Left Coast Cowboys

It's been said before: On the Internet, no one knows you're a dog.

There was a recent dust-up over here involving The Pioneer Woman, the enormously successful cookin’, photographin’, homeschoolin’ Oklahoma blogger who’s built her brand as an Aw-Shucks country girl wife of a cattle rancher. I’m not going to weigh in on the controversy. Enough’s been said about that. But what struck me, in the course of the fall-out, was that the usual criticism of successful bloggers was thrown out on the table — “Her life isn’t really the way she portrays it. She’s not exactly the person she projects herself to be.”

My response? Of course not! It’s the InterWebs. The late great Quentin Crisp once said, “Movies are life with the boring bits taken out.” I’d say that goes double for a blog where you are trying to feed the damn thing nearly every day, hold on to readers and maybe attract some new ones. If Pioneer Woman or Dooce or any other successful blogger detailed their lives in excruciatingly mundane detail — who would read? Okay, some would say PW and Dooce do just that. But I’d wager they actually cherrypick just one or two things that happened to them in the course of a day. Those things that have the ability — maybe with some embellishment and a little Photoshopping — to serve up some entertainment value. That’s life with the boring bits taken out.

I readily accept that the Internet Pioneer Woman and the Internet Dooce might not be the same people recognizable to their closest friends. Same way I accept that the “character” of Ben Franklin in The Autobiography of Ben Franklin was the wiley old Founding Father’s created public persona, the one he wanted posterity to remember. Winston Churchill got it when he said, “History will treat me kindly. For I shall write it.”

Okay, I’m drawing the line at outright fraud and lies such as the whole A Million Little Pieces debacle. I’m with Oprah on that. And I certainly wouldn’t want any bloggers to check their ethics, morals and responsibilities at the door when putting on their “Internet faces”. But hey, it’s Show Biz! That’s the land where serial killer Aileen Wuronos, who looked like 20,000 miles of bad road, is played by Glamazon Charlize Theron. You see where I stand. I’m not one of those people who devour those glossy magazine photo spreads with “Stars. They’re just like us” articles. I don’t want to see my stars spilling lattes on themselves, looking frumpy at Trader Joe’s or splitting the seams of their ill-fitting sweatpants. I can see that in my own life, thank you. Nope, I want entertainment. And if they, or a blogger, stops providing it, I tune out.

For example, one of my favorite bloggers, Mrs. G over at The Women’s Colony, recently told a great story about a near smackdown she had at Starbucks with a rude and abusive woman. It was a great catharsis for those of us who have been on the receiving end of public bad behavior, yet have been too taken aback for action. However, the genius detail that had me on the floor was that Mrs. G perpetrated this smackdown wearing an I [heart] Books T-shirt. Okay, what if that was an embellishment? What if she wasn’t wearing that T-shirt on that particular day? What if, in fact, she doesn’t even own such a T-shirt? Heck, what if the scene was only played out in her mind as what she should have done in hindsight and if she’d not been so nonplussed? I say “no harm, no foul”. No names were mentioned, no descriptions were given. If it was fiction or part fiction or just “enhanced”, it was a heck of a story, great writing and gave me my laugh of the day.

John the Baptist (l) and Jesus (real name) don't mind being characters on my blog. Maybe because I portray them as superheroes. Which they are.

Isak Dineson, she of Out of Africa fame, wrote how the Kikuyu tribespeople on her farm were culturally uncomfortable with the direct questions of Europeans. If Dineson said, “How many cows do you have?”, they’d most likely look away and say something to the tune of “As many as I told you yesterday.” Her conclusion: “They were not strictly truthful, but, in a grand manner, sincere.” That’s all I’m asking of the bloggers I read.

So now I’ve probably cast doubt on the goings on here at Two Terrier Vineyards. I believe I’ve openly stated my position in my How Did We Get Back to the Land page. I quoted the words of fictional Huckleberry Finn when Mark Twain “asked” him to review the book named after him: “Most of it were true, but some of it were stretched.”

Or as John the Baptist — our most excellent trails builder, protector of local flora and forest spirit — says “I like being a character on your blog.”

See, he gets it.

