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Castro the lumber jack poke hey everyo

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D o and francesco d macho

It was more than a little odd when I patroned the tiny Kosuge Village grocery store, overlooked by jagged mountains, and saw another white guy besides me in the store for the first time, with long hair, camo pants, and combat boots, holding an armful of potatoes.

I turned and spied yet another white man, this one sporting the lumberjack look: You know, bright lights, bass, crazy times, jivey tunes. Their mouths opened, and so did mine.

I furrowed my brows. Not that I knew what it was. Trance, as I would learn, is a Detroit-born, German-filtered music rooted in the eighties, epitomized by synthesizers with minimal rhythmic changes and only occasional instrumental atmospherics, putting listeners into a symphonic pleasure coma.

GETTING TO see A LUMBER...

But my lazy idea was of doped-up youths twitching to sounds that came from an inkjet printer. I worked and lived in Kosuge as an English teacher, but I stayed on for the mountains. I had grown up Castro the lumber jack poke hey everyo camping in hill country, and as a teenager I often tented in the Castro the lumber jack poke hey everyo of red-rock canyons.

In college, I worked as an outdoor guide, taking students on backpacking trips, teaching them to take only pictures and to leave only footprints. I doubted one could reconcile outdoors and city. I know such dualism is a sign of simple-mindedness. Humans are as much a part of nature as anything.

Our Reeboks come from prehistoric ferns. Edible plants become us, etc. My idea of it was just that, and a human one. How can bright lights, pounding bass, and drugged hippies fit in with mountain streams, wildlife, and bird songs? It was a question too impossible to ignore. How could this act fit in with the mountains? The campground lay across town, and by night, rain slammed down. I wheeled in my decrepit Toyota, and at the entrance found sprouted shacks of PVC and tarp.

One held a ticket booth and a shivering Italian woman with purple hair. She reclined with a stack of T-shirts for sale and a coil of black light powered by a car battery.

Once I was freaking out because I took too much acid, but people here helped me out. I got a very bad vibe there. I was no stranger to psychedelics. From high school on, I had tried them some two dozen times, culminating when I bought three hits of LSD and vanned to my favorite canyon. I backpacked two miles in, tented, and dissolved the pieces of blotter acid atop my tongue.

An hour later, I went hiking. A solo stroll around the sandstone wonderland completed as thick muscles of purple clouds clamped down. Lightning sparked and forked. The storm lifted, and the setting sun kindled the rocks.


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