And ice melts fast here

But, as you know, I'm no nature freak.

You know, the hemp-wearing, dread-locked, sleepy-eyed, mellow-man types, playing prophet and strolling the streets of Telluride or Marquette playing lazy flutes breathlessly and whisper-like or softly tapping a homemade drum. In public and among each other, they only eat organic tofu cooked over fertilizer fires.

You know. They are full Vegan, militantly pedestrian (except when they drive their hidden cars), flowing robed phonies being all in tune with nature and wearing burning incense in their hair while looking upon the masses with a combination of contempt and benevolent superiority. They rest (actually they never 'rest', they contemplate, they do yoga, they even trance, but they never 'rest'. It's all about the vernacular.) like Buddha's cross-legged, palms held high and clasped together, slowly rocking like a Weeble that wobbles but won't fall down. They play the penniless mystic and shun the occasional unsolicited handout.

They are playing 'prophet', not profit. That's easier to do when you have Dad's platinum secretly ensconced in your Jesus sandals. Furtively glancing at the world with a slightly bowed head, they expertly fumble nonchalantly with the alms they carry. The worry beads are getting worn down for no reason.

It's all an act. They look at the earth as if they are not of this world or they are more of this world than anyone else. They love twigs and flowers. They would never cut/kill grass. But, they will happily justify cutting philosophy class or art theory to go to (actually they never 'go to', they journey, they wander, they even seek, but they never 'go to'. It's all about the vernacular) a Rainbow gathering or Burning Man. Although they prefer lesser known gatherings, Rainbow gatherings are so main-stream, Burning Man is too commercial.

Usually it's a journey of self discovery or self imposed suffering of some kind. They repeat to themselves, "Seriously, no Twinkies till I get out past Green River somewhere." It's their secret mantra. They carry evidence of their secrets on their sleeve. The ones that they want regular people to think they have, that is. They keep the actual secrets secret, but, they desperately need to know that everyone knows they have secrets.

Hoping that normal people care about them, notice them and even envy them is a big motivator. They imagine mere mortals having long conversations about them, trying to unravel their secrets. They hope that the mortals think their secrets are religious and ritual based, passed down or more likely recently discovered in some Fertile Crescent cave full of skulls and scrolls. But, of course, the mortals don't.

The real secret is that they are total poseurs that are more concerned about their looks than an aspiring model is. They cravenly hold to their clandestine stash of money and cards. Without the trust-fund, they would never play this role. Another of their secrets is that they actually loathe the rare, penniless true believers they encounter. There are intuitive ways to communicate to the perceptive contemporary that you are not actually poor. This too is important.

Like all seekers, on their journeys they are looking for evidence of God. The natural beauty is an inspiration. Sometimes they really do believe that they believe in what they do. Really. But that's an infrequent occurrence. It's almost an annoyance. It passes for a fleeting epiphany. Ultimately they are hoping to discover not some sacred burial ground or a spot where the shadow falls perfectly on the pinnacle of rock during solstice. They are dreaming of and searching for . . . the most inconvenient convenience store.

The Hole-in-the-Rock gas station in Utah or Roy's Cafe in California are a couple of excellent examples. Find them on a map. Go there. Then you will know just how inconvenient they are. You will more deeply understand the dedication and commitment these wanderers have. You only truly know how big a mountain is after you climb it. When these shrines to everything they
publicly scorn are discovered, and, if their fellow traveler is as shallow and trustworthy as they, in they go. Hypocritical heretics all.

Genuflecting in gratitude and exclaiming decidedly unreligiously, they run the gamut filling their hemp bags in half crazed ecstasy. Candy bars fall to the curling filthy red and formerly white linoleum tiles. The only witness to these blasphemous acts, acts that would assuredly get them excommunicated from their public image and cohorts, is the lone proprietor. This sole witness is at the cash register. A necessary evil, an unwitting accomplice that could care less and doesn't flinch at the sight of these vagabonds for junk food's extroverted frenzy. He's changing channels and smoking the same way he does whether someone is in the store or not.

He doesn't live here to make new friends. The great irony of living in the middle of nowhere is that ultimately you see it all. It doesn't faze the attendant when some tripping river guide walks in, buys a disposable razor and shaves a river in his hair right there at the counter. The completely bedazzled lost tourists in rental cars sporting branches of sage, dirt and tumbleweed in the grill and wheel-wells rolling slowly in on fumes or actually pushing the car up to the pump, out of gas for who knows how many scorched desert miles, bore him. Inevitably the electric convertible top was down when the car died. Their skin is as red as the Mustang with heat exhaustion mixing it up with sunburn, glowing like a sun of its own. Their skin does not resemble the tan of the sandstone cliff that someone decided would be the perfect spot for a store.

But this is no natural indentation. Some wind and water gouged arch in the making it is not. No, it was decided that this blank face was such an ideal spot that they dynamited their way into the base of the thousand foot palisade and built a store in the newly created cool and shaded concavity. The looks on the tourists' faces are the same as the devout who discover the likeness of the Madonna on the toast, in the chocolate, or in the water of the seeping tunnel wall. They fill their tanks. Gas and stomach. They always want more water and ice than there is to sell. They about clear the shelves as if Katrina's coming. They thought they were going to die. They saw vultures. The cashier's watching game shows. And after all this chaos, they want to pay with traveler's checks. The resident attendant has seen trucks drive by at night, on fire and not stopping. He has seen cars go by, driving only by the light of the full moon. The bikers that show up are usually bleeding and showing off drunken broken bones.

The cashier has had people want to trade their luggage for food and water and gas. It's cool, you've got to be a barterer out here. You should see the back room/home of this place. Talk about eclectic. Consequently, the sight of these tree-hugger, incense-haired, secret candy freaks that parade around as mystics couldn't be more normal. They grab the only sliver of shade, still over a hundred degrees, and fruit pie filling erupts from rents in their sugary crust as the faithful carelessly cram it all in. Snowballs, pink and white coconut sprinkles shedding, cue up for their mouths. The Twinkies, always the first casualty because they are so easy to eat in one bite, are gone before the ice even melts in their Cokes. And ice melts fast here. Like the river headed river guide, they carve a sinuous line of Ho Ho's and Hostess Cup Cakes. The wrappers grow into a cellophane cairn marking a superheated trail to nowhere.

Satiated with eternal, yet temporal satisfaction, they eventually depart. The self flagellations begin immediately. It hurts and they flinch dangerously behind the wheel. But they self importantly lash themselves mercilessly for each outlaw snack. The theater is back on, the curtain is up and if they die because they missed a Canyon Country turn while whipping themselves with hemp rope well, that's God's will. Of course, they never do miss that turn. They clean the van the way Boy Scouts are trained to clean campsites. With it thoroughly inspected and policed for wrappers and any other evidence, they are ready to rejoin their compatriots.

They are even 'clever' enough to drop a random piece of incense here and a little hemp fabric there. Maybe a brochure printed on recycled paper with soy ink will be crumpled and stuffed in a crack in the seat. And you know what kind of brochure it is. It's a protest planner, a tree planting, a covert demolition or a festival of civil disobedience. You know. Whatever. Zinging out of their minds on Coke and snacks like a real druggie on coke, they accost their brethren as they find some lost fringe festival. They insist that their enthusiasm is because of the weepingly beautiful country they had been driving through these last days.

But, lots of understanding, unacknowledged smirks and knowing nods sweep the listeners. They have all been at that inconvenient convenience store. Or, another even more inconvenient one. There is always one more inconvenient somewhere. The mystery is in the search.

You know.

Don't know where that story came from . . .