A Hick in Some Places, a Hippie in Others

A hick in some places, a Hippie in others:  the struggle of a double agent in the world of subwoofers and Bolt action rifles…

Moving East

The missoula head crowd during the summer time of a college town near the rocky mountains seems to have a few things figured out.  The old west look is evident in the alleyways just off the down town strip, with narrow passages moderately crowded with rowdy groups of boozed up Mizzoulans.   I could just imagine the pavement being replaced with dirt roads riddled with horse manure, swinging double doors hanging in the ingress ways of the various saloons and brothels, with wranglers and gentlemen lining the card tables, launching tobacco into spittoons.  Today trophy elk, deer, bison and bighorn sheep mounts don the majority of walls in the late night fare and spirit establishments, and there is a consistent mix of social groups within this town: the inner continental country music types, with beer bellies and lips packed with copenhagen, lifted pickup trucks and sun bleached trucker hats.  The meat head polo roid-bros shouting at each other and chuckling, yelling at their chubby girlfriend booze bags with fake tans and bleached hair, telling them to “get the fuck in the car, and your bitch friend, too.” (This is my least favorite group of this cultural macrocosm.)  Alternatively you have my favorites as well…  the freely spirited and exotic mountain girls, who don sundresses sans braz with cowboy boots and dangling eagle feather earrings, often equipped with a bright and intriguing smile and a small tattoo on the upper arm.  They can be seen smoking American Spirits outside happy hour college dives, riding bikes on the evenly flat urban terrain of missoula, and floating down the Blackfeet River by the dozens on sunny summer days.  (In fact all patrons of the Missoula scene can be seen floating the river, young and old, cooler in tow, by the hundreds on black truck inner tubes bought from the Army Navy store.)   There is a smaller but ever evident population of the lot-like hippie/head population that inhabits the mountain town, which like a larger landlocked Arcata in the mountains, is also a safe haven to a intermingling transient population of drunks and tweaks.  The overall late night scene is one that seems to revolve around alcohol, much more than other fun drugs as in Arcata, however, and the 2 O’clock closing  parade is chock full of rowdy fights and shit talking contests of small peckered juicers and staggering bums who can not audibly udder the words necessary to ask for change or a cigarette.  On a bright note there is also audible inquiries of, “where’s the after party?” around a vibrant fire poi circle just as the bars closed on my second venture to the small yet energetic city.

I find myself first in this mountain town on one of my four nights off from a month long wilderness guide training program in nearby Swan Lake.  Tired of the “nigger” this and “queer” that I have been hearing from the mostly ignorant and backwards camp mates all week I was excited to venture off on my own and be at home amongst the subwoofers and laser lights of a late night music hall, fulfilling the needs of my second lifestyle away from the deer hunts, wilderness hikes and river trips (in fact hearing that most of the others in class cursed missoula as being full of hippies and queers I made the final decision to make the hour and a half drive.)  I covet both aspects of my life dearly, however have not found a way to connect both the wilderness and underground music scene, and have no intentions to.  I must keep them separate, and it is this distinction that keep these various experiences new and refreshing.  Immersion in a back country wall tent for a month, learning hunting, horse packing, survival and wilderness first aid skills is not something most DJ’s and quasi-serious weekend music journalists would be caught spending 4 Grand on.  Then again I don’t think there has been a single guide student here that after graduation, spends 2 nights in Glacier park with his surfer gal before heading up to Shambhala music festival to ingest as many mind altering substances that one can while still being able to meet and converse with new friends and fellow ragians, dance for 4 nights straight and make love to his sexy ass girl friend in the plywood willie-bago erected in the back of the red Chevy Silverado named ‘Molly Whomps.’

Yes, I have carved out quite a lifestyle of interests, and have abandoned trying to hide one from the other, as a result of last summer’s realization that I Just Don’t Give a Fuck is quite a nice way to lead one’s life.  (As long as the concept of respect is kept well within one’s consideration, well…. in moderation at least.)  These activities I choose to become a part of, which go a long way in describing who I am, and my ever fading, almost non existent attempts at keeping people within one group in the dark about the other half of my social existence is why I am having a little trouble getting along with the other students and staff here.  They hear of me coming from New York by way of California and automatically have their impressions.  Throw in me being a Dubstep DJ and weed smoker and they automatically put on an edge that makes me rather read Hunter and Kerouac in the timber behind the tents wrapped in a hammock than sit and listen to them recite new country songs and racist jokes; BS lies of nonexistent sexual encounters and unbelievable made up on-the-spot hunting adventures.

Yes, instead of, like the others, worrying about finding a job with some local and backwards outfitter, who apparently is looking exactly for the type of good ole’ American retard I have just described, the only thing on my mind during our free time is to make sure I run my three miles a night to be in shape for the upcoming festival and figuring out the best way to get my container of acid passed customs on the canadian border.  (I think I will disperse the entire remainder of the vile, 4 drops at a time, onto however many Oreo cookies it takes in order to ditch the suspicious looking brown medicine dropper which has “Cold Remedy:  $5.99” hand written on the side in a pitiful effort to thwart the suspicions of any nosey officer of the law who might have stopped me on my drive from Cali to Montana, smelled marijuana, and looked in my grandfather’s old Swiss Army dop kit.)  I am motivated to get anything and everything I can out of this expensive educational experience, and do not regret coming here, however am daily finding myself bewildered as to how fucked up (although beautiful) the middle of our country can be at times, with the exception of places like Missoula.

