What Chu Talkin' 'Bout, Willits?
A little over three years ago, I first had the pleasure of stumbling upon "Frontier Days" in Willits, California. A burg of 5,000 astride Highway 101, some 180 miles north of San Francisco, this sleepy ranching and agricultural community rightly bills itself the 'Gateway to the Redwoods'. Most of the year, Willits is probably best known as the eastern terminus of the 'Skunk Train,' an old style rail line running historic engines and cars over the mountains to the coastal city of Fort Bragg.
It is during the week of the 4th of July every year that Willits really shines, coming together to put on a most splendid rural festival. This week-long celebration culminates on Independence Day with an always entertaining parade down Main Street. Then comes the mass procession to the local park for a succulent spread, devoured to bluegrass and square dance stylings, followed by a rodeo. Good clean all-American fun.
Well, I guess it's in the eye of the beholder. For the recovering, sarcastic city dweller, it took a while to fully enjoy the plentiful 'good', while keeping at bay the temptation to be too self-righteously appalled at the occasional 'bad'.
I When Hipsters Attack (1999)
On that fateful summer day, I was returning from a camping trip with my friend Jeff, at that time a manager of a San Francisco strip club on Market Street (i.e. one of the most squalid ones) and his paramour-charge who took the edge off her schizophrenia meds with cocaine. Needless to say, we were all getting away from the hustle and bustle of the big city for a while.
Faced with a detour in Willits owing to the ongoing parade, we decided to park it and take in some loopy small town 'absurdity.' Jeff was a long time friend from college days who, like me, had grown up in rural Pennsylvania. Devoted 'perspectivists' at that time, we were both still compensatorily dubious of things small town. And so, that was the spirit behind this visit.
We settled in for the procession, duly noting the surfeit of nymphets riding ponies. Strolling up Main Street, basking in the suspension of open container regs, I noticed that the 'Bible Baptist Church' was to have 'Patriotic Service' later in the day. Alas, my otherwise hardy companions just couldn't abide it. (Thus thwarted, I made arrangements to attend in 2001, only to find that the liaison of Jesus with Uncle Sam was consecrated on the 4th only when falling on a Sunday.)
Having made the circuit, we settled within earshot of the emcees, local radio personalities, a man and a woman. He was a bit of a hard-hitting tosser with an overbearing sense of humor, she his somehow less polished sidekick. Cheap shots at the liberal, big city, gun-grabbing boogieman were the over-frequent coin of his realm. He well-represented the rural mirror image of 'urbane' stereotyping. She distinguished herself by guffawing along, unevenly reading off the list of passing floats, and reflexively emitting the caterwaul 'ooowwww!' at the mildest processional provocation.
In spite of the local media hacks, most everyone else seemed to be having good time. The festive air came in no small part due to the faux gunfights which interspersed the floats, carried out by local folk dressed in frontier gear. Harley Davidson-riding legions also made their way through, unswervingly revving up and then burning out just for good measure. Mr. Sucko on the mic reassured us that 'these are the good bikers. They do a lot of charity work.'
Damn it was hot, well over 90 degrees, and we needed to get back and all, so after a couple of hours we made our way south on the trusty 101. And then, almost as if Jesus himself had intervened, we came upon a vision of The True Believer in Ukiah. The dood was one for the ages. We first spied his rig, pulling a largish trailer adorned with all manner of hand-painted Christian messaging, astride Lake Mendocino.
We tailed for a while, making out such admonitions as 'homo sex is filth,' 'Pope's name = 666' and the in retrospect surprisingly prescient, if historically maladroit, 'Did Noah and Adam mess with altar boys?' And so it was that we followed our messiah to a gas station. This itinerant fisher of souls sported a bulging gut, matched in visual extravagance only by his billowy Santaesque beard. I was too transfixed to approach, so Jeff breezily chatted him up regarding Gestalt psychotherapy. I just leered all wide-eyed and took lots of pictures. Jeff actually perpetrated the hottest bit of photoggery. He had the presence of mind (read gall) to orchestrate a group photo consisting of yours truly, his girl, the King and his mousy wife, all fraternally grinning, arm in arm.
