UTOpia
A lot of people think about drugs and vandalism when they think about Gonzo Journalism and Hunter S. Thompson, but I’m here today to tell you they’re all missing the point. That’s not what Gonzo was, that’s just what Hunter wrote about because he was, well... him. What really made Thompson’s writing so visionary, the real thrust of Gonzo, was that the reporter put himself and his experiences into the story. It wasn’t this cold, removed portrayal of the facts that is typical amongst conventional even “reputable” authorities on the news. He told you about the people, the room, the smells and crust and spills of whoever he had in his literary sights. That is something I’ve tried to bring to Subtopian from the beginning. I am far too ordinary and reserved to follow in the fiery footsteps of the Good Doctor, but I respect his vision and find that when I’m lost his playbook is the one I crack open.
mind right so I don’t get impatient and bored which results in me acting mean or downright immature. So I got prepared as usual for this bluegrass night. But all I can say is that this thing didn’t play out at all like I pictured. I had imagined an old time dance hall, a raised stage, dark wood everywhere you look, and maybe a big, dusty old curtain – that kind of thing. The Portland Old Time Music Gathering, sponsored by a group called “Bubbaville,” (more on them later), was held downtown at The Scottish Rites Center. From the outside, the building looked like it would definitely be featuring my aforementioned dance hall complete with dark wood and dusty stage curtain. At the front there were a few stone steps ensconced on either side by lampposts heading up toward large, wooden double doors. As I pulled the heavy doors open with Erin by my side I expected the entryway to expand into marble floors and a vast staircase, but we were stopped abruptly by a variety of people shouldering different stringed instruments in hard cases. The floors were old carpet and the stairs were immediately in front of us going up in the center and down on either side. To my right was a small table with a couple of volunteers taking money for the event. The air was ringing with string sounds and voices, a kind of clatter from too many melodies blending over each other just like the many conversations, laughs, footsteps, and money changing at the door. Already adjusting my expectations for the evening, we followed a Xerox paper sign that said “Bar/Lounge” in bold letters. It took us down the staircase on the right and we walked over a few lines of blue painter’s tape, a kind of makeshift traffic indicator for the evening. The place was covered in the stuff, blue arrows and lines all over the carpeted flooring led the crowd to other printed off signage and temporary tables, corners and even a bar serving a limited menu that included a beer called Old Yeller that I rather enjoyed for a pale ale.
So when I decided to write the story I am currently attempting I thought about interviewing people, I thought about researching the background and history of the community I discovered, I thought about lots of things, but in the end I decided that my experience of that night was the way to go. This story, my glimpse into Utopia this month, went down on Friday, January 18th. It happened that I was in need of a band to play at my upcoming wedding reception and my fiancee, Erin, heard about this bluegrass event through a friend who was playing that night. It sounded all right, and I certainly hadn’t seen a bluegrass band play since I left Texas, so we went for it. Now, I naturally lose interest in just about anything faster than most and I’ll be the first to admit it’s a nagging, downright inconvenient personality trait that requires dramatic gestures to maintain my attention. As such, I have developed a kind of coping mechanism to try to prepare for whatever random, potentially lame thing I’m getting myself into. I think about the night, what it will look like, what it will feel like, where I’ll stand or sit, that kind of thing. It helps me try to get my 31