Chapter 9: July 22, Wheat Ridge, Colorado.

Wealthy suburbs like to name their streets after literary figures and Wheat Ridge was no different. Thirty years ago I barely noticed it. Perhaps because it had nothing of interest to a young man of 20, who was looking to spend money to be entertained. Back then it probably had actual wheat growing somewhere in the city limits, I couldn’t say. 

Driving around Wadsworth I turned down 38th street to the Westward outer border looking for something to distinguish it from a million other bedroom communities; something to connect it with its settler past. The name “wheat fields” was probably too rustic and remeniscent of the unfashionable “Oakies”, drifters from the “The Grapes of Wrath.” Trendy Westerners prefer the image of 19th century immigrants to anyone still alive. It’s ok to be descendants from the hardy peasants of legend if one is separated by a couple of generations of accumulated wealth and respectability. 

On the corner of 38th and Kipling is Discovery Park. It’s an out of the box park of no interest surrounded by strip malls and convenience stores, but tucked away on one side is a horse corral. In the distance, the mountains hovered in the far distant West.

Chapter 8: July 22, Lookout Mnt, Buffalo Bill’s Grave & Golden

We got off the freeway on the way back from Idaho Springs. Bicyclists crowded the road taking advantage of the almost non-stop 20 mile downward glide to Golden, Colorado. They all wore the same spandex uniform. It used to be the uniform of the androgynous big hair bands, workout tape enthusiasts, late disco dancers and delusional fatsos of the 1980’s. Now it’s called “under-armor” and is topped off with an ovoid plastic helmet and expensive metallic sunglasses.

Very, v-e-r-y few rode against the grain peddling upward at high altitude. Flagellants and true believers addicted to the pain, even though age had robbed them of any hope of competitive laurels. They kept on going. 

AC grew up here. He had no respect for these dilettantes, who mocked the settlers who died in these mountains. Natives shunned the treacherous and barren Rockies, but europeans swept by like a wave. And the ones fate had chosen, randomly, cruelly; the wanderers given to a careless moment were ruthlessly culled from the herd. AC only knew the dead he went to high school with and marked the places they died as we drove to the summit.

Bicycles swarmed like gnats around the traffic, and AC scowled. 

I remembered Lookout mountain as one of the landmarks played 24-7 on vacant channels of newly minted Denver cable T.V. panning left, then right, then left again in a never ending automated cycle. It was never focused on the monuments. It was always staring off in the distance. There was never any people in view.

There were at least 2 signs per mile pointing the way to lookout mnt/Buffalo Bills Grave. In case you missed it? No, that was impossible. More likely to over sell the museum/gift shop, plaque, grave/gift shop. We parked. Looked out into the distance. I used the porta-john and tried to remember what Buffalo Bill was famous for... We took some pictues of the view and the outside of the museum/gift shop, then we left. The ride was what we’d come for.

The road cut back and forth like a skier would to slow his/her descent. All the while, bicyclists cut in and out. The view was at times fantastic, majestic and frightening. Half way down, AC had notice a pair of stone columns. “Wow, they really fixed them up.” It was the highwater mark of developing Denver. They abandoned ruins for decades, but no matter how historically significant they could not be left as is. That would clash with the new homes, and well watered landscapes. 

At the foot of the mountain was Golden, Co. It was home to Coors Beer, and I was suddenly thirsty. But home was miles away down the flat, hot city streets to Denver. 

Chapter 7: July 21, Idaho Springs Co.

Denver Skyline
No Mountains

It's a common misconception that Denver is in the mountains. Saturday drives to the Rockies are a local custom, and AC was kind enough to show me a favorite getaway that he's been going to since he was a child. 

Depending on the traffic, Idaho Springs is about an hour drive West and features a hot spring spa. There was some confusion with the credit card machine so the staff was kind enough to comp us the entry fee.

The water was warm and faintly chartreuse in color. The spa was fed by a single pipe that intermittently spat a stream of very hot mineral water. To its credit, it only had the faintest scent of sulphur; a trait that can ruin the experience if overpowering. Years of use calcified small waves into the wall giving it a cavelike facade. Most were content to wallow like so many hippos in the hot nile, but teenagers bore easily. Unlike adults, their bodies favor activity over comfort, so they made it a point to draw attention to their predicament at the expense of the other patrons patience.  

“How old are you?”

“I’m Jesus’ older brother.”

“Are you the oldest man in the world?”

“I would’ve been, but my bus was late. Right now, I’m third oldest.”