II 2001, A Spaced Odyssey
Following an ill-considered interregnum in 2000, I redoubled my efforts to recruit a new Willits companion. That was Melissa, another one-time denizen of 'flyover' country. Though a Stanford grad, she nevertheless, lubricated with sufficient Budweiser refreshment, took right to exoticizing then enjoying Willits along with me. We made the drive up in her trusty beater BMer, arriving just as the parade was getting underway.
We started off marveling at the Shriners in their red mini Corvettes doing figure eights as the tasseled fezzes flapped in the breeze, thus proving once and for all that creeping Islam is afoot, even in the least likely venues. Then we witnessed agape the parade's piece de resistance, a float sponsored by the "Liberty Belles." They were totes fresca. As it pulled up, our favorite host gravely intoned that 'this is the most important float of the entire parade.' Depicted was a navy green UN tank with its turret pointed backwards at an effigy of the Statue of Liberty. Closer inspection revealed that Lady Liberty was packing, a holstered pistol slung under her exposed right armpit. In tow were two ladies dressed in colonial garb passing out pamphlets on the UN's vast and sundry conspiracies.
Entitled 'Gran'pa Jack Exposes How the United Nations is Killing Your Freedoms!', the cover sported a gluttonous, anthropomorphized General Assembly building stuffing precious freedoms into it's burping and slurping maw. Throughout the laughable 22-page screed, Gran'pa Jack and his black buddy Leon accuse the UN of attempting to institute (what else?) 'socialism', rounding up people's children, and of course scoring all those wicked-desirable rifles and shotguns. Perhaps the best part was the outfit that put the whole rag together, the entirely underappreciated J.P.F.O. That would be Jews for the Preservation of Firearms Ownership, a Wisconsin group whose logo depicts the Star of David flanked by a rifle and some bad ass assault weapon.
While I'll freely concede the titillation that comes with so close a pass by the black helicopter gals, it was disturbing, on reflection, that an entire town was subjected to their delusional propaganda. Then again, as it later turned out, local folk were perfectly capable of providing a counterstroke.
And so, we settled in with a second round of our beloved Bud 'tallies', grooving again on the assembly line, equine-friendly Jon-Benets. Multitudes of fire engines, hot rods, marching vets and scouts, and all manner of community business-sponsored floats then wended their way under the baking sun, while the assembled masses wisely headed for the park for good eatin'.
A good mile hike through a small Hispanic corridor of town was followed by a lengthy wait in line for a fat slab of seared cow flesh. Accompanying the stuff that sticks to the ribs was sweet corn on the cob, some soggy garlic bread, a ranch dressing drenched salad and some smoky beans. This hearty feast was enjoyed to the tunes of a teen prodigy gal expertly twanging on the banjo. Her prowess was lightly tarnished by a treacly religious ode, only to be redeemed by a poignant tune in defense of miners. An interlude of audience participation square dancing followed, along with some more contemporary canned songs for the young people. Finally, another ensemble took the stage to work their magic while we snoozed on the soft green grass.
Somewhere after 3 P.M., not too too long after the decisive switch to Franzia box wine, we sauntered over to the rodeo arena. This event was the very quintessence of tight. The jag off emcee from the parade had resurfaced and was waxing sycophantic with regard to the assembled dignitaries and sponsors. Shortly thereafter, local boys and girls were called out to do cutesy, performative Q & A. Soon enough, it came down to serious business: "Now, who'd like to be Frontier Days Queen when you grow up?" Naturally, most every girl enthusiastically stepped forward. So too did two little boys. Whether nascent queers or ADD-addled, we will never know for certain. In any event, the house was brought down with the following quip: "Hey, boys, this isn't the San Francisco rodeo." All of which elicited a hearty chuckle from the crowd and the bellowed protestation, 'let him be a queen!' from your now thoroughly Franzia-marinated author. This suggestion was received coolly by the nearby folk and in retrospect I feel a bit sheepish about it.
In any event, the festivities continued, prominently featuring lasso-related trickery. Our pansy PETA sensibility was disturbed by the jerking of necks and the flailing and hurtling of limbs on the hapless calves. Of course, this went on a while and grew somewhat grim, so we resolved to make our way to an adjacent park where the Frontier Days flyer promised some slip 'n slide fun, courtesy of local fire departments.
