It was just after noon when the kids came home again after three months on the road, their epic Chrome Squatch Concert Tour USA finally done. It was raining once again as their well-used tour bus rolled into our Hacienda's parking yard, assuring them that they were indeed back in the wicked clutches of the Great Pacific Northwest weather-gods. Adam, Melly, Lissandra, Pokey and Maki, Magga and Masnia, all accounted for and stepping off their rolling home to ferocious embraces from Elaine, Doug and myself, so glad to see them again. But we were only part of the welcoming committee: Dabronat and Malasna (Masnia's parents); Dave the hippie mailman; Margaret and Ruth (Lissandra's two gay mothers); Roberto (Bobby) our resident Mexican kid and his squatch buddy Bart (Dalarbart) were present to shake hands or bob heads and smile. Otherwise we kept our front driveway gate closed to the public and the press today, so that we could have our homecoming in relative private. And there was a crowd out by the gate, believe me. Adam said that they had been almost constantly escorted by crowds of media vehicles pacing along beside them on the freeway, following them on and off all the way through California, Oregon and Washington states. "They were honking their horns and gesturing for us to stop for an interview, until after a hundred miles or so they would give up and drop back, only to be replaced by yet another possee out from the next town along the I-5. This for 18 hours non-stop, dj'iess!" Adam said, "We gave a public interview just before our final concert at the Palladium, about what our plans were now and how we felt the tour had gone, so we could only offer repetitions of that same information. So we ignored them as best we could and here we are." Melly said, "We told them that we would most likely be doing an S&F-only concert in Seattle quite soon, details to be announced by our manager. So the press started frantically asking if we were breaking up with Chrome Pie." "They did get kinda hysterical," Lissandra noted, "which led to questions about if our band was a cult or not. I was tempted to say yes, yes, we rilly are a fucking cult, but controlled myself." "And then," Melly continued, "some rabid Christians started referring to our infamous old leaked AooE document and asking if we were Satanists, like evil." "Well, according to Si Bintzen," I told them, "you guys have been anointed by God Himself, money-wise at least. The concert tour seems to have been a true artistic and financial success." Lissandra's two mothers were quite pleased and proud about the musical successes of S&F and the part their daughter played in it all: an MTV Video Music Award, an iHeartRadio Music Award, a Billboard Music Award, and so on. They preferred to define her as a "highly-cultured Cellist" rather than a mere rock band Bass Player, which rilly amused Lissandra. Actually, the band has won a whole plethora of awards and prizes over the last year, most of which Adam had little regard for, saying "they don't mean much, everybody gets those," or "it's all just a marketing trick." Followed by, "Well okay, maybe it IS better to get some awards than to get nothing." Surprisingly, the rain stopped and the clouds blew away, unveiling an unexpected sunny blue sky up there, like a sign that we were all blessed, even if we do live in the GPNW. And it kept on getting brighter and warmer, then was suddenly nice and hot. Finally Adam shouted "Naked Lake!" A cheer went up. A picnic was packed and within minutes we were all inside the bus and on our way out to our favorite summer place, only about 4 miles away. We didn't all go; Margret and Ruth were not into "naturalism" as they called it and went home to Snohomish. Dave the Hippie Mailman had to go back to work at the Post Office, Dabronat and Malasnia were busy, but might come later on foot. Roberto and Bart wanted to ride with us, just for the thrill of cruising in the S&F bus, like real rock stars. Usually they rode out to the lake on bicycles. Concerning Roberto, we have to take care, not because he is problematic-- on the contrary --but because his father IS. Certifiably evil Don Salvador deVega, although presently in prison, is still the big boss of an extra-nasty Mexican drug cartel. He's also still quite rich and therefore still dangerous. But we're more concerned about his legal clout here in the USA than his criminal gangster power in faraway Mexico, since we're (legally) hosting his runaway son. We need to seem morally spic & span or his team of lawyers might just accuse us of contributing to the delinquincy of a minor and abscond with Roberto back to Guerrero State and that nasty old drug cartel, which he absolutely does not want to happen. At