Oscar, on the other hand, says he don't need no steenkin' enhancement.

Illustration of Huck Finn by E. W. Kemble from 1884 first edition

The announcement of J.D. Salinger’s death has me thinking about my favorite alienated, wandering adolescent searching for truth in a corrupt world. I’m not talking about Holden Caulfield. Caulfield is just a snarky, overprivileged preppie starring in what is surely one of the most overrated novels in the American canon. Nope, the real Great American Boy-Hero, maybe the Greatest American Hero Ever, is Huckleberry Finn.

On the surface, there are some parallels between both books and both heroes. Don’t be fooled and don’t accept third rate when the real deal is available. Both Holden and Huck are fleeing a structured society that they feel doesn’t represent them. Both embark on adventures. Holden has flunked out of prep school and takes off to his home city of New York for a lost weekend mostly on the fringes. Huck escapes a virtuous widow’s attempts to “sivilize” him. But he embarks on a rip-roaring raft adventure down the Mississippi River. If we just want to compare the two books on the basis of story, Adventures of Huckleberry Finn wins hands-down.

Before he was a Hobbit, Elijah Wood was a Huck Finn. Unfortunately, a sterilized, Disneyfied one with none of Twain's bite.

Both books are written in the vernacular of the day and of the hero’s age group, and both books have been banned for it. But Holden’s whiney Fifties preppyisms sounded dated when I first read them a few short decades after the publication date. More than a hundred years later, Huck’s dialogue still sounds fresh, even if we flinch at his repeated, and authentic, use of the N word. But where I find Holden’s profanities and slang true to the character, they don’t serve much more purpose than authenticity and perhaps shock value. While Huck’s language is also authentic to time and place, I think Twain had something else in mind in having Huck refer to his good friend and companion as “Nigger Jim”. Huck is a product of a society that is inherently racist (in fact the novel takes place before the Civil War). Worse yet, he’s Poor White Trash, with a drunken, illiterate father who rails about how a Black professor is allowed to vote “jes like me” (even though he admits he, himself, was too drunk to make it to the polls). How much stronger the counterpoint when Huck begins to value Jim as an exceptional human being and turn his back on the racism that he has been taught at home, in school and in church. I can’t imagine how hard it would be for an African American teen to sit in a class and listen to that word bandied about. But it doesn’t take far into the book before Twain, who was an ardent abolitionist and tireless campaigner against racism, makes a stronger case than he could have with a character who was as saintly and sweet-spoken as Uncle Tom’s Little Eva.

Don’t agree with me? Russell Baker does:

“The people whom Huck and Jim encounter on the Mississippi are drunkards, murderers, bullies, swindlers, lynchers, thieves, liars, frauds, child abusers, numbskulls, hypocrites, windbags and traders in human flesh. All are white. The one man of honor in this phantasmagoria is ‘Nigger Jim,’ as Twain called him to emphasize the irony of a society in which the only true gentleman was held beneath contempt.”

According to his own daughter, Salinger became a bitter, truly weird old man. I feel sure Holden, had he been allowed to grow up fictionally, would have too.

In spite of the mad professor hair, Twain became funnier and more socially active as he aged. I think Huck would have as well. Although perhaps with not the same mastery of grammar and irony.

But my big beef with Holden Caulfield? Well, what exactly do we learn from him and his adventures? That he’s not as much of a “catcher” as his wiser little sister? That, from the perspective of the mental facility where he ends up, he really kind of misses his “secret slob” prep school roommate Stradlater? That life’s a bitch and then you graduate?

You get just a bit more from Huck Finn.

Instead of snarking and sneering at everything in a vain attempt to create a veneer of sophistication, Huck cheerfully admits that he’s ignorant and “unsivilized”. But as he sees, over and over, how Polite Society, the Law, and the Church uphold things that Huck knows in his gut are not fair, he boldly decides to reject racism, violence and inequality. Society tells him helping Jim is stealing property, but Huck decides he’ll risk it and “I’ll just go to Hell.” Mark Twain in his lecture notes explains it better than I can:

“A sound heart is a surer guide than an ill-trained conscience,”[Huckberry Finn is] “…a book of mine where a sound heart and a deformed conscience come into collision and conscience suffers defeat.”

