Concerts!

Why can't we dance?

Concerts are on my mind today! I really want to see Luke Brian – yet don’t even know if I spelled his name right. My friend Dee Dee sent me a link to tickets, but I told her I wanted a good-looking man to take me. So she suggested I go on dating sites – not specifically mentioning “senior” dating sites but we know what she meant. And I can’t and I won’t. Haha Why?

Because I already did when the ex left me and moved in with his Facebook Snag, Sundance Queen from Wisconsin (who moved all the way to Montana and rented an apartment to save him from the wicked witch!). And, when I went to meet the ones that interested me on the dating app, I was no longer interested.

Not to be mean, I’m not hung up all on looks (I’ve dated men who are gorgeous and men who have gorgeous souls and discovered that the real handsome ones seemed to think all they needed was a Penis and a basketball or some cowboy boots), but if you put a picture on a dating site then don’t look anything like it? Then you’re not being 100% honest and I don’t associate with people who I know to be dishonest.

I was afraid and mostly, I really didn’t want anyone else. I loved my husband so much and his leaving me for someone on Facebook hurt so deeply – but, after so many similar incidents I was starting to realize that my love was not returned, at least on the same level. You don’t do shit like that to people you love. Or, at least I don’t. I had forgiven worse and knew I would likely forgive again – but I really didn’t want to keep living in a stress box where I could be tossed aside in an instant anymore.

So, I never met anyone during that foray to discomfort for potential love (or abuse?). I cried. I got drunk. I cleaned house and shampooed my carpet. I took my kids to the fair and hoped we wouldn’t see anyone from his rez because I was ashamed. People used to make fun of people who got “cut out” back on the rez – a ridiculous thing but common.

Like the cheat had no responsibility. Or something.

Then, when he tired of her and I took him back. Again. I tried not to – but he got sick and I’m a caregiver so yeah, a few more years with someone who loved me but didn’t. Or something. I was soooo confused and realize now that he was confused too. I had just chalked it up to him being an asshole man since I had known so many in my short life.

I was so embarrassed! Not good enough, pretty enough, smart enough to keep my man (as I had heard women older than me claim we were supposed to do), and just desperate enough to swallow my pride so the kids would have a dad, and hopefully I’d have some help with the life crushing bills. For once.

I was little glad I wouldn’t have to go bust a hump at the Sundance anymore. After he brought his Facebook snag there, I told him I was never going again. And I didn’t, despite spending another 15 or so years with the man I once believed to be the Love of my Life.

I now wonder if that is even such a thing. Like when adults would tell us we’d find out soul mate if we were patient, but we didn’t and wondered if we just weren’t patient enough. Haha

Oh, but I digress. Concerts. The first concert I went to was Chuck Mangione at the fieldhouse in Missoula. I was about 20 years old. I think I won the tickets on the radio – back then I couldn’t afford any kind of luxury and sometimes stole food. And clothes.

I didn’t know of ole Chuck but was just so excited to go to a concert – to do something besides survive, get drunk and – whatever we did back when “partying” was what some of us were stuck only later in life wondering why we wasted so much time there.

The partying I speak of wasn’t often fun, was sometimes dangerous and wasn’t the kind of choice someone who was trying to build a life would make, but it was what I learned. What many of us learned thanks for forced colonization and decades of heartbreak, pain, and oppression, because I wasn’t out there by myself every weekend.

Anyway, Chuck was horny. Not in the sense you just thought of, but he played a lot of horns. I didn’t love his music and have said many times over the years that I am so NOT horny. I can’t do too much – blowing I guess. Or, rather, much listening to people who blow. A lot.

The next concert was someone I knew and loved – the beautiful momma and her beautiful, singing daughters, the Judds. Every time one of their songs came on we turned up the radio (or 8 track player) and sang along……”grandpa, tell me bout the good ole days……”, “Mamma he’s crazy….” and “Why not me”.

