05/28/04:

BLY, OREGON: So Islamofascists James Ujaama and Abu Hamza al-Masri are in custody now, charged with (among other things) plotting to build a training camp for jihadists in Bly, Oregon.

Excuse me while I suppress a belly laugh.

I'm familiar with that lonely area of southern Oregon, and I can actually tell you a little story about it:

Once upon a time (this was in the late Seventies) I used to do a lot of hitchhiking. One of my most frequent runs was from Spokane, Washington, where I lived back then, to Los Angeles to visit my brother in college. Well, there were certain areas of the country where one needed to be a little careful... areas where the people didn't care much for outsiders and weren't enamored of longhaired intruders with their thumbs stuck out. Southern Oregon was one of the worst of these areas, an expanse where the cowboy hats were outnumbered only by the jackrabbits and where it was all too easy to imagine yourself vanishing without a trace.

I guess, though, that a bunch of rabid Muslims with heavy weaponry, long beards, and knitted beanies wouldn't attract any notice in a place like that...

I was on a rural stretch of road not far from Bly when I had the worst hitchhiking experience of my life. When the well-rusted car pulled off for me, the first thing I smelled was the alcohol. The dude was in his thirties, scruffily dressed, and dead drunk. We hadn't driven far when he suddenly veered off the highway, headed up a rutted secondary road into the hills, and yanked a gun from beneath the seat.

"Goddam longhair," he said. "I hate goddam faggot longhairs. You're probably queer, aren't you?"

"Uh, no sir. I'm not queer."

"Then you're a goddam communist."

"No, sir. I'm proud to be an American."

We drove on in silence for a minute or two, perhaps the longest moments of my life. My adversary's work-gnarled hand fondled the pistol on the seat between us. I was going to die up here in these hills and no one was ever going to know what had happened to me.

"Hey," he belched. "What if I was to drive you into town to the barber shop for a haircut. What would you say to that!"

"Fine with me. I guess I'm due for one anyway."

"You know that the communists are behind that long-hair thing, don't you?"

I was scared to death of this guy, but still I had to suppress a laugh. It was already 1979 and getting pretty hard to find people who really still believed stuff like that.

"Uh, no. How do you figure?"

"Well, they's trying to sissify our men, see. And then when they think we're sissy enough, they'll just walk in and take over."

We had pulled into a dilapidated hill town with a dusty main street and toe-in parking. I had assumed that we were going to the barber shop, but my erstwhile abductor wanted to stop at a bar first. Great; at least I'd get to have a drink before I got killed. Inside all the cowboy hats wanted to know: "Hey, who's your hippie friend?"

"Brought him in to town so he could get a haircut."

Strangely, though, no one at the bar seemed especially malevolent, and before I could finish one drink there'd be another one in front of me. Still, I couldn't help but think they're just softening me up for the kill. Maybe between the tavern and the barber shop I could make a break for it? Probably not. Everybody in the place smelled like they were armed. Deer, elk, and bear heads stared blankly out from the walls. Pickled pigs' feet on the bar.

But after a half-dozen beers I was no longer able to feel the same fear. Half the men had forgotten that I was even there, including (for the most part) my abductor. The bartender was even congenial. I was beginning to think that I might get out of this alive.

"Hey, let's go," my "host" finally said. "Gotta run you back to the highway."

Back to the highway?

We stepped outside into the sun. "What about that haircut?" I said.

"Aw, fergit about that, I was just fuckin' with ya. Figgered if you was willing to get a haircut that you wasn't no communist. Get in, I'll run you back down the road."

It was arguably the stupidest thing I ever did, but I obliged. Yet nothing happened. On the way down out of the hills, I was more worried about this extremely inebriated cowboy wrapping the car around a tree than shooting me. The gun had been stashed beneath the seat again. Before long, we turned back onto US Highway 97, ten or fifteen miles south of where our little adventure had begun.

"Well now, you have a good trip."

"I will. Thanks for the beers."

"And fuck communism!" With that, he was gone, weaving back up the road.

I'm just trying to imagine a carload of bearded terrorists walking into that same bar. My guess is that they'd all be buried in shallow graves before night fell, victims of the "other" America they too conveniently dismiss—the America they're going to have to defeat before their jihad can triumph. Hell, apparently they couldn't even manage to drive down a road in Klamath County without attracting attention:

The secret visit did not unfold as planned. The duo's low profile was compromised when Osman was stopped by police for a driving infraction near Klamath Falls. The two alleged Al Qaeda passengers were required to present their names and passport numbers...

Well, fellas, I guess southern Oregon just isn't the greatest place to train for jihad. Sorry things didn't work out. But I've got another suggestion, a place you really ought to check into:

Gillette, Wyoming

Tell 'em I sent ya.

Posted by Alois on