Pause...

“You’re lying!”

An exasperated middle aged man with a bar pierced nose, long hair and a “Danzig” t-shirt looked at me and mouthed “sorry.”

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to be more specific. What am I lying about?”

“Everything!”

“I’m too lazy to lie about everything. I only lie about the truth.”

Pause...

The man began to look concerned, “...uh, Jake why don’t you...”

“Hey! Can you do a cannonball?”

“Sure, why not.” Without skipping a beat I ran and jumped over their heads. The water left all at once, and seemed to pause undecidedly contemplating whether or not to fill the crater I had made. Father Danzig herded his four chicks in a single file away from the crazy stranger that now floated unmolested in the pool.

Beau Jo's Pizza

Our Private Balcony view

The Argo Gold Mine

We stopped and got beer and takeout pizza as we walked back to the hotel. On the side of the valley was the old Argo Gold Mine, now a museum and tourist anchor for the tiny hamlet. We were booked in the Argo Inn and were given a second story room with a private balcony overlooking a rafting river. AC and I sat, drank beer and teased rafters who were not drinking, or resting in their spare time. When the pickings got slim, we wandered out (with our beers) to a gas campfire where others had gathered to retreat. 

“Hey dad, it’s cannonball!”

There was father Danzig with his wife and only one his boys.

“Hey, they’re giving away s'mores at the front desk. You want one?”

“Grab one for my friend.”

He returned with little s'mores kits in plastic bags and we talked,drank and ate till the owner turned off the fire shortly after 23:00.

Chapter 6: July 19, Denver

Denver was born from its broad spaces.  For decades it was the sole metropolis from Chicago to Los Angeles, from Great Plains to the East to the Tall Rockies to the West, North to Wyoming or South to New Mexico. It is where people came to rondezvous; to forget the lonely, vacant expanses of the North American wilderness to be among the company of people again.

Cowboys, merchants, bankers, artists, artisans, all races, all peoples from all lands with all creeds, all huddle together, and cling to each other in the hollow of this city; a sanctuary against the cold, arid, peopleless void of the Great American West. It is a new city without pretence or sentimentality, born to serve the needs of miners and cattlemen shortly before the civil war. It boasts no monuments to dead empires. It is a young man, striking out from home with its whole life ahead of it; a blank sheet, a fresh start.

So much of Denver is simple and unadorned. But on this blank canvas its people painted with bright colors and youthful abandon.

Chapter 5: July 18, 19:00 - 21:00 Mst. Denver

"Whiskey is for drinking. Water is for fighting over."

~~Mark  Twain 

Lechworth Falls, Wyoming County, New York

Denver is nothing at all like New York. There lush eutrophic forests roll over broad hills and river valleys. The woods team with diverse flora and fauna: coyote, deer, salamander, raptors of all variety, great lilies, witch hazel, cherry, ash, maple and oak trees. And all around is water. Springs, rivers and glacial lakes are dwarfed by The Great Lakes, Allegheny, Mohawk, Genesee, Hudson and St.Lawrence rivers. Underneath it all is the great clear Marcellus Shale Watershed, source of pure drinking water for tens of millions of people from Vermont to West Virginia (and a prized target of Natural Gas Frackers)

Denver Highway

Denver sits on a high arid plain. The horizons in three directions sweep unhindered for miles like a calm sea. The fourth looks west to the far off snow capped Rocky mountains, visible on days when a smokey haze doesn't screen their view. Hills barely 100 feet over the plain peer over the city like lonely watchtowers. What water there is, eludes detection as it crawls along the base of low mounds. The South Platte river and watershed supply Colorado's largest cities (Denver, Aurora, Lakewood and Arvada) with drinking water. But it is shallow and contaminated with mercury, arsenic and benzene (South Platte River: Colorado's most polluted river.). 

The air itself sucks the spit from your mouth, and the tears from your eyes leaving you feeling not unlike a snail in salt. None but the most draught resistant vegetation live here: sage and prairie grasses, dogwood, aspen and ponderosa pine. The average rainfall in Denver is less than 16" per year, compared to Buffalo which has over 40". 

As a consequence, harsh water conservation measures are in place restricting personal use, the watering of lawns and promoting water sparing plumbing and appliances. One of the first things I noticed here was the toilets seem to need an extra flush to get the job done, and leaving AC to wonder out loud “what the heck good is it if everyone takes two flushes?” 