first we were concerned about taking a 12 year-old rich man's kid to our local nude beach, not because we thought it was wrong in any way, but because we didn't want to get sued. But we had always taken Adam and Melly to the other Naked Lake all their lives, so it would be sheer hipocracy for us to make Roberto stay at home while we went swimming and sunbathing at Naked Lake, as we often do on hot summer days. Besides, there's a whole society of local neighbors hereabouts who regard casual public nudity as a good and healthy way to be sometimes. And the parties are fun too. Anyway, Roberto really likes Naked Lake, he's spent most of this summer here. Him being 12 years old certainly didn't mean he was too young to enjoy seeing naked girls. Bart however, being a Nokhon, has been surrounded by "naked people" all his life, but even he was intrigued by the hairless nudity of NokhSo females. Although really, he is probably too young to become sexually aroused by females without shyøma, like so many adult squatch males. Of course, not all women --human or squatch-- are flawless beauties with sexy bodies (like those in our S&F band) but nude sunbathing is quite democratic in that when you are tanned all over, all strap-shadows blended in, it can be unclear whether you are male or female, so who cares? Everyone becomes beautiful. Having written that, insinuating that I am so far above being a sexist pig when it comes to ogling naked chicks, I must admit that our S&F girls pack a pretty big visual whallop, so all bets are off. All us guys attached to that band know how luckly we are to (A) get to look at those girls naked --a lot; (B) get to have sex with ALL of them every full moon; and (C)... well. I don't really have a "C" ready for processing, guess I've bragged enough for now. I said "all us guys", but there's one guy who can't be in on all the fun, because he's just too young: Roberto, naturalmente. 12 years old can get us into a lot of trouble, for example if Don Salvador's lawyers catch a hint of statutory impropriety they can use against us. Bart is also a young boy, but he's a squatch so there's no lawyers on his back eager to prove how old he is-- or isn't. Same problem we had with Masnia until we got a certified forensic dentist to decide that she was 19. We discussed all that with the kids, Most important, both boys learned how to behave among human nudists; don't stare at the girls so much that it gets awkward, don't make a fuss or embarass anyone, be polite, Be Nice. So being kids, they'd swim out to the rope swing a hundred times, lay in the sunlight for hours, gobble up all the picnic samples offered to them, bounce as high as they could off the Bigfoot-sturdy diving board for another hundred times, splash cold water on their friends, shove the prettiest girls off the dock, and be happy.
Just as we are happy for our new Naked Lake. It felt pretty tragic when our ex-paradise became a sprawling suburban housing development and was lost to us forever, which is a common problem when you don't/can't own the land. But this new lake is on rain-forest land now reserved for the Nokhon Nation Project by government grants and can not be taken away by any person or corporation who just happens to have extra buckets of cash. Because this body of water is now registered within an official Bigfoot Passage zone. We can't drive the bus into the zone, but can park close enough for an easy one-mile walk to the lake. It's a nudist beach, so we start peeling off our clothes as we go, laughing all the way. This is our favorite summer place, although most of us haven't been here for a while, S&F band having been on a concert tour and we Hacienda folk beibg too caught up in our daily routines. By the time we got to the lake itself the weather had become decidedly warm and nice, but since the rain had just stopped less than an hour before, no other sun-hungry humans had shown up yet. But there were two big hairy Nokhon males lying on the wooden dock. They'd probably been sunbathing in the rain anyway, Squatches just don't care about the weather. Turns out these guys were locals whom we knew pretty well: Dannogat and Dobaarlet, who had studied English at the Hacienda with both Pokey and myself, although only Dobaarlet had gotten any good at it. But we could all speak together because most of us are at least semi-fluent in Nokhontli and of course Magga, Masnia and Bart are native speakers. So greetings were offered. Those guys had never met Adam before, having first come to the Hacienda just after the band had taken off on their bid trip, but they knew who he was by reputation. Dobaarlet asked us, "So this is the infamous Dadamet we've heard so much about?" Adam bobbed his head and