WhutsHappening

"Where you Stay?" Politics as Usual?

Oh me oh my, a good old American election year. So dependably full of fluff and mud and the illusion of representative government. After having lived in the high-desert country of Kawaihae without internet or cable for 4 months, the shock and idiocy that we recognize as a "campaign" is frightening. As someone with the unique advantage of being outside the mainstream media for a while, I felt it necessary to comment on the goings on that I have recently become acquainted with. My first, and probably favorite bit of our mainstream society, something that is at the same time hilarious and deeply frightening, is FOX news.

Lord help us. If we remember correctly, it was FOX back in 2000 that was the first to announce that Bush, not Gore, won the election. What really happened there? WE do not know because all three branches of the government decided it wasn't worth the time to find out, but I am 'radical' enought to believe that those Florida votes were not handled correctly, and yes, Bush winning was a fraud from the very start. Now Fox, which still decries "We report, you decide" with a straight face, is doing its best to aggrandize lil' Miss Palin, explain to the American people that Barrack HUSSEIN Obama is realy a terrorist, and carry on self-proclaimed spinless dish of right-spun headlines. Do you watch FOX? Do you have any friends or family that believe it is real news? PLEASE get them to read or watch Outfoxed, an amazing look at arguably the greatest corporate-right-wing propoganda machine in the 'free' world. I went on a network news binge after the most recent VP and Pres debates, and was astounded to find the shit that FOX would put out there as fact. My personal favorite, which of course the greatest source of real news on TV THE Daily Show did not miss, was the post debate polls that showed Palin and McCain winning 82% to 18%. HAHAHHAHAAH. Seriously. The only people that would believe the cultish drivel that comes out of that network are the poeple that ONLY WATCH FOX. The good news is that is probably the same 25% of Americans that still think Bush is doing a great job, and are never going to open their minds to reality anyway. As part of my network news coverage binge, I also went on websites of FOX and tried to log into thier blogs. I was unsuccessful, either because my computer was tweaking, or the blogs don't even really work, or have some filtering process (you have to log in with an email address, and nowadays it is not unrealistic for Conservative propoganda machines to screen thoughts from outsiders to make sure they are rank and file; just think about any Bush townhall meeting or letter to O'Reilly.) I will not get started on the abusive FAS Egomaniac in a suit that is O'Reilly, because he is an excercise in innanity and buried insecurity and Mommy/Daddy issues that deserves his own piece. On the bright side, online a found a site called newshounds, whose tagline is "We watch FOX so you don't have to." Good stuff, cause I go crazy watching those freaky fox puppets talk. I thought Dennis Miller was a Libertarian, and even smart! I was heartened by MSNBC, and things like 'Countdown with Keith Olberman', who seems to find Fox's rants as hilariously disconcerting as many of us. It was, to me, the closest thing to intelligent reporting that I have seen on TV. Headline News is almost in the middle, it seemed like some of the reports were, believe it or not, IMPARTIAL, but then Glenn Beck came on and ruined it with his BS about the PBS mediator writing a book about black politics and being pro-Obama. People!!! Both campaigns agreed about having her as a mediator and KNEW about the book. She'd been writing it for a YEAR, and it was already available for pre-order. But Mr. Beck stretched it as far as could, pretending like it was a surprise. How do these people sleep at night? I do not know.
CNN has never given me any reason to suspect them. Are they left-leaning, and I just can't see it cause I am a liberal just like the conservatives can't tell they're being duped. Maybe, but I am libertarian enough to not put up with fluff. I know Pelosi can get a little detatched from reality; who knows if she has ever actually run a business or been poor. I know that Clinton was an infedelious fucker who lied in court. Should it have been an impeachable publicly displayed circus: fuck no. Talk about partisan madness magnified by a littte bit of scandilous rich-white-and-bored sexual madness, I can't believe that is how the 90's ended: the greatest President of our generation talking about a blowjob in front of the Senate. But at least Bill was smart, and wasn't a fascist biblical literalist with a little club of idiots with an agenda who started what will be the longest American war in history. Let's impeach the "Shock and Awe" retard that got us into this mess. Gotta feed the Military Economic Machine though, right. Ah, I guess we are a company of tradition, aren't we. Goes all the way back to the Revolutionary War, really. But it really has always been about money, right? Our founding fathers were the richest men in the United States, or affiliated with them, so why would the Right-Wing operate any other way? I don't deny Democratic special interests, but teachers and union-members are not corrupt, greedy misogonists, or at least not on the order of the Richest 1-5% that the Republican party (and yes, to some degree those Dems too) seem to hold so dear.

The second scary reality I have come across is conservative talk radio. I am going to find out exactly how many people listen to this stuff, but if it is more than a couple million, be afraid. The current topic in the Right wing echo chamber know as Michael Medved and Hugh Hewwit is a dirt-searching campaign to use some of Obama's past relationships to infer (in a subtly racist/religiousist color) that he is some sort of terrorist. Obama has been friends and political allies with the likes of Bill Ayers, radicals who fought against both the war in Vietnam and the corrupt war-mongering polital system in general-even bombing the Pentagon as part of the Weather Underground. The most striking thing that happens when listening the these fear-mongers, is though they are disclosing that Obama has "Palled around with radicals" to try and help McCain close the HUGE lead that Obama has, it actually makes libertarian liberals like me believe more that Obama is capable of change than before. As the right winger play more and more soundbites from these people talking about overthrowing the system of destruction and greed that has led us, well, to the current economic and international disaster, it gives me more hope for real change in the future. The Republican uber-freemarket deregulatory philosophy is basically what led to the first S&L crisis in the early 80's, as well as the subprime mortgage mess that is still unraveling. The basic Republican philosophy is that you only need a small middle class to form a buffer between those in Poverty, and those that do not actually have to work to survive. Further, they Rebublicans (especially the current administration) and their AM squawkers foment a much more frightening political philosophy than the socialist tendencies of the left: fascism. Defined by a militant, nationalistic goverment with a very small psuedo-elected elite, and based on building up fear against a scapegoat-enemy (in this case the 'War on Terror" which is still the greatest nonsense , fear-inducing idea of my generation: that by creating more war and terror, we will reduce terror and war) and a scapegoat (which is at times 'the terrorists', at times the next country we want to invade, and at times anyone promoting pacifism and cooperation). But the radioheads show how small-minded and warped thier thinking is when they play 'radical' ideas like "America is the greatest promotor of war and terror in the world" and then scoff at the speakers as "Un-American". If there is any question that we are the most effective modern murderers of civilians, just read up on Vietnam and our Iraq invasion. A die-hard Republican will never admit that the US has done any military wrong, or that there is any other way to handle things than by subjugation and bombing of whomever we decide to invade in order to secure their resources or expand our range of influence. The reality of course is much different. PLEASE!!! get yourself to read The People's History of the United States by Howard Zinn before you get old an set in your ways, or even if you already are. We all know the history we learned in school was misrepresentative and selective, so try this little sample of the People's history. Our whole history reads like a modern Roman or British Empire epic, complete with psychotic power centers and elitist philosphy. Yes, we were at one time a bastion of freedom and rebel ideas, but for the past two centuries we have been the system that the we were once fighting against. The tables have turned, but it is taking a long time to figure out we are on the wrong side again. The AM radio guys are worse than FOXNEWS (they are actually produced and funded by FOX anyway) about screening callers and making sure no one really gets to talk about how stupid they are. Masters they are at timing breaks and interrupting callers to make sure that they appear to be somewhat intellectual messiahs, defending the rights of the right wing and attacking anything populace oriented. The two or three times I have called I get no answer at all. Nowadays I just listen in for 5 or 10 minutes and then I can guess that whole rest of the show. Fucking capitalistic fucks will take marching orders from the mighty dollar any day, whether it be the 24 minutes of commercials per hour, or the book they are trying to promote. They probably believe what they say now, but there is no denying that at some point thier motives were influenced but the dream of massive wealth. There is more to this world. I am not a believer in outright communism or socialism, but this capitalist system is broken, and it is OK to look at other forms of government with an open mind! Communism is not a bad word, any more than the Plutocracy we are in. We already dealt with McCarthyism a generation ago, and I think even Republicans can agree that witchhunting was a pretty embarrasing for our 'free' Nation then. It still is now, Mike and Hugh, it still is now.