The event pitted the Willits crew against their counterparts from Fort Bragg. And so it was, the competing crews lined up single file. Each held a swath of hose with the mouth pointed at an empty keg, which was suspended by a wire half way between the opposing hydro gladiators. The idea was to push the keg beyond a line on the other side with all of the considerable spray power they could muster. In the process, the assembled throng would get nice and wet, particularly the kids who resembled, filthy and drenched as they were making mischief in the gutter, little more than the packs of Romanian street children I'd seen some years earlier.
In any event, it was still damn hot around 6 o'clock and the caroming H2O really was refreshing. It was right around now, chatting up anyone who'd listen, that I realized that I was no longer having 'ironic' fun; I was just having plain old fun. By the end, having laughed our asses off at repeatedly getting drenched, Melissa and I tore ourselves away, once again famished as dusk drew near.
III Solo Homage (2002)
Having spread the word far and wide, it looked for a while as if 2002 would be the break out year for my San Franciscans palz to experience Willits en masse. Alas, sometimes even the best-laid plans sometimes come to naught.
And so, it fell to your intrepid author to keep the faith solo. Arriving at 11ish, after some splendid car camping in the Mendocino National Forest, I found the parade already in full swing. Hurriedly procuring a few tallies, I slunk into the background, camera at the ready to capture every nuance. I was not to be disappointed.
Just like clockwork, down the pike came the Liberty Belles float again, sans UN tank this time. The bare bones display this year, perhaps a consequence of the J.P.F.O. pulling funding, (there were no pamphlets) consisted of our Lady Liberty riding in white Dodge Ram pickup, with the reassuring piece still snugly packed. This time, however, in honor of the victims of 9/11, she wore a black sash across her heaving breast, with '9/11' superimposed on it in white, resembling nothing if not an M-16. A placard with the visage of George Washington had the quote: 'A free people ought to be armed.' What with the Department of Homeland Security (aka DHS, aka, Dienst der Heimat Sicherheit) and Operation TIPS in the offing, maybe the old guy really wasn't telling a lie this time.
One feature of this year's parade, which seemed rather more prominent than in past years, was a delightful, if slightly paternalistic, acknowledgement of the region's multicultural history. We had Spanish descended horse handlers demonstrating their skills and showmanship. We had local Native Americans doing a traditional dance and song. And we had the hippy sissies of the Mendocino Country Green Party. Now, in the instance of the latter two groups, MC Lame-o made sure to let a little condescension creep into his tone, particularly in the case of the Greens, for whom he ostentatiously tripped over such mysterious, multi-syllabic adjectives as "renewable, sustainable and alternative." He did, curiously, have an introspective moment this year, however. He thanked God for no longer having to suckle two tins of chew per day.
Soon enough, it was time to retire once again to the park for more of that fine grub. The eats did not disappoint. How, after all, could sizzling heifer succulence, heartily seasoned with cracked pepper and fresh rosemary disappoint anyone? Equally artful were the bluegrass chops of the "Economy String Band," reaching their sonorous zenith when the mayor of Willits took the stage to accompany on the banjo. In a sea of red white and blue attire, sometimes accompanied by Gap and Tommy logos, I drowsily reclined, resplendent amidst waves of zaftig single Moms. Before nodding off, I witnessed exuberant monkey boys, their yaps overflowing with chew, their caps turned backwards, doing wheelies on minibikes near the public toilets. Ahh, dear Willits, verily, God shed his grace on thee.
IV Willits Goes Leftie!? (2003)
The usual search for a shady nook in which to enjoy a couple of obligatory "tallies" soon yielded a spot within earshot of everyone's favorite emcee—revealed as a certain Kedo Olson from Oregon—participating for the ninth year running. While the parade seemed kinda short, there were two quite surprising differences from past years. For one, the "Liberty Belles" were nowhere in evidence, nor was any other outside right-wing organization represented (the closest contender would have been a harmless float featuring a Christian puppet show). The real shocker was that the largest contingent in the entire parade, in fact, the one which made up the grand finale, was a left-leaning group of sign-carriers, complete with persons dressed in Lady Liberty and bald eagle costumes, as well as an Art 'n Revolution-style puppet so often seen at urban demos.
