Saturday, September 08, 2007

She blinded me with science

Today we went to the Farmer's Market, for the only time this summer. I had successfully resisted the whole kind rainbow brother, i-need-a-miracle, drum circle, hemp wearing, homegrown, 15-to-a-Volkswagon, filthy, bearded, naked hippie in a hot spring thing.

We struck a bargain: if I went to the Farmer's Market and didn't bitch, she would come to Music Villa with me to play $ 5000 (Bozeman-made) Gibson Acoustic guitars that I can't afford. I want, I want. I need, I need.

^ I played that one. Anyone wanna give me a modest $ 5000 donation?

^But I want this one, which is "only" $ 2600.

So you would be getting a bargain for your five grand.

Much like my native american brethren who let nothing go to waste from their kill, by using it for food, hides for clothing and shelter and bones for tools, (Q: What did they do with skulls, if they used everything? Smells like bullshit.) I will use every extra dollar of your five grand on really good stuff like amplifiers, Captain Crunch, Hutterite goods, new sunglasses and with the last $ 26, I will buy a $ 25 cigar and light it with the last dollar.

Just like the Indians, I tell you.

Sure enough, we pull into the lot, bumpeer to bumper with a beat up Volvo that had a "Visualize Whirled Peas" bumper sticker.

(By the way, I was inspired by Alex to learn 867-5309. Here is the intro:)

I had to point it out, but after that I just smirked for a while and kept the running dialogue inside my head.

I got a double latte, which was pleasant and began to check out the produce & stuff. It is held at the Bozeman fairgrounds, partly outside, but mostly in a re-purposed erstwhile ice rink.

I was smacked in the face by a wafting cloud of patchouli.

I am not making this up. It was overwhelming. Like napalm.

I squinted, squeezed Stanette's hand and said, "I smell hippie."

We bought some pickled green beans and some pickled cucumbers from this Hutterite dude. I didn't know what a Hutterite was until I came to Montana. They dress like a cross between an Amish guy and an orthodox Jew. The dudes have Abraham Lincoln beards and they wear these clockwork orange type bowler/derby hats. They also wear vests, and pretty much only black or white clothing.

Except they drive trucks, and enjoy the trappings of the industrial age without going into a silo with Harrison Ford or bowling with Woody Harrelson.

Come to think of it, I still don't know what a Hutterite is.

But I know what they look like.

Can't miss 'em, really.

We only have white people (97%*)((40% hippies, 25% Caliornians, 20% ranchers, 8% white supremacist, 16.55 percent trustafarians.**)), Indians (feather-not-dot)(2%*), and "other" (1%)which is the MSU and Montana football and basketball teams, National Park & ski resort employees from Romania and Argentina (because the employer doesn't have to FICA or medicare) and the guy who owns the Mexican restaurant in Missoula.

*not based on actual data.
*not on a scale of a scale of 109.55

So you tend to notice the odd droog with suspenders, an Abe Lincoln beard, and a truckful of organic produce.

At Music Villa, I bought myself the music stand you see pictured, and compltely geeked out with an LED clip-on light and .....

drumroll, please

ยก A sweet cup-holder!

The best part of it all, though, was the one dolalr I spent on a catniup toy for Doodle.

Check it.

That shit oughta be illegal.


Jenny, Jenny, who can I turn to?
You give me something
I can hold on to

I lay in bed, restless...

It had been a good night.

Tricky, Janelle and Caitlin (sp?) came by. So did Bells, Alicia and Aden.

We made barbecue pulled pork sandwiches, slow-cooked, all day.

(The pork was rubbed with a ton of garlic, salt, pepper and onion and cooked on low heat in a crock pot all day. Near the end, it was taken out, pulled apart, and put back into the crock pot with a half bottle of barbecue sauce to simmer. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, it was good.

And when I say Jesus, I mean Jesus, riding a Harley across a farmer's field and pulling up to a Skynrd concert circa 1979 and walking straight up to the front row, unobstructed, floating on the power and glory of slow-cooked pork.)

There was corn on the cob, grilled in the husk, broccoli slaw with craisins and sesame seeds. Frozen lemonade drinks were flying around.

Before everyone came, I spent some time teaching Bells to play bass on a couple of songs. Namely, Of The Girl (Pearl Jam) and Let My Love Open the Door (Pete Townshend). They both sound pretty good when we play really dialed down, acoustic.

That reminds me of my favorite part of last weekend.

Alex, my classmate, and his wife Jenny came to the party at my parents' house on Sunday. He is a really kick-ass guitar player. (And, this is no coincidence, the newest member of the Mitten). He brought his guitar, and I had rousted up a twelve-string and an acoustic. I mean, why not?

It was probably the only time we will ever have that many members of the Mitten together on a back patio, looking at a lake in the Dam, no less. We had Tony, Bells, Stanette, Carp, K-Top, Alex and me. We were only missing Quagmire by one day (he left that morning) and Aden.

Like I said, Alex is a hell of a guitar player. After dinner, when the sun went down and everyone was sufficiently lubricated, Alex's wife, Jenny said, "Play my song."

So Alex busted out 867-5309 (Jenny). Perfectly. And evvvveryone sang evvvvvery word. Trust me when I say it was good. Out of a weekend packed with stellar moments, it was my favorite.

But anyway, back to my restless night...

I arose, knowing.

I had been overtaken, nay, seized, by the urge.

Seized by the urge to floss.

To venture into the dark places where evil dwells.

"Evil," you say?


Verily, I say unto thee.




Have you smelled floss?

If that's not evil, I don't know what is.