The reality is, what we are saturated with every day in the mainstream media is not a liberal slant as FOX would like us to think. IT is quite simply an edited and carefully filtered sample of reality as told by the four major companies that own all Media in the US. There is no doubt that this country truly is great, and free, exeplified by the fact that I can write and post this blog addressing some of our errant ways. Though China just hosted the Olympics and is the fastest growing economy in the world, thier internet is still monitored by government watchdogs (as ours is) but also immediately censored. The main difference between the two politcal controls, is that in the US, we are distracted by consumerism and pop-culture (have you watched MTV these days-what happened to MUSIC Videos and subversive culture. If you are Hills watcher, which I just watched for the first time, GET A FUCKING LIFE FOR GODS SAKE!!!) while in China they are still figuring that out, so they muzzle you, or steal your home if you are getting in the way of the government-industrial complex.

For the most part, what we are missing as a society is an educated public who have any sense of what is going on in the world, much less the true history that led us here. Only you can change that. Only you can make yourself NOT ignorant. You don't have to be a historian, but it wouldn't hurt to turn off MTV for 30 minutes, and read a book, or turn off FOX for an hour, and listen to OPB. The shit is hitting the fan right now, in the Middle East and at home, because we assumed that the Government was our buddy, and would always watch out for us. The reality is, our job is to watch the Government, and watch our for ourselves. So, I challenge you, go online, go to Wikipedia or OPB or anything not corporately sponsored, and learn. One final idea for all you that already have an open mind: Google or Youtube Zeitgeist. That is what opening your mind is really about. Shoots, WJB

Glorious Oregon and The Adult Playground, Pt 5.

The BBQ was complete with toasts and speeches made by family members, the best of course coming from Grandpa, who despite battling cancer, was still lively and joshing as he presided over his eldest granddaughters wedding.  The speeches were slightly teary-eyed, and it became clear that these two, Casey and Nicole, were really sort of heroes in their own social circles.  Good, genuine, dependable people who had found each other in the fray.  I will include in this story a copy of Casey's brothers wedding speech with sums it up well-one of those couples that you can tell are getting married for all the right reasons, and even at the right time.  Oh happy day.

It was even a happier evening as the open bar served its purpose.  Before the afternoon was half through, the bottles that had been selected for the occasion were nearing empty, and the white table cloths had been well-soaked in carmel-colored booze, and red wine.  Even the 18 year olds had drinks in hand.  This free-for-all easily transitioned into the nights entertainment: Bean-bag Toss!  (Which I recently found out is technically called CORNHOLE Board Toss.  Now that is just funny.)

Apparently all the rave in certain Chicago social scenes, the game is simple.  Throw the bean bags, usually underhand, into the CORNhole!  IF the bag goes through the hole, it is three points, if it lands on the board, it is one point.  Play to 21, win by two, teams of 2, horseshoe style set up.

My first game I got put with one of the many uncles, against another uncle and his son.  We held our own for a while, but it was just like playing a video game against people that own the game-they have that touch more experience that helps them win.  Also my partner missed a bunch of key shots; I, on the other hand, was in that drunk zone that makes it possible to play games like Pool and CORNHOLE Board toss better than if I were sober.  I was nailing the cornhole, you might say, but in a good way.  However, my competitor Tim, was more familiar with the game, and swished the last beanbag right through the cornhole.  I resumed patronizing the free bar, and eventually made it around for another round, this time with big cousin Jade, who looked kinda like Shaq after he learned to shoot free-throws as he shot overhand, an anomaly in the world of Cornhole Board.  This game, again against Tim and a different Uncle, was even closer, and we had to go into extra-cornhole boards to determine a winner.  Damn Midwesterners won again...

That evening was as glorious as the previous in its conjunction of happy family, the Adult Playground, and mild inebriants.  I got to talk with Sara's little (I call the 18 year olds little, now, I am getting old) cousins about their view of the world.  It happened to include magical herbs, the same potion that I was keen on in my past, as well as formation of bands, more herbs, and even some books.  Of Kerouac, Stephan impressed me with his assertion that Dharma Bums, was even better than my current read, On The Road.  These young whipper snappers seem to be either way smarter, or way dumber than I remember being at that age.  By that I mean they are either politically literate, well-read pseudo-activists, or ragingly ignorant celebreality fans who mimic what they see on T.V., and are sexually active at an age where I still thought Oral sex was when you talked about it over the phone or something.  Stephan and Cole seemed to be the latter...

Sara was busy catching up with the massive family, and their interminable affairs (One uncle was getting divorced, another was trying to deal with his awkward teenage daughter and so on...)  At times that night I was left alone to smoke and wander the complex.  Oregon summer nights are as brilliant as their days, as the river wind cools the streets and stirs the firs and fruit trees that thrive in our dependable dampness.  Tomorrow was the Ceremony, tonight was for celebrating, and like college kids on Sunriver or Shasta trip, we forgot the world for a few days, and made our own little world here at the Edgefield, Oregon's Adult Playground.

Glorious Oregon pt.4 (Part One)

We awoke in a little bit of a daze and donned sunglasses to go the The Black Rabbit Grill for breakfast.  I think I got an omelete but I can't really remember.  I know I got a bloody mary.  This and a smoke started out the day right, and after a little hanky-panky back at the room, it was time for golf.  I'd been trying to train for the occasion by golfing my local course, but it turned out it was just a pitch and put.  I borrowed a sand wedge and putter, bought a couple cigars, and yes, a pint, and we were on our way.  Sara chose to come out with the boys instead of tie ribbons with the girls (which later became a small point of contention.  Bridesmaids, keep in mind that to be a good Bridesmaid, you must not only satisfy the brides verbal requests, but also read her mind!).  It was me and Sara, Dane, Sara's cousin (all 6' 7" of him) and Chris, one of the other BM's fiance's (why is it that marriage seems to spread like a virulent infection.  Really...).  Chris was kicking all of our asses at first, basically by not playing like an idiot while we did.  It is amazing how hard a simple par 3 course can be if your first shot sucks.  The raging Oregon sun sucked the beer from our veins so we looked over every rise and fall for the drink cart, but lo, it was not there.  Somewhere around the 10th hole (of 21) we sent the now over-golf Sara back to the beer shack.  Now mind you we had some dozen foursomes on the course, all dudes, and all experiencing the same beer-withdrawals; but somehow my baby made it past the $100 dollar bribes to bring us two pitchers of Rubenator across the rolling hills-she may have had a halo, at this point, I believe. 

After giving up on whacking the little white balls, Sara became the ball retriever/discoverer.  I believe she found an average of 3 balls a hole over the last 10 holes, with the bramble-cuts to show how commited her search had been.  I worried about her bleeding, she worried about what the bride would say...

