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Leaving Montana

1996-12 - Clinton, MT - Record snowfall in December - Dean digs(Excerpted from Chapter 19: Cruising Babylon: The Grateful Unrich…)

You don’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows - Bob Dylan

Missoula, MT

7-12-97

It’s been another ho-hum day on the corner. The banker who tried to run us off this public space choked on a turkey bone last Thanksgiving. America’s largest anarchist Saturday street festival has been coralled into a pay-per-space orderly affair, crammed into a single downtown Missoula block. We launched this street theater three years ago and refuse to be herded into sanitized hell. We boycott the sterile, juggler-less, mournful event from our corner outpost at Higgins and Broadway – open to all vendors by virtue of a unanimous decision by the Missoula city council, after the Thanksgiving casualty complained that his bank – bastion of capitalism – had seen enough of the free market out its front door.

Saturday is the busiest day of the week, as any dyed-in-the-wool street vendor will tell you. It’s when country folks come to town to peruse Main Street in search of new sizes and shapes of junk to replace that which they have gotten bored with. But this day is going just like the summer has gone. It hasn’t. Maybe the economy is fixing to head south. Maybe the people are tired of seeing us here. Maybe we’re tired of seeing them and it shows. At any rate, down one Yucatan matrimonial cotton/sisal five-thread hammock and a few pieces of Jill’s jewelry, we pack it in.

The highway home today will be much longer than the usual fifteen mile I-90 run east to Clinton, where a rundown 77’ Fleetwood has awaited us, crammed tightly between two worse-off trailers – ready to fall like dominoes in a row of rotting mobile homes. It is one of those unseen barrios where locals have taken refuge from the green green pastures of Missoula – overgrazed by dreadlocked California millionaires wearing Patagonia uniforms. We call them Trustafaris.

This time we’ll drive right past that unwelcome Clinton exit, having this week signed the dotted line authorizing the sale of said Fleetwood. We get but a thousand more than we paid for this wreck a year ago, but we unload the necessary burden and along with it – the property-tax monster, Big Brother phone company and power sucking energy grid man.

Today we fold up our table and stuff Mexican hammocks and Nepalese wool sweaters into the bags they came shipped in. We tear up our tired assortment of signs, toss out our ledger and pack the remaining necklaces into the tongue and groove wooden display cases that Jill made. We chuck the wicker basket that held Peruvian beads, pieces of black coral we found washed up on a Malaysian beach, what remains of my collection of foreign coins and other miscellaneous junk. As we pack up our gear, other vendors seem to sigh in collective relief at the sight of competition moving on. The hot dog vendor licks his lips, the hemp purveyor salivates and the Garnet Mountain crystal diggers jockey for position. We sell the latter contingent our display cases. They will be of no more use to us.

Gone is our 1989 Plymouth Colt Vista 4×4 station wagon, the poor man’s version of that icon of Missoula’s Patagonia-wrapped all day coffee shop contingent – the Subaru wagon. In its usual parking spot next to the curb where we load and unload, sits the cornflower blue 1988 Chevy 3/4 ton van that will carry us away from Zootown.

In the rear is a comfortable custom bed, sitting on the same milk crates we “borrowed” four years ago from that Arkansas convenience store to make a bed in our other van, which we’ve sold along with canoe, cross-country skis, tent and all other non-roadworthy items.

Inside the crates is everything we own – mainly clothes, photo albums and music. On top of the crates lays a thick piece of particle board, then a thick foam pad, then an egg crate-type pad, then our bedding. Behind the bed, we open the double doors and begin cramming in the burlap bags of sweaters and hammocks. In front of the bed on the passenger’s side is a sink – handy for brushing teeth, washing dishes and a late night piss in a Wal-Mart parking lot. In front of the sink we pack our vending table in the step of the sliding side door, then cram more burlap bags in front of it to hold it in place. On the opposite side, again on milk crates, is a thinner piece of plywood, holding a two-burner propane stove and two 4-gallon former Pizza Hut bulk cooking oil containers – well-rinsed and turned into lightweight, sturdy and free water jugs.