Take that Holden Caulfield. Who’s the phony now?

I’m usually hesitant to recommend works of art based on the likability of the artist. Some truly great Art and Literature have been created by some truly odious human beings. But I can’t help contrasting Salinger and Twain.

You have to believe that Holden Caulfield, had he been allowed to grow up fictionally, would have ended up not unlike Salinger, living in an isolated cabin, drinking his own urine and obsessing over inappropriate relationships with teen girls. Twain, on the other hand, became a great humanitarian, speaking out loud and strong against institutionalized racism, segregation and lynching. Then he put his money where his mouth was, paying for at least two African-Americans to attend college. Besides Twain would be the best dinner party companion ever. He said everything witty that Oscar Wilde didn’t say first.

Huck Finn might not have become as adept with words, but I’m sure he would have grown up to be just as entertaining. And I’ll bet you a corncob pipe, in his off hours from rafting and adventuring (the end of the book finds him taking off for the West), he would have been as much the humanitarian as Twain. He’s already gotten off to a good start when the novel ends.

And therein lies the difference. For all Holden’s whining, his Upper East Side anguish can’t compare to the travails of poor Huck: drunken abusive father, poverty, society’s scorn. Yet, Huck is relentlessly upbeat. And better yet, he’s a doer. When he figures out that he can’t agree with his Society’s values, he actively rejects them and works to give a man his freedom. Were Holden around today, the only action I can see him taking is perhaps writing a bitter, venemous blog. Today, he would grow up to be a reclusive Rush Limbaugh. Flask of urine next to his keyboard. Maybe with a few well-thumbed back copies of Teen Magazine.

My choice is clear. Sorry, Holden fans. I’ll take my Teen Angst with a side of river rafting and likability, please.

Mark Twain said: “Everyone complains about the weather, but nobody does anything about it.” Good point. And I wish someone had taken action on this terrible season back in May when it just wouldn’t warm up and wouldn’t stop raining. With a few scattered periods of hot, hot weather, it’s been mostly cooler and wetter than a normal season in Sonoma. And that’s not good for the grapes. Now we have word that a huge storm is going to sweep in Monday, dropping so much rain, it will put an early end to fire season. Which is a good thing for the brush. But not necessarily a good thing for ripening grapes which might start sprouting mold. John the Baptist and Louis are already putting out straw bales to brace for what they are saying will be a big one.

Meanwhile crews have been lined up for 7:30 Sunday to bring in all our Mourvedre and Grenache — even though they haven’t reached the optimum Brix level. With the Cinsault already processed, that will leave only Cabernet out in the field. But our vineyard consultant says Cabernet can pretty much stand up to anything.

While a crew of professional Mexican grape pickers will have no problem bringing in our grapes in a few hours (our vineyard will be a “little earner” for them between “real” jobs), Andy and I have never tried to process this many grapes by ourselves before. I think we have more than two tons out there. And with our sophisticated processing system, that means I sit on the concrete wall above the crush pad and drop grapes bunch by bunch into the crusher/destemmer. So I, in effect, will be “repicking” two tons of grapes. Andy, of course, handles the complicated task of turning the machinery off and on. It’s going to be interesting. And may end with me developing Pop-Eye arms. Instead of Lucille Ball’s comic timing.

Various Unrelated Notes

Chuck the Buck is back in a big way. In fact, I think our wacky weather and the presence of a full moon has brought on an early mating season. Apparently, male deer, at that time, can be very aggressive and fearless. Little Oscar found this out when he went running up to bark at Chuck who has taken to hanging out very close to the barn. The big buck just lowered his horns menacingly. Little Oscar scampered down the hill. Oh, he’s very brave dragging a deer carcass around that the coyotes have killed. But he’s not about to tangle with this.

Chuck the Buck is back. His rack is as impressive as ever. And he's not taking sh*t from anyone. Especially small yappy terriers.

The coyotes are back! Wiley, Wilma and two or three young’uns. John the Baptist and Louis saw them frolicking around the barn a few days ago. Like Chuck the Buck, they showed no interest in running off. As do most of the critters around here, they’re pretty much convinced they own the place.

