Buried deep in the heart of New England is an American treasure frequently, and tragically, overlooked.  Indeed, while the average American is convinced that only one Stonehenge exists—somewhere in England—buried in the foliage-filled woods of Salem (NH, that is) lies a magical place known as America’s Stonehenge. Indeed, England’s Stonehenge is but a sad circle of stones in comparison.

When visiting this wonderland of mystical history, one is welcomed by the friendly faces of Eddie, Trooper, and Kordell—AKA "the alpacas of America’s Stonehenge." Yes, these great llama-like creatures, possibly from Alpacastahn, are a source of wool *and* greetings (watch out senior citizens manning the doors at Walmarts across America!).

If the sites at America’s Stonehenge ended with alpaca, it would clearly be enough to put this spot in a prominent place in any road tripper’s arsenal. But America’s Stonehenge is so much more than just alpaca. There’s intrigue! There’s mystery! There are changes in the earth’s movement (literally)! There’s human sacrifice (perhaps)! There’s closet space! There are gardening tips!  There are, quite possibly, dogs and cats, living together, mass hysteria!

Intrigue
First, the intrigue the complex of America’s Stonehenge comes complete with a sacrificial table, a sundeck chamber, and a secret bed. Yes, you read that right — there’s a sacrificial table, and not in the sense of a table that can be sacrificed to the near-certain collapse that is likely if it is subject to the weight of a moose. Instead, this is a sacrificial table in the more traditional sense—complete with grooves to help drain the blood, and a speaking tube underneath, to freak out the sacrificial victim before his or her heart is yanked out, or hair is pulled, or toes are cracked, or the ‘Cheney Special’ as they call it around the Potomac. The sundeck chamber is also intriguing… if the goal is to get a suntan, why lie down in a chamber that would shade you from the sun? Perhaps the ancient people who built the structure weren’t quite as brainy as the falling rocks might suggest. Finally, the secret bed of intrigue…it’s a secret bed—no explanation of intrigue needed, really.

Mystery
Next, the mystery… again, who were the people who valued blood, tanning, and sleeping privacy and who put painstaking care into building this well-crafted structure? Were they Irish Culdee Monks, as some guy named Goodwin (according to a trusty pamphlet—a fact-filled account containing truth (FACT) provided by the visitor’s center) believed? And, if so, what exactly are Culdee Monks, and how did they end up in New Hampshire? Were they kicked out of Boston? Did they brew yummy beer? And, why did some guy named Pattee, who keeps getting mentioned in aforesaid pamphlet, decide to move to America’s Stonehenge with his wife?  Was it the secret bed, or was it rent controlled?  And, did Mrs. Pattee, again as the pamphlet suggests, really plant lilacs on a roof of part of the structure in the 1800’s? Why lilacs? And what color were they, assuming lilacs indeed come in different colors? And, perhaps most importantly, the FACT notes that "crystals were worshiped or used for tools by ancient cultures." Does the FACT refer to the ancient cultures who once stood on the hallowed grounds of America’s Stonehenge? And why did they have to either worship them or use them for tools? Why not both, or some type of alternating worship itinerary (AWI)?

Changes in the Earth’s Movement
OK, before we get to the earth moving, you first have to keep in mind that America’s Stonehenge is old, really old—well, at least the planet underneath it is old. In fact, the FACT confidently says that carbon dating suggests that tree roots and charcoal existed at this place as far back as 1400 BC… or maybe even 2000 BC.  In fact, the whole America’s Stonehenge area comes complete (as any good archaeological site worth whatever salt is buried there should) with an astrological tour. That’s right—there are stones that line up with stuff in the sky (sort of) scattered around the grounds. The problem is, apparently the earth has obligity (though we think this is not a word) that keeps changing. (Although perhaps this change only happens in the area of America’s Stonehenge, because other very very old sites—like Newgrange in Ireland—still seem to have the sun showing in the same spot at the same time that it’s supposed to). Because of the special obligity instability in the America’s Stonehenge area, alack, the Winter Solstice Sunset Monolith no longer quite lines up with the Winter Solstice Sunset, and the Summer Solstice Sunrise Stone is also off just a bit… But, happily, the November 1st Stone seems to still line up with November 1st, which, as the FACT says is "a date very important in many ancient calendars."

