Mount Bierstadt - View from the summit. 

Mount Bierstadt - Brian at the summit. 

Mount Bierstadt - View from the summit. 

Mount Bierstadt - Fred and Brian at the summit. 

Mount Bierstadt - David and John at the summit. 

Mount Bierstadt - The rounded peak to the right of the sawtooth which leads to Mount Evans.
Check out the pictures above and below.

Mount Bierstadt - David contemplating his gloves. 

Mount Bierstadt - Looking North to Mount Evans 

Mount Bierstadt - Brian, John, George, Fred 

Mount Bierstadt - Brian, John, David and Fred

Mount Bierstadt - Our Sherpa Guide, Brian 

Mount Bierstadt - A Happy Climax to the Ascent! 

Mount Bierstadt - David peeing before the final ascent. 

An Ascension - Mount Bierstadt

"Climb the mountains and get their good tidings. Nature's peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees. The winds will blow their own freshness into you, and the storms their energy, while cares will drop away from you like the leaves of Autumn."

John Muir

Colorado encompasses fifty-four fourteeners, which are mountains with summits greater than fourteen-thousand feet. One of those fourteeners is Mount Bierstadt at 14,060 feet above sea level. David and I, our friends Brian, Fred and John climbed Mount Bierstadt on Saturday, September 11, 2004.

It is important to note that Bierstadt was the third fourteener for John, who had already climbed Long's Peak and Pike's Peak. Bierstadt was the second fourteener for Brian who also has climbed Long's Peak. Bierstadt was, however, Brian's third ascent of a fourteener having ascended Bierstadt three weeks prior to our ascent. For the rest of us, this was our first fourteener.

I cannot say there was something symbolic about our ascent on 9/11; some intent to do something special in memory of those who lost their lives on 9/11. No, it just happened that was the day we chose to ascend; to make the trek to the top of Mount Bierstadt.

The ascent of Mount Bierstadt -- amongst the other fourteeners -- is considered to be of moderate difficulty.

The mountain was named after a German landscape artist who became known and quite popular in Colorado in the latter part of the nineteenth century.

The plan for the ascent involved meeting at a Park and Ride on I70 at no later than 4:30 a.m. where John and Fred would join David and I and Brian in the Explorer to make the trip to Georgetown and Guanella Pass above where we would find the trailhead to Mount Bierstadt. John and Fred were waiting for us when we turned into the Park and Ride. John and Fred quickly transferred their backpacks into the Explorer and we were on our way.

(You may remember that John and Fred had a commitment ceremony earlier in the year. And, they had-- several days prior to our ascent of Bierstadt -- just returned from Southern Decadence in New Orleans. I had told John before they left for Southern Decadence that he surely needed to obtain some gris-gris to keep he and Fred safe and sound on their journey to and from the Big Easy. Gris-gris -- pronounced gree-gree, John informed me, "It's French," he said -- is part of Voodoo lore and is simply a little bag full of God knows what that is supposed to protect you from the evil spirits or give you sexual prowess or keep your ex away from you or, really, whatever magic you might require from Voodoo.)

Georgetown is a small mountain former mining community on the edge of the Arapahoe National Forest. It is a quaint, well-kept little town that draws thousands of tourists during the warmer months.

We took the Georgetown turnoff and maneuvered through the narrow streets to the road leading to Guanella Pass. The road -- ill-kept asphalt in the beginning -- eventually became a dirt road which the Explorer navigated with ease.

We reached the trailhead by 5:30 a.m. on Saturday, 9/11. It was totally dark, with a sliver of moon and Venus shining above, reflecting their seductive illumination as we strapped on our packs, locked the Explorer and began our ascent of Bierstadt.

Although Bierstadt is considered a moderate fourteener I can tell you that Bierstadt is a chore; that the trail is extremely pitched, somewhat like the roof of our old painted lady, our 1893 Victorian whose roof is pitched drastically steep. But, in spite of the frequent rest stops -- (respiration at 110%, breathing in all those elusive, thin, oxygen molecules) -- we made the summit in two and one-half hours. Not bad.

