Other vehicles in our lives...

[fastivaca]

The only other vehicle we own, other than bicycles, is our '97 Astro 8 passenger van. We use the van when it's too cold to put the 4 seat roof rack on the Festy:toothy6:

[bobstad]

More Humbolt(Happy Nude Year!)(I mean New Year!)

Hey, do you know Verbena? We are IN LOVE; whenever the mood hits her to rattle my cage a little, at least.(the world's expert at mooching is another theory who somehow ended up with my bookcase I made for my apartment, on my way out of town for her new PARC office in Eureka...Peoples Action for Rights and Community, heavy on the "Action" that animal!)

That was some story and I was tense until the funny ending...I broke down there April of '96 in a '75 Chevy van I got in Spokane for $600 the fall of '94 I'd gotten $1800 into trying to make a decent domicile I could live out of after a dozen more or less miserable years in a VW squareback sedan. What a disaster.(I actually hitched through Humboldt county during Redwood Summer['90] with someone driving to see Judi Bari in the hospital in Oakland, and we got there five minutes after visiting closed, who picked me up at the turn-off for Hwy 36 south of Fortuna; traveling from Spokane, WA to Santa Cruz, CA to see Catherine Peterson who used to manage THE HERB ROOM next to THE FOOD BIN I'd had an on-going modest attraction to since the early '80s from the first time our eyes met and I'd felt a tingling feeling pass over my head and face, unique in my experience; a peripheral friendship always nice to access who moved on from there in '95)

Humboldt is sure a strange place and I think the rednecks run the often romanticized to the hilt illegal cannabis industry. My acupuncturist Kevin LaPorta I'd seen nearly weekly about four years was murdered in Eureka July of 2002 by the grandmother of his nineteen month old daughter he'd been in a custody battle over with the mother he'd never married. I've never been able to figure out what happened to the mother or child though his killer got life in prison. He was beloved by many, but sure got into some strange nookie who was an especially nice man with property in the mountains in Trinity County where he raised yaks and other animals.

I think the problem there is a fundamentally conservative society being wildly manipulated by a heavily reactionary element due to the overwhelming visability of the illegal cannabis industry and the culture associated with that. Said in 2006 to be the largest cash crop in the nation, bigger in revenue than corn and wheat combined.

Humboldt is the largest illegal marijuana growing region in the country; and I've heard Eureka called the most corrupt town on the west coast, often and all over the western US from the Mississippi to the Pacific, just as much from north to south too.

If you've done FOOD NOT BOMBS in Arcata you likely know the problems of dealing with the sychophant liberal veneer over this strange almost war zone society there; the New Age crowd and others who try to buy their way in and create economic havoc for anyone low-income there. Keith Wilcox who used to repair musical instruments in his shop above Wyldwood Music finally returned to Boulder, CO with his wife after feeling frustrated with northern Humboldt for twenty years, also a performer I got to know late in the nearly dozen years I was stuck there.

I think the escapist/exclusive lifestyle championed as "back to the land/voluntary simplicity" in the '60s that was seriously attempted in the '70s that turned into, is very counter productive and reformist; which now is attracting ever more affluent sorts trying to escape what is perceived as urban chaos or even more direly prognosticated scenarios.

Thinking seriously about Verbena, I think like in much of what is called "direct action" there is an underlying insecurity where you come out the other end of middle age, a disoriented derelict or worse; unless you've got some really serious positive resources and support, like through like-minded family, or friends particularly close and competent.

Activists like her who are really ram-rodding their programs effectively get too little chance for reflection from being so involved, where a self-described "passivist" like myself may have a better chance to try to figure out what is going on; that may account for whatever there really was of an attraction between us.(see <http://www.humboldtrevolution.org> )

Nice to be reminded of the place though since I got forced here against my will unexpectedly due to a hostile take-over of my apartment with new owners who are reactionaries and abused me continually until I was finally evicted and homeless there after a year, January of '08.

Great to get your nice message at FF.com too!(my Festiva is one I bought from money saved not paying rent being homeless the winter of '98-'99 after my girlfriend's sister got killed in a car wreck as we were breaking up and an alternate situation fell through when I'd wanted to get out of her hair while she grieved; a local performance artist as a songwriter/composer with a day job at the Eureka low-income legal aide office where we met, named Cynde' Gehman)

Bob,

I use to voluteer for Food Not Bombs in Arcata Cal....

...and that reminds me a of a story. Once back in the mid-90's, I was hitch-hiking down from Cresent City to Grass Valley. It was dead of winter, rainy, foggy, dark, when a blue 4-door domestic POS stopped (all those 80's heeps look the same to me) I could tell something wasn't right about the fella, but my desire to get home and out of the rain must have muted my instincts. Before the car started rolling again, a 5th of Jack Daniels was thrust into my hands, "wanna drink!" he yelled, his eyes bloodshot, his breath smelled like stale Shlitz. I smiled, already looking for a way out of the car (why did I throw my pack in the back seat?!)

Needless to say he was wasted; over correcting his over corrections. I once reached over and grabbed the side of the steering wheel to keep us on the road. As you probably know, highway 101 is curvy around those parts. Many times I gazed out the fogged up windows, wondering if the crashing white breakers below would soon be resting in my lap. Between full throated swigs, he reached below the seat, pulling out a tupperware container full of swag weed. "Here, roll us a fatty..." he burped my way. I opened the box and pretended to savor it, running my nose across the surface, "uummm, good stuff. Pull over so I can roll that fatty."

There must have been something telling in my voice, uncontrollable fear perhaps, "ah come on maaaann, I'm not drunk! I'm fine." He was now turned sideways in the seat, no hands on the wheel." I continued to steer stealth-like, unnoticed by him. "I know man..." I replied, "but I also have to take a leak. Just pull over for a second, I'll drain the main vein, then roll away". He must have believed me, and pulled the car off into the gravel--not even bothering to find a safe place to do it. The car was still parked half-way on the freeway. I jumped out, pulling my backpack over the bench seat, "Thanks for the ride man!!!" I yelled, backing quickly away from the car.

The door was still swug open as he peeled out, throwing gravel into my knee caps. Feeling like I dodged a bullet, I started walking south. It was nearly dark by that time, and the rain was falling heavier by the minute. I walked a couple more miles along the highway, looking for a grove of trees to pitch my tent. As I rounded a bend, I could see blue flashers elluminating the mist and trees. No more than two miles further down the road from where I jumped out, the guy had run his car into a six foot deep colvert on the mountain side of the highway. A state patrol officer must have been driving northbound right after it happened. I walked up to the scene cautiously, "officer, my name is Brenton, I was just hitch-hiking with that guy (pointing my figure toward the ditch) I normally don't go ratting people out, but he's stone drunk, and has a box full of weed under the seat." We both walked over to the edge of the ditch, his car was still running, sending white exhaust and steam into the air. The fella was laying against the drivers window (since the car was now at a 90 degree angle) rolling a joint, covered in swag, and a drunken smile on his face.

I gave a brief statement, not having much more info than any blind man could gather is twenty seconds. About a mile further down the road, I darted up into a nice grove of redwoods, over-looking the pacific ocean. As I crawled into my tent, I could hear the tow truck speed by, on his way to that evening's payday.

Happy Holidays Everyone!!!

Brenton