Altamont Fears Unrealized, and the Bandito Who Guards the Bathroom
I'm movin' back to Russia, dude" said Dobis. This was a full week before they began arriving.
"I tell you this:" he winked and flashed a 24kt smile, "The whole shit gonna go off; so I gotta go
back. Russia… son-of-a-bitch" George laughed with his Czech cadence, smiled, and stared upwards into
the (probably) sturdy, and recently constructed tree-house.
"It's the camera-and-VIP tree-house. Only a few allowed up at a time," nodded Rocker James, Tex
Games organizer, entertainer, and tree-house supervisor. The local barn-raising crew of loggers,
fisherman, and Glacier, WA's assorted finest freelancers, gathered a week prior to raise the
facilities, and the complex was beginning to transform.
"The opening ceremonies should kick off Friday afternoon," continued Rocker.
And which events should be featured at the first annual Tex Games?
"Well, there'll be some snowboarding, but there'll also be a fair amount of boxing - men's and
women's, BMX jumping, freestyle motocross hucking, skateboarding, long-distance moto ghost riding,
a monster-truck tug-o-war, and a ladies' wet T-shirt contest. And there'll be beers and BBQ," Rocker
hoisted some timbers for the stage.
A man standing atop his tree-spiked logger's boots gripped to the tree-house support like an irie
spider, hammering and whistling.
George Dobis waved and walked back towards the highway, headed home to pack for Russia.
Word of the Tex Games had spread throughout the shredder's world in a matter of days. In Norway,
at the Artist's Challenge, riders scrambled to re-arrange schedules and find moto-trailers. Within
the Northwest, rumor of the deep-woods rumble was strong enough to draw out even the most jaded urban
skate rat, driving hours and hours to Where the Wild Things Are.
Most contests/events require a team of full-time dedicated men to pummel the phone-fax-e-beast
for weeks on end, in order to make a dent in the minds of shred elite. Tex did it with the promise
of beer, nudity, and violence: The American Triumvirate.
And Sweet Home Whatcom County, did he deliver...
Beginning with Jillian Sizemore's heart-wrenching rendering of "Star-Spangled Banner", replete with
improved lyrics, the Tex Games quickly brewed into the Most Glorious Three Days in the History
of Mankind, Sport, and Gasoline. Really.
It would be impossible, and ultimately pointless, to offer any sort of chronological narrative at
this point, or perhaps to offer any "nological" explanation for anything. Three Days: Three Hours.
I do recall, however, that at night, a low mist would hang over the amped crowd, swelling into the
hundreds around the hand-built ring, the jubilant referee, and a couple of equally-amping estrogen
gloved and ready to draw blood.
Simultaneously, behind the pubilists, rumbling crew-cab jeeps, and even a limo backed up, chained
to one another, and pulled it in opposite directions in a gear mashing tug-o-war around the ????.
At the opposite, south corner of Southfork, rested a small masonite halfpipe, built with hand-crafted,
old world Norwegian f?? by Scott Stamnes. Vinnie and others, blunted, flipped, and ground under the
cedar forest.
On the Budweiser MainStage, many fine rock and roll legends fought fire with fire: Blackhappy,
Leatherboy, and fan fave Portrait of Poverty. The unadulterated speed-metal crowd performance
piece which followed, featured an ample act of drunk wrasslin', body slams, standing leans, and
involuntary convulsions. Good, clean asskicking fun.
In one particularly moving solo act, a lone gentlemen strode happily to the center of Lake Texan
(back on the Northwest corner of SouthFork), and began power-skanking. Slowly, smoothly, at
first, and finally, jerking rapidly like a boy-band member in the final stages of spinal
disfunction. Soon, he began simply hurling himself into the wet murk, without reservation or
concern. Attention shifted from vehicular battle, to the chick slug-fest, to the mud offering
for Pelette, the goddess of Hesh.
And say, does that star-spangled keg still flow...?
Added to the haze and confusion was the presence of Bellingham's local chapter of the Bandito biker
gang. The Banditos, hired for security purposes, arrived en heavy thunder masse on that sunny Friday
afternoon, and instantly surrounded SouthFork, providing a protectorate against interlopers,
buzz-killers, and The Man. Over the next three days, the expected Altamont scenario eventually
melted into a community of goodwill, where a big, scary biker gang stood guard so's that no one
burst into Tex's bathroom upon unsuspecting female party-goers averse to relieving themselves in
the woods.
Not exactly the Berkeley Riots. Or even the Seattle Riots.
Speaking of riots: predictably the (mostly male) crowd choice was, of course, the wet T-shirt contest,
which, with equal predictablilty, turned into something far less than family entertainment, with
Dimitrios Karabatsos emerging as the event's victor. Interestingly enough, this was the only
situation which caused local law enforcement agitation. Apparently flinging motorcycles and
amateur truck pulls are not a problem, but beer and titties are enough to cause some concern.
However, the sheer number of Heshstock celebrants, and the attendant paperwork required to process
them, deterred any action.
In the end, Texas Mike, hobbled with a moto injury, and running the show from his crutches, was
crowned the golden bullhorns and declared Ruler of All. Against all odds, and better judgment,
he pulled off the gnarliest BBQ, ever.
And George Dobis didn't have to go back to Russia after all; preferring the chaos, and economic
disorder of Glacier, to the former communist states.
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