I roll into the Miz, as I have just decided to call it, around 4:30 saturday afternoon in the second week of July.  With an empty stomach and a nose full of aderol I am excited to make attempts to seek out some fellow whompers, and see if its possible to play a set in one of the local bars.  I knew I would be in the area for a month and would kill for an opportunity to drop some real filth on the scene.  After a $4 cheese burger and a draft of locally brewed Moose Drool, I wander down the street into the a local smoke shop and start to chat it up with the tie died and stocky young man behind the counter, who was listening to some dubs on soundcloud as I walked in.  After a few minutes of small talk and banter he offered to meet me at his shop when he closed at ten and show me the scene and introduce me to some local promoters.  When we met up, after I found a cheap hotel and soaked in the hot tub, we went out for a bite to eat and some beers, and I began to see why the backwards fucks back in camp didn’t like the town… the exact reasons I did.  The head scene was very evident, and electronic music was in its blossoming stages of widespread acceptance in most of the bars that played music.  We finished our sandwiches and beers and ventured down the street by foot, as everything in the Miz is within a five minute walk, to meet some girls he knew. (one of whom was celebrating her twenty something birthday.) This is when I discovered my new friends roll as the local well known and connected middle man of rage supplies.  Due to a folk fest happening that night in Butte all of his friends who were normally working were out of town, and no Molly was to be found for us.  With our hopes for MDMA dashed by one last effort text message response, I felt obligated to offer everyone some of my untested, yet highly trusted, “cold medicine” I had back in the hotel.  Although not what they were looking for exactly, the girls were more than willing to accompany us back to the Bel Air motel to indulge in some super clean and semi strong liquid LSD and hash oil straight outta Humboldt County.  (I was planning on saving both of the substances until I arrived at Shambhala, giving my mind a month’s break from weed and psychedelics, however after dealing with the good ole boys from places like Georgia, West Virginia, Iowa and Idaho I felt the need to crack the noggin.  They were all back at the camp, chewing tobacco, laughing at each others insults; telling ever more bold lies to top each others’ lies, dribbling ignorant hatred for blacks and liberal scum in a similar fashion the Kodiak chewing tobacco dribbled from their pimpled and bearded lips.)

Within ten minutes we were back at the Bel Air motel, a rather clean facility considering its price.  The girls trusted me, a total stranger, foolishly possibly, with dosing them directly on their tongues.  “Only give me half of one, ok?  I got work tomorrow,” the birthday girl’s friend said as she opened her mouth and stuck out here tongue.  I gave a chuckling “Ok” as I squeezed the smallest drop I could onto her tongue, which we all know is never smaller than a normal drop, no matter how hard we try.  I was happy to hear that my new friend from the smoke shop, an ex marine and Iraq War veteran, was willing to take as much as I was willing to part with, which was 4 for him, and 4 for me.  With everyone in our party dosed, (except a rather annoying and bitchy plump friend who didn’t shut up about “I cant believe you guys are taking Acid!!,”) I rolled a joint heavily laced with crystalized hash oil and we were out the door to check out a local 3 man cover band at one of the more popular local bars.  Eyes lit, with a  double Jack on the rocks in hand and a Jimi Hendrix cover playing for us in the background I was happy to feel the drugs taking hold of the situation.  With a  confirming nod to my new pal, who smiled a wide understanding smile and nodded back, I said “I’m  going to go be a tourist,’ and sauntered over to the other side of the bar.  The walls were covered with historical western images of black and white gun powder photographs of the town a century ago.  Im a sucker for history, and didn’t mind if people saw me gawking at the pictures that most regulars of the bar hardly notice as they suck down their PBR tall boys and shots of Jameson.  The authentic and rustic decor of all the bars was pleasing, as it would have been a shameful display if one of the owners attempted to make the interior of such an old building look modernly chique and bushi.

As the night and the acid wore on, we bounced from bar to bar, after losing, or being lost by, I should say, the girls that we showed up with.  I hardly cared as a one night romance was far from my mind.  I was in a dangerous mood to get hammered drunk and while out to some whomps of any kind, and as we arrived at the bar which the most popular local DJ was playing I knew it was time to do just that.  Switching from Jack Daniel’s to $3 PBR tall boys for my wallets sake I attempted to get into the top 40 trance UNTZ mixes that was pumping through the house system, however could not.  Sensing my disapproval of the selection my new buddy went over and shouted under the table on stage to the DJ after giving me the international symbol for “1 sec.”  Within a matter of 2 songs the mood shifted to the dark and simple, yet highly destructive sounds of Dubstep.  With a wink and a nod to my new homie, approving his move, I proceeded to get my audible fix, spilling Pabst on my sleeve and bumping into everyone.  Several minutes later, after a mediocre blend back into some poppy dance genres, I snapped out of my daze and realized that due to my “cold medicine’s” effect I was being extremely clumsy.  I had the lower limb control of a darted orangutan, drenched in sweat attempting to evade my handlers who were trying to get me out of the food court at the zoo for the sake of the horrified spectators.  With a hint of embarrassment, only a slight hint however, I signaled for a cig and went outside.  “Man this festival is gonna kick my ass, I gotta start running 4 miles a day,” I said as I took a long ironic drag from my cigarette.

The night progressed with a similar tone for the rest of the evening.  The acid was clean and affected the body more heavily than the head.  Visuals were sparing and weak, however me and my new pal frequently erupted into giggle fits beyond our control, and having him there with me was quite a relief.  (If I had not have been with him I would have been no doubt in the same state, however alone, and the image of a six foot three inch acid head rolling in laughter with beer spilled on his shirt would have evoked quite a different reaction from the locals.)  After last call and things around the town took their time winding down we were still extremely high and walked to the river to come off a bit with some bowls of the potent hash oil as the city began setting up for the Missoula Marathon the next day.  I had noticed earlier in the night that Ana Sia from Frisco was coming to town the next saturday, and decided then and there that I would have to come back.  My new pal was heading to NY for Bisco, so I would have to venture this one alone, on acid no doubt, with a press pass and my camera, and a different Hawaiian shirt.