September 21, 2010
"Shoot to thrill; play to kill
"Too many women with too many pills"
-Lyrics by AC/DC
'Mad Max 2: The Road Warrior' is on AMC, and I am sitting in my rented room at the Super 8 in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. Early this morning I departed to venture out to a family gathering (on my stepmother's side) of Biblical proportions (for them, anyways). I'm certain my eerie nature will grasp them the wrong way. In a sense, I am The Humongous to their compound. Whilst they eat their blessed meals in the name of Heavenly Father, I will ride outside in the rain on my proverbial motorcycle, tossing fire sticks and spinning donuts in the mud. My thunderous roars and taunts will rip through the stormy night loud and clear, and they will cower indoors in fear, clutching cheap copies of the Bible published overseas by some abusive warlord and his "efficient" little company. And there I will be, shirtless, covered in dirt, and hanging one of their own like the jealous little hell spawn that I am.
Or at least I'd like to think so. In some fashion, we all want to be rebels. I believe it's the advertising that sells this bad-ass James Dean image to us. I know I was raised with a keen mind for an outlaw's lifestyle. The good kind of outlaw. The Errol Flynn Robin Hood outlaw swinging on a rope, stabbing bad guys, and slaying women with tingling vaginas. Granted, in this day and age human villains are no good. It has to be a monster of some sort or a horde of zombies threatening the life of some young dame with "rockin' tits". That's what the animated film 'Heavy Metal' seems to pitch anyway (not the zombies - those are just the current pop culture).
However, in the midst of this potentially trying blending betwixt myself and Mormons, there lies an accursed ground with a namesake both the Native Americans of lore and the current denizens of this nation fear. Skinwalker Ranch. A paranormal hotspot with more disconnected quandaries and activities than many of the other "haunted" tourist attractions around this country. It also has an extra shroud of mystery - it's private property in the hands of NIDS (National Institute for the Discovery of Science). How often do you hear of a paranormal location owned by a private science foundation?
This is my real reason for attending this shindig amongst body snatchers. I want to see this accursed 'Path of the Skinwalker' as it is called amongst some still existing tribal communities.
Strange colored orbs are one of many common sights here. They move about with a perceived intelligence, stalking living humans in an inquisitive manner and tormenting ranch animals. Some animals have been killed - blown to bits by heavy electromagnetic energy as written in 'The Hunt for the Skinwalker' by Colm Kelleher and George Knapp. This ranch is also a hotspot for typical poltergeist activity, sightings of weird animals, sightings of large, hovering craft, and the thing that interests me most, a strange portal hanging in the sky. It's been described as a large oval with what appears to be a blue sky within it, and it can only be seen from one angle (the angle it's facing). If one tries to walk around behind the portal, that person sees nothing but a reflection of the sky he or she is commonly familiar with. Craft have been spotted leaving these portals, and in one case documented in the book, there has even been a figure seen crawling out of a smaller portal. It crawled out onto the ground, stood up, and walked off into the woody surroundings - much to the terrified petrification of the viewers of this sighting.
I want to jump in one of these portals.
I want to leap through and see what happens - be the first man to disappear in something that no one is ever going to believe because our minds reject it as a gross impossibility (not that that thinking is wrong or anything). That's my act of rebellion - defying logic and fear. In my mind, it's a step above the standard advertised crap most young males fantasize about. Sure, saving babes from remote-controlled, gatling gun equipped dinosaurs under the indoctrination of some sleazy, fat, greasy, sweaty, balding politician is cool and all, but defying fear itself and doing something no one else has done before is cooler. Plus, it would be the ultimate escape from this world - from the anger, hate, greed, and disease that plagues and clouds Chicago and its surrounding suburbs (my hometown). In this fantasy I could move on. I could hop to the next level beyond the mundane of a suburban lifestyle.
Unknown adventure.
Today was the great disembarking. It was mostly uneventful until Minnesota where I finally got a chance to stretch my legs.
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Austin, Minnesota is a town nobody has ever heard of except for the folks who live there and the people who emigrated from this little part of the world. Parts of the town look dilapidated and depressed, but we are in a recession, so it seems almost normal to appear this way. The town has that slight feel of a ghetto I would have seen countless times before clumped around Chicago's exterior. Naturally, with this mentality, I would assume the people there were just as angry and bitter as a normal Chicagoan (even those with money). There's just something in the air, or water, that creates this division amongst people in Northern Illinois. Strangers don't talk to one another unless they're drunk. People grimace and growl at each other, unless there's a passionate exchange of loving glances and salivating lip movements that say, "Let's fuck."
