How dispiriting it is to see people in the Valley wearing masks inside their own cars because Mayor Yoga Pants told them to. You would not know this from listening to local media, but he has ZERO statutory authority to do so. These are requests of the public presented to us as binding commands from the state. There is no municipal code called Thou Shalt Not Defy Garcetti.
The Wuhan regulations have little to do with public health and everything to do with our Liberty. We submit to them at our peril.
We snuck into Fryman Canyon over the weekend to discover a small fellowship of hikers edict defiers skulking on the trail with masks around their necks, which they hastily pulled over their noses when they saw us, lest we report them.
Every model of viral prediction has proved wrong, not by a percentage, but exponentially. As we descend the right side of the bell curve, the will to power has not been leavened by the fragility of prognosis or the absence of a tsunami of demand on the hospitals, nor the revelation the morbidity rate is far lower and seroprevalence far greater than assumed. Those details shall be memory-holed. Crisis is the order of the day. May the wealth-leveling panic continue, command the Clerisy. No herd immunity for you! A poorer electorate is a submissive one.
Sometimes an act so small as swinging from a tree can be restorative of citizenship. Where the feet go, the mind follows.
America was born in taverns. Before the first shot was fired at Bunker Hill, before the founding documents were written, America breathed in the hearts of free men who gathered around tables and drank and argued and came to a particular conclusion what liberty meant and what it didn’t mean and what price they would pay to obtain it.
The grog they drank was often made nearby, or by the proprietor. When the hour arrived to stand and declare American ground, it was men from taverns, not the names one is taught in high school, who took the first British volley and the next, and all those which followed, their martial spirits nurtured and restored at the inn.
Van Nuys is as close to a colony as we have in California. A generation ago, it was small city unto itself with a distinct historical identity at the crossroads of the Valley, and nearly the population of Spokane. It was the subject of no less than three Hollywood films, and known nationally as the center of car cruising culture. The Camaro and the Firebird were built and sold on the same street and how many towns could say the same? Today Van Nuys has not a single elected representative at any level of government numbered among its residents. None. This may be unique among cities in the developed world. It has become a distant, shabby plantation from which City Hall and Sacramento extract blocs of votes and tax dollars. In return the government does….well, as little as possible, and does it abundantly.
Revolution can begin quietly, and not seem like revolution at the time. This month, we will be able to lay claim to something Sherman Oaks cannot, home of the only craft brewery and tasting room in the Valley. It is here, in the summer evenings, the restoration of Van Nuys may be contemplated over the pleasure of the pint.
The first two batches went in the tank today. Ironically, (not for Alastair, for me) they are brewing traditional British ales.
Grand opening: Sunday the 22nd, Noon-8pm. C’mon down.