Ecstatic Agendas

It’s been a busy summer; full of procrastination, yard work, and Irish whiskey. As Spring term at my university came to its proper end, I drafted a To Do list three pages long.  Thankfully, after checking off a few items in the first week, I haven’t looked at it since!

I was in my former home of St. Louis Missouri for a day and a half last month, and a friend graciously transported me around some corners of the city with which neither of us were overly familiar. St. Louis is the quintessential example of Great American Blight. Quite literally built over that stereotypical meme of white empire, the “Indian Burial Ground” (specifically atop the razed and erased Cahokian civilization), the city’s chickens have come home to roost, decade after decade, in the form of brutal racial strife, an arcane and thoroughly corrupt Board of Aldermen which controls and perverts neighborhood development like a cabal of latter-day Boss Hogs, and an overall distrust and selfishness among the citizenry that manifests itself in – among other mundane examples – the absolute worst and most aggressive drivers in the entire country.

Yet there is a unique and literary beauty here, upon the Western bank of the great river to which Mark Twain gave poetic and cantankerous voice. Playwright Tennessee Williams references the city in many of his works, and beatnik godfather William Burroughs is buried in one of St. Louis’ sprawling old graveyards. 

From these crumbling red brick streets rises one of America’s most unique and underrated public sculptures: The Gateway Arch. This wildly optimistic structure is one that I took for granted my entire young life. It was always there, every time my family crossed the Mississippi from Southern Illinois to visit the zoo or the Soulard Farmer’s Market (a real farmer’s market in the classical sense, not the overpriced hipster simulacra now popular in every American town and suburb). The Arch can be seen from most points in the city by climbing high enough in any building, and from the East it is visible for miles across the cornfields and floodplains of Illinois. A gleaming improbability flashing above the prairie, its novelty was never apparent to me until I moved away. Now that I only see it once every year and a half or so, it never fails to amaze me.

From the arch-grounds we headed North through industrial ruins, snapping photos of railroads and chemical plants, cruising up into sagging first-wave cul de sacs of collapsed ranch style homes before heading West into St Louis County, reminiscing about punk bands and dead friends as we passed meat markets, truck stops, and Nation of Islam soldiers selling newspapers and bean pies at one sun-baked intersection.

After a heavy, satisfying lunch of heartland barbecue, Bill and I visited The Crystal Wizard, an old-style esoteric emporium in South City. Back when I lived in the neighborhood, the shop was run by two grizzled hippies and featured biker porn, a talking parrot, and a display case of WWII (ie Nazi) collectibles.  The hippies, the smut, the bird and the swastikas are all gone now, but much of the grimy character remains intact. We had to call a handwritten phone number on the front door to be let in, and after perusing the daggers, candles, blacklight posters, and sports memorabilia, I settled on a few boxes of incense. When I told the current proprietor to “keep the change” she offered us some granola bars as thanks.  

We ended our tour of St. Louis’ outer perimeter at Jefferson Barracks Park and National Cemetery. JB was, for over a century, one of the nation’s most important strategic assets. The compound housed troops and munitions beginning in 1826 and remained an active base through the end of World War II. On the day we visited, the park was quietly idyllic if a bit steamy in the summer humidity. (Locals take these pressure cooker conditions in stride, fighting the heat with mosquito spray and ice-cold Stag beer; but after nearly two decades on the West Coast, Midwest summers really do a number on me!)

Jefferson Barracks is now home to a handful of small museums, including the Powder Magazine Museum which features somber and respectful displays on each of the wars and conflicts in which the barracks played a role. A nice surprise on this particular day was a temporary exhibit in another building: Art At War, an impressive collection of wartime artworks and documents that included vernacular works by soldiers in the field, propaganda posters (“Every garden a munitions factory!” boasted one familiar design), and battlefield sketches from across the ages. This thoughtfully-curated show (curator seemingly unlisted- I’ve searched the web for an hour and haven’t found a name) is at turns funny and heart-rending. A valuable experience for anyone (including those of us who hate war), it is viewable through the end of this year in the Old Ordnance Room, a short drive from the park entrance. (Jefferson Barracks Park and National Cemetery, 345 North Rd W, St. Louis, MO 63125.)

After parting ways with my dear old friend, I spent a week across the river in Illinois, catching up with family, inhaling second-hand smoke, visiting ancestral graves, and even meeting up with my friend and magical mentor Jack Grayle a few hours North. Closing out my trip, I enjoyed a final night of BBQ and local beers with yet another beloved friend and his family. We’ve both come a long way from our mutual small town adolescence weaned on GG Allin, John Waters, and role playing games; yet those formative experiences seem close at hand still today.

When I first left the Midwest I would try, each trip home, to see as many loved ones as I could cram into the few days I had. Now I generally devote 99% of these homecomings to my blood kin. Besides which: over the years a lot of those friendships have cooled to mutually-distant fondness and, in one case, bemused consternation at the one old companion who has not once called, texted, or emailed me in all the years I’ve been gone, yet seems offended if I don’t get in touch every single time I return. Mostly, I keep in touch with people over social media, and I long for those rare occurrences when my schedule permits me to visit with the handful of dear friends still alive and bangin’ it up in the River City. 

You know who you are – drop me a line and come visit sometime!

Jason Triefenbach, HFHR, MSG