All the while Denver is growing. I remember 30 years ago, Horse corrals in Aurora. Today light rail, and the housing developments that followed them, sprawl out from what was once open prairie right up to mountains. The Denver Metro Area is one of the least densely populated CMSA in the country. This is the same problem faced by Detroit in the East, but caused, ironically enough, by a population collapse. Both result in declining tax revenue, strained infrastructure, and adding cost to city services. 

But how long can this go on? When will begin acting on what we know to be true: a desert is a bad place to build a city? 

Now that billionaires can contribute unlimited amounts of dark money to slant the laws in their favor, will water rights of millions of people in cities and the farms in the dry west take a back seat to oil companies who want to use the water for their booming fracking operations? Already Shell is buying up water rights all around Colorado (as is T.Boone Pickens in Texas, and others all around the dry Southwest.) 

This afternoon while driving around Denver, I counted 3 golf courses. 3 of perhaps a dozen or more in the greater Denver Metro Area alone. The amount of water used to run a golf course can exceed 6,500 cubic meters, and yet private citizens are asked to make due with less. (waterinfo.org )

It is obvious with the set of priorities we have chosen, that asking the  "too big to regulate" oil companies, or even well-to-do golfers, to make sacrifices is out of the question. It is also obvious that the 99% will be squeezed to make up the difference or go thirsty.

Colorado River has only 50 years left to live,

chapter 4: July 17, 08:15 mst, Denver, Co

The Old Denver Station

Where I landed in Denver
Temporary Depot
1800 21st street
Denver, Colorado   80202

An old college friend, Algernon Carruthers (nom de voyage), was kind enough to meet me at the alternate depot because the Union Station was being renovated. I lived here while in the Air Force between 1982 and 1984, and it seems the whole city is in a perpetual state of renovation. All the land marks I had known: Century 21, Stapelton Airport, Mile High Stadium, even Lowry Air Force Base where I was stationed, were all gone. All the people I knew then, had died or moved on (with a few possible exceptions). 

I had known AC since 1990 and listened with familiar interest about the many changes over the years. "Fucking Californians are ruining the place; they drive like idiots, and behave like assholes. They run from the hell of L.A. and all they want to do when they get here is turn everything the see into a cheap knock off of Hollywood."

"Ya, they're like a bad girlfriend.  While you're dating it's all 'I love you just the way you are.' Then when they move in it's 'you need a make-over, baby. We'll just start from scratch.' "

AC barely winced at my remark having grown accustomed to my conversational curve balls over the years.

"Look at this house!" he continued as we drove "It looks like a French Bordello, costs as much as the space shuttle and sticks out like a turd in punchbowl. Worse yet, it's driving up the property taxes and driving out people who've worked a lifetime building this neighborhood. And when I said worked I don't mean as Consultants or Life Coaches."

As we turned the corner I saw a sign for 'Power Core Yoga.' 

"Pretentious asses turned yoga into a competitive sport! What's next? 'Extreme Crapping Boutiques?"

"They have them, they're called 'Cleanses, Detox or 'Hydration Enemas' and you can get it in flavors like coffee or citrus."

"You're kidding! People pay for that!"

"Well, the people that belong to enema clubs probably get a better rate." The look on his face was a combination of horror, disgust and disbelief.

"You're shitting me. I'm calling bullshit on that"

"Google it."

"I wouldn't even know where to look."

"You know YELP?"

"The restaurant review site?"

....And sure enough

   New Breath of Life

http://www.yelp.com/biz_redir?url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.purebodysj.com&src_bizid=ZfSFe_fGX-H48MXfm6A1kQ&cachebuster=1374132753&s=f4177e5eeabbafb9af0b29f1dfc0a924f47ca638d2b9a47666093e723c39a016

"We're doomed!"

Part 2:  22:00 Berkeley Inn, 3834 Tennyson St., Denver, Co. 80212.

Nothing beats drinking beer with an old friend like AC! We drank, played old songs on the juke box, drank, played pool, drank, scared the natives enough to laugh ourselves silly, and called a friend to drive ourselves home at closing time. It doesn't get any better than this.

All other pictures were tragically erased
by accident the following morning
(Thank God!)

theberkeleyinn.com/

Chapter 3: July 16, 00:15 cst. Stranded outside of Omaha, waiting for permission to go.