Feeling a little guilty for brazenly ignoring November 1st?  I typically celebrate November first hung over and still dressed like Catwoman (or at least this year).

Closet Space
Whoever the crazy architects of this site, who completely forgot about the changes that the earth’s obligity was likely to undergo, were, we know that they really, really valued closet space. In fact, no less than five of the descriptions of structures in the FACT mention either closets or storage space. Perhaps a sort of Stacking of the Sacrificial Skulls ceremony of the tortured? Or, perhaps many of the Monks/Pattees were gay and not quite out and proud?

Gardening Tips
OK, I kinda lied about this one—the only gardening thing I really learned was that lilacs were planted at some point in time, and maybe by Mrs. Pattee (or maybe to brighten up the human sacrifice area?  An offering of decorative lilac-covered throw pillows is always appreciated).

Dogs and cats, living together, mass hysteria!
OK, this is just an obscure Ghostbuster’s reference.  No link between America’s Stonehenge and Bill Murray has been found, but the truth is out there.

As you can tell, America’s Stonehenge is worth braving a state filled with people willing to die if they can’t live free. As the FACT so succinctly puts it: "A massive amount of labor was involved here, no matter what the purpose."

I am worried about my friend, Mick. Unlike all the other Discordians, Mick believes he needs to better himself.  Mick strives for lofty misguided goals in order to overcome his many inadequacies. He used to have a distinct, although often overbearing, personality and sense of humor.  But, at least you knew what you were getting with Mick, trouble.   Now he is only a shell of his old self.  I refer to this shell as ‘m’.

The Mick I knew was witty, in an insulting type of way.  He was misguided, but authentic; often drunk, but functional; unshaven, yet neat; suffering from erectile dysfunction, yet STD ridden. (Just kidding about the last one; partly).  Mick could be the life of the party, although more often the death of it.

We used to hang out in BARS with live entertainment, a large menu of exotics, and cheap double shots.  Sometimes we even did the cheap double shots with the exotics. “Hey Dave can I borrow some singles?” Now, ‘m’ hangs out in coffee shops where the entertainment is often a guy playing music without lyrics.  The exotics are made of various tree roots; the menu consists of finger sandwiches made of grilled ahi tuna and liverwurst, and the double shots are espresso roasts.  THIS IS NOT OUR MICK.  This is not change we can believe in.

In these upscale coffee shops, pool cues and dartboards have been replaced with laptops and notepads.  Neon lights have been replaced by ugly paintings of ugly things priced over 500.00 dollars.  Bar stools are now sofas, the tables have lamps on them, and the dance floors are covered with coat racks and large stand up plants (sometimes ferns!).  And let’s not forget to mention the urinal-less restroom decorated by some Martha Stewart wanna be. Please don’t forget to knock, lift the seat, and, heaven help you, aim, because it’s bi-sexual (like ‘m’).

Inside this group home like setting, ‘m’ has digressed to typing endless pages of rhetoric that will be read by no one.  When he wearies of this, he downs a few more double shots—espressos, that is—and bounces over to the other patrons saying “let the caffeine-induced political psycho-babbling commence!”  These three socialites then spend hours debating the last press conference held by Senator Frabish, heard only by those same three and the six other XM radio POTUS listeners.  THIS IS NOT OUR MICK.  This is not change we can believe in.

‘m’ needs all of the up-to-date technologically advanced gadgetries, but cannot operate any of them.  He moved on to Tivo although he never learned to record with his VCR.  He now owns a GPS but can’t get it out of Spanish mode.   He has a TV with surround sound and one speaker.

As for food, Mick used to always be up for the late night greasy spoon.  In college, not only was Mick fond of eating the cafeteria food, he was also fond of throwing it—he could fling peanut butter with the best of them.  But not ‘m’—only the finest for hi‘m’.  He has moved on to high society food, and organic peanut butter is just way too expensive for such flingery.  He now only eats Sushi, Japanese foods, or food from other spookily distant cultures (SDC). As a matter of fact, you may see ‘m’ eating anywhere except at an American restaurant. ‘m’ believes this is the proper etiquette of a man of his new found lowercase stature, although in the Orient, McDonalds would be the delicacy of choice. 

The coffee shops around here give last call at ten, which coincides with the new curfew ‘m’ has imposed on himself.  No more after hour parties for Mick… ‘m’ must ‘m’asterbate at ho‘m’e.

