For those of you that don't know about Fontucky, you'll probably never see a town like it again. It's being inundated by yuppies now, but when I was growing up in the 909, it was...well, lemme give you a quick rundown.
The motto of Fontana is "Fontana...hey, at least we're not Muscoy."
The official flower of Fontana is an Empty Baggy of Crystal Meth Stuck to a Tumbleweed.
Fontana was once home to the KKK's west coast stronghold, as well as White Aryan Resistance and the RAHOWA (Racial Holy War) Movement. Although the rallies and road blocks have stopped (for the most part), the racists forgot to leave. Only place in America that I've seen a flag pole and a proudly displayed swastika flag in the front yard of a home...in a predominantly black neighborhood.
Fontana is a Dorothea Lange picture come to life. I once saw an old black man, covered in dust, wearing dirty engineer's overalls, tattered work boots, a gingham check shirt, and a newsboy hat, leaning against the porch of a wood slat liquor and general store with a dirt parking lot. That was like two weeks ago.
Somewhere in Fontana, right now, there is a black man with a Fu Manchu moustache and a long, braided ponytail, riding a Harley chopper with ape bars and a confederate flag painted on the gas tank, doing 80mph down a residential street, drinking a tall boy, with no helmet on and a Colt 1911 .45 caliber pistol showing out of the back of his pants. He is on his way to a seedy dive bar to score some meth and shoot the guy who banged his fourteen year old girlfriend last week. On his way back to his trailer, he will be stopped by police, who will shake him down and take his meth, then let him go. The police will snort the meth, then pay a visit to their favorite fourteen year old hooker.
I heart Fontana.