Standing in a crowd of frenzied Californians cheering on a dizzying race among banana slugs, you get the feeling that America's melting pot hasn't really melted.
Anywhere you go in this country are festivals that define the local culture: Finnish dips into scalding water in Butte, Mont.; silly cloggers in Minnesota; stern German farmers in Wisconsin pumping milk alongside trees standing at parade rest. To the south, you find hog-callers screaming next to junk cars and Zulus in New Orleans. There is Tet, Cinco de Mayo, unpronounceable Jewish rites and, in California -- where else? -- pillow fights with Druids chanting atop mountains.
Such a nation supposedly united by Whoppers and Burger Kings must have the earth's largest gene pool and a lot of very bored people. But these festivals define the locals as distinct from those foreigners in the next town. And it shows up in politics.
Wisconsin and Minnesota cherish their farmer-labor heritage. Stern Ukrainians in the Dakotas eschew big government, while San Franciscans embrace everything. Western states adore self reliance.
Festivals tell the world who you are. "Look at me. I wear a kilt and you don't."
In Nevada, outside of cowboy poetry in Elko, there isn't much of that. The Silver State, though, seems to be awakening to its unique tradition. It's taken longer than other places, but now the local culture has started to bloom. In future years, Nevadans will hit the road in fire trucks and old cars to celebrate Indictment Day.
Vanloads of elected officials will be hauled to the Nevada Hall of Shame, located on a hill at Amargosa, facing the test site, with a giant marble finger pointing skyward.
The worst offenders will walk handcuffed behind the vans while youngsters will be encouraged to spray graffiti on them. Choirs will sing Johnny Cash tunes like "Folsom Prison." Striped suits, and balls and chains will be everywhere.
After the parade, sculptors will etch the latest names on the monument. A band will play, "If I had the wings of an angel," to the delight of the fans.
Then the solemn voting will begin. Onlookers will be asked to choose the worst offender during the past year. It will be a tough call. There will be speeches from victims and prosecutors promoting their Cad of the Year. Tapes will be played, comps listed.
The judge, who is actually a taxi driver since public officials are always suspect, will then stand up and give instructions to the crowd.
Who stole the most? Who sold out to rich guys? Whose relative was at the public trough? Who got freebies from girls?
After 10 or 15 ballots, the king or queen of the cads will be crowned, then forced to walk a paddle line.
It'll be great entertainment and will put Nevada firmly on the cultural map. I can hardly wait.
Larry Wills has been a journalist for 35 years, and has worked for various Las Vegas publications since 1991. Contact him at bedfordroad@worldnet.att.net.
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