War Was the Answer
We endured a ten hour bus ride to a town called Gualala (yes, that's correct-only two 'la's').....about 100 miles north of San Francisco on the pacific coast and about a thousand centuries south of reality. The bus was great. Cramped, noisy, and with a bathroom reminiscent of an andy gump toilet, only about one third the size, directly above the engine's heat exchanger. So, as I would stumble around at 80 mph with my fly open, the 150 degree heat would waft up in a heady miasma of diesel oil and effluent. No worries though, as the bus driver had told us he had 'enough Red Bull' to keep him going through the night.
We left at 8pm from Simi Valley, with time being an irrelevant concept as day drifted into night and back again with no clear distinction behind my irritated and swollen eyelids. Like most invasions, ours began in the Land of Tolerance at 6am. It was like passing through time in many different ways. When we arrived, after setting up our camp, I strolled about the town, which was an odd assemblage of high-priced (bad) art galleries stuffed with paintings of trees and birdies, restaurants with names like 'PanGaea' and trinket shops with names like 'Noma' selling peace sign earrings and you guessed it-Birkenstocks, all inhabited by vintage hippies, alcoholic human driftwood, and the wealthy yet oh-so-concerned enviro-riche'. Our hotel was a 1903 original, with all the original trappings of the time, such as no room service, shared bathrooms with marginal plumbing, and the town drunks out back making sure that you too participated in their revelry two floors below at three in the morning.
So there we were, with our guns, cannons, flags, and gender-specific spousal cohabitants, all in the name of 'big oil' as the protest signs reminded us. It must have been 'Big Whale Oil' since for us, it was 1775. All very disorienting.
That’s right. We were protested. Re-enactors portraying the American Revolution were accused of 'glamorizing Bush's war'. The protests ranged from a single gray-haired woman with a 'give peace a chance' sign who was quite shaken that our musketry would sterilize seagulls and otters from nearly a mile distant, to five or six tye-dye-and-hemp wearing youth loudly declaring their unyielding support for dissent, or dissent from support, whichever it was. None of us were quite sure. Since our British contingent had previously taken the town, ‘end the occupation’ signs would have been better. Alas, hindsight.
After a pleasant chat with a couple of them, it became evident that their blend of amateur street theater and muted agitprop was either a half-hearted attempt at guilt mongering or self-flagellation. It was difficult to tell. But it was a break from the daunting labor of bong loading and Bush-effigy puppet building, something to do in a one-crosswalk town. Later on, after hours of joyfully terrorizing otters and seagulls, two of us approached 'give-peace-a-chance' lady asking for a photo-op with her. Not sensing imminent danger from two grown men adorned with gold epaulettes and knee-pants, she tentatively assented--'you want a picture?…with me?'...ummmm, okayyyyy'. Our two neo-soldiers from the past beamed for the camera with peace lady, immortalizing both the 1770's and 1960's simultaneously with a congruity usually reserved for planetary alignment and Blue Moons. Peace lady had no idea how priceless was the moment she provided us with:..
She then told our Captain that ‘I would have been there protesting England, too, if I had been alive then’. The reality of protest and its consequences coming from a woman in 18th century England evaded her, so we just smiled and nodded our heads.
Another adult, who informed me that he possessed a big shiny PhD., assured me that separation of church and state was in fact in the Constitution, and that Bush was ‘just like the other King George’ who wanted to ram his brand of theocracy down our throats, and that somehow--, in the midst of same-sex marriages in Massachusetts, Michael Moore, ACLU lawsuits everywhere, condom use being taught in elementary schools,--the country has become ‘way too conservative’. Again, I quickly sent him on his way, after concurring that, ok, Bush is Hitler. (I had to pee).
Anti-Bush signs and stickers bejeweled this little hamlet of happiness, with this example of open-mindedness taking the prize for intellectual inclusiveness. A large sign stating:“Where’s Lee Harvey Oswald when you need him?”, decorated not a hybrid, Earth-friendly car or a bicycle, but a large SUV. Hey, assassination is just another form of expression. Lighten up.
Yet there were signs of life in this otherwise hermetically sealed compound of liberalism. I met a home-schooled family who whispered to us that they-----owned guns----. I assured the mother of two boys that her secret was safe with us. Among everyone we met last weekend, her kids asked the most intelligent questions. Her 8 year old re-assured me that no, separation of church and state was not in the Constitution. Whew, that was close. PhD man nearly had me flummoxed.
We concluded our weekend in Granola with a battle; The ‘Battle of Granola Wood’. Fortunately, we were not asked to yell ‘bang’ during this event, as the sea otters were far enough away. The Americans prevailed, to the perplexed reaction of the 300-plus audience, who clapped anyway. They weren’t sure what was worse: British rule or American capitalism. I suppose if Mao or Lenin were in the ranks, they would have been comforted.