said in Nokhontli, "Yep, that's me, but only if what you heard about me was flattering." The squatches looked confused-- sometimes human-culture jokes and witticisms don't translate very well to Nokhon mentality. But Adam is fluent enough to be aware of that and adjust the situation: "Ra, e' ha Dadamet. Kha, o'o yaws-ahat ome." Which is to say, 'Yes I am Dadamet (male-Adam-adult); greetings and may you find food', combined with certain hand-gestures, all very polite and culturally acceptable. "Hey, wow, I can see that you are him indeed," translated from what Dannogat said, touching his own chest to indicate the grey patch of body hair Adam has, like a superhero bat-or-S-symbol, a permanent mark from when he was shot years ago. "Hey man, we've heard bout your myøsik, can you let us hear some?" Adam hadn't taken a guitar along this day, perhaps a solid three months of daily concerts had been overkill, but he and the girls could do one of their acapella numbers. They did I Like To Run, the Nokhontli version, so that the two guys could understand the lyrics. Which are somewhat pornographic, but hardly offensive to a Nokhon's absolutely libereal sexual culture. They were only amused, bobbing heads and silently laughing, as squatches do. Some humans-- and other Nokhons-- began to arrive, since it was too nice a day to waste by not going to Naked Lake. Almost everyone who showed up was a regular customer, like ourselves, so we knew most of them fairly well. Adam had brought a watermelon, as he often does, and others came with picnicable goodies to share. The Johnson brothers brought a keg of beer, like they often do. It got very merry. They all said "Welcome back" to the kids and asked about the fabulous USA concert tour, how it went, where it went. Many took selfies of our very own homegrown celebrities, now famous rock stars, etc. Humans and Nokhons were rubbing bare elbows, many of our old friends capable of some basic Nokhontli phrases they had learned from one of my classes, as had some squatches with enough English vocabulary for simple conversational needs. Such a lovely place; such a lot of nice naked people here, swimming out to the rope swing, diving into the cool green water, everyone being so friendly and glad to be here. We're all proud of having made this place, based upon the original Naked Lake with its naked-hippy paradise vibe, which we lost when the actual owners cashed in on the location. But we re-created it even better at this new lake-- this virgin pond tucked into these deep mossy woods off the beaten path-- really no path at all. This new dock was built better, made of freshly hand-cut lumber instead of scraps and pieces of greasy junk wood, assembled by Nokhons and humans working together. Technically this is now a public beach, open to anyone, but NNP'd enough so that no cops are allowed to come around and arrest people for being nude or smoking weed (especially since pot is legal now).
A couple of months ago, there was a semi-local motorcycle gang that figured they might just take over the scene, you know; call the shots, rule the roost. But first they had to bully the Sasquatches into submission, which they simply could not do. Some of those bikers do still come around here to enjoy the scene, but as guests like everybody else and neither calling shots nor ruling roosts. Actually, squatches are just as afraid of bad guys waving guns as anybody else (just ask Adam), it doesn't matter how big and hairy you are; getting shot just wrong can kill you. But among our current guests at Hacienda Forest is Adam's biological father, Daklakht, the Alutna-jii himself, official Chief of Bigfoot Police. He's about a hundred years old but looks and moves like a very fit forty or fifty, and is THE expert in prehistorically ancient martial combat techniques and is simply not to be fucked with. That's who those bikers had to deal with, not your everyday Bigfoot. I mentioned the problem to him, he went up to the lake with me, saw how the bikers behaved and decided to teach them the #1 Bigfoot rule: Ø'ø'e'rah! which translates as "Be nice!" When they waved their guns at Daklakht he threw their own motorcycles at them, as if those big heavy Harleys weighed almost nothing. They tried to shoot him, but couldn't quuite find him, somehow always blinded by the sun in their eyes. When night fell there he was again, occasionally spotted in fleeting glimpses by the flickering light of their burning motorcycles. Mostly he seemed to be-- or maybe really was --invisible. Those bikers ended up running and screaming all night long, finally making their escape in the dawn, on foot. They never tried for a rematch. Anyway, now Naked Lake 2.0 is exactly the paradise we want it to be.