After a bit of time to clean up, the reception barbeque was fast-approaching.  Sara and I got into our slightly fancy clothes (once you move to the islands, your 'dress-up' clothing doesn't go beyond linen pants and a button-up shirt-a fact that I have no problem with) and decided to, you guessed it, grab a drink.  True to McMenamins high standards of random perfection, right past Sara's mom's room was a tiny little pub (called such, I believe).  We split a beer and a quessadilla, but were caught by Nicole, who kindly hid her concern as she explained that there was going to be lots of food at the barbeque.  We felt mothered, but understood.  It must be hard being a bride-kind of like putting on a show for your whole family, with a cast that only gets to practice once, and it is taped, live.  Salon.com had a great article on drawing the line as a bridesmaid that talked about requests for cosmetic surgery, and/or fitness programs.  My favorite was the bridesmaid for a mormon, who wasn't a mormon, and was asked to stand outside the church and ask people "Are you a believer in Jesus and the Book of Mormon?" and if not, not let them in the temple.  I am sorry, but Mormons just don't make any sense in the end, no matter how rich they are...

The barbeque was dank, and though it was just gourmet burgers, potato salad and chips, I'm sure it was like three grand, not counting the open bar.  I was in charge of the music, and I found an outlet and hid the Ipod dock in the shrubs.  Dire Straits, Jack Johnson and others played while the guests took thier seats.  Another priceless feature of weddings is the slapdash variety of ages and types of people, and the desultory development of thier interactions.  Sara and I sat next to Chris and Verinda, as well as the random cousins who spent most of the time discussing thier Magic Cards tip books, and the corresponding powers of thier main characters.  One of the kids was probably 12, and the other, of course, was only like 9.  I tried to talk magic with them to no avail-sometimes I am such an ignorant bastard.

TBC...

Glorious Oregon Pt. 3

Glorious Oregon pt. 3

The show was great even through the fence, and Death Cab jammed their flowing finale as the late summer sun disappeared through the evening trees.  With no specific agenda, we moseyed toward Lucky Staley's, the pool hall bar to continue our consumption of delicious draft beer.  Here we had some half dozen pool tables and an old-school billiard table, as well as my favorite bar pastime: Pinball.  I can't say exactly when the simple analog contraptions stole my heart, but the affair has been grand and varied for at least the last 4 years.  The very first tastes were much further back; Cyclone, Terminator, even FIFA soccer from 1994.  But the true romance began with the modern classics: Lord of the Rings, Pirates of the Caribbean, Simpsons, and most recently Family Guy.  During my time as a District Manager for Cutco in Eugene, working horrible 70 hour weeks in the middle of the summer, I could often be found spending my off-hours in the infamous Horsehead Pub and John Henry's with a pint of Mirror Pond and a few extra credits from hitting replays.  One of the joys of the beat Eugene pubs is the music is almost always solid-Radiohead, Star Sailor, Yeah Yeah Yeahs and the likes; perfect background jams for the courtship of a big glass-covered maze.  After a year or so I was addicted.

My tiny Island is nearly sans pinball, so when I saw the Gone Fishin', and Royal Flush machines at Staley's, I was beyond stoked.  Soon enough I was settled in, this time with the Rubenator that flowed so free on the trip, and happy, but unimpressed with the formats for the games.  Can't stand it when they don't have even a few seconds of ball-save for those times when it shoots the ball straight down the middle.  The games kept me entertained until I was good and buzzed, and the rest of the family arrived.

Again, the Piebald family is rather large, as is the Ornel clan.  As one of the only relative strangers, I had the opportunity to observe the masses in their habitat: usually a festive, multi-generational reunion that brought out the drinker in all.  Pizza's were ordered, I personally bought a few cookies and oranges from the bar, and pitchers were a plenty.  I was privy to a three brother chat, Tim (Sara's Dad) and Tom and Kevin.  They were reminiscing on the injuries they had sustained at different times, disputing the number of stitches and severity of head wounds, and and recounting who had broken who's arm.  The energy of the whole pub, though it was a dimly lit and dark-wooded old place, was magnificent.  Here was a family that could drink steadily into the night without "assing-out" as we used to call in the Frat, or losing their ability to have a generally sensical conversation.  Groups moved and morphed as families came and went.  Soon after chatting with the old guys, I found myself hanging with just-graduated-from-highschool Cole who had acquired a glass drinking boot, about a pint and a half, which he fanagled ways to keep full throughout the night.  I ended up playing a game of pool with Matt, Tim's friend and coworker, who was one of the few 30-somethings there.  This garrulous chap wore a beard and long hair the likes of Grizzly Adams, but spoke softly.  I scratched on the Eight ball and they won, but all was fun, and all the games were just a means to mingle.  I joined the wedding party booth for a while, bartering a piece of cookie for a piece of pizza.  We'd all lost track of time, rightly so, and just kept ordering beers of different kinds taking breaks only to go for different types of smoke breaks.

As hours blended into one another so did families and friends, strangers and acquaintances, tastes and time and thoughts of sleep.  At some unknown hour Sara and I moseyed back the house right down the way from the pool hall.  We had pitch-and-put golf to look forward to the next day, as well as the reception barbecue, and of course beanbag game.  After a final smoke in the warm night we passed people from our wedding party as well as a two or three others going on at the same time.  We nodded goodnight to a few on the stoop, and found sweet sleep in our antique room on the second floor.  It was a good first day for all.

Glorious Oregon Pt. 4

Glorious Oregon and The Adult Playground, Pt 1.

Ever since moving to Hawaii last year and living amidst the paradise that people save all year to experience, my vacations have been back to old Glorious Oregon to search out the undiscovered nooks and crannies that bear little note when they are in your backyard.  Much like the Kiwis I used to meet in N Zed who had never been to the South Island though it was a short ferry ride to what was essentially a different country.

This meander back home was inspired by my girlfriends sisters wedding (ah, going to weddings with the partner, one of the secret symbols that things are getting serious) which due to brilliant foresight on the part of the families, was going to be at the McMenamins Edgefield, a quintessential complex of brews, gardens, eateries, and general adult distraction.  Built on the remnants of what was once a poor farm and then an old folks home, the maze of buildings range from the Main Lodge with massive porches touting rocking chairs and swings, to the Little Red Barn Bar in the midst of the vegetable garden, to the most recent addition of the soaking pools by the spa.  All of this was relayed to me sporadically over the preceding months as I was slowly deciding that it was worth $750 bucks to fly out for less than a week, both to support my wonderful GF, and to experience the abundance of the grounds at the expense of the parental units; I may be in my late 20's, but I'm gonna milk this "kid" thing for all it's worth before I find myself being father of the bride (hopefully not for three more decades). 

The ticket just fit in my budget, and I flew a red-eye a few days after Sara as I was not obligated to be there for all the wedding party preparations.  I have learned that the secret of Red-Eye travel is to make sure you are tired enough to fall asleep near the beginning of the journey, and just keep napping the whole way.  With only mild consumption of inebriates, success, and suddenly I'd time-warped to SFO, losing three hours and arriving around dawn.  Indubitably, my flight itinerary, which for reasons known only to the confounded arbiters of air travel, went north all the way to Seattle before returning south to PDX.  I made a few buddies while standing in front of the departures board staring at the dozens of delayed flights including ours to Seattle.  They were looking into a Eugene flight, and on to PDX and found a way on as well, instead of waiting to be stranded in Seattle.  Worst case scenario I was only 2 hours away and had quite a few connections in my old hometown.  I was the last person on the plane as the frazzled Asian ticket-tearer punched the computer and ran off to some other delayed flight gate.

