's not there.” Flawless logic and crucial to one's sanity in these parlous, nonsensical times.
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