Interestingly, from the base of Bierstadt, the summit looks smooth, oval, a half-circle. But, one-hundred or more yards from the summit, the terrain becomes upjutting huge, sharp-edged boulders -- granitic igneous intrusive -- that necessarily need to be navigated carefully. These rocks are estimated to be 1.7 billion years old. Wow!

More information on the geologic makeup of Bierstadt, as well as a detailed description of what the ascent entails can be seen at this site.

We made it to the summit at about 8:15 a.m. The wind was ripping across the west face of the mountain. We huddled on the east face of the mountain and enjoyed some trail mix and water; beef jerkey and the incredible sights of the Front Range of the Colorado Rockies. We were silent mostly, there at the summit; each of us with our own thoughts; our own sentiments about scaling a Colorado fourteener.

On the summit, John gave me two sacks of gris-gris he had brought back from New Orleans: one for protection, the other labeled sexual. I chided him for keeping the protection gris-gris until we had made the summit. But, then, perhaps the magic of the gris-gris had protected us all as we made our way up the mountain.

And, if any of us happened to remember -- as we paused on the summit of Mount Bierstadt -- those who passed from us on a prior 9/11, we didn't give voice to it. But, the onus, the weight, the memory of that time, three years prior, haunted each of us as we stared into the wonderful, incredible, pristine space that fanned out below the summit of Bierstadt. God bless them all.

We descended quickly. We were home by noon.

There is something about scaling a fourteener that is, perhaps, as significant, as intensely meaningful as catching the perfect wave or finishing the greatest race, or beating the best opponent or tying up the best business deal of your lifetime. It is intensely significant. It is intensely satisfying. It is ... kewl.

Now, on to other fourteeners. God speed to us all who make the effort to scale these magnificent juts of nature's majesty; nature's caprice.

Cheney's Act of Terrorism

This story provides the essential tool Dubya/Dick are using against the American people which, ironically, many, many Americans are eating up like apple pie. That tool is fear.

Shall we define terrorism: The use of violence and threats to intimidate or coerce, esp. for political purposes.

If you didn't click on the above link, here is what Dick Cheney told a small group of folks in Iowa:

"It's absolutely essential that eight weeks from today, on Nov. 2, we make the right choice, because if we make the wrong choice then the danger is that we'll get hit again and we'll be hit in a way that will be devastating from the standpoint of the United States.''

Is that threat, sir? Is that intimidation, sir? Are you threatening us and intimidating us for political purposes, sir?

I think so. Well, go fuck yourself, Dick!

Anybody but Dubya!

Zellot

Couldn't help providing this post via the blog, Jesus' General:

Seconding the Zellot

Senator Zell MillerUnited States SenateDear Sen. Miller,Your angry tirades at the convention and later at MSNBC and CNN were just the tonic this country needs. For far too long, the American male has been emasculated by a feminized society that punishes a man for expressing his natural desire to commit violent acts. You slapped these modern conventions of manliness in the face when you proudly stated that you wished to duel with Chris Matthews. It was a bold statement for these times, but one that needed to be made so that society might again take up the cloak of 18th century morality. Because of you, I can go out tonight and without remorse, beat a man sensless for suggesting that my politics lack imagination, and, like you, I can threaten to take his life if he suggests that my rhetoric might be disingenuous. That is your gift to me and the men of America.I would be honored to serve as your second should the duel with Mathews take place. Perhaps we could even enter the dueling green together wearing nothing but our own skins in tribute to the ancient warriors of Sparta and all of the men of war who followed them. Nothing would make me happier than to be afforded the opportunity to hold your blunderbus as you eagerly tamp its load. Even now as I think about the prospect of such manly combat, I feel the tingling excitement Aaron Burr must have felt in his loins as he grabbed up his gauntlent to demand satisfaction from a political rival. I'm sure you feel it too.

