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Summer 2022

Not a Tourista

My natural inclination is to not travel where the touristas flock, from wherever it is that I live. The throngs go one way; I go the other.

This fixed preference on my part leads me to the un-beaten path in life, be it a vacation or a voiced desire for anything. The onslaught of bicyclists, hikers, trekkers, mountain climbers, jet-skiers, boaters, and Beautiful People from the Bay Area, all glomming toward Lake Tahoe, from mid-May until The End of Summer, only to resume their long haul, once the snow falls and Ski Season begins:

Those hordes keep me away from many a spectacularly scenic place during many a scorchingly hot summer day.

I enjoy Tahoe during the off-tourista-season. I also enjoy the other lake-destinations, which, in the midst of this latest drought, are half-empty, or, half-full. From either perspective, such a lake is, for me, half-wonderful. The eco-freaks and granola-heads nevertheless traipse there, to climb the rocks, or maybe beat their heads against a granite wall, in defiance of the world they created crashing down around them.

The coast I’ve given up — until the hypodermic needles and homeless Gavinvilles are removed from my sight. That eventuality shall not be soon.

Legally, and in strict regulatory terms, the EPA ought to do something about the perils to Mother Earth, and to Big Brother California, if not to the Homo sapiens who come in contact with the disgusting bacterial filth, aka Bio-hazard.

But since The Germ Theory got discarded by the Politico-Pigs for Big Pharma Dollars, a prudent person does not mention certain microbes that scientifically do infect and infest the human organism. Medieval medical beliefs and practices, enacted during the years 2020-2022, might someday be rivaled — in viral intensity — by the medieval diseases that fetidly flourish in those underpasses in L.A. Those real health risks are not mentioned in The News, aka Fake News.

The price of gas is another non-news-topic here in the Golden State. Amongst the citizenry, the cost of that commodity is just about the only topic of conversation. People in other parts of this country relish pointing out the astronomical amount charged for gas in Los Angeles. The other towns and cities, even Sacramento, the capital! — they simply don’t exist on the map of California.

It’s consistently idiotic, how The Media perceive a State of this size in terms of the urban blob-sprawl known as Los Angeles, or the cesspool called San Francisco. The rubes in the boonies don’t exist either, according to the American Pravda, but that part of living in paradise is a protected right, and a cherished condition, at least where I live.

This hick in the sticks drove her brand new Bronco the other day, Friday, all around this Appalachian outpost of the Sierra Nevada foothills. I mastered more than my share of experience in handling-the-road in the requisite arenas of highways, stop-and-go traffic, and country throughways.

Even though that day’s Fire Danger was High, there were no blazo events on the soft shoulders of I-80. One motor-home fire along the freeway, and the traffic is backed up — for miles and miles. There’s one automotive rule that I learned during my 2 decades of living in Newcastle: Summer vacationers can be hazardous to the locals!

With that caution in mind, I took to the freeway, and had a free-for-all of fun. My errand-destination was that mobbed mecca of mass-produced merchandise, Costco. There, the gas pumps offer less sticker shock, but more sucker-punch to the pissed-off consumer.

Next, I wove in-and-out-and-around three lanes of speeding eggy-cars on the freeway exchanges. I had to cross three lanes to my left of massed-suburbanites and city-commuters to miraculously arrive at my on-ramp to Interstate-80 East. It never ceases to amaze me, the blatant inability of the “drivers” of those computerized-conveyances to really, definitively DRIVE.

Their eyes are fixated on the lit-up, whiz-bang internal screens that display for them which directional path to follow. Glancing over the left shoulder to break through that Blind Spot: there are none so blind as he who will not see. Turn signals: they’re archaic and obsolete, and of no use, just like manners and, methinks, for the city slickers, Judeo-Christian morality.

Since it was a Friday, and mid-afternoon, the bumper-to-bumper traffic on I-80-East had begun to line up with those virtuous vehicles, filled with the environmentally-in-the-ozone escapees, the secular purists who smugly exist during the week in their residence-boxes. They’re packed in like sardines in the Bay Area and flee the scenes from Friday till Monday. A drive on the freeway on Friday afternoon is hideous, but the ribbon of returnees to the Bay Area on Monday is deplorable.

I decided to exit my arduously earned lane on the freeway and swung around the off-ramp to Horseshoe Bar Road. From there, I bronco’ed onto Taylor Road, my cherished country route of the not-so-long ago.

I had a joyous time, joy-riding along this rural thoroughfare, on the way back to my country estate. The geologist in me is always pleased, quite pleased, to observe the Griffith Quarry which, being a State Museum, is assured life-on-earth. I did take note of a few more businesses out-of-business than had been observed during my last whirl along this lengthy thoroughfare, the summer of 2018. The Valencia Club, gladly enough, is still in business. There were enough hogs parked outside to reassure me of that economic fact.

Recessions in California are ghastly fiscal affairs. This State is first in, last out, due to the bankrupting liberal-love that the urban-blob feels toward Guvmint-as-Daddy.

