Finding My People in Mormonland

Entering Salt Lake City from New Orleans is kind of like stepping into the Twilight Zone. Well, going anywhere outside of New Orleans is a culture shock. But Salt Lake is special. Stepping into Salt Lake City from anywhere is culture shock from what I've been told. I couldn't believe all the White people here. And I don't mean just regular White people. These are Stark Raving White people. The first time I heard the news anchors talking, they sounded like comedians making fun of White people. The neighborhoods are like Leave it to Beaver. I swear I heard a grown-ass man use "gee-golly" in a sentence, and he meant that shit. I wondered where the counterculture was, but I hadn't ventured downtown yet.

See, I had started seeing someone who lived in the Salt Lake area, and we had been doing this long-distance thing. New Orleans was her favorite city, so she often came to me. When it was time for me to visit her, she rented me an Airbnb up in the mountains. It was nice. There was an outdoor hot tub, and a family of deer came and hung out in the yard. I thought she was spoiling me. She was. I did later find out that she was still married and living with her cop husband and totally hiding me up there, away from his jurisdiction. She swears she wasn't hiding me, but I have my suspicions. I was also introduced to Black Bear Diner, which was the closest breakfast place to the Airbnb. I was hooked. It was no Waffle House, Utah Doesn't have a Waffle House, but it was scrumptious, nonetheless.

She took me to all of these bougie places that were the Whitest I had ever seen. Then we went downtown, where even the homeless people were White. I wondered where these SLC Punks were. We checked out record stores, and I ended up at the Heavy Metal Shop. It was a tiny retail space with everything metal and a pretty cool older dude who looked like he had been metal all his life. I had hope. I mean, it was a strong possibility that I would be moving here.

There was a Rancid and Dropkick Murphys show at some outside venue. It was like a giant field. It was a huge turnout. Punk rock parents everywhere. It reminded me of a miniature Riot Fest Chicago. But dude, all the attendees were over 40 or getting there. I'm pretty sure some may have been younger, but meth is a helluva drug. I saw all the dudes wearing Vans, band shirts, and camouflaged cargo shirts. Oh yeah, flat-brim SoCal punk band hats. I asked my date and her friend, "Why is everybody so old? Isn't this supposed to be a punk show?" They laughed like I was joking, but I didn't get it. My date motioned to me, "Look at yourself," and I looked down at my attire. My brain immediately recalled my age as my eyes scanned my Vans, Donkey Puncher T-Shirt, and camouflaged cargo shorts. I could only see these things clearly because my flat-brimmed Pennywise hat shielded the Salt Lake City sun from my 44-year-old eyes. Ain't that about a bitch.

I stood in the merch line for most of the Dropkick Murphys set to purchase more items for my old man dad costume and sang along to songs I've been singing for nearly 30 years. I went back up into the mountains with a new perspective and awareness of the world. Sure, I could move to Salt Lake City. I mean, why not? I sure as hell wasn't getting any younger. In case you are wondering, I got the girl (she divorced the cop), and now I live by those same mountains I went to the first time, and I'm right down the street from that same Black Bear Diner. My neighbor is a Mormon Bishop who probably says, "gee golly," but I've since found my people. They come out of hiding for punk and metal shows and hang out at Aces High Saloon.