The Judds were coming to Great Falls Fair - just a little over an hours’ drive from the rez I got sent back to for NOT being “have”(in in BEHAVE, not have!) in Missoula.

The judge said “Pepion, I knew your dad. I am not going to see you in and out of this court. You will go back to the reservation or do a year in prison.” So yeah, I was back on the rez and sooooooo excited to see the Judds .

I’m not sure where we got the funds to go but am guessing Fire Fighting as there really weren’t a lot of other places for people my age to make a buck on the rez – unless we could sling some joints or dime bags which carried a potential of jail time but was better than being broke ass and hungry. Yeah, I tried it. Lock me up.

We walk into the concert. I can’t remember for sure but feel like it was in a great big tent with chairs lined up in rows to maximize the dollars for whoever was pimping out Wynona, Naomi, and their mom.

I never understood all chairs at a concert because music makes me move. I can’t even help it. I’ll be standing there, then shit starts shaking, moving to the rhythm. Then it hits my soul and I’m dancing – and giving no fucks at the same time! What a feeling! Nobody I knew just sat around and listened to live music – that is meant for moving and we should redesign our concert venue to encourage dancing.

It would be healthier. Awe, but in America, the leaders only pretend to care about health. The unhealthier we are, the more profitable they are and money is the dream of those who don’t know what else is out there.

So, the music starts. Our feet are tapping. My sister was more of a dancer then me back then, she stands up and dances. A lady behind us went and cried to security. Security came and made my sister leave.

Let me be clear. In ANY city we went to, if there was a problem among people, it was the Natives who were going to be treated as if we did wrong, even when we didn’t – I knew that at age 20 and I was already pissed about it.

So anyway, song # 1 and my sister is kicked out of our dream concert! I’m pissed and a little drunk. I turn around and tell Sits to Music who wants everyone else to sit to music “I’m going to beat the fuck out of you after this concert.” Then I turn around and try to enjoy the music and not dance.

Next security comes and I’m out the door too. Our broke asses barely got those tickets! It took one no dancing Honkey and we were out of there! I was way pissed so I waited for Sits to Music so I could kick her ass after the concert. I waited. And waited. May have had some beers. And, when it was over, I couldn’t recognize Sits to Music! They all looked the same!

And, while that might sound a l little racist (I’ve heard all us Natives look the same, ditto Blacks), the fact that I was pretty shitfaced didn’t help. LOL I kept asking my sister “Is that her?” Haha. She’s lucky she had a SO NOT MEMORABLE face!

Then, I didn’t go to any concerts for many years. I got a job and didn’t have time for a life. No, really I got into rafting and for a few years, every spare moment was spent on the river. Often drunk and sometimes a little dangerous, we survived.

I’ve never been a “Fan Fan” who stalks the talented (or untalented) Famous. I don’t like crowds or lines so maybe that’s why I didn’t go to any concerts for years. At least not any big names that I recall. If I got the opportunity to dance, and it was a live band, I took that.

I never thought of it as a “Sit Down and Listen” thing. To me it was a “God it feels good to my soul to Move” kind of thing. A freeing of the soul. That also involved lots of alcohol back then. I was very self-conscious and even, at times felt ashamed of who I was and mostly, my assumed poverty (only now do I realize how wealthy I was – just not in paper or on someone’s books). Just the looks from some white people made me feel like trash. The comments were often worse and often infuriating. But, I knew that, if there was a scrap, I’d be the one who “had” to go to jail because, according to many cops, someone gotta do it. Why not the little Native chick?

Or maybe I’m wrong and I only went to jail because I couldn’t shut the fuck up. Who knows? What I do know is that, if there was a fallout between a Native and a White back then, no whites were going to jail, even if they ganged you. Nope. I’d be sitting in there being treated subhuman.