Blink, yawn, and we're landing in Eugene.  Oh, Oregon, you really are as East coasters stereotype: an expanse of farmland interspersed with the odd College Town, and intersected by ranging, rugged roads to the West over the Coast Range to the churning shore, and elevating east over the Cascades into the high desert (see BEND in Off the Mountain, on the Trail).  But they don't know your secrets, being that you are the only real secret left after the west-going wolves took over California with their now-burst real-estate bubble.  But Oregon, those Little towns-Eugene, Corvallis, Bend, Ashland-are just jumping off points for innumerable destinations; chilly Triangle Lake hiding in the hills, Silver waterfalls flowing just to the east, Cougar Hot Springs tucked next to the cold western reservoir where only the locals know.  Even though it was summer, the deep greenery marked my brief return to what I called home for two-years after graduating from OSU just to the North.  Of course there was a track event going on in Runtown USA, Olympic Trials at famous Hayward Field I'm sure, and everyone friendly and organic.  I poked around the uncrowded gate and found my way onto a flight departing to Portland in an hour.  Even the Airport food prices weren't the shameful inflation of SFO, and I ate an $8 Focacio concoction as I dug the college kids and the general calm.

Another blip in time and I touched down at Portland International, 20 minutes earlier than I would have on my original itinerary.  My girl and her parents would be coming by on their way from Astoria, the coastal hometown where Sara and my younger sister had been best friends a decade ago.  Astoria has always been a tourist destination, both as the gateway from the Columbia to the Pacific, and historically as the end of the Oregon Trail.  John Jacob Astor was a wealthy fur trader (it seems all our namesake American Hero's have some skeletons in the closet: Jefferson's slave sex, Fords Naziizm, Rockefeller's worker suppresion and blatant political bribery.  Our town, and the Waldorf Astoria, were named after a baby seal clubber) and built the town up in the 19th century.  Once a Salmon Fishing and Logging Mecca, it hit hard times in the 90's as resources diminished, and rose like a phoenix into what Sunset Magazine called "one of the best places to retire".  For the urban youth, the Urban Cafe, and Fort George Brewery, have provided dependable diversions, whereas when I lived there we were reduced to smoking under the piers and going on "loopers" an activity that will have to be elaborated in a later blog. Sara's parents still resided in this dynamic coast town, her father a contractor/builder who had built and sold homes almost singlehandedly for the past 30 years.  He was a savvy, overworked dad of two beautiful daughters who'd gone from a party-happy young man raising his babies in a half-built house, to well-known local craftsman able to bankroll his eldest daughters three-day dream-wedding without missing a step.  Sara told me he had nails in his leg from an accident that he'd just shrugged off--back to work!

Her mother was a happy, strong woman who told me later she knew I loved her daughter partially because of the CD I'd made her, including Neal Young's Heart of Gold.  Hmmm.  Dad was the eldest of Ten siblings, all of whom would be at the wedding with their wives and husbands and offspring, and so I was in for the whole gauntlet of familial introductions and inquisitions and assessments that goes with being the boyfriend of the Maid of Honor, and the BF who whisked her off to some archaic volcanic Isle from whence no one had known her fate.  So I was in for a adventure on all ends.  Soon enough it began, as I saw the old blue Chevy with the bed-cover roll up to the recently renovated PDX arrivals area.  I tossed my small bag in the back amongst cases of wine, an assortment of wedges and putters for the Pitch and Put, workman's tools, and what would become one of the most exciting and contentious features for this Chicago-based side of the family: The Beanbag Toss Game.  For now it was small talk and travel empathy, but within hours we'd be filling 1L mason jars with chromatic micro-brews and shouting into the summer night.

Glorious Oregon Pt. 2

Glorious Oregon pt.2

Before heading East on I-84 to the fabled Edgefield, we had a few stops to make. We carved our way through the suburban perfection that is SW Portland to the local Raccoon Lodge, a suburban attempt at a microbrew that was tasty, but unoriginal; my Pale Ale was tepid, and Sara's fruitbrew was expectedly discordant (the only fruit brew that I have ever found true to its beer roots and improved by addition is Lilikoi infused Wailua Wheat, one of the famous Kona Brews).  Here we watched the kids eat chicken strips, and everyone marveled at how much everyone had grown, and Sara told me the unseen mini-drama's taking place in each family (as seems to be the theme for any extended family; if you have enough relatives, there are bound to be a few freaks).  Most of the Piebald (Sara's Dad's) side of the family was from Chicago, so this was "out west" to them and they all commented on the Oregon greenery.  After some shuffling around and fraternal fuss over who would pay the bill, Uncle Kevin won, so Dad gave Sara the twenty that Kevin wouldn't take.  Sara just looked at the twenty and laughed as we moseyed out of the restaurant into the hot Portland summer.

The rest of the Family would first assemble at Aunt Maria's house in SW Portland before heading to their respective lodgings.  I'd been here before, briefly, for a Cinco de Mayo/Birthday/Family Dance party so I knew to expect a wholesome, eccentric scene complete with a house full of artifacts from a life of travels, some sumptuous home-cooked concoction, and a tree house nestled in the wood next to the rope swing.  Sure enough, once we tracked down Maria she busted open the well-stocked cooler (I am a beer snob and will take three Newcastles or Widmers over six Coor's Lights any day of the week) and a large Crockpot of Jumbalaya w/rice; a perfect pick-me-up after my journey.  As we ate, the rest of the family started to trickle in with their spouses and children and the stream of introductions began.  Uncle Rick had driven from Chicago in a beast of a vehicle, a Woody Wagon reminiscent of National Lampoon's Family Vacation, but even more immense and complete with bikes on the back and luggage to windows; it was a Grand Cruiser or yore and all oogled it and kicked the tires for a few minutes.  I met Aunt Vickie who lived in the Bahamas with her Foundation-managing husband who told me about his elbow-rubbing with the likes of the Gates family and others; apparently everyone else already knew the story by heart.

After committing all the names to memory with mnemonic trickery (Uncle Tom was Tall) and by matching the names to the innumerable family reunion stories that Sara had shared, I actually had all the key players memorized by the time we headed to the McMenamins.  We competed with Death Cab for Cutie concert parking for a bit, but veered off to the hotel guest parking area as we would be there for the next three days.  After unloading the cases of wine, our bags, the Bean Bag Game, and the assorted clubs the parents drove off to their hotel as we walked around the grassy shaded yard like the giddy kids we were.  Eventually we walked across the street to the little brick building that housed the spa to track down the key to our lodging.

Right away you knew it was a special place because the key was...an actual key.  Many a younger person may have never stayed in a hotel/hostel that uses real keys but instead a plastic card; I say the best places still use the metal ones.  The place was unlocked anyway, and we entered what was essentially a three floor mansion, with a total of 6 bedrooms, a full kitchen, a scary basement door that was locked but still had light coming from within, and a wicked mean stoop.  The stoop would become our gathering place, a neutral area where the different contingents of this party would blend and intermix.  This was the wedding party house, so only the groomsmen, bridesmaids, and their dates stayed here, and we maximized the broad steps leading up to the creaky old door standing and sitting and smoking and spitting like we lived in the neighborhood.