Yes, it’s an abusive relationship, but, in all honesty, I must say it’s not a “relationship” at all. The MAD — mutually assured destruction — is symbiotic. It won’t be survived by either part of the sick partnership. This eating-each-other’s-soul has been going on for at least 50 years, culminating in images that appall anyone with a soul.

The mad rush by the Bay Area Hordes into the Sierra Nevada may, or may not, be as heavy along I-80 as it has historically been. The eco-carts, loaded atop with mountain-bikes and jet-skis and kayaks and roof racks of storage-capsules, those vehicles might have to lighten the play-load. The people who put the Toy in Toyota might have to re-think their pursuits of leisure. California is entering historic territory.

The Idiot Governor, who is always and forever lusting after The White House, he’s bloody drunk on his own emergency power, that social-contract power that he confiscated in March 2020, and still has not returned to We The People. Clearly, this power-addict is not doing his steps.

But that sloshed lunacy is the modus operandi in place here, there, everywhere, all along this post-COVID disaster disaster disaster. The more paranoid among We the People believe this entire fiscal cataclysm has set the stage for:

The Great Reset.

I’ve read about, and even listened to discussion of: The Great Reset. It’s a fairly simple theory that, like most simple theories, require — for successful realization — highly complicated levels of expert organization, superb managerial control, skilled executive competence, cerebral brilliance, and gutsy bravado, all of which the Globalists lack, in massive amounts.

I’ve looked at the pictures of those ghouls-in-charge of the reset. Old, fat, balding or bald, lizard-eyed, ugly, creepy men who are so far past their prime, if they ever had a prime, that this last-ditch gamble to control the world succeeds only in sending those human horrors straight to Hades.

Those vulgarly wealthy, vulgarly-faced, moral cretins and clowns are, indeed, the major players on that conspiracy-chess board. That chess board, however, is lacking a few pieces, namely a King and a Queen, and, oh, yes, the Knights, in shining or tarnished armor.

We’ve got the rooks, and many many pawns, aka We the People.

Yes, there is still a Queen, but she’s not commanding the castle anymore. Her stupid son believes gin-fumes will save The Planet. His even more stupid sons, both of them, do not know enough to keep their royal mouths shut, and their princey-snouts out of the politics of the former colonies on the other side of the pond.

The Great Reset is, in reality, the Anti-Great Reset. When the skullsful of mush that comprise those droves of digital-device-fanatics realize they cannot re-charge their cell phones, the Great Reset shall take on another meaning. The Taxpayer is not gonna subsidize that ether-world of the great-unwashed to reality, although I think that welfare plan is on The Table, wherever The Table is today.

No worries! The Table gets overturned so often that it’s falling from a completely vertical position, like the American economy!

When all is said, and nothing is done — because all of the talk, and the blather, and the electron-zooming exist only to try to delay the inevitable — the Inevitable shall take place. The Inevitable is, indeed, taking place, which is why Online World has become a gaudy ghost town devoid of real facts and actual truth.

I read the other day that the term “reset” in Scots law (ancient, no doubt) refers to the re-distribution of stolen goods. Liberty is the greatest good that has been stolen from We the People during the past few years, on a massive scale, a global one — but that pilfering has been going on for decades, especially here in California.  Redistribution, in the Scots sense, of liberty must occur, returning that power to The People, We the People, in California, and across the fruited plain.  It’s a fight for which only the patriots have engaged themselves; the traitors haven’t a clue what to do except scream and destroy themselves.

The White Power Structure has talked brown since the 1970s, but all that Californians got was 4 terms of Jerry Brown, and not much else. It was all about empowering and enriching Moonbeam, and whatever friends he could buy.

That power structure never did become a solid infrastructure in this State. Greedy-Guvmint got plastered over the citizens, and now that Guvmint is crumbling. So are the roads over which the people race, with their go-carts that guzzle gas with greater fuel efficiency, but tofu and gin and electricity do not power them up into the Sierra Nevada.

Summer is my time-out from wandering anywhere the touristas go. Come September, and autumn-y weather, I’ll be seeking out the sites the backpackers and the hackers and the Teva-shod citadins left behind. The lake — Lake Tahoe — will still be there, though not much else. I was shocked during my last journey to The Lake in September 2018. The expensive chalets looked like run-down shacks; the roads were rutted, with litter strewn along those lanes. License plate holders announced:


While others in this great nation trumpet the triumph of socialism, and pronounce the permanence of whack-job policies, all of which are cratering a national economy, I’m ahead of that pompous propaganda curve. It’s all been tired here in California; not TRIED, but TIRED.

Capitalism is the foundation upon which my country, and even my State, are built. A 9.0 Richter-scale earthquake won’t destroy that granite bedrock of mercantilism that pre-dates even the great Scots economist, Adam Smith.

An earthquake of social revolt along those fault lines can collapse all that has been pretentiously, precariously, and putridly propped upon the shifting sands of socialism. And California truly did lead the way with those sham-schemes.

I’ve no idea what the price of gas will be in my sector of California, come September. I’m guessing $10 a gallon. The Big One, though, is due, for any Guvmint that Hates Its People.