Stuck somewhere between “Red Devils” and “Savages” and successful transplants of the Indian Relocation Act who were “civilized and assimilated,” homelands stolen, culture stuffed, Ancestors subject to such cruel and horrible violence, we had to figure out who we were – and hand-to-hand combat became a large part of that. Hell, we even fought each other we were so pissed.

We (my sister, sister cousins, and I) were good at hand-to-hand combat. That was survival. You had to be tough if you were Blackfeet – not sure why, it was just code. Maybe it came from the Fierce Warriors who fought long and hard to not live in the shit show we live in now, back when warrioring was a thing and it still is today but in another form.

But now warrioring off rez could send you to jail I didn’t care. Tough was what I wanted to be. Tough and not afraid – while being terrified I realize now. Interesting.

The fact that we were breeds, with reddish hair also made “tough” a requirement. On the rez we had to scrap while being called “white girl” and off the rez we had to scrap (maybe not had to but were going to!) as the dirty Indians.

Who, coincidentally, weren’t dirty. Haha Cleanliness in response to those names was insane! We cleaned, we cleaned, and we cleaned – bleach water galore. Mom was fucking rowdy if we didn’t clean. Many weekends were spent just cleaning. No fun. No entertainment. No gas to get to town or money to buy anything there, we cleaned. And baked whatever we could with the commodities the government “gave” us in exchange for the land America sits on today.

I walked miles and miles in the hills behind the house (when it wasn’t frigid or too fucking windy anyway) – thankful we weren’t in town where walking anywhere was inhibited greatly by dogs owned by irresponsible dog owners (I only recently learned that – before I thought they were sacred!) and dogs owned by the land. Most who would stop the chase with a quick grab of a rock, but some who kept coming and Aye Yah! Run! Haha

Digressed again. Fucking old people can’t just stick with the story and provide it in 3 minutes bytes for the joy of people who can’t pay attention for more than few seconds before becoming “bored”. I am so not Tik Tok.

LMAO…if there was “boring times” back then and we were dumb enough to say, we weren’t bored anymore. We could cook, clean, get some water, cut some wood, play some solitaire, or read a book, but know this. Mom is NOT the Entertainment Committee. LOL We knew. She said and we knew.

Next Concert, next concert!

Rosebud Casino on the Rosebud rez line and close to the Nebraska border - Valentine, Nebraska just another 10 minutes away. Don’t recall who played but was someone kinda famous. It was a blind date. I’m pretty sure he was gay. We are still friends, but I only see him occasionally and have not confirmed but my Gaydar has always pretty on point and I’m so confused about People who claim what we see is not what we see. Evangelicals. Deniers. As if there’s something wrong with being who we were born to be. And I’m not sure why my gaydar is so good because I never cared. If people were nice, I was NOT worried about who they were loved, slept with, or were attracted to. I was too worried about those things in MY life.

As it should be. Haha I don’t understand all these fuckers who be worried about other people’s God given selves, their attractions, lives and strangely, even their sex lives. Nunya biz you Evangelical Faced Fool!

Speaking of Valentine, Nebraska, it was a tiny town. With a few bars and oddly, a few Strip Clubs. With big girl dancers who danced with old farmers on their breaks. Not sure why I’m saying that – just that it surprised me because Montana Small Town people like to act righteous and I didn’t know righteous people were having strippers and shit. LMAO. Clueless again.

Next Concert. There had to be a few in between, but the next one I recall of some famous name was Cher at the whatever business is paying this year place where the Trailblazers play in Portland, OR. My sister had an extra ticket, so I flew to Portland (or maybe I drove???) to help her use that ticket. I stayed with her and her grandkids in a hotel within walking distance of the concert venue.

A good friend of mine was also going, so we met up and walked over together. There were so many people dressed up like Cher. I don’t even like dressing myself like myself – dressing like Cher never crossed my mind but they looked cool and I got my eyes full.

I was a bit surprised that Cher was still performing. She had to be old because I was, and I was curious to see an old lady concert even though I wasn’t as old of an old lady back then. The show was amazing. Lots of lights, dancers, and smoke.

