There’s only 2 turns to make from the I 90 East to get to Philipsburg; a small town in the Montana foothills that will always hold a part of me.
As I rolled down the main road, one of the few paved, I was acutely aware that this visit would be a bit different than all of the rest. It’s been 3 years since I lived in the area, a year and a half from my last visit, and 6 months after Project Vote Smart (PVS) moved away.
Throughout the week I saw many of the townies that had embodied my Pburg years. The bartender who had served me my 21st birthday shots before, during, and for years after that memorably unrememberable birthday is still there and still just as inspiringly kind to anyone who walks through the doors of the White Front. The town caretaker, a perfect manifestation of The Dude from the Big Lebowski and Los Angeles expatiriate like myself who purchased his first ET surfboard back in the heyday of a more pure Hermosa Beach. Even the rock-climbing, mountain-ascending, impossible-to-reach father-figure of many PVS intern had come back from the depths of Connecticut to once again grace the area.
Of the very few PVS friends that remained in town, it was very clear that the days we remembered were very much over. Pburg didn’t seem to care but there was a coming to terms moment that passed within me.
My last night, and the hungover morning that followed, was as good of an old fashioned Philipsburg sendoff if there ever was one. We started the night with a few beers at the brewery before sauntering across the street to the bar. The bartender gave us a few free shots that we hadn’t even asked for and soon a few of the more close-minded locals struck up a conversation as they didn’t think too highly of my curly hair and the fact I was born in L.A. I tend to enjoy these types of encounters, as they’re some of the few that ever connect both sides of our horribly dichotomized political system. It is an obligation to use my white male “diplomatic immunity” and engage some of these people from the other spectrum of my political position.
I’m not entirely sure that anything was accomplished that night other than the searing headache the morning after, but as I made a left onto the highway and drove towards Bozeman I knew that the dialogue was for the most part civil, and we saw one another as countrymen; something that cannot be claimed for many of those that represent us in office.