Willows is the type of place where change comes, slowly, if not surely. They billboard advertising Jerry’s Restaurant, just east of town on 162, stood strong more than a decade after Jerry lost his head-to-head competition with more upscale cousin Denny for the rights to serve coffee and eggs to weary travelers on I-5. If you’re thinking that Denny’s isn’t exactly upscale, then you haven’t spent near enough time in freeway diners. The remaining namesake greasy spoon in Willows, Nancy’s Airport Cafe on the other side of the freeway is the kind of place where the cheese on your omelette is just a slice of Kraft laid on top of hot eggs. The kind place that people take pictures of themselves in front of because its just so small town kitsch. Maybe that’s why it’s been able to stave off defeat longer than Jerry’s, but doubtless its time will soon come, as Nancy herself has taken leave of the restaurant named after her, and the people who took over have apparently failed to live up to even the most base of culinary standards. Change comes slow, but it comes alright. Making my way into town I pass the Jerry’s Restaurant sign and see it’s been painted over white, with a black, bold-faced font imploring passersby by “Don’t Drink and Drive,” like a subliminal message frozen in time. I guess that’s progress. Maybe. (more…)

So I went to Willows for Thanksgiving with my Lomo fisheye planning on taking all sorts of badass, artsy photos, but instead I just got drunk the whole time. So instead you’ll have to settle for some bullshit I took with my iPhone camera which is sort of like a polaroid only not as cool.

And as proof of my profound inebriation, not that you need any, I present my feeble attempt to document the uniquely bucolic and whimsical magic that is the Long Way Home Saloon:

Guess you’ll have to go there to see what’s cracking. Just don’t try to drive home. The police in Willows are increasingly fascist and unforgiving. But I guess it’s just because they’re probably bored out of their damn minds. Anyways, I’ll try to do better next time or whatever, but film processing is getting expensive and I’m not made out of money, which is obvious by the fact that I’m spending my vacations in Willows as opposed to the more balmy climes enjoyed by my colleagues, but hey! If there’s one good thing about writing, its definitely not that it pays well! Or that it’s rewarding in really any other way, other than being the job that takes probably the most minimal amount of effort this side of being the Maytag guy. But at least that guy is Union and probably gets vision, and retirement. Only retirement I got is the baseball cards in my closet, but those ain’t worth shit anymore. So I guess I’ll have to live now and figure the rest out later, which is easy because later doesn’t come until after now. And even when it does, there’s always another later after that. Until there’s not. Then you’re fucked.

As far as this year goes, I’m really only thankful for two things: Jack and shit. And really, Jack is starting to get a little out of my price range, so I guess I should say “Jim and shit.” Or “well and shit.” Or maybe just shit.
I mean, I guess it could be worse. It could always be worse. You could chop off my balls and feed them to me and it could be worse: after all, there’s plenty of people out there who don’t got nothing to eat. But I’ve always been a “could be better” type of person. Call me an optimistic pessimist. Or a pessimistic optimist. Call me whatever the fuck you want, just don’t call me late for dinner. Even if the main course is my own balls. After all, it could be a lot worse!
It’d be easy to, like everybody else in this country, to pin all my angst on the fact that I’m broke as fuck. Because I really am broke as fuck. In fact, I’m way worse than that: I was broke a few months ago, but then I kept going in the wrong direction, now I’d be doing good to be back to broke. I could sell most of my shit, pay off a meager portion of my sundry debts, and still probably qualify as “broke.” But being is actually kind of badass. Its like when you get tired of beating the game on beginner, you put that shit on advanced. I mean, if I had money I’d probably just sit at my gigantic house and eat nachos and watch movies and pet my fucking badass dog and fuck with all the totally awesome entertainment devices I’d have and make all my not-rich friends come to me. But being broke makes you get out amongst it and look for the angles; it makes you relish the hook-up. Those who say “there’s no such thing as a free lunch” have obviously never been broke enough. Now that I think about, being broke is probably one of the few bright spots in my otherwise dismal life. If it weren’t for being broke, I’d probably really be fucking bummed out.

Earlier this year, I blogged about a string of unlikely tragedies befalling the senior class of my alma mater Willows High School. The story has now been picked up by ESPN, whose Michael Weinreb explored the issue in depth in a story that appears today on the frontpage on their web site.

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