Think About The Way V

By Doctor Gonzo

2 July 1999

Saint Paul — As usual, the cars were backed up for miles as I approached the State Capitol. Girls wearing tight shirts and holding signs advertising "Parking - $4" beckoned, but it is my policy to never pay for any damn parking, no matter where I go. So I turned down a side street several blocks from Constitution Avenue and parked in front of a nondescript old house. I didn't mind the walk.

It wasn't very warm that day, and the night sky threatened thunder. This didn't stop people from coming out and planting their blankets on the green front lawn of the Capitol building, and it didn't stop them from buying tall cups of beer to slake their probably-imagined thirst. July 4th weekend is an excuse to lay back and relax, and no weather event is going to interfere.

Hunter Thompson had his Kentucky Derby; my best excuse is the Taste of Minnesota. The Capitol grounds are never going to look like the infield of Churchill downs on any day, but when crazy Norwegians part it takes the form of an event like the Taste of Minnesota. Of course, there are other festivals during the year: the State Fair, some weird carnival down on Grand Avenue here in St. Paul, and various other events too small to remember. But the Taste of Minnesota exists for three reasons: food, music, and those colorful exploding things in the sky.

I had come, not only for lack of a better thing to do on a Friday night, but with the intention of fleecing these people in the public prints, as I am wont to do. It started off fairly well, as I saw all sorts of stereotypes and caricatures upon entering. Almost too many, in fact: I had a hard time keeping them straight in my head. I thought it would be no problem to put them into words when I finally sat down.

I had no lack of subjects. This being an all-ages, family affair, there were lots of just-pubescent teens strutting around, trying to put out the vibe. Older, college-aged people relied less on acting and more on appearance. It started to get pathetic when 35- and 40-year old mothers tried to look like teenagers again, wearing clothing that left little to the imagination (and I cursed them for it). People-watching at any public spectacle such as this is going to reap huge rewards.

However, it wasn't that easy. I started out following the program and bought some outrageously-priced food (this being the Taste of Minnesota, after all). Ten dollars got me a shrimp kabob with more deep-fried fat on it than I had on my body, some cookies, and a refreshing bottle of sugar water. Not the greatest value in the world, to be sure, but they've got to burn the locals somehow. That being finished, I found a spot, unrolled my magical towel, took out my notebook, and waited for the tunes and the brights lights to grace the heavens.

But alas; I immediately hit a wall. It is one thing to go to some goddamn yuppie hangout and curse that social order; it is quite another to do the same here. This was the mass public, the middle class, and I was a part of it. I don't normally think of myself in those terms, but here I couldn't help it. These people were crazy all right, but in many ways it was my crazy.

Going to the Taste of Minnesota was a tradition in my family, a tradition that had existed for years. It was broken last year (no more family means no more family traditions), but somebody who spent 18 years in the Catholic faith is not going to give up pointless traditions easily. I was programmed for order, and order I must have. So this year I resurrected the activity, and though that meant attending by myself, well, damn them all. I can't be responsible when other people act like asses.

So I was once a stupid 13-year old walking around here. I walked the walk, avoided the parents, tired to be as cool as I could be. I grew older and mellowed, learning to enjoy the sheer pageantry of it; a few years ago I thought I had found the meaning of life walking among the crowds. Perhaps I did, for what better place to meet reality head-on than wehere it is shoved in your face at every turn?

It can be argued that the kind of people who frequent expensive bars and eat calamari are the cause of all the world's problems. I like to make that point myself, for no real reason other than that it is fun. But here? Here I see young people with no cares in the world, other than trying to flirt with somebody. I was that young person once, and I didn't realize then how small my cares were until I had them replaced with the cares of adulthood. I laugh when the rich and the ignorant are trapped by their own shallow selves, but the people here are trying to find their selves, especially the young. As am I, still, in many ways.

The people here, whom I thought I could laugh at, are in the same boat as I. What were my problems? Rent's going up again, car needs work, family get-togethers, trying to keep people from slipping away, need another job to pay for it all. Who here didn't have these problems? Only the young, and I looked at them with a certain sadness, because I knew they would have them soon enough.

It was crazy, so very different from my last excursion. Many things were reversed. Then I was ridiculed for my car; this time I got smiles and sincere thumbs-up. Then I found a place I could not respect and silently let my hatred pour out onto these pages. Now, it is only a dim sensation of sorrow.

There were people who deserved the skewering here: the person who sat in front of me with too much make-up and a deer-in-the-headlights look, for example, sucking on a Bud and fawning over her beau. And in all honesty, you can't help but laugh at those affectations and appearances that define "teenybopper." But only because we were there once and we laugh at our younger selves.

But the biggest reason I am so lenient has nothing to do with the crowd, the location, the events; it is totally out of my control. It is simply that two weeks ago the mood of reality was such that it was right and proper for me to rumble about the truly decadent and depraved. Now, the winds had shifted in my own mind, and of course reality had changed to match it. Nothing happens without a reason, and that reason is usually within my head. I just look for it. Mind over matter, indeed.