Perhaps it's the suburbs? The cold, empty, lonely suburbs where the sun is always shining and the technology is always top of the line. Something. There's something about people in Northern Illinois that make them colder than many other places in the world.
Case in point in Austin, Minnesota:
I was hungry for lunch. My stomach had been reaming me for hours that I was overdue, but there were so few places to choose from. Accepting my fate in having to eat FAST FOOD, I settled on A&W. It was either that or Burger King, and I didn't trust the King as much as I trusted a place that advertised "All-American Food".
Fuck the King.
Anyway, A&W was quite the surprise. It still had that 1950s drive-in look with actual working drive-ins. The interior was dated but clean. There were two middle-aged workers manning down the fort to the rather empty dwelling. One was a woman. The other was a gray-haired man. As I stepped up to the counter, they both greeted me with joyous smiles and welcomes of good tidings. It was off-putting and eerie, as if I was unknowingly the next course on their cannibalistic dinner menu. I was not used to such comfort and pleasantries within a fast food chain, particularly from people who probably have much better and more important things to do. Yet, they treated me with the kindness and respect any human deserves from another but rarely gets. It was astonishing. For a place I judged as economically depressed, the denizens were high in spirit - much higher than any of the suburbs I've spent most of my life in. Those people would so much as tell you "to go fuck yourself" or grab their children and scurry away if you greeted them with a smile. We had pedophiles and pederasts in that part of the country, and judging by the nightly news, plenty of them (within and outside of the churches).
Apparently Austin, Minnesota doesn't have this problem. Their criminals may just be the occasional bank robber or dope fiend.
Anyway, I was so overwhelmed and shocked by their attendance to my needs (if I needed any more ketchup, if I needed a refill on my drink, if I needed anything else at all) that I helped them clear up a couple of tables around me before I left. I didn't know what to do, and I didn't want to feel like the kind of jerk who leaves the ketchup bottle from the main counter at a booth and just walks out the door.
"Thanks. You're hired," the woman said with a grin as I cleared everything off and returned the empty mug and bottle to the counter before wishing me a fare thee well.
It was different, and it surely changed my attitude about people. They're not all Chicagoans. I remember when I was young and traversing out 'West', I was shocked to see strangers greet me in sincerity and not offer me candy and funny stories as I walked with my parents. It was this same feeling washing over me again - a remembrance that we, humans, are basically good. We can convey compassion, respect, and love to one another without devious intentions.
This was before I got my room in Sioux Falls, South Dakota though.
This town also looked economically depressed, but in a less hopeful way. After driving around for a while, I've found that it has as many "convenience store" casinos as it does cash advance businesses. It's an amazing feat and does more than suggest ill atmosphere - it proclaims it proudly. The whole city seems to appear this way (except for the way East end of town where all the moderately wealthy denizens have formed their own 'Misty Meadows' neighborhoods away from the riff raff).
Nestled on a hill overlooking the city, however, is the state penitentiary. It sparkles in the sunlight like a beacon of hope, twinkling its spotlight eyes down upon the dilapidated gas stations, unfinished construction zones, and desolate diner/casino combinations that seem to provide most, if not all, of the town's revenue.
These aren't grandstanding large casinos either. They're tiny dwellings no bigger than a cornerstore 7-11 at the end of a strip mall. They could fit perhaps 40 people comfortably before violating the legal number of occupants allowed. These casinos all have names like 'The Keg Grill and Casino', and their grimy, unattended appearances seem to convey this sense of imminent death. Speaking of which, the most beautiful section of Sioux Falls is its cemetery. It's the most well-kept establishment I've seen thus far within city limits.
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It's getting loud outside now. There's an old motel next door that has been retrofitted into an apartment complex. Many people dwell there, some with families. I saw a young woman no more than a few years older than I perched outside her motel apartment watching two young children run around in the parking lot. They were playing cops and robbers without a care in the world, undaunted and unhindered by the fact that their play area is a small blacktop littered with Bud Light cans and rusting trucks. In this, they can find a sense of happiness, and it is something children alone seem to possess. Their mother looks on without expression, watching them but also lost in deep thought, perhaps pondering her next move?
The night air moves in, and the smell of barbecue is strong. I sense it is time I grabbed a last bite before I bunker down to read for a while.