Whoever said getting there is half the fun was selling hallmark cards or antacids. Amtrak does not own its own tracks, so if a train is the even the slightest bit late, it loses its place in line and must wait for every milk running, freight hauling, misbegotten hobo magnet before it is allowed continue. If this arrangement seems as if it is done less out of some sort of “courteous code of the steel rails”   than begrudgingly out of the mighty and intrusive hand of big government... well, that’s exactly what it is. Corporations feed like lions, but socialize like selfish 3 year olds. Especially when they have to maintain and repair their lines and are expected share them with “freeloaders.” 

Today it seems strange that companies would be motivated by something other than profits, but back in the late 70’s when such paleolithic creatures as A.M. music radio, phone booths and liberal Republicans walked the Earth, there was a thing called “public goods.” All publicly sanctioned institutions (e.g., radio, television and licensed corporations) were expected to give back to there communities in appreciation for their patronage and support. This flies in the face of the current philosophy which looks upon all creatures on God’s green Earth as the bequeathed inheritance of Adam, intended to be mined and spent before the much lauded and notoriously immanent second coming. “Use it before you lose it! It’s Gods will. Amen.”

Sharing tracks was thought reasonable when Corporate raiders, vulture capitalists and the savings and loan scandals where just a glint in these forward looking captains of industry’s eyes, but they still bitterly complained about sharing their toys with Amtrak. Reminding them that they were the beneficiaries of the public largess like getting generous land grants, borrowing the government’s awesome power of eminent domain, and allowing lines to produce virtual monopolies that they used to blackmailed farmers, miners and industrialists alike (John D. Rockefeller was forced to make pipelines to move his oil.) This scolding in no way assuaged their grief or shook their faith in the dawning age of corporate greed. To them, giving it away was not only a drain on job creators and the “makers...not takers”, they argued that it was bad for the public to expect things out of the empty altruism of civic duty, the general welfare, social justice, charity and compassion for the poor. 

In time, and with the help of Reaganomics, the tide of money turned and flowed away from public goods and back to corporations in the form of tax abatements, specialized utilities and construction, or outright subsidies. More tribute than payment, this in no way bound restricted “corporate citizens” from picking up and moving if they could make a dime on the deal.

“Want GM to stay in Flint, put on that sexy nightgown and tell me how you’ll build me a new power plant while cutting my taxes lower than Mississippi’s. How about bankrupting your schools for a free sports stadium? Oh, baby! Talk incentives to me.”

So, put away Dr. Seuss and pull out Ayn Rand. Prepare your children for the ethos of tomorrow. Sharing is a sign of weakness that your fellow citizens, read competitors, will exploit to your detriment. The golden rule and all that “altruism” crap has the tarnished patina of decay, while Hobb’s Leviathan is kept lean by the law of the jungle. 

....still waiting.

Part 2:  July 16, 03:03 cst.
Somewhere in Nebraska.

The teenage Sasquatch in the seat in front of me is loudly shredding his chair in an unsuccessful attempt to get comfortable enough to sleep. My seat is wide with leg and foot rests, and it fully reclines. He’s waking up the mummies and one my one they hear the call of their swollen prostates and they stagger to the john. There’s already a long line. Grumpy grandpas for breakfast tomorrow.

Chapter 2: July 15, 08:10 cst. Elkhardt Indiana

It’s morning on what was supposed to be the second day of travel, but for a two hour delay in our departure which is typical for Amtrak. It was embarrassing to have to explain to some Frenchmen the inherent inefficiencies of U.S. rail: how car companies lobbied to destroy public transportation in the 50’s; how in the 60s the American people, drunk with success from defeating the Nazis, sending a man to the moon and an unprecedented economic boom, bought into the idea that we had the resources for everybody to own a car; how in the 70’s on the verge of total collapse, passenger rail was saved by creating Amtrak in an ad hoc, temporary fix that is now approaching it’s 40th year. 

They sat in silence, occasionally shaking their heads. “In all of Europe trains are cheap and generally on time...I can buy a rail pass there for only €400 and without worrying about tickets or how many stops... Why can’t America do that for themselves? Why don't the people have their government do that too?” 

Now it was my turn be quiet, as I looked down at the floor. “Because that would be Socialism.”  I didn’t look up but I knew they were nodding, not in agreement but rather in recognition of an all too common absurdity: Americans feared inadvertently becoming what they hated most which is a collectivist, godless commie.  

Perhaps we’re a victim of our old cold war propaganda. Perhaps we lack the stereoscopic vision necessary to distinguish an unjust dictatorship and a strong government doing the people’s will.  Perhaps we forget that the rugged individuals we worship as icons: the cowboy, the frontiersman, the entrepreneur, the inventor, all had plenty of support from their respective communities, and almost always traveled trails blazed by others. I couldn’t say. 