The first afternoon consisted of smoking on the stoop and talking about great old live performers, like Willie Nelson, and shitty old live performers like Bob Dylan.  I've never seen Willy (sadly) but apparently he is an eye-contact freak and just gets in everyones heads to make em feel special.  I did see Bob Dylan in Gill Coliseum back in 2001 and I don't think the guy was using real words half the time, but instead sounded like a Alzheimer-Afflicted poet who was just too tired to keep it up.  I'm gonna have to check the Willie Nelson tour dates.  We also talked beer, and of course, wedding.  Nicole, Sara's sister, had just finished Med School in Sana Fran and was working in the Free Clinic as her first job.  Most of her bridesmaids were from they Bay are, great girls who you could tell had to pay attention to what to wear, as they were in the big City.  I knew Emily from high school back in Astoria, but hadn't seen each other in a decade.  I must say, it is odd to see people that you messed around with in youth, even innocently, after they are married and settled.  I think we humans create our images of people that we haven't seen in awhile, and these ideas are crushed when you see them in person.  I felt a little like the crew of Bay Area folk thought of Sara and I a bit as the Hawaii bumpkins-I thought of them as the prisoners of the City, to some degree imprisoned by being part of the yuppie scene.  The reality was, we had a lot in common, but while we were camping in Waipio Valley (see Going Down in Waipio Town), they were having Burgers and Beer at hip downtown eateries like Henry's.  The groomsmen, friends and family of Casey Ogden, who was in Orthodontic school in SF, were more my type (maybe just cause they were dudes) and I made buddies with Chris and Carson, Casey's brother.  Carson, we would find out, was a bit of a stoner wanderer poet, and Chris had a Masters in Chinese, but had decided not move there after beating thyroid cancer and determining the ~550 ppm pollution count in People's Republic might not be conducive to remission.  Pesky Chinese carcinogens-I still wonder at how they duped the world into thinking they would clean up their pollution and fascism in time for the Olympics-not going to happen any time soon, from the looks of things.  We were a rowdy crew, ready to soak up the three days of "adult" wonderland with our new and old brethren.

Just as the air started to cool, but long before the 9:30 sunset, Death Cab started in on their often-hypnotic, unique emo show.  DCFC is like one of those worthless Mainstream formula movies, but with a twist you never guessed-they keep you on your toes enough to be entertaining, and teeter on the edge of self-obsessed poetic run-on verses.  I'd seen them once before at at Secret House Winery in Veneta, OR, a right good time dining on fine local cheeses and sipping luscious red wine as Death Cab played against a hay bail backdrop.  I wouldn't say I am a "fan" per se, but I get lost in some of their tracks, like the one that goes "high-way, high-way, high-way, high-way" and also that one that goes "I need you so much closer" over and over and over.  That night they were perfect, as they breezed from the main stage across the grassy knoll into our living room and up the creaky stairs to the hardwood floor rooms and out onto the balcony.  Our fridge was stocked both with shitty Budweiser (we're at a brewery, people) and a half dozen Liter mason jars of McMenamins Drafts with metal lids that would become a touchstone of the trip.  Oh Rubenator, you naughty, naughty brew-how dare you combine the mediocre Ruby Ale, and Stout Terminator drafts in perfect harmony to dance amongst my taste buds like the transcendent nectar you are.  Aahhhhh.  As I sipped my mixture and smoked a spliffy, the layered sounds of the concert washed over our lucky few, as well as the entire rest of the complex.  I got to look down from the balcony of our room at the scene on the stoop, the brothers and sisters (Uncles and Aunts) and their families started to visit our little home, and by the time I wandered off with Sara to watch the show the stoop had representation from at least three generations and as many states.  I could only smile goofily at my good fortune as I grabbed my babies waist and nodded my way through the scene at all my new friends.  Tomorrow was the "Rehearsal Dinner" which had evolved, in an attempt by DAD to include everyone, into a rehearsal for the wedding party, followed by a catered BBQ for all 60 of us.  Oh, and don't forget the open bar.

Glorious Oregon Pt. 3

Snacks and Supplies (Outback part 3)

So we boarded back up, checked for our seat neighbor, and pulled the beast of a bus away from the snack schack, and further west. I later found out that the umbral shadow (the place on the earth where the eclipse is total) really was out in the middle of nowhere. We were going to be about sixty kilometers from the nearest Town of Lindhurst, a town of eighty individuals, and much like Burning Man in the middle of Arizona, we were going to be completely reliant on what we packed in. Interestingly enough, I had no food with me, and actually no cash either. I had a bottle of water, and guitar, though, and of course Taku, and the rest of the good people around me, so my spirits remained high.

As the bus trundled along, seats changed, mix tapes were passed forward and back, and new little friendships and alliances were formed among the different little sections of seating. I didn’t end up hanging with Taku as much as I might have liked, due to our speach barrier, but I did glean a few things. First, he was going to try to meet up with some of his friends, but I could share his two-man tent. Second, he was going to blaze some up this trip; not only on spliffies, but fire-staff and fire-poi too. I have always had a secret desire to learn fire-dancing, and made a point to track down the fire circle in all its burning beauty.

I ended up getting to know a couple of the Brasilian lads a few seats back, as a tiny bit of Portugese was the only language I knew other than worthless German. I took German for two years in highschool, but because I was fulfilling a requirement, and rebeling against the evil Mrs. Bowler the whole time, I remember very little. I had spent less than a month in Brasil, but because I wanted to be there and learn, it stayed in my brain ten times better. What is the better teacher, school or travel? I say travel, but I am prejudiced.

So I ended up talking about Brasil with my new Homies Fabricio and Andre. Throught thier connection, I also met Layla, Thatianna, and Adrianna, who were just as beautiful and exotic as the Israelis. WE all took turns twisting to talk the person behind us, or turning talk to the peeps across. Every few hours we would stop at some ramshackle roadside schack, and everyone would light something, pee, sometimes snack, and stretch a bit. We knew we’d been cruising at nearly 100K through the rolling desert, which would put us on location sometime in the middle of the night. It didn’t really matter, there were no showers waiting for us there, only desert, and trucked in water. Before long I would be running behind the water truck, moslty naked, half-washing my dusted red body, and then air-drying in the warmth. Around supper, we swung into the Ranch House, a restaraunt which pretty much was a Ranch house, but the Outback version (isn’t it hard not to think of the Restaraunt-persistant advertising soaks into your being, altering your id and ego). This was giant plank barn-building wooden floors. They knew we wer coming, apprently, cause they had big bowls of salad, corn on the cob, and rolls for everyone, and then you chose a main meat: emu, beef or chicken. I don’t know where they got the chickens, but maybe it was just past the pens where they kept the emu’s, those giant dinosaur birds. Can you imagine if they had raptor teeth and were a little smarter?

For some reason I did not get my hands, or teeth, on any of the emu, but the rest of the spread was delectable, nice and hearty to fit in with our rugged journy. WE must have been a sight coming through these small towns, all flowing skirts, and oversized sunnies, and wierd hair, clamoring through this ancient farmland. Of course it was all really aboriginal land, but natives these days don’t seem to have the say to any of their native lands, white men have seen to that. The same cows that supported this little Resteraunt Oasis were probably part of the reason that those original British Australians had rounded up the natives to cure them of thier savagery and take from them any valuable resources. Pretty much same old story, just like the Natives in the Americas, but in the Southern hemisphere

We piled back into the bus, some people switching seats to chat with others. I ended up talking with one Brasilian named Adrianna for a bit, who was definitley attractive, with a billowy white blouse on Only later did I find out she was 30 years old, an real woman, and me still becoming a man. We kind of bonded without knowing it, but I thought nothing of it at the time. Around midnight everyone started passing out in thier seats, but within about 2 hours we were arriving at the outskirts of the festival.

