The burning night sky
Above this barren wasteland
We call the origin Orion lit the way
Whichever way
We were swimming up a hill
We were American Gods
No direction in mind
But with every intention to go
The Southern winter stars
Blinding us of the way
Whichever way
We were swimming up a hill
We were American Gods
Wisconsin on the Radio
And the future in our eyes
Going in every direction
Never reaching a destination
We were swimming up a hill
We were American Gods
And so it started. Our senior year of high school was off to a pretty damn good start. Football season was underway. Which meant, under contract from the ingenius pubic school system, we were forbidden to drink any booze and had to be home before 11pm. The school had set a curfew for the athletes. If you violated the rules you were suspended from sports. And guilty by association was apparently a real thing. However, we really didn’t give shit about football. We were just in it to get in shape for wresting anyway. Swede and I did not concern ourselves with these ridiculous rules. We had shit to do. We couldn’t just be sitting around at home while somewhere out there something was going down. At least we could certainly brew up an adventure if none awaited.
In the midst of two-a day football practices we carried on as usual. We got drunk, stayed out late, smoked a little weed, and chased girls like we did all summer. But since we had school, we had to work on the weekends. After the friday night lights beat us up, we would throw down hard and then it was up with the sun to work cattle. If it was an away game, then it meant soco and powerade on the bus ride home. We celebrated no matter how the game went. It was our senior year and we were invincible. It was that literal sense of invincibility you feel when you’re young. When you are constantly on the go. Never resting, because there is so much that needs to be done but nothing that has to be done now. It didn’t matter what we were doing, it was going to be done righteously.
It seemed that Swede and I were the only guys without girlfriends in our hometown. What a waste. We didn’t have time for that. Without sappy high school dramas to take part in, we were able to socialize with a crowd of people that we might not have otherwise. Our social life was never dull.
It happens. You grow up in this small town and all there is to do is fucking drink. Hell, its all the cops in my hometown have to deal with. Whether its high school kids or some asshole beating on his wife. Its the soul purpose of the police in this town. But nobody gives a fuck. You drink. You get drunk. And then you drive. Its common practice around here. There is no such thing as a DD in this town. So we didn’t even think twice that night me and Swede got absolutely shitfaced at Lilly’s Bar and decided we needed to make it to the strip club across the state border asap. We loaded up the old jeep with a case of beer and Swede brought his stash of tea. It couldn’t have been more than a 30 minute drive. Which was time enough for us to get absolutely lit. We arrived at the Thoroughbred Station roughly after midnight. It was the kind of place where you brought you own beer inside and it smelled of piss. It was a real classy joint. The place seemed fairly packed, although I couldn’t figure out what the attraction was. The strippers, ugh the strippers, they were nothing you really cared to see. The girls all seemed to be double our age and as drunk as us. On top of that, they couldn’t dance. I’ve been to the strip clubs in the big cities and this was a major shit hole.
Nonetheless, we were having a grand ole time. Swede buddied up with the bouncer right away and soon we were in the back room where the party was. It was fucked up to say the least. Every stereotype was there. Apparently it was the only place for miles where a guy could get his dick rubbed in secrecy. There was the important senator looking man, the traveling construction workers, the lonely farmer, and our retired high school principal. He gave us a guilty nod and that was that. Nobody questioned what the hell two underage kids were doing there. Somehow, Swede and I always seemed to manage our way into any situation we wanted.
So there we were, taking hits with the strippers when the place started closing down. We walked red-eyed out to the jeep and flipped a coin for who was going to drive. Swede ended up behind the wheel and as we backed away from the building one of the strippers, Sandy, came running towards us. She needed a ride. We obliged, of course. Besides we still had some beer left and it was only 3 am. We didn’t have to be at school until 9 am, technically. We rambled down the back gravel roads going way the hell out of the way to drop this stripper off. Man did she annoy me. Swede, on the other hand, became rather acquainted rather quickly. And while I was doing my best air guitar to Back in Black, Swede drove the Jeep into the ditch and right into a field approach because he was distracted by that stripper blowing in his ear. Fuck that windshield hurt.
