Big Red Robes, Old White Control Freaks, and the Curious Case of Proposition 50

So, I rolled down from my Ridge pad last night, sipping on some homebrewed kombucha, maybe a bit stoned from my backyard stash, to check out this “Yes on 50” town hall at the Miners Foundry.

Well, I’ll be dipped in kefir and rolled in crushed oyster shell—what I saw at the “Yes on Proposition 50” town hall last night was either a misguided political event or an off-brand community theater production of The Handmaid’s Tale sponsored by the HOA.

Curious, I might add, that they didn’t use Nevada County Media (the Nevada County public-access TV studio space) as they usually do for such events, funded by our government tax dollars. But no, this time it was tucked into a hall with tea lights and trembling righteousness. I was almost expecting someone to bring out the sacrificial goat. Not mine, of course. Mine are unionized.

For those of you blissfully zoned out on your own vibe, Prop 50 is Gavin Newsom’s latest attempt to rearrange the political furniture while the house burns down. Literally. Prop 50 is asking voters to fold rural Nevada County into the big city congressional district. Because nothing says “improved wildfire mitigation” like letting Sacramento bureaucrats—who couldn’t point to Nevada County with a map and a free joint—take over decisions about our water, internet access, emergency planning, and land use. 

In a dazzling display of contradiction only achievable by postmenopausal control enthusiasts in wide-brim hats, the town hall crowd was wildly in favor of it. You heard that right, the “didn’t read the book for the book club” indivisible ladies are in favor of Prop 50, the exact proposition that will siphon the fire safety and local control they pretend to love. 

I wandered in late, half-covered in compost and still smelling like the inside of my coop (my Rhode Island Reds staged a revolution again), and what do I see? A dozen women dressed in full-on red robes and hoods with their faces hidden - yet with janky old lady tennis shoes they obviously play pickleball in. I swear a few of them were dudes who just wanted to wear a dress for a cause. It was like they were trying to summon the ghost of Ruth Bader Ginsburg via interpretive cosplay. Big red cloaks. Faces half-hidden in shadow. I thought I had stumbled into a cult ceremony. One of the red-robed ladies actually hissed at me.

HISSED. Like a feral possum.

They were lined up around the room like creepy protest signs, supposedly “symbolizing the silencing of women’s voices.” Total BS, because they were the only ones yapping, all quivery lips and oat milk latte rage.

The only “patriarchy” in the room was Bob Branstrom, a 70-something-year-old former city councilor who got up halfway through to shout, “Where’s the coffee?” before being hushed like he’d farted during a spiritual cleanse.

And while they warned of losing their voice through wrinkled red polyester, they were also literally advocating for us to give up our local voice to a bloated, fire-illiterate Sacramento apparatus.

Look, I may be a kombucha-swilling, anarcho-curious homesteader with more goats than good sense, but I know a control scheme when I see one. Proposition 50 isn’t about equity or climate resilience. It’s about the same thing every boring law is about in this county: making sure a bunch of self-appointed moral grandmas can sleep at night knowing they’re finally, finally, the victim they wanted to be.

Maybe I’m tokin’ a bit much, but it seems to me that the only thing that’s going to happen if Prop 50 passes is that we hand our local freedom to Sacramento’s fire-ignorant machine. You think Sacramento cares that your driveway is “Firewise certified,” Susan Rogers? They don’t even know your road exists. 

The crowd was like the early-bird special at a liberal control freak fest. Old, pale, and sure they know what’s best for you, your chickens, and your firewood pile. 

They clutched clipboards like holy texts, passing judgment on anyone who dared question whether this consolidation of power was actually in our best interest.

I asked aloud to the people around me whether Prop 50 would result in fewer local emergency response dollars staying in the county, and one of the indivisibles audibly sighed at me like I’d asked if I could legally raise tarantulas in a daycare center. Another leaned over and muttered, “Misinformation.” Yo, the only misinformation’s thinking Sacramento’s gonna save you when your ridge is blazing and the power’s been out for days.

And again, why weren’t they at Nevada County Media—the Nevada County public access TV station—their usual habitat? That misuse of government-funded space is what they normally do to hold these power-pointed circle jerks of policy fantasy. Maybe they figured the red robes would look too creepy under fluorescent lighting. Or maybe they didn’t want their love letter to Sacramento archived online for people to pick apart like a turkey carcass on Thanksgiving. 

Look, I may be a libertarian homesteader who milks goats before dawn and thinks my egg bartering should be legal tender—but even I know when someone’s trying to sneak a power grab past us dressed in the language of “unity.” 

Prop 50 is nothing but a regional dilution of local voices. It’s like mixin’ spring water with swamp juice and wonderin’ why it tastes like a bad vibe.

And if they try to take my rain barrels, they can talk to my rooster, who is voting no on Prop 50.

His name is Chuck, and he doesn’t like robes.

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This is satire for the win. Hope you enjoyed it. Dankbud out.