Back at the Hacienda we swapped stories, although we'd all been in Skype-contact the entire time the band had been on tourné, so there weren't many surprises to unveil. Adam asked about Dagrolyt and Daklakht, who hadn't been here to greet them. "They're both in Aket right now," I informed him, "and are expecting you to join them there before too long. Also Dambaraggan is there, teaching a new batch of orators." "Oh no, not more orators," Adam complained, although I believe it was just his standard joke about all orators being automatically jealous of each other.
Agent John Stinger came by in the early evening and introduced himself to the kids, who had heard of him in our Skype exchanges when the Hacienda had been under attack by that unidentifiable paramilitary group, teaming up with Daklakht to save all our lives. It was understood that Agent Stinger was among us as part of some classified government mission that might never be fully explained. It was also he who served as military liason facilitating our three heroes' (Daklakht, Dagrolyt & Wallace) mission to the lost temple city of Shamballah in the Himalayan Mountains, where the global EMP threat of bad Nokhon Da-starda-hat had to be attended to. And it was, due to 110 year-old Uncle Wallace shooting him dead with his rusty old cowboy pistol. Probably saving our entire world-wide high-tech civilization from crashing apart, thank you. Agent Stinger is currently still renting a room over in the Mead Hall (for $50 a month, just to support his cover story), and because Elaine and I were so grateful to him for having literally saved our lives that dramatic night, we vouch for him as a good guy to know in a crunch. Just ignore all the sinister clues concerning top-secret military espionage, he just might be on our side. "I like S&F's music," he told the band, "maybe even more than your Chrome Squatch productions, with all those extra instruments. Your original sound is cleaner. Pokey's simple tom-tom redskin rhythm fits Adam's super-muscular guitar so well. Melly's piano-- and her voice --just RINGS so true. And Lissandra's soul-soaring cello tone nudges the whole band's collective sound towards the genre of classical music." The whole band stood frozen, astounded to hear such praise from a governmental secret agent, maybe a spy. Masnia had a question: "Errr...what about us?" "I was just getting to that," Stinger assured her with a charming smile, "you Nokhon chics have a unique trill to your voices that transports me to a time thousands of years ago, back when Shamballah and Aket were new concepts. And you also dance like godesses, by the way, extremely sexy." With that he said good night and went off to his modest little room in Mead Hall. But he hardly needed to say more; he had won them over, they were all now fans of Secret Agent Stinger.
ELAINE addressing feelings, Friday night/Saturday morn, August 14/15--
Now that the kids are back home we'll have to shuffle our bedroom vacancies a bit. There are only 4 actual bedrooms in our big old log cabin: one downstairs, where Art and I have always slept; upstairs Adam's extra big room with an XXL outdoor balcony so that his big fat bed could be partially outside; and two more regular rooms down the hall, each of which Melly and Lissandra have claimed for years. But since they were gone on this tour for so long, Roberto inherited one of them. There had often been a dance of Melly or Liss --or both-- spending nights with Adam and leaving a room empty, which often got used as Pokey and Maki's room in the winters when they were not living outside in their teepee. Winter also being when we all spent a lot of time together in front of the great fireplace in our large but cozy living room, often playing musical instruments and singing songs. There's also a big flat-screen TV for the news and movies, but we hardly watch it otherwise. We've also got an extra double-bed room out in the Mead Hall, upstairs, which John Stinger is currently "renting". Then there's two plush foldout sofas and a single napping-cot parked over in one corner of the main room. And there's the music studio, also upstairs, but offering no place for sleeping. So that makes another 5 possible beds available, for visitors or emergencies. Officially the Mead Hall is still property of the IPR (Indigenous Primate Research Center @ University of Washington), but they rarely do much Bigfoot research any more, so we've usually got the whole building to ourselves. The newly-arrived busload of our kids presented us with 6 extra sleepers to tuck in that night. But they were hardly fussy. In fact, they offered to just continue living in their bus, as they had for the last three months. At least for a while. But that seemed silly now that they were actually home, and we all wanted the whole family to be gathered, especially for our first night back together in so long. So Adam moved back into his old room with the big bed, but now there are four girls who want to share it with him. So that's what they do, all five of them, so they can be --shall I say?-- satisfied. Pokey and Maki got their old room over the hall from Roberto, who was probably hoping he could just happen to overhear some real-live sex going on all around him, well aware of what a horny bunch of gringos they are, him having read all of the AooE documents.