It took us about 20 minutes to get gathered back up. All of us were ok which was literally a miracle. Sandy lived to dance another day. The jeep wasn’t even totalled. In fact, it was just fine after flying over that field approach but it was now stuck in the mud. We spent what seemed like forever to push it out of that hole but it wasn’t fucking moving. And then there were lights. Headlights coming down the road at us. It was the sheriff. He here came to do the one thing the county seemed to be paying him to do, put a halt to fun. He knew what was up right away and made Swede and I stand with our hands on the jeep standing knee deep in mud. I thought for sure we were fucked. This was a major mess and now we had to be to class in less than three hours. We needed a miracle.
And thats exactly what we got. It seemed that the sheriff had been a regular customer of Sandy’s. She sweet talked him and then some while we stood there in the mud. The sheriff scolded us with a crooked smile but he hooked a chain to our jeep and drug us out of the mud. He then warned us that this would be the last time he lets us off for something. It was probably the fifth time we’ve heard that. Sandy ended up catching a ride with the sheriff. Swede and I smoked a bowl and headed straight for class. It happens.
It was a tough time and place. It was the first time I had passed through this area, probably over fifty years ago. Swede and I were traveling through on our way to poach elk in the hills. And poach anything else that moved along the way. We stopped in for beers at a small general store in the middle of nowhere. Somewhere between the big Missouri river valley and the huge buttes that lay to the west. This little shack called “crested butte” was perfect. We fit right in. It was owned by three brothers, I can’t recall their names but we got to know them in no time. They were mean sons of bitches. But they had to be if you are selling hooch to the indians and passers by such as Swede and I. All three carried 45’s on their hip and they showed the sawed off shotguns they kept under the counter. The building is still there. All boarded up but a relic of the days gone past. It was a tough time and place.
These are my thoughts and you’re going to listen, and if you’re not an idiot you are going to like them. As for the idiots, carry on. Because you will not understand the immense amount of thought that spews from my brain. Knowledge so immense, so broad, so fucking right, that it will crush whatever small narrow mind you had. As for the people that understand, I shall assume that you think you are some sort of fantastic hipster. A hipster that is out of the realm of hipsterdom. A hipster that doesn’t fall under the term hipster because you recognize other hipsters and how ridiculous they really are. A hipster that makes a flawless judge of every other character that ever existed. A hipster of hipsters per say. Well, you are wrong. So fucking wrong. There hasn’t been a true hipster for decades. You my friend, are just another person. Thats right. Another person. Not any better than the rest. Contradicting everything you ever thought since you thought you realized you were an emerging hipster.
I said there hasn’t been a true hipster for decades. These are true facts from a winner, me. Until recent years, when a small group of people came to be. I’m talking about a group so small and elite that it would fit inside that shitty bathroom of that shitty bar you probably hang out at. This group was years in the making. Because you can’t just gather that amount of knowledge and power in the 6 years it took for you to get through college. No. This takes much longer. In order for these kind of people to connect, it takes an act of some sort of God. We have connected through fates of travel. And not the kind of epic travel I’m sure you tell such great stories about. No it wasn’t some sort of summer tour through Europe that your parents bankrolled. This occurred in the heartland of America. In small towns and colleges. In shitty bars over cheap tap beer. In cars driving down gravel roads in the middle of the night. It occurred under the great windmill fields of the plains. Not at your typical pseudo-hipster coffee shop. This group of people was able to connect through mishaps and mistakes that has led to the greatest of emerging American Gods.
They are the modern day David Crockett. Master of their own domain. Absolutely pretentious but with every right. Ready to spout off an absurd proclamation the likes of which have never been heard. And always fucking right. Socially, politically, economically, and naturally aware of everything. They are the kings of the modern day Beat Generation. Of which only they, themselves are able to claim for their own. The new Kerouacs, Ginsbergs, and Thompsons. I am proud to be so god damn aware that I fall in line with these people. Each member bringing their own uniqueness to the table. Unlike you who is probably wearing whatever you are wearing because some band who you think nobody has heard of is wearing it. No. This is an entire novel group of people. A new type of original.
I am, an educated hobo.
—Educated Hobo