The lights came on as the gate staff came and checked all our wristbands.  Taku had loaned me $350 AUS to pay for my bus trip, and wristband (at the time, only $175 US.) I raised my wrist with its green band that I would have on for the next couple weeks, and got that warm fuzzy VIP feeling that happens when you actually have tickets to the show. The lights went off and we continued into the camping area. We'd been on dirt road for a dozen miles, and continued until we reached our soon-to-be campsite area. Taku and I smoked a bowlski and set up his tent, while the others found spots in the dirt nearby. It was windy, and dark, and disorienting, and wonderful. Taku even had an extra little blanket thing for me. Once inside our little hovel, we situatied our few posessions, and Taku made appear the most original tentertainment ever: a tiny samurai some 8 inches high.

If you have seen Being John Malkovich before, or somehow actually been to a puppet show, you know how much personality one of those little wooden creatures can be. Taku lit an incense, a candle, and spliffy, and commenced the most original ad-lib performance in memory. The horizontal wooden cross held the dozen strings that supported Shizu the puppet. He began lying down, and appeared to awake, wiping the sleep from his eyes, and sitting up. Taku didn't narrate as much as he Mr. Beaned Shizu's actions. As he stood up, he muttered "Oh" in a Kung-Foo movie fashion, and then began muttering in Japanese as he began to walk around the space in between Taku and I.

Next thing you know, there is a techno beat-box in the background and Shizu starts to move. With the candle casting a dancing shadow against the tent wall, and and the incense smoke dancing its own beat, Shizu began to move like an electro dancer. He didn't just wiggle frenetically, but actually executed stylish and flowing arm, leg and body motions. His little Gee outfit and mustache only added to the believability of this little character. After busting a few more moves, Shizu stopped and looked at me for a bit, walking about and muttering to himself as he explored the tent some more. Taku and I just watched, mesmerized by the spontaneous performance, and cozy and happy in our stony, smoky world.

Tired.  Sleepy."  Taku said. I concurred, and we killed the candle. It felt great to finally be here, whereever the hell we were, dirty and disheveled as we were. Tomorrow, I had eventually deduced, the bus was going 100 Kilometers north to Alice Springs to refuel. This was my chance to actually find a bank and get some money out. At this point I was running on credit, so I needed a physical bank to get an advance. For future reference, banks are few and very far between in the middle of the Outback desert, but we were presuming that this "main town" would have one. We crashed hard, dreaming of Electro beats and dancing Samurais', ready to see our new home in the bright southern sun.

The next morning was we rolled out of our hot tent and eyed the surroundings. We were on the East side of a giant elevated burm, maybe 15 feet high, that used to serve as a railway path.  The spread of tents on this side of the burm went for about a quarter mile in each direction, bisected by a dirt access road. Towering, thousand-gallon water stations stuck intermittantly along the roadway, and plywood stalls built around palets constituted the showers. As we discovered who our neighbors were, we were stoked to find out that most of them were from our green bus. Our direct neighbors were two hella cool Brits named Liam and Sonja. I'd said hello on the bus, and whatnot, but we got to know them a little better in camp. Liam was a photographer punker, who ended up introducing me to Billy Bragg, and Sonja was a graphic artist student in the UK.  We chatted with them and the Brazilian Crew, and then walked up and over the burm to see what was on the other side. What we found was the whole rest of the event: another whole section of tents, the entire food, art, and craft area, three main stages, and a whole slew of holistic healing, meditation, and first aid tents. It was nothing less than a man-made oasis of art and international culture, a cornocopia awaiting our abandon.

Before delving into the pulsating organism that was the event, though, Taku and I had to get the bus to town to get cash and food. We found Hippy-Ruby, the girl who had collected the money and issued the bracelets (I still owed $150 bucks for the whole thing), and she pointed us in the general direction of the bus. We finally found the sailor-looking bus drivers, and boarde the bus with a few other unprepared stragglers. During the cruise to Alice Springs, we took the top, front seat, which is like being on a submarine or something; a huge front window, 10 feet off the ground, with no driver to obstruct the view. I wrote in my journal and dozed until we were there.

One of the few pics I have of the event, as I could not get film for my stupid Advantix Camera, is of Tak and I in front of the general store, with our sun-hats, and a couple bags of groceries.  I'd secured 500 AUD for spending (I would end up getting more later) and bought a few miscilaneous food stuffs like bananas, crackers, water, and some canned goods. In the pic, we are a pair of vagabonds, already dirty, but now stocked up for the journey, sun-hats and all. It was outside this store that we discovered one of unpredictable twists of our adventure.  While chillin, we'd rolled a spliffy with the Hash, but for some reason it wouldn't burn right, and really didn't seem to tast like hash much. After attempting to suck down an entire spliff, we took a closer look at our little cube. Lo and behold, old skanky scarface seemded sketchy cause he was; the hash was a dirty, tobacco flecked chunk of black licorice!!! We'd been scammed for real!  My fault for trusting sketch boy, and a little lesson in testing the goods. Se la vie! Luckily I had a couple hundred dollars in my pocket waiting to be spent on drugs in the desert.  We loaded all the goodies onto the bus, and headed back down south to our campground.

PArt 2.  Part 4-Serendipity and the Beginning of the Show.

The Light of Day. OZ. pt.7

I trundled off from the fire-circle with no real direction in mind.  Surrounding the stages were the healing tents, a smaller practice fire circle, and a projector screen displaying sounds and images spliced and segued in logicless, spontaneous fashion--perfect for the complimentary minds that stood entranced by it.  I crossed my legs to watch what appeared to be a 50's movie, a stoic conversation between a man and a boy, spattered with Jerry-bear like dancing images, and occasionally morphing into Rorschach-blot-looking colored designs, and then back to the dialog-I felt like a goldfish, as each image became my reality, unrelated to the previous reality, and easily discarded for the next; blub blub.  I was in that zone where I was looking around for other people to share my wonder, but not secure enough in my state to be overtly social.  After an indeterminate amount of time, I wandered on alone, but still in vibrational sync with the great swath of international humanity all around me.  I could sense that Adrianna wanted to find me too, somehow, across the dark, pulsing night I worked my way back to the main stage and my Brasilian companeros.

Adrianna's trip had hit a bump in the road, and her tummy hurt a bit, I didn't hesitate at all to console, and care for her in the melodramatic LSD manner.  It was deep in the night now, and I couldn't tell how or where I was in my journey.  Between hugging and stroking and dancing and closing my eyes and opening my eyes and absorbing the night and light of harmony enveloping us, the night turned toward morning.  We healed each other and shared cigarettes and oohed and ahed.

"It's amazing no?" sounding more Italian than Brasilian  Adrianna would inquire regularly, often after a time-stopping make-out session.  We decided to watch sunrise from the big dirt burm back by the tent, and then find sleep.  There were innumerable couples and groups with us on the sunrise burm, time was meaningless in places like this, and our minds were exhausted from the nights inputs and exertions.  The sunrise was impeccable, shimmering over the Southwestern Desert.  We retired to Adrianna's tent in the last remaining cool morning hours, took each others clothes off released all our pent-up lust from the long night of penning up lust.  It was perfect, and we fell asleep in our underclothes with the tent door open, and soon the light breeze turned our daydreams into dreams.

We roused around 1:00 p.m., to the full heat of the day, and mild disorientation, smiling at each other, and the perfection of our affair.  I cruised back to my tent to eat some crackers and tuna, and hot cheese, and grab my shower stuff.  Showers consisted of a collection of plywood stalls, around pallets, and buckets to collect cold water from the two-story water drums; this was perfect.  The sweat and dust and drugs and sweat had formed an imperceptible halo around my body-my skin was visibly reddish, but the real layer around me was inches thick, just hot energy and chemicals and images from the night before.  I dumped the first bucket of cold water over my head and gasped with pleasure.  Found a piece of soap on the pallet and washed a bit, and then more cold water, balancing on the pallet, listening to world outside my roofless stall. 