We say our last goodbyes, though the Indians have taught us that there are no last goodbyes. We say goodbye to friends, goodbye to annoying people who liked to hang out with us on the corner in search of a better outlook and a new energy field, goodbye to a way of life that has sustained us since we returned to Montana three summers ago. We pile into the loaded down rig – Jill, loyal road hounds Buck and Milo and I.

Missoula has proven the same brain drain vortex as it had been when we last abandoned it for our ridge top Ozark homestead. The same drunken talk at Charlie’s – a mafia-run bar – about changing the world, the same handful of non-profit strictly environmental and strictly on the grant money tit groups spinning their wheels at Bernice’s – where coffee runs $1.50 with no refills and where one is greeted by angry matriarchs bent on global domination of their neutered male subjects. These pathetic “activists” claim divine right to free kegs of the latest microbrew under the guise of fund-raising. They bike around town blocking traffic for kicks in their oil-based Patagonia costumes.

The city power structure claims progressiveness, but they are safe liberals who talk real soft and carry a big batch of passive aggressive angst. They forcefully regulate Mom and Pop business, while ignoring out of intense fear the likes of Plum Creek Timber, Burlington Northern Railroad and Meridian Mining – all part of the same corporate octopus owned by the Ft. Worth-based Bass Brothers and other Texas billionaires and drug lords. The self-important city council ignores Stone Container, a Chicago mafia-run box maker spewing endless sulfur dioxide and who knows what else into this allegedly environmentally aware valley without a word from the Emperor’s entourage.

Upon returning here, I had led another assault on this death cloud producer. I rolled some heads and got some death threats. Things were happening. But with each new hearing came a new grant-money sucking, gravy-train seeking, well-salaried environmental group. They commenced to water down the critique, which reached its crescendo when I donated my 4-H grand champion market swine trophy to the cause, awarding Stone Container’s head honcho with the “Golden Swine Award” at a Missoula County Commission hearing. His red face garnered a standing ovation from the crowd.

With each new front group, the struggle was further usurped in favor of capitulation. Those groups most conciliatory towards the mob got the next round of Rockefeller Family grants. That’s the way grant money works. It’s not about doing good things. It’s about trillionaire tax evasion and social engineering. And it works.

So Montana’s historic colonization marches on. The handful of outspoken revolutionaries who land here are branded “violence-prone”, “crazy” or “dangerous” by the soft-spoken anal retentive matriarchal Establishment. Increasingly marginalized from the debate, I find more common ground with the Montana Militia and others of the well-armed fringe.

I manage to sneak one radio commentary past public radio news robot, Sally Mauk – a particularly well-manipulated silent droid – and slam Stone Container hard.

I do four TV programs on Missoula Community Access Television (MCAT) with the local Baha’i group. The program titles are: (1) The Oil Mafia (2) Central America: Struggle against the New World Order (3) The Mena Cover-Up (4) Freemasonry, the Illuminati and the International Bankers. During the last show both cable and Internet feeds are suddenly cut. Later that night we are harassed by cops. The next day we have two flat tires on the wagon.

These matters are of no interest to the environmental career activist crowd. Tired of being relegated to the company of John Birchers and the Apocalypse-prone, I decide it time to unhook our well-tapped phone, swap vehicles and hit the lonely but true highway one more time.

I steer the big blue van – now known as Tubs II – east onto the Van Buren Street I-90 exit. We pause at the Clinton post office to pick up the last of our mail and say goodbye to Roger, the soft-spoken postmaster who’s obviously done tons of acid. Jill sheds a few tears as we drive away.

I keep an eye out for suspicious vehicles as we continue east. The coast is clear and I relax, rejoicing at the sight of Hellgate Canyon and Missoula – what the Salish called “the valley of dead bones” – in my rear view mirror.

My unpaid thankless job as left-flank agitator/matriarchy punching bag is terminated. I count coup over the fact that this stint in Missoula has – unlike the last, when we left broke – produced a healthy grubstake. We worked for change at every level, possibly the most important of which was the establishment of a street vendor entrepreneur class who could now safely go about their low-overhead business. The van feels tight.

