The Hippy Compound

I’m back from the hippy compound. The hippy’s are older now, and they’re into blending.

“Are you using that Blender?”

All health no fitness, for the hippy’s, nobody looked all that healthy to be honest.

The hippy compound is an old hot springs north of San Francisco. I made the drive and stayed for a couple of days. It’s gods country up there, hills and oaks, wild turkeys and the hot and cold plunge. The hippy’s were nice. They weren’t all hippy’s, in fact, very few were, there was a mixed bag of tourist from Japan and Russia, mixed in with everyday people who happened to be naked. It’s a clothing optional place, and to tell you the truth, I saw more people than usual wearing clothes, which made me think that the clientele is shifting.

All the young, good looking women were lesbian’s. I kind of felt left out of that equation. I was wondering why things had to be so cut and dry. Good for them. The only thing that bothered me about the lesbians, was my exclusion.

I took a hike up a trail, and followed a sign that said, Tea House. I walked up hill for a ways, when I finally ran in to it. It was an octagon shack that was perched on a ridge that over looked the valley. There was a sign outside the door that said it was to be used for mediation purposes only. Guest had contributed to an alter that was set up, and there was a couple of journals with notes that people had left behind. It was very interesting place. I was just starting to explore it when a naked man walk in. He kind of ruined my moment alone. He was a nice man. He told me the history of the place. I decided to draw a face in one of the journals. I used some colored markers that were sitting on the floor to make the face more interesting. I wrote at the top of the page in black ink, above the drawing, Don’t think.. trust.. if only it was so easy.

Dusty's

Jason and I went to a new bar yesterday after rehearsal, a little bar called Dusty’s. I’d seen it a million times before, but never had the guts to go inside. Our regular spot was being remodeled, a good thing or a bad thing, I’m not sure yet.

            We walked in and there was a room full of old bikers, with their long graying beards. I said hi to one, he grudgingly said hi back. There was a version of Black Sabbath’s War Pigs playing on the jukebox.

I bought the first round. Seven bucks. It was a lot cheaper than the other place.

            We sat down and tried to blend in. Nobody seemed to care that we were there.

            I noticed an older guy who looked just like a desert turtle feeding the jukebox. He kept playing Black Sabbath tunes. I didn’t mind. I like Black Sabbath.

            A man with a funny looking hat, came up to me, and asked if I wanted to play a game of pool.

            “Sure, but I’m not very good.”

            I looked over to Jason. He was rubbing his thumb and fingers together. He wanted me to play for money. The man looked legitimate. He had a booming voice. He kind of looked like a Yuppie. I played him straight up, although I should have played him for money. He was the worst pool player in the world. As it turned out, he might not have had all his marbles. He kept saying "Nice!" when the ball went in.

Frankly the bar felt like an insane asylum for hardcore drinkers. The clientele seemed just a little off. Mouths were turned funny, people were tight around the forehead. I couldn’t help but look around every now than to analyze the situation. Jason kept buying rounds. It occurred to me that Jason was one of them.