Dominic Holden

The last two things my brother Michael and I did before arriving at the hot springs—populated by new-age folks on personal retreats—was stop at McDonald’s and WalMart.

I had to buy pajamas bottoms. The only kind for sale at WalMart in Woodburn, Oregon were pajamas with logos on them. There were Coca-Cola logos and Pepsi logos and a few others. But I was leaning toward the least offensive: AC/DC pajamas. I’d put them in the basket before another caught my eye. Miller Lite. In addition to the logo, they bore this message:

I did yoga in them. I went to the dining hall for brown rice in them. I stripped naked at the hot springs out of them. And the do-right hippies were mostly silent. Except a few older women, who stopped me on the path by the cabins to tell me that they liked my nice pants.

“They’re my sexist, anorexic, drunken, corporate, made-in-China pajamas,” I told them. “I got them at WalMart.” They smiled placidly and headed off to the lithium sauna, which looked like this.

I headed for the massage yurt, where I was consulted by Angela from Portland. I told her I’m not one of those super woo-woo folks, but I’m in my element at the hippie hot-springs place and was up for whatever. Hot stones? Absolutely. Essential oils? You bet. Not big woo—little woo, little irony.

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