"It is not so easy to live every day of your life holding up the wall of your own sanity." -- Norman Mailer

With almost perfect timing, Peter Frampton came on just as I was through listening to Led Zeppelin Zoso. He wasn't bad, of course, but I wondered if I should just forget the live music and stick with Zeppelin. Nah; I'll miss the stimulating conversation sure to go on around me. Besides, for some reason I had a smile on my face. Whether it was due to the catharsis of writing or something going on three hundred miles away, I did not know; However, I'll run with the emotions when I can, especially the good ones. It probably was the simple fact that I was outside listening to good music with a crowd of real people; I hadn't done that since Edgefest over two years ago (Jesus, why do I keep on switching verb tenses here? I may not have taken an English class in yers, but I tend to do a good deal of practicing). That was a trip, and so is this. And you can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.

Which is a laugh. I'm not trying to catch any "flies" of any type. Of course, I had already seen one person I knew (always happens, so I try to get it over with as soon as possible), and I was all smiles and hellos. But he didn't join me, to no surprise, and I don't know if I would have appreciated the company. This is a business trip for one thing; I have to keep up with my self-imposed article minimums until I can get my own column and deal with outside deadlines. More importantly, however, this was a non-bullshit trip. The person was a good person whom I liked and respected, but I knew that if I joined his party I would have to play nice in some way or another.

Avoiding bullshit is getting more and more important these days. Happiness is being able to balance the nonsense found and work, in school, with people you don't really know etc. with the sincerity that only exists in a few situations. I had gone so long with a pleasurable balance that I was thrown for a loop when a fantastically coincidental set of circumstances pushed me away from being real. Such as tonight: all of the people with whom I could be comfortable with were, by and large, in other states or countries. Thus, my only recourse was to come alone, where sitting, observing, and writing do not involve hypocrisy. And if somebody chose to invade my world in some way or another, then I had no reason to play nice; they would get an earful of whatever Gonzo I had in my at the time, good or bad. It has gotten to the point where the only way I can e free is to drive around in my Gonzo-mobile or write; it is borderline at my job, and I can only forget about it in a political science lecture.

Peter Frampton has chosen to play a great song, "Show Me The Way," and I am trying to decide if I can drag some meaning out of it (dammit, those fucking tense shifts again . . .) As much as I would like to, it is only a good song, nothing more . . .

But that is neither here nor there for the moment. It is getting darker and people are wearing glowing ropes of plastic. An experiment comes to mind: Why don't I find an open patch to sit down in and see if I tend to attract more solitary groups of females than other people? Ah, yes, but it is too late for that, and so I merely have to guess based on what has happened around me so far. And even that is not important; however, for the record, I think my experiment would work out as I think it would.

The crowds are getting bigger and bigger, thus making it easier to find things to laugh at. But still I am not biting, instead choosing to smile a stupid smile. Perhaps I think of Hubert Humphrey (ye gods) and bargaining from strength. I have incorrectly associated the quote and the politician for so long that it doesn't matter who said it. I doubt that Hube baby every thought in specific terms of going down to Miami Beach in '72 with enough delegates to "bargain from strength," but a book reported it that way and the whole situation has been imprinted in my mind ever since.

Do I have any strength left? Or has talking about the sad regrets of youth sapped it all? Is it better to burn out than fade away? Do I even have to make that choice? All these people with their posturing and pretending, only remind me that even by doing this I am ensuring that the going will become even more weird.

Ah, but does strength come from within or without? I sill don't know. A combination probably, or maybe it is that mind over matter thing again; having strength from within will create strength in that other reality. Hmm . . . . I 'll save the answer to that for another rant.

***

I have been here for two hours now, at least, and nobody has commented on the notebook, or the fact that I have been going with the pen forever. I have gotten my share of stares, but the natures of those are probably not related in a large way to my writing. And there is no reason to go any further with that, none at all.

Besides, who really cares when there are people walking around trying to use glow-in-the-dark paint to draw nipples on the shirts of passers-by? Christ, that's a new one by me, and I report it here only to be the first to document this new trend, should it sweep the nation like wildfire. You heard it here first, folks.

Where am I going with the damn thing now? It started out with a semblance of control and seriousness, but now it has found its own path. Maybe there's symbolism here too . . . young writer trying to capture the mood of the populace while simultaneously trying to find answer for himself, let's his article run away from him and finds himself in the process . . . Somehow, I doubt it.

There isn't a lot of substance here, and now I believe that is the point (ah, yes, I think I can tie this together). There isn't much substance around here and normally that leads to an attack from myself. But here it is a neutral lack of substance, something that is pretty innocuous. So what the hell? Let it be for now, and stop thinking about the way.

Postscript

Grim memories on this hot night in Minneapolis . . .

I guess I can find some refuge in the fact that due to the laws of physics, any bubble of positive energy, wholly surrounded by a negative field, is not going to last long. Or, hell, put it the other way: a bubble of negative energy in a sea of positive will soon disappear. Call it what you will, it just matters that they are opposites. But in reality, only one interpretation is the correct one.

Nights like these are great for listening to Let it Bleed, or some Pink Floyd. Rain coming down, commandments being broken wantonly all around . . . it's great. Just try not to get the tears on the keyboard (it would short out the damn thing) and maybe switch to the Beatles when it gets too much to handle. Knowing too much will certainly put you up a creek without so much as a salad fork to steer. Avoid it at all costs, and just pray to whatever god you pray to that the world isn't totally reducible to S-type people. In nomine patris et filii et spiritus sancti.