Scooting along down Miller Avenue we dine at a Jesus--not to be confused with his Hispanic brother, but yes, the pronounced lord and savior--crazed joint where we are accompanied delightfully by glorious condiments, Mill Valley adolescents, and souvenir t-shirts whose emblematic designs remind me that Jesus loved the taco too.
Six pack of anything beyond hops later, and off we swivel through highway one density; merry, jolly and perma-highed in the salty night. Giggling and goggling festive brew with native stogies.
Round and round we go, past little boxes on the hillside, unaware if it's high or low tide...until we stumble upon an ambitious bicyclist. He doesn't have a flat or a cardinal sense about him; growin' up San Rafael and leavin' the Muir woods for Wildcat Camp ("please mister driver man, don't be slow...!") His name is Anton or twan (twang-ah! bwang-ah!) and his formative dreadlocks are as hopeful as his camping gear. He mumbles he's too young for bars, and we scoff at the gleaming, blinding brights in front. A few miles down the road we gave the young chap a can of Christmas brew; and off! he rode into Friday night as so many scarcely do--stupefied by the pending prospect of adventure.
In the shadows we slink into the "socially acknowledged nature-loving town"; by and by the honor system market stand, Amish schoolhouse, fields of iconic green and barn yard glowing peace sign to a town of turned heads. You see that's how they keep Bolinas,--one road in, same one out. We finish our brew behind the recently mandated sheriff, schmoozing with local broads and off again. And into Smiley's we roam; the oldest running bar in the golden state.
Fourteen dollars in we spot Jimbo Trout and the Fish--a trio of wily old timey lovers on a three day hippie binge through Berkeley, Bolinas and Haight-Asbury. As though stomping reminiscently on those famed burial grounds would reverse the world thankfully and manifest anew. The backcountry regular boys skimmed and scanned our faces to decipher our origins and whereabouts.
Round one brews purchased we joined the merchandise and musicians in the left innards of the bar (and the tunes are wailin!) Drink one. toke. drink two. smoke. Then we're buzzin' and smilin' and the Bolinas air feels good good good with that pleasant dirt smell about. The bearded fellow with the outlandish convertible smokes and chats as we do, not at all the reputed caricature of the Bolinas lot; dawgie putzin' and wagin', smiling and swooshing his tail under a red coat. Look at me! Look at me! Chompin' his frisbee.
Chicken dancers and swaying dancers, two-step dancers and boots-in dancers. The band rambles notes; Johnny Cash, Willie Nelson, Hank Williams? but no Arlo here. Cozy, homey, folky vibe, cheap hefeweizens like lemonade stands--and we were following in the rot breadcrumbs of patrons. It's all happening! Was and is, was and will keep happening. I suppose revolution requires Pacific beauty for a stage. Or some midwestern manners.
Kaley Morlock currently resides in Oklahoma City, where her typewriter overlooks the stucco streets of the art district. After studying philosophy in Illinois, and rambling along the west coast, she returned to the red dirt land to study horticulture and contemplate environmental law school. More of her writings can be found on wehappybuffalo.blogspot.com.