My favorite quote from the hand-made placards, refreshingly unfamiliar, came from FDR. "The liberty of a democracy is not safe if the people tolerate the growth of private power to become stronger than the democratic state itself. That is fascism." Another sign quoting Jefferson read: "A little rebellion now and then is medicine necessary for the sound health of government."
Under the banner "We the People," the local dissenters marched by, forcing even Kedo to pay the lip service that "this is what America is all about." Given the homage paid the "Liberty Belles" in past years, I guess I expected some sort of jingoistic pro-Iraq war element in the parade this year. So it came as a poignant surprise that without trying particularly hard, I would make out more than a few American flags with peace signs superimposed on them along with similar t-shirts.
The bright sun was moving the mercury close to ninety by now, so it seemed an opportune time to scoot by the art deco Noyo Theater and past the Carnegie-endowed library to the park for some grub. As this year's Willits Frontier Days guide put it, the good eatin' was "some of the greatest food west of the Pecos…satisfying the appetites of nearly 4,000 hungry buckaroos." Aww, hell yeah! While waiting in line, I came across one of the dozens of parade participants dressed in duds from a bygone era. The sash draped across her embroidered white dress read "Votes for Women."
Eats greedily devoured, I settled in for the show put on by Manzanita Moon, an all-purpose, listener-friendly ensemble that put out Hank Williams Sr. and Johnny Cash ("I shot a man in Willits…") covers along with the occasional dud by Roger Miller ("King of the Road") or Jimmy Buffett. The latter foray into artistic interpretation was harangued by a small gaggle of yokal-punks who now and then demanded "more western swing," interspersed with more frequent hoots of "fuck yeah!"
It was all in good fun however, as they represented more the Gratler element (those who content themselves by making a scene or whistling and leering at women) rather than the more insidious Ganoven (those who would bat you over the head and take your wallet). Thanks go to my German-American mother for making crystal clear this Marxian sociological distinction among Lumpenproleteriat constituencies.
Before settling in for the by now-traditional Reading of the Frontier Days Guide, a quick feint to the liquor store for supplemental Budweiser defreshment was in order. As usual, the guide did not disappoint. The first passage I perused, clearly reflected the inevitable insularity of small town living, but also contained an oblique indication of the intensified 'privatization of life' in this 'Age of Terrorism'.
"This year's parade theme, 'Life in Our Community,' speaks to what many of us have on our minds this year. With the hectic pace we experience on a day-to-day level, and the events of recent months creating their own uncertainty, what we find ourselves turning to is our family, our friends, and our community. In these questionable times, what is discovered is what is important to us; the loved ones we share a meal with, the tasks done with friends, the environment of a small, friendly community…"
Along with the Odd Fellows Lodge, a long-standing shadowy civic group whose defunct headquarters San Franciscans may still see at the southwest corner of 6th & Market, the American Legion also plays a significant role in Frontier Days. Founded by wealthy businessmen after the First World War, and employed in part as a strike-breaking force in the 'Red Summer' of 1919, its Constitution, as reproduced in part from the guide, states the following.
"To maintain law and order;
"To foster a one-hundred percent Americanism;
"To inculcate a sense of individual obligation to the community, the State and the Nation;
"To combat the autocracy of both the classes and the masses;
Strong stuff.
The final amusing bit from the guide concerned Swift Kick, 'an exciting and diverse [emphasis mine] band, will be familiar to many of you as the opening act at Konocti (!) for country-western greats like Toby Keith' (troubadour of the post-9/11 jingo-hit 'Courtesy of the Red White and Blue (The Angry American)'. A photo of Swift Kick accompanied the blurb, and given that the band consists of five well-scrubbed, young white men, the diversity inherent to the band was left to the imagination.
Next on the by now wobbly itinerary was the Mendocino County Museum with its debut wing, featuring the Roots of Motive Power engine house, a collection of rail lore including 60 steam logging and railroad engines as well as locomotives. While I was there an Arcata & Mad River R. R. locomotive, along with a Mason County Logging Co. steam engine, pulled out of the rail shed.
