Abestia

Late night music and bar scene slammin on a Tuesday night.  Just took money out of an ATM, waiting for green so I can cross the street.  Chilly, hands in pockets.  A fat businessman in a black Acura with what I found out shortly has Washington state plates, is waving at me, “Hey, hey, comere!”

This guy thinks he knows me? I figure.

He parks and waits for me to cross.  Now  I figure he’s gonna ask for directions, so I prepare my response. The passenger window rolls down.  As I pass he says, “Hey man where do I find the women around here?”

“I don’t know man I’m not from around here.”  (Did he really just ask me that?)

Outside the bar, a radical, very hot cyclist, early to mid 20’s, locking her bike to a pole, really pissed off, yelling to someone through her cell phone,

“A fuckin fascist pig just pulled me over for no reason!” She continues telling the story as I re-enter the bar.

Inside everyone smokes.  The bar is old, big, neon-lit, as are many bars in Missoula, and the only non white person inside is the black guy bartending, unless you include the giant poster of Ali standing over a knocked out Sonny Liston. 

A Puerto Rican garage rock band, Davila 666, touring the U.S. from San Juan, is blaring in the packed basement. 

After a 16 ounce can of PBR, I take a piss.  As I exit the men’s room, an obviously blind girl around 12 years old is being escorted by her arm to the ladies room by what appears to be her dopey looking, older teeenage sister who has a shitty ass grinn on her face.  I think they’re high and wanna check out the bar and use her blindness to get in places that they are not allowed.  As I pass them in the crowd, the blind girl, sensing my presence says to me, “Don’t hit me I’ll fuck you up.” With a long stress on the “Uuuuup.”

I know what I heard but I can’t believe it so I look at the dopey sister who is looking back at me and giggling. The blind girl is mumbling angrily as they move through.

The hills behind Missoula begin some of the longest stretches of Natural Wilderness  in the country. Mountain lions and black bear roam within a few miles of a 60,000 plus city.  Deer jet across city streets regularly.  My friend, an EMT, told me of a man on a bicycle who broke his collar bone colliding with a black bear who had meandered down from the hills.  The bars, there are lots of them, are quite busy on a Wednesday afternoon.  The Pawn shops, there are lots of them too, are filled with equal parts of guns, rifles and guitars.  

I

I just spent a few days in Wyoming.  Wyoming is a really pretty state.  It evokes silly words like “glorious” and “breathtaking”.  I don’t usually say these words, nor do I want to be heard saying them, but Wyoming made me say them.

Wyoming is Dick Cheney’s state.  Remember a few years ago when he shot his buddy in the face with a shotgun?  That was fucking hysterical.  The poor guy that he shot was 78 years old. This happened in Texas not Wyoming.  That was February 13th 2006.  I remember this because the following day was Valentines Day and I walked two miles up hill on a scorching jungle road in Central America to call my ex in New York to tell her I missed her.  She in turn told me that Dick Cheney shot his friend in the face and that it snowed two feet in Manhattan.

I camped one night and drove a day through Wyoming.  Much of the state is protected by the federal government, either National Park or National forest.  So taxpayer money protects a great deal of the environment of Dick Cheney’s home state.   Lucky man, Dick Cheney.