Cher sang beautifully. She didn’t move much – my mind putting that together with aging. It was fun – but not a party party. We went back to the motel and went to bed. I still have a Cher t-shirt hanging in my closet that I don’t wear but will not give up.

Must have been a few more in between but maybe not big names – a phenomenon that trips me out a little bit. We can only have one good singer? One STAR? And the rest, some with more talent don’t get to be big? Why?

The men in power didn’t like them? Can’t make a buck off them? Why, why, why. Haha Me, always asking why. Like, why do people become such HUGE fans of other people?

I like and admire a lot of people. I am NOT going to act a fool over them – even on days I feel foolish. What the fuck even?!!

Personally, I find spending most of one’s life worried about the life of someone else a Mental Illness, even if the DSM (insert #) doesn’t agree. I don’t know if it does or doesn’t, just saying.

I also find spending most of one’s life focused on self a mental illness, even if our Constitution, voting rules and physicians to the President don’t agree. Ha! What school did you go to? Did you miss the School of Life? Hahaha

What the fuck man? I say. It’s 2025 and an Idiot is in charge! For reals – it’s fact, not fiction! And, he loves himself. The greatest EVERYTHING ever! Hahahah Ok dude.

Concerts! Fack!! I keep digressing. Cher then……the next one I remember and was so blessed to go to was my hero, GEORGE FUCKING STRAIGHT! Straight up! You handsome old Troubadour! Haha

My baby took me to Vegas to see old George – who I was a bit of a fan of. Not like most. I’ve never had a George Tshirt. I did have a life size cardboard cutout of George but that was given to me by the Seniors in my Gentle Gyms class at the Y.

Because, when I first started teaching fitness classes I tried to use the music the other instructors (no Natives) used and I sucked and my classes sucked, but when I pulled out George and became Lita, the seniors loved it. I would go into class and say, “it’s George day” and the seniors would clap, then I’d teach an amazing class – no longer sucking because I was being ME and not trying to be someone (or something) else.

Anway, the cardboard cutout was the only “fan” thing I had of George, and it was given to me by the seniors in my class.

I think my ex was jealous of him – he made me put George in the garage.

My sons may also have been jealous or maybe just little assholes because they used George for target practice, turning him into Covered with Holes…haha, George’s new Indian name!

Preconcert we walked miles all over Vegas, somehow even walking through a homeless camp – which felt more at home than all the money sucking places. We rode the city bus, end to end. We didn’t gamble much.

Concert time! The lady at the door complimented me on my braids and I knew it was gonna be a good night!

Good music, good times in the company of a very handsome and kind man, my youngest son!

We had excellent seats! I danced and sang every song, warm tears rolling down on some songs. Not because I was in the presence of a “star” or in Sin City, but because my heart felt what George was singing. Even the $18 beer sold by Money Suckers didn’t bother me – or maybe it still does cuz I’m still talking about it?

What the actual fuck? How much does it cost you to make that? A Quarter? How much do you buy it for? Jesus, you are greedy fucks! Shameless in your quest for money, while unashamed of trashing the earth, who many of us call “Mother” because she, not rich people, provide for us. Don’t be fooled!

I digress again. Damn old ladies can’t stick with the story. So, yeah, no concerts with anybody famous for the next 20 or so years – but lots of dances and concerts in whatever community I lived in.

When I lived in Lower Brule, South Dakota, I often traveled to what the locals called “the dark side.” Fort Thompson , SD – another rez named after their oppressor, where people have all the fixings to make electricity via a damn “dam” – but pay more for electricity than the entire state – another common theme in Indian Country.

They’ll make it on our land, then sell it to us for more.

That’s fucking ignorant! LOL Stop making us live in places named after people who raped and killed our relatives!!! Who shot our babies and grandmas and grandpas, infested us with fucking Smallpox, stole our land a little and a lot at a time then made loads of promises they either partially kept or not at all.