When I came back to the tent, Liam and Sonya were there eating lunch-calm and well-rested, if not a little shaky. 

"Hey mate!" They called to me, "How was your night?" They asked in the same way you address someone that got really drunk the night before.

"Amazing, bruv, amazing.  Did you see the firedancers?  Awesome."

"Yeah we did.  Thanks for the goodies, by the way, we had a lot of fun."

"Wait til tonight, mang.  ECLIPSE.  6:30.  did you get your glasses?"

"No, where do we get them?"

We made loose plans to walk around that day, and explore.  Liam had discovered a bar in Lyndhurst, the tiny, defunct railroad town just down the road.  Mmmm, beer, strange how good it sounds even after a night of penultimate debauchery.  Audaciously, I even thought about my hard-drug supplies for the upcoming night, the night of the eclipse, 30-some seconds of totality, we wild ones congregated in the path of the umbral shadow, the eternal earth-shaking shadow of the moon blotting out the sun, stopping time and starting the tribes aworshiping, we would howl like wolves and babies and the sliver of life that we represented, only hours away.

For now, we smoked another sweet bowl with the Aussies, I got to say hello to Taku, who had found his Japanese friends and a big googly smile, and milled about in the sun.  I watched the naked hippies chasing the water truck as it sprayed down the dust, white skin wetted, and then soaped, and then wetted by the moving spray.  Clouds flowered softly above, the horizon white, the buzz tangible.  Adrianna, Liam Sonja and I decided to walk/hitch to shack of a bar that we'd heard about, which we did in the back of a truck leaving the festival site on their way to Lyndhurst.  Lyndhurst really was a one-horse town, though where that horse was was was anyone's guess, beyond the weathered-wood bar that we found perched gray in the expanse of red and blue.  The porch that hadn't seen more than a dozen people since the railroad had stopped coming through here in the 60's, was strewn with the colorful beat people of the world, and their guitars, and scarves, and cares.  Green Victoria Bitter cans were everywhere, and suddenly my excitement grew again; oh the joys of beer in the heat, with your friends.  Liam and Sonja already had a plastic jug of wine, which we'd been swilling along the way.

I found the large female proprietor to find out if I could get yet another cash advance, as I already spent most of my money on food and drugs, and the festival.  Miraculously, the overwhelmed Aussie said yeah, they could do it, and added 400 AUD to my bill for 2 six packs of VB, and two 25 packs of Weatherford Cigarettes.  I felt that same whoop of vibrant possibility as I turned back to Adrianna's smile with my booty.

"Ah, VB, muinto bon," she said and gave me a kiss in front of the dirty crowd.  We found a place on the porch to drink and smoke for a while.  Somehow we decided to walk back to the campsite, some mile or so away.  It was hot, in the 90's, but we had beer, and each other.  We passed by old tractors, and pond of some sort, bust mostly scrub and dirt.  Occasionally, Adrianna and I would stop and make out.

"I can't believe!" She would exclaim, "It's amazing, no?" Our compatibility was no less.

"Get a Desert!" Liam shouted at us in his British lilt, kissing Sonja and smiling.  I laughed and looked back toward the campsite, now with a handful of beers in my system. I still wore the same oversized bright board shorts, and sunhat, and Reef's, and a cigarette hung from my happy lips.  I was addicted to it all, as I always had been; not any specific drug, but the vivacity of the combination, the risk and ridiculousness of what we'd created.  The Rainbow flags fluttered, and the artists sat making and vending their goods, marking the main entrance, the music had never stopped, not for a moment, and wouldn't until just before the eclipse.  The kids were all dancing, or napping, or drinking, or meeting their lovers, or even leading their deaf students around the zoo of humanity as one Canadian character was doing.  We didn't even have nationalities anymore, we were just eclipsers, lucky, lucky, once in a lifetime lovers of life.  It is a moment in time that will live in my heart forever and ever: raw, young, perfect loving life, in the middle of nowhere.  AAAHHHH...

http://www.ozdoof.com/outdoorevents/OEF2002/index.html

Part 6.   Part 8

In the thick of it. (Outback PT. 6)

And that was the kind of night it was, one that only in retrospect do you realize how perfectly the stars had aligned (literally), and how fleeting those pure moments of youth, unspoiled by American influence or social inhibition.  It really was a thing of beauty, and as we intermitantly danced, socialized, smoked, and kissed, the crowd swirled around us, and if we'd been in a movie, the camera would have ascended, moving away from our bonded group until we disappeared into the mass of humanity, and until the mass of humanity disappeared into the desert, and then back all the way into space, looking down on the Milky Way.

For now though, we moved, and grinned, changing our spots on the dancefloor occasionally.  I left my small Lowe Alpine pack and slippers near one of the posts holding the stretched art above our heads, like a little oasis I would stop back at when I needed water.  As Chic's gift kicked into my bloodstream, the night transformed into a mental adventure within a physical one.  Adrianna eventually wandered off with some of her Brasiliana's for some Portugese chatting and bonding, and I was left with good friends Liam and Sonya.  Thier trip was going great, and we were all stomping like rock stars that hadn't been on tour for a while.  In between zony little personal danceventures, we would give each other little back rubs and I would smoke more effervescent menthols.  We took a break and wandered over to the mushroom stage, which was much smaller (basically a DJ poking out of a little hut of giant mushroom's), and the music and lighting changed dramatically.  From the crazy mainstages laser beams, red and yellow strobes, and peaking synths and bass beats, to the green and purple smoky flat-lasers (the ones that look like they are scanning you) and the low bpm cosmic thuds, it was a sweet transition, and of course our demeanor had no choice but to change with it.  The Mushroom Stage left us all in a sweet, if not introspective, mood as we weaved a little more slowly to the chill sounds coming out of the oversized tuft of mushrooms; there were even a few on the corner of the turntable, just to complete the effect.

We eventually headed back over to the main stage area, mostly to see who, and what we could back in the more upbeat zone.  By this point we were all pretty deep in our little mind adventures, and our surroundings did nothing but aid and abet our transcendentalism and tripping.  I had the sense to bust out my disposable camera and capture the two cyborg robots dancing around the floor, one blue, and one orange.  Their torsos were all inorganic, with dials and and lights, and huge shoulder pads, but their heads were human, albeit orange and blue, respectively.  As they bounced through the crowd they attracted mini fan clubs that would follow them for a while, before finding some other mesmerizing novelty to space out to.

Sometime in the depth of the night, we ended up by the firedancer circle, one of my personal favorite parts of electronic music festivals.  Whether it be staff, poi, or sword, the tracers and roaring heat of the flame evoke that visceral, triabal vibration--the polynesians have been fire dancing for centuries, and the ravers took the ancient tradition and made it into a modern dance.  Now it was that blend of tradition and modern fuel and cloth that was painting yellow circles in the night.  First a male with a fire staff came out and put baton-spinning gymnast to shame with his huge throws and catches of the flaming rod, and at one point was spinning staff above his head while lying on his back.  Then his hot-ass girly friend came out with the fire poi, and started putting all the men, and probably half the women, in a trance.  They wore what looked like home-made animal hide vests, and boots, and belts, and glistened in the firelight.