Our coyotes look like this. Not scrawny, but fat and sassy as German Shephards. This photo from this site: http://www.plumas-eureka.org/mammals.html

Even if my grapes aren’t ripening as fast as I’d like, my prickly pear cactus is. John the Baptist brought in one of the fruits and showed me how to peel one and eat the fruit.

Tastes surprisingly like...pomegranate.

Are you not a joiner because you hate rules and regulations? Having difficulty finding an organization that marries diverse interests — such as history and drinking? Do you, as did Groucho Marx, maintain that you wouldn’t belong to any club that would have you? Then have I got an organization for YOU.

It’s The Ancient and Honorable Order of E Clampus Vitus and it’s apparently dedicated to our particular brand of California eccentricity which mixes equal parts thumbing the nose at serious institutions, celebrating individuality, having irreverent fun, and embracing an “alternate” history.

The plaque to the man many Clampers agree brought Clamperism to Gold Country. But then Clampers rarely agree on anything and cheerfully plagiarize, exaggerate and just make up stuff on their various "historical" websites.

E Clampus Vitus started in a tavern during the Civil War, spread like wildfire in the Gold Country and was  resurrected in the Thirties (where else) but in San Francisco. E Clampus Vitus members (who call themselves “Clampers”) say they can’t decide if they are a “historical drinking society” or a “drinking historical society.”

And that’s how I found them, while looking at “historical” plaques in the Gold Country town of Murphys. I’m a sucker for historical plaques. I can’t pass one by. But as I found more and more of them on the buildings in Murphys, finally culminating in a complete wall of plaques, I started to notice something different. These plaques weren’t placed there by the California Historical Society or the Society of California Pioneers. And the plaques seemed to be commemorating things like the site of bordellos and saloons and record-breaking tobacco spitting contests.

Wikipedia has a great and very humorous Clamper history here. But let me give you the highlights.

Mocking the solemn rites and costumes of fraternal orders such as the Freemasons and the Moose and Elk Lodges, Clampers abide by these rules. Or don’t:

*Clamper “regalia” are red miners shirts or long-johns, Levis, bushy beards and home-made medals forged from old tin cans.

*All members are officers and all officers are of equal indignity.

*The Clamper motto, Credo Quia Absurdum, is a shortened form of a Latin phrase that means “I believe it because it is absurd.”

*The society’s flag, always carried during parades, is a hoop skirt. Attached to it are the words “This is the flag we fight under.”

*Regular meetings are required to be held at any time before or after a full moon.

A Clamper in full regalia. (Thanks Wikipedia.)

Members also swore to help widows and orphans (especially the widows). This was was the one pledge they took seriously. In the rough and tumble world of gold mining, Clampers took care of their own, even to the point of snowshoeing out to remotely camped members to bring them Christmas dinner. The modern incarnation is also dedicated to placing plaques to “historical” events and places that might otherwise be, shall we say, overlooked by more mainstream historical societies.

There are more than 40 chapters of E Clampus Vitus operating mostly in the West. They even march in local parades. And they are really active with those plaques.

I want to join. After all, any club that counted Mark Twain as a member is the club for me!

So now you are all asking, “Can I be a Clamper?” Here’s the good news taken from one of the most prominent “Clamps”, the Mountain Charlie Division:

How could you not belong to a club that included Mark Twain? It may have been at a Clamper meeting that Twain heard the story that he'd craft into "The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County".

“The prime requisites to becoming a Clamper are a good sense of humor, an interest in Western history, an open mind, and a cast iron stomach. If a man has those qualities, and strikes up a friendship with a Clamper or two, he may find himself taken in to (and by) the Ancient and Honorable Order. But one can’t simply walk up and say, “Can I be a Clamper?” It is for the Brethren of ECV to invite prospective members to join. And if a man is asked, he should know that the invitation is only given once. If it is refused, it is never tendered again. But a man of any intelligence and character so invited would hardly be likely to turn down such a signal honor. And remember, as the Brethren of E Clampus Vitus maintain, “Clampers are not made, they’re born. Like gold, they just have to be discovered.”