Anyway, digress again. I’d cruise to the Crow Creek rez – just a hop, skip and a jump from the Lower Brule Sioux Rez, where they often had live music or comedy shows at their casino. Not sure why Lower Brule didn’t have concerts or other stuff at the Golden Buffalo, but I don’t recall doing anything at the Golden Buffalo but eat greasy burgers and play some life Blackjack while cracking up with whoever was dealing.

Next….CHRIS STAPLETON in Denver, also a gift from my youngest son. We drove to Denver from Billings. It was a great time. We had seats up top with nobody behind me, so I didn’t stand up and dance. Kidding. Haha I did – I danced and sang along the whole concert. It was a beautiful summer evening! Some woman told me my tits looked “bullet proof” (I think it was a compliment??? Hah) and I’m still not sure what that means but I have a good imagination and laugh about it often. Haha

George and Chris both sing about love and heartache. I knew about both of them so yes, perfecto! Thanks Lane T!!!!!

Then, I got a job at the Metra/First Interstate Bank Arena/Somecarbusiness Arena (for those with big egos who need things named after them for a donation that was really just an annual advertisement fee) and saw lots of concerts. And, as the ONLY certified Security Guard there (likely still true today), I didn’t have to sit.

I did not love the hard rock, heavy metal concerts, but I was entertained watching the people.

I didn’t know who Morgan Wallen was – but neither did some of his fans after drinking all day while waiting the line for his fan club thing and then the concert. Pretty sure I saw a couple who waited in line all day then missed the concert! Sucked to be them that day!

Hank Williams, Jr was my favorite. People knew I was the dancing Security Guard, and I would be walking down the way dancing, someone would grab me and swing me around, then off to secure the next thing until I got swung around again. My sons showed up buzzed and talked shit about my supervisor to her face. lol. It was so much fun, and nobody was fucky (I hesitate, sometimes calling fucky People Karen’s but cognizant of good friends with that name who are NOT fuckey) so I didn’t get in trouble for dancing.

Can you fucking imagine? Getting in trouble for showing joy? Fuck off with that non joy!

I worked a few concerts outside, during the summer - once at Huntley’s big day (can’t recall what they call it) and a few in Bozeman – Old Dominion, Cody Johnson, some others.

Mostly what I loved at those concerts was being outside under the stars, in the summer, the music loud, summoning feelings from times forgotten. And, that my boss liked my work and often had me securing the stage. I liked being up front where I could totally get my eyes and ears full.

And now, Luke Bryan is coming to Billings and I want to go – with a Handsome man. It doesn’t have to be my son but likely will – unless some brave soul comes forward with tickets and a smile – and likes to dance but doesn’t have to touch me while doing so. Haha

I won’t be looking for that date on a dating site – so share this and maybe someone will fall out of the sky. Things falls out of the sky often for me. They probably do for most, but they fail to notice, want something else or just forgo happiness and life to chase dollars as trained.

Oh yeah…and I liked Larry Flett who sings “That’s Where I Find God” because I find God in similar places but don’t always call (pronoun?) God. I wanted to see Larry sing this song – until I watched the video and saw that Morgan Wallen also sings the song – but at the end Larry just names himself like Morgan wasn’t there, so I got a bad vibe from the Ego.

Because, if it were me, I would have said the other person’s name as well at the end of the song, and not just mine because I wasn’t the only fucker singing! And, it looked like Larry got a little jealous of Morgan in the video. I could be putting too much into it, but I don’t think I am.

Anway. When Larry just talked about his damn self and left out the other person I didn’t care if I saw him singing – even though that is still one of my favorite songs and one of the few I don’t have to make up words at certain parts for.

Ha! Now ya’ll think I’m crazy and, if you do, I am honored. Because…just look at the people who claim to be sane and in charge. Crazy I be and proud of it!