Eventually the woman made her way to my part of the circel of spectators, and my stupified, drugged out smile must have attracted her attention.  She locked eyes with me and smiled a flirty show-woman smile, and with poi balls out the side, started slinking toward me.  She shortened the strings on the flaming balls, and moved them in front of her creating a firey swirl some inches from her nose.  Next, she took it to the next level, and turned around, and then proceeded to do a back bend, while still spinning the flames.  As I sat mesmerized, she bent all the way down to her knees and again made eye contact with me, but upside down.  The crowd loved it and hooted and hollered with glee.  I couldn't help but feel part of the show, connected to this hot woman as she exposed her breasts to me in the firelight.

She stood up, and after a few more coreographed maneuvers with her partner, their flames were spent, and the next guys started.  After the girding of loins by this firey temptress, I felt like looking for Adrianna again.  I set off away  from the crowd again to find my fortune.

Part 5.    The Light of Day. OZ. pt.7

Descent into the magical land (Outback Pt. 5)

I love reading my journals from this time, when the festival had actually started, and the feelings began to flow, because they are disjointed, distracted, or just plain missing. Sometimes when you are traveling, and really get yourself into something, you don't even have time to take a breath, to stop your inertia to reflect on it. It is an indivisible creation, a muon, or a string, or whatever the smallest particle is these days. Or maybe it is an atom, or a molecule, a fusing of disparate parts, but all swirling and vibrating and linking to form a greater energy than existed before. Harmonious disorder, quantum humanity.
As Taku and I traced a path toward the lights and sound, we began passing the fringe elements of the event, both animal and mineral. As at all festivals, there is no place that is not considered a dancefloor, so we snuck past moving bodies long before we could see the stage. We noticed the village area to our right, but decided to bypass the entry to reach the mainstage. We walked with wonder, stepping lightly, and scanning the scene as we proceeded with wide eyes and crazy grins.
"Ina!"
"Oru!"
"Haahahahhah, Taku, this is crazy. Sounds so good!" We were nearing the stages, and the bass was now really reaching our core. Soon it would be hard to communicate with anyone without yelling. WE somehow were smart enough to put a little bit of T.P. in our ears, which was eventually lost to the dusty dancefloor. Strange stretched cloth banners with holes in them glowed ultraviolet white, marking the fringes of the center stage. We were approaching from the extreme left of the stage, so couldn't see much, but occasionally a green laser would pierce through the early night and strike us in the chest, or squiggle on a space-butterfly frolicking with her friends nearby. The sound systems at these things, and the skill level of the musicians, are both overwhelming. Bass pulses could come out as wahing thump, and the synthetic sounds that accompany the downbeat will take you on little adventures in your head. We both began to walk-dance now, feeling fucking good, and now entering a fabulous parallel dimension called a fucking Eclipse Festival.
By random good fortune, we ran into the Brasiliernos on the edge of the main dancefloor. They were under the radiant rainbow lights, and under the anenome light spire that would twist to the beat, shaking its hundreds of glowing plastic arms, and under what must have been a clear, starry night, shining down on us all. We hugged and patted and smiled at each other, all linked hand to shoulder in a little drug-dance huddle for a while. Someone had already purchased one of those electricity balls that shoot lightning at your fingers when you touch them and of course its purple electric fingers, and its warmth, were popular with all.
It turned out that the BRA crew had done some acid, and were doing all right, but Adrianna was feeling a little ill, a little overwhelmed. Fabricio and Andre already seemed have their carinas, so I couldn't help but console her a bit. It seemed no odd thing to give her a neck and back rub, even as I bobbed side to side in my big shorts. We had a little mellow dance circle going when, low and behold, Sonya and Liam roll up, Sonja with her magenta-streaked dew and easy countenance, and skinny, grinning Liam, with his inconsistent chin stubble as sporadic and Taku's, with that Limey accent and deadpan hilarity.
"Hey!!" WE all shouted, but most of our communication was done via stomping and waving to the rhythm. From our spot we could see the DJ's now, bobbing away with one hand holding a headphone to one ear, and the other twisting dials and adjusting his fader, as well as the insane, computer-generated graphic displays taking place behind on the big screen.

I explained to S and L that Taku and I had ingested some inebriants, and they could too if they wanted. Neither had ever experimented before, but we decided a half each would be a good start to things. In a gloriously fun little ritual, we busted the sample in two, and they each threw back there heads and swallowed some precious H2O. We all grinned again.

Taku ended up finding one of his fire-dancing homeboys, and was headed to the firedancing area on the other side of the crowd. We planned to meet up, hugged, and off he went, smiling and jabbering excitedly in Japanese. Feeling the vibration more and more, letting the music thump into my cerebelum, I gazed around at this epic scene. It seemed we'd forgotton to pack our costume, but the other half of the dancing crowd had not, and sported wings, facepaint, scarves (or was it just in my head), if not crazy pants, moon shoes, and sparklers. It all swirled into the euphoric daze that is a trance festival on good shit, and I found myself shoeless, dancing with Adrianna. We hadn't spoken much, but there are stats on how much words really communicate anyway. Quite simply, we were destined to be each others' companions for these few short days in the desert. Our simple, in-sync jibs and jabs and stomps turned into a closer, private vibration. First our cheeks touched, sending those first shocks to the nervous system, the new skin of the opposite sex. We danced that way for a while before moving away. Everyone was in thier own little worlds, but still part of our little solar system among the spinning galaxy of people. I devolved into a bare-chested, barefoot, long-haired tribesman as the dancing warmed us all up. The whole crew seemed to also see that Adrianna and I would be a pair for this escape from reality-I was probably the last to know it; it felt so good just touching skin, I wasn't even thinking of the inevitable next steps. Slowly, our cheek dances began to be soft face skin mini-orgies, but slow, classy ones. When we finally slipped far enough back for our lips to touch, our minds turned momentarily inside out, and we just absorbed the whole moment for a bit, and the short day that we'd all had to bond, and what led us to this beacon of life in a desolate land. We pulled apart like surfacing from cool, clean water.
"It's amazing, no?" Adrianna said.
"It's amazing. Wow." We didn't have to talk too much, it was too loud, and we were already harmony, as we shared a Marlboro Menthol, and wavered from side to side to the rythem.

The night did not so much progress, as it evolved, being written in valiant fashion by our little bus and our connectivity. We moved our crew a little closer to the center, and it was there that the backbeat took a major switch, as a new DJ stepped in. This new groove had some laser to it, some bleeping, muted, digital loop that started out calm, and built. As in most electronic music, and especially new Trance, the beat, builds, and then drops, not down, but like a bomb, exploding in your eardrums and head, and squeezing out your most expresive moves and emotion. The crowd cheered our musical Dungeon Master as he gave everyone thier fix, telling our life with his beats. As the scene peaked, another familiar, and funny face appeared out of the crowd. It was Chick from OZ and he was wearing bug glasses and some sort of vest, and smiling at me. Shit, we were all smiling, or making The Blue Steel face as we twisted our wrists to the electro beats.
"Willie! Hey mate, how you goin?" Chick inquired, amused at my enthusiasm, and Adrianna on my arm.
"Great man, how are you." I, of course, gave him a hug.
"Stick out your tongue." Chick shouted.
"Wha?"
"Stick out your tongue!"
I did, and the young laddy opened a small metal vile, and placed a tiny square of paper on my tongue. A gift, from my new friend, that he deemed me ready to recieve.
"Holy shit man. I'll see you later? Whhooooooooo!" I put my hands up and jumped from foot to foot, my bare feet flattening the earth along with the hundreds around me. I turned back to Adrianna, took a few delicious drags of the menthol cigarette, and pressed my lips up against hers, sweet lordy, and we stood there, eyes closed, cigarette out to the side, swirling in the ethereal cosmic soup under the light of our good fortune.

In the thick of it. (Outback PT. 6)  Part. 4