Dean Henderson is the author of five books: Big Oil & Their Bankers in the Persian Gulf: Four Horsemen, Eight Families & Their Global Intelligence, Narcotics & Terror Network, The Grateful Unrich: Revolution in 50 Countries, Das Kartell der Federal Reserve, Stickin’ it to the Matrix & The Federal Reserve Cartel.  You can subscribe free to his weekly Left Hook column @ www.deanhenderson.wordpress.com

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Discussion

8 thoughts on “Leaving Montana

  1. Great story. Been there.
    1984 was the year street vending was criminalized in Canada. The same year the Queen excluded the same vendors from the public markets.
    The USA is just a little slow on some thngs.
    The first freedom is access to the market for your products and produce.
    Welcome to a Brave New World Order.

    Posted by moriyah | June 8, 2013, 10:26 am
  2. nice stuff

    Posted by john b | June 8, 2013, 5:39 pm
  3. What happened to the great white Northwest? I thought that region (including Montana) was to be refashioned into a refuge for the free-minded. Perhaps the USA really is hamstrung by its overly aggressive, and emotionally dominant women?

    Posted by Anglo Saxon | June 9, 2013, 3:55 am
    • Yes, the US is hamstring by incompetent women emplaced in jobs by the zionist movement under terms of their protocols in order to emasculate the nation and make it weak. Regardless of who you are, everywhere you go you will be hamstrung at some point by an obsequious-to-the-system, marginally trained glorified housewife who has been emplaced in an adult’s job but who has no real authority to do anything other than say no to you or ask her supervisor. These women are placed between you and the bad guys for a reason: to keep you from getting your due while the bad guys steal from you and the public using an obsequious human shield glorified housewife woman as a surrogate employee.

      Posted by Tom Lowe | June 9, 2013, 2:53 pm
      • @Tom

        That was my rough assessment also; but you explained the Amerikan reality more colourfully than I could have done.

        When this policy is followed down at the local KFC or Walmart it is an irritation. But when it is [repeatedly] applied to the post of US Secretary of State, or other senior posts (in Washington) of similar weight, then clearly this obsession takes on global import … with callous policies added for good measure.

        Posted by Anglo Saxon | June 10, 2013, 4:12 am
  4. As a fellow Missoulian, I feel you man! Travel well

    Posted by Stephen | June 9, 2013, 10:16 am
  5. Bro…….you are the only person that I have ever come across who actually gets it! Other than your wishful thinking about our elected officials, Obama in particular……..Dean, you are not alone bro……….promise! Have you read the Urantia Book yet?……..yeah, I know my comments don’t really have to do with this article, I just listened to your latest interview with Rense, he tries maybe? But YOU bro, you get it………..makes me smile knowing I am not alone!

    Posted by ka makani | July 7, 2013, 10:46 am
  6. Holy Cow! Your writing is riveting; your description of the duplicitous left “progressive” faction of the sheeple comes off like a hammer! Yes, you completely nailed it. You are absolutely right about the emasculating matriarchy that passes for leadership in so-called progressive parts of the country these days. And ironically, though they reject anything truly feminine or nurturing, they are not above sucking off of the fake activist tainted-money teat. Ofcourse, this is an inevitable result of decades-long brainwashing of the populace to establish that males are worthless and any contribution on their part is completely irrelevant (i.e., to put them out of a job of being a provider), and that females will be spiritually and emotionally fulfilled if only they replace the males and emulate them for the sake of being morally superior. Yet, because of politically correct censorship, we can’t call these females what they are: bitter, syncophantic shrews. The only males who escape the eunich-machine are those seduced by the evil lie of flag-waving patriotism in the name of “Freedom”, and their naive, hormone-drenched brains are channeled into souls for harvest by the ritual war machine. Yes, let the almighty U.S. lead the charge to wage war against the invisible brown people of the world at the behest of the Zionists. It’s not really murder if you’re doing it with a joystick drinking a Coke at some army base in Nevada. Never mind that it really is murder, and we all know it – otherwise our military wouldn’t be blowing their own heads off day after day – this is what one does when his or her soul is already destroyed. Gosh, what a completely @ss-backwards world we live in now. Okay, now I have to go cleanse myself or meditate or something. Ugh.

    Posted by Garden Goddess | July 10, 2013, 9:28 pm

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