But one thing was certain. Gualala was now free again, to drift like so much socialist flotsam and jetsam in a swirling, fetid pool of capitalist individualism and prosperity.
We left at 8pm from Simi Valley, with time being an irrelevant concept as day drifted into night and back again with no clear distinction behind my irritated and swollen eyelids. Like most invasions, ours began in the Land of Tolerance at 6am. It was like passing through time in many different ways. When we arrived, after setting up our camp, I strolled about the town, which was an odd assemblage of high-priced (bad) art galleries stuffed with paintings of trees and birdies, restaurants with names like 'PanGaea' and trinket shops with names like 'Noma' selling peace sign earrings and you guessed it-Birkenstocks, all inhabited by vintage hippies, alcoholic human driftwood, and the wealthy yet oh-so-concerned enviro-riche'. Our hotel was a 1903 original, with all the original trappings of the time, such as no room service, shared bathrooms with marginal plumbing, and the town drunks out back making sure that you too participated in their revelry two floors below at three in the morning.
So there we were, with our guns, cannons, flags, and gender-specific spousal cohabitants, all in the name of 'big oil' as the protest signs reminded us. It must have been 'Big Whale Oil' since for us, it was 1775. All very disorienting.
That’s right. We were protested. Re-enactors portraying the American Revolution were accused of 'glamorizing Bush's war'. The protests ranged from a single gray-haired woman with a 'give peace a chance' sign who was quite shaken that our musketry would sterilize seagulls and otters from nearly a mile distant, to five or six tye-dye-and-hemp wearing youth loudly declaring their unyielding support for dissent, or dissent from support, whichever it was. None of us were quite sure. Since our British contingent had previously taken the town, ‘end the occupation’ signs would have been better. Alas, hindsight.
After a pleasant chat with a couple of them, it became evident that their blend of amateur street theater and muted agitprop was either a half-hearted attempt at guilt mongering or self-flagellation. It was difficult to tell. But it was a break from the daunting labor of bong loading and Bush-effigy puppet building, something to do in a one-crosswalk town. Later on, after hours of joyfully terrorizing otters and seagulls, two of us approached 'give-peace-a-chance' lady asking for a photo-op with her. Not sensing imminent danger from two grown men adorned with gold epaulettes and knee-pants, she tentatively assented--'you want a picture?…with me?'...ummmm, okayyyyy'. Our two neo-soldiers from the past beamed for the camera with peace lady, immortalizing both the 1770's and 1960's simultaneously with a congruity usually reserved for planetary alignment and Blue Moons. Peace lady had no idea how priceless was the moment she provided us with:..
She then told our Captain that ‘I would have been there protesting England, too, if I had been alive then’. The reality of protest and its consequences coming from a woman in 18th century England evaded her, so we just smiled and nodded our heads.
Another adult, who informed me that he possessed a big shiny PhD., assured me that separation of church and state was in fact in the Constitution, and that Bush was ‘just like the other King George’ who wanted to ram his brand of theocracy down our throats, and that somehow--, in the midst of same-sex marriages in Massachusetts, Michael Moore, ACLU lawsuits everywhere, condom use being taught in elementary schools,--the country has become ‘way too conservative’. Again, I quickly sent him on his way, after concurring that, ok, Bush is Hitler. (I had to pee).
Anti-Bush signs and stickers bejeweled this little hamlet of happiness, with this example of open-mindedness taking the prize for intellectual inclusiveness. A large sign stating:“Where’s Lee Harvey Oswald when you need him?”, decorated not a hybrid, Earth-friendly car or a bicycle, but a large SUV. Hey, assassination is just another form of expression. Lighten up.
Yet there were signs of life in this otherwise hermetically sealed compound of liberalism. I met a home-schooled family who whispered to us that they-----owned guns----. I assured the mother of two boys that her secret was safe with us. Among everyone we met last weekend, her kids asked the most intelligent questions. Her 8 year old re-assured me that no, separation of church and state was not in the Constitution. Whew, that was close. PhD man nearly had me flummoxed.
We concluded our weekend in Granola with a battle; The ‘Battle of Granola Wood’. Fortunately, we were not asked to yell ‘bang’ during this event, as the sea otters were far enough away. The Americans prevailed, to the perplexed reaction of the 300-plus audience, who clapped anyway. They weren’t sure what was worse: British rule or American capitalism. I suppose if Mao or Lenin were in the ranks, they would have been comforted.
But one thing was certain. Gualala was now free again, to drift like so much socialist flotsam and jetsam in a swirling, fetid pool of capitalist individualism and prosperity.
posted by Marc at
5:39 PM
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