It's so nice to have the comfy-cozy sounds of our kids back in this house again, instead of intently listening to the awful silence that makes me imagine all the creepy crawly scary noises that I seem to be hearing every night now. A silence that brings on horrible memories... Shit, what was that? Oh, it's just Adam making love to Melly upstairs. Thump thump thump...tee hee! How good that sound, of people I love being happy. Makes me happy too! What now? It sounded like they'd finished. That's probably Lissandra now, good for her too. The squatchettes will be next, I bet. Yes, that's them. Both at once, it seems. And now-- all over again? You have fun, my son. I enjoy hearing you. I know how big and strong you are, the sound of your muscular power makes me feel safe. I guess those girls feel safe too. It sounds like everybody is having a good time, bless their horny horny hearts. But when this house is too silent I can't sleep, expecting those night-vision-goggled secret-mission soldiers out there in the dark, because they too were perfectly silent. So I always hear them closing in on our house with that gruesome stainless-steel skull-smashing device among their weapons. Oh, I know that we are guarded, Dabronat and other Nokhon friends have been keeping diligent watch every night, no normal human is going to slip past a Bigfoot in the dark. It seems that none have tried since that horrible night. The corrupt Senator Colin Carver, who casually ordered our illegal assasinations, has been arrested and is now in prison. We should be safe, I just need to get over it. Art tells me he has nightmares about that night too, but I don't think he experiences them as intensly as I do. He doesn't seem to be afraid every night, guess he's just a real macho dude. Wish I was.
I was going to make a big fat American breakfast for the kids, but Melly and Lissandra were ahead of me, eager to EAT a real breakfast, and so were already busy in the kitchen frying eggs and bacon, toasting toast, squeezing oranges. "It's okay, Mom, we got this," Melly says and I mist up. I'm not her biological mother, Sally was, but I do love being her "mom" and even more; occasionally being called "mommy" in times of crisis. I've missed that over the last three months. Lissandra notices that and instinctivly gives me a nice juicy hug, reminding me that I love her too. My salt & pepper set of daughters. Outside, it's a half overcast day, but with bright rays of sunlight punching through the clouds anyway. Beautiful. Art comes in from the South 40, looking for some coffee. Okay, we don't really have anything called a "South 40" here at Hacienda Forest, but he has been out there doing early morning he-man work, toting barges, lifting bales. I happen to take notice that he's still a good-looking man, for his age (49). For any age actually: physically fit, healthy, balding but wise-looking, so that's okay, and still a pretty good sex buddy. My dream guy! Then my little boy Adam makes his morning arrival. From upstairs he likes to take all the stairs in one smooth dive and a kip, plunging down head first, just barely managing to grab the top edge of the staircase with one hand. He swings and swoops, flying more or less upside-down through the length of the kitchen, but always landing neatly on both feet to a final little slide and clever flourish. He's been doing that since he was a "little" kid. Amazing that the upstairs floor he swings from hasn't yet come crashing down, considering what he weighs. Good thing our house is a sturdy old log cabin made of sturdy old logs. Then Pokey and Maki come downstairs too, also interested in breakfast, but still naked and heading for the shower first, because they're all sweaty from some kind of happy physical activity and still laughing about it. Not naked, Roberto follows them downstairs, awake unusually early for him, but all this new movement in the house is obviously exciting. Or was it following Maki's cute bare backside down the hall that which was exciting? But then, we'd all been naked at Naked Lake yesterday, nothing new to see here, folks. Suddenly I felt an exctremely intense surge of LOVE for everyone here. Every kind of love, all bundled together: the purest sweetest love for my children; a ferociously erotic love for my husband/sex partner; an almost Christlike love for the innocent child of our enemy; a universal love for all these folk from different races and/or species. For a moment I was blissed out. It felt so good that it hurt, just a little too much. But that soon passed and I went back to feeling boring old everyday love for these friends of mine, kind of a relief. I don't need too much. But you know what? Also too much: those horrors from that night, and many nights since then, me listening for those silent soldiers in the dark? Gone. I just knew. Blissed away, I guess.
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