Well, at least one thing hasn’t changed.

I am worried about my friend, Dave. Unlike most of our fellow Discordians, Dave never made the successful transition from the bar scene to the coffee shops.  Dave never even made the ever important transition from the bars to the pubs either.  In fact, if memory serves, he never made the transition from junior high to high school, but that’s a different story (spelled GED, incidentally).

The problem is this: Dave favors those smoky dive bars to that of the jazzy rifts of brewpubs and coffee shops. Dave fears change.  For example, if he could grow hair it would remain in perpetual-mullet-form (PMF).  He never sported a mullet in his life, mind you, having never had enough hair for one, but the mullet, like his bow-legged swagger, is always implied.

So why am I so worried about my poor misguided friend and his coffee house naiveté?  Well, my liver doesn’t tolerate nearly as much alcohol these days, so gradually I’ve shifted to the hip coffee shop scene.  There, nestled amongst books and chess sets, I sip my deluxe mocha frappe crappas with those terminally artsy-fartsy types.  I have tried to wean Dave onto coffee and often encouraged him to dabble in this new cultural espressorama.  Recently I told him, “hey, let’s meet at the Coffee Tea Room and then hit the pub.”  Notice I said pub rather than saloon or bar.  I’m trying to start small with Dave—to match his vocabulary.  Just before he arrived, I had just conveniently ordered the house special, the Plenty Venti Bucket of Espresso.

His eyes darted about the room as he begrudgingly took a seat.  Through a sheen of social anxietous sweat, he asked: “Where’s the pool table?” and then “where’s the dartboard?” and then to the horror of my female friends, “where’s the stripper poles?”

There are places that do offer coffee and beer, and if we both moved to an area that accommodated such an establishment, perhaps it would help Dave make this difficult transition.  Such milestones are not without precedent.  I am forever grateful to the establishment Sudds and Dudds, which single handedly catapulted Dave’s hygiene problem into the realm of the nearly tolerable.  But in this case, I don’t think he wants to change.   Dave will never move beyond the pipe-dripping, slanted pool table, southern rock spinning joints.

Now if Dave ever chose to pit a Belgian triple or some other well-crafted ale up against my favorite beanage, we’d have a debate, but this is clearly not the case.   Dave will forever haunt establishments that ‘Proudly Serve Blatz!’  Indeed they will actually have coasters in such places with, ‘We Proudly Serve Blatz!’ emblazed upon them—always with the exclamation point—because even the makers of Blatz (not to mention Blatz light) need reinforcing slogans such as: We Proudly Serve Blatz! or Blatz…Nearly As Good As Old Style.  One wonders how else anyone could get through a day at the Blatz factory without such Milwaukeean malt mantras.

But I digress.  Back to Dave.  For years Dave’s favorite beer was a distant cousin to Blatz, Genesee Beer, brewed in upstate New York in the heart of the Geneseo Valley, while no one was looking (or apparently brewing either).  “A cold Gennie was better than sex,” he’d say.  His girlfriends throughout college typically agreed with this statement.

I am through with Blatz, Milwaukee’s Best, Old Style, Old Milwaukee, or anything from new-waukee, for that matter.  I would rather just add a shot of espresso to something dark and daunting.  Sumatra roasts are pure heaven.  Perhaps I can get Dave into Sumatra stouts—the hybrid—and then lure him over to the dark roast side.  Luke, I am your venti.

I know it’s hopeless.  You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it stop drinking.  I go into dive bars for the same reason that Dr. Sterling Hogbein travels to remote villages of the world…to study our distant selves.  I don’t want to go back and do it all over, not for Eddie amount of Money.  Truth be told, I couldn’t spend one solitary night in my old coveted college party house, not one.

I will miss Dave and his mulletless antics.  Perhaps I’ll go see him some day, at Frankie’s Place or Timmo’s Tavern, while he’s talking up the glory days with a bunch of grey haired, fatty-livered miscreants.  For me it’s Seattle’s Best, Starbuck’s finest, and mom and pop java joints from here on out.

All right, fine. I’ll meet you at Timmo’s Place for the game, but then let’s get a cup a joe.  Oh, and it’s time to hit Sudds and Dudds again mildew man.