This pathology, this sweaty adolescent phobia of ours in any case has led us to poor nutrition, crumbling infrastructure, hyper inflated schools and healthcare. And, yes of course, Amtrak. “We can’t have government do these things because it would make people think we were turning our backs on capitalism and free markets”

The words no sooner left my lips that I was reminded of all the Republicans, preachers and conservatives who became the most ardent of homophobes to conceal their penchant for the masculine exquisite. “We are a frightened people.” I didn’t need to say it, but did.

“But why? You are very rich, and strong. The Russians and Chinese are capitalists; communism has been gone 20 years.”

“I wish I knew. All I can say is that we are a frightened people, and frightened people are dangerous.”  Somehow this seemed to tie together a lot of our previous conversations about “curious American behavior”: our gun fetish, Trayvon Martin, the war on terror, Guantanimo, how to talk in a calm and reassuring voice to red necks and street punks, and whether the youth hostel is in a safe Chicago neighborhood. 

“I wish I knew.” 

Part Two:  July 15, 10:00 - 14:00 cst, Chicago. 

The Plan

Experience as much of The Windy City as I can in a four hour layover.

Step 1: Arrival.

Two hours late. Originally 4 hrs between 10:00 and 2:00 departure has shrunk my horizons to 11:54 to 13:15 early boarding time, leaving out any chance for even a quick bus ride around the loop. I toss my bags in a locker that charges $5 a half and head out.

Step 2:  Chicago Stuffed Deep Dish pizza from Giordano’s

The ride from Chicago to Denver can take anywhere from 18 to 26 hours, and food from the dining car can cost as much as $20 per meal without drinks. They squeezed an extra $45 from me, because the rail pass seats were sold out, so I was determined not to buy a single god damned thing on that fucking train! I think what I actually said was something like “Bit I wouldn't buy cobra anti-venom from those muthurfuckers if it cost 2 cents!”

A much better idea, to my mind, was to run out and grab a delicious pizza (8” of a meat lover’s deep dish would feed me for 2 days). But now I had only 1 hr to make that run. 

Step 3:  They’re off!

Having consulted google before the trip, I knew Giordano’s pizza was a 5 min walk from Union Station across the Chicago river down Jackson street. I order by phone, bolt out the first exit and was punched in the nose by 90* heat & 90% humidity. The only sign I see is for Adams st. to the right. Years ago, I walked the same streets with Adam during a war protest march, and remembered the presidents were in order: Jackson followed (Quincy-)Adams st. I turn left. A black man on the corner somehow knows what I was looking for and shouts, 

“Jackson st. Is right over there!

“Giordano’s?” 

“All the pizza places are to the right.”

“Thanx”

“Bring me back slice!”

Two blocks later, I’m in Greek town surrounded by pizzerias, but no Gio’s. I wander around trying to catch my barring, then check my watch. 12:00 and my shirt was soaking in sweat. I run by street guy, 

“Wrong way!” He looked back at me as if to say “oh, well.” There, on the other side of the station was Canal st. And the Chicago river. 

The streets were broad and traffic heavy. “Hey, buddy! Giordano’s?”

“Ya, up da road ’crossd by da McDonalts.”

“Thanks!”

The sweat stings my eyes. I have to wipe off my forehead to see. The light changes. I run in, “order for Park to go.”

“Just another 8 minutes.”

“Do me a favor, bring it to the bar.”

“What’ll you have?”

“Beer. The colder the better.”

“Hot one today. You look like you swam here.”

I looked down at my shirt. He was right.

“I’m waiting on a to go. What’s the damage?”

“$5”

“Worth it”

“Sure you don’t want some water too? You look like you need it.”

Step 4: get back in time

I run back but the locker timer clicks over and asks for another $5. On the computer screen a sick joke “Welcome to Chicago, have a nice day!” Shit! Everybody’s got their hand out today. I pay the ransom, release the hostages, and stuff the hot pizza box in my suitcase whole. 

Epilogue:

I was wet and stunk so bad they took me for a cripple and carried my luggage onboard for me.

Later on, while the other passengers had to make reservations in the dining car for a piece of $25 shoe leather, eat overpriced junk food or trail mix, I played the sadistic glutton and pulled out the Giordano’s box in the observation lounge. It wasn't any cheaper, but it was the best pizza I’d ever had! 

“Hey! Where did you get pizza?”

“Chicago!”