Back in the original museum, a multimedia display sang the praises of Seabiscuit. The soon to be mass-marketed racehorse had convalesced at a nearby ranch. Also featured were woven Pomo Indian baskets, incongruously honored by a neon bachelor pad-style sign from an old hotel which read "Pomo Inn." I personally suspect some snarky local lit crit PhD. had a hand in putting together the dissonant concepts and aesthetics.
Seamlessly segueing here, Frank Rich, writing about Independence Day in the New York Times, explained the some of the All-American phenomenon this way. "As patriotism is the last refuge of scoundrels, so the coercive patriotism of this historical moment is the last refuge of cynics. In The Story of American Freedom, the historian Eric Foner observes that a similar phenomenon occurred a little over a century ago, uncoincidentally enough, in tandem with 'America's triumphant entry onto the world stage as an imperial power' during the Spanish-American War. It was in the 1890's that 'rituals like the Pledge of Allegiance and the practice of standing for the playing of The Star-Spangled Banner came into existence", as well as Flag Day.
"American leaders were then professing to spread democracy to Cuba, Puerto Rico and the Philippines with the same blithe self-assurance that current leaders promise to bring the American way to Iraq and its neighbors. The rituals that accompany our 21st-century imperial interlude include fights over the Pledge of Allegiance and a costumed president's re-enactment of Hollywood's 'Top Gun.' Most bizarre is the Defense Department's 'Operation Tribute to Freedom,' initiated on Memorial Day weekend, which offers talking points to citizens too challenged to figure out how 'to demonstrate public appreciation for American men and women in uniform.'" This would be a re-run of the 'Five Minute Men', who were recruited around the country by Woodrow Wilson's Committee on Public Information, to build support for entry into the First World War.
Rich's summation was right on target when it came time to enter the Willits rodeo grounds, overseen as it is by a menacing (or was it) endearing 25-foot-high cowboy wielding a branding iron with a red W at its tip. Here the powers that be more directly control the program, chief among them that bête noir of authentic patriots, Kedo Olson—a deserving foil for Rich's commentary if ever there was one.
Emanating from the viewing box came in rapid succession: "Have You Forgotten" by Daryl Worley, an abject apologia for invading Iraq, masquerading as a memoriam for 9/11's victims; the playing of 'Taps' – a spoken word snippet of John Wayne waxing nostalgic about post-Reconstruction Northerners and Southerners burying the hatchet in some foreign devils; God Bless America and then finally the National Anthem. While the crowd dutifully stood for the duration of the 'patriotic' medley, the unrelenting exhortations of the mumpsimus generally elicited little more than murmurs, when not outright indifference.
Too parched (and ideologically, to say nothing of physically, lethargic) to make the trek back to the liquor store, I broke down and purchased a double fisted complement of Coors draft. Safely ensconced back on the grandstand hardwood, a pro-Schwarzenegger blast emanated from the rostrum, followed by a sort of detourned reference to PETA, i.e., People Eating Tasty Animals (this was the favorite witticism for the assembled throng). The coup de grace, so to speak, came in the form of an obligatory crackback on la France. ("The French are kinda like a slinky. Not good for nothin,' but ya have to smile when they fall down the stairs.") This bottom-feeding was met with next to no enthusiasm.
Soon enough, a variety of farm animals were being lassoed and tackled. The highlight, from an aesthetic as well as technical point of view, came courtesy of some young "lady riders" from Half Moon Bay, California. These eight 'lil dickens, holding up staffs with American flags at the top, bobbed and weaved, interspersed and mingled in tapered and straight alignment for the duration of yet another defensive right-wing song. The chorus? "I Pledge Allegiance to this Flag / If that bothers you, that's just too bad."
Almost as if on cue, I began to notice the long shadows creeping across the rodeo grounds. As I made my way back to the rental, the setting sun still peering blindingly over the emerald hills, I reflected that if in Willits just three months after 'Operation Iraqi Freedom' local folks were defiantly recalling the democratic ideals of our country, I imagined that it might just be symbolic of assessments that are going on all around the country. And so, with a full heart, it came time to bid Willits a fond farewell for yet another year.
No visit in 2004, too abjectly depressed to leave my cave.
Can't vouch for it for the past 22 years, but here's the link...