Heterosexually yours,Gen. JC Christian, patriot

Testosterone

Okay. Now I understand. The Republican Party is the party of testosterone; of big chest-thumping on the edge maniacs whose women quietly sip tea and hum, Stand By Your Man, as the insanity of Dubya continues to infest the fabric of our precious society.

I really do understand now. Senator Zell Miller of Georgia and Vice President Dick Cheney convinced me.

My father, who was no testosterone-infested slouch himself, would have called Zell Miller's disgusting performance last night flagrant, jingoistic bullshit designed to ingratiate himself to those Georgian's who certainly believe God is on Dubya's side. Miller -- a very bad Democrat, indeed -- certainly knows who butters his bread come election day.

And yet, Kerry continues to be presidential. Why doesn't Kerry role up his sleeves, lose that Harvard civility and given 'em hell; identify Zell Miller as a "nut" and Dubya as an imperialist who rewards his friends and has absolutely no idea what it means to be a "middle class" American in these days of record budget deficits, outsourcing of critical jobs and the sad, tragic loss of middle American men and women fighting Dubya's war in Iraq to the benefit of whom? To, maybe, the benefit of Dubya's friends, like Halliburton ... Cheney's old outfit that is making money hand over fist on government contracts to rebuild Iraq?

Oh, I begin to wonder -- if Dubya wins in November -- what the next four years will bring.

Dichotomy

I copied some code into my blog in order for Google Ads to appear above my archives and the most recent ad that I've noticed is one for Republican Apparel like baseball caps and t-shirts which are imprinted with logos in support of Dubya for reelection. I guess you would have to call that a dichotomy considering what I've written or provided in prior posts about this particular Presidential strutting peacock who has trouble pronouncing nuclear and probably would have a problem spelling potato.

Can you imagine wearing a Bush in '04 baseball cap. Oh my...

While I Paint Our Old House

I'm beginning this post just prior to preparing myself to head to the dentist where I will have a tooth prepared for a crown. I already had a crown on the tooth but, during my trip to the Jersey Shore, we headed south to a beachside carnival where, while chewing chicken fingers, I crunched on something not necessarily chicken, pulled it out of my mouth and, yes, it was half my porcelain tooth.

If you ever visit the Jersey Shore, stay away from the chicken fingers.

I am painting my old house. This is the second time in eighteen years that I've pulled out the thirty-two foot ladder and reached into the highest recesses and touched every square paintable inch of our 1893 Victorian painted lady. It is both a scary -- I have a problem with heights -- and rewarding -- it looks so good after I'm done -- experience.

Yesterday, while my efforts were concentrated on the front porch, I cranked up CSPAN and listened to the opening of the Republican National Convention.

Were all Republican adults valedictorians at their high school graduations? Do they all believe the art of speechifying is next to godliness which is certainly next to a fabulous naivete about the world around us? Have no Republicans visited the streets of Detroit or Watts? Have no Republicans ever considered the content (social commentary) of rap or the message of people of color from every large city in this country? Or, indeed, have no Republicans ever spent time in the San Fernando Valley, in the malls of the San Fernando Valley or in the malls of any American city where middle class youth act out their truths which, certainly, were not, in any way, reflected by the good, decent, plastic souls who took the microphone at the Republic National Convention?

The little speeches from the Republican anointed are absolutely scary. Where do these people live? Where do they do what they do? Where do they experience the American Experience which is not apple pie and motherhood; which is not the flag and Dubya's bullshit about jobs and the economy and the promise of America?

If Dubya remains in the White House the promise of America -- which was once so noble, so inclusive -- the incidiousness of his assault on multiculturalism, on gay and lesbian rights, on same-sex marriage, on the separation of church and state, on the First Amendment, yes, and on the middle class to accelerate exponentially.

Oh, let me tell you that the rift is so complete; the division in this country is so pervasive that to listen to these good people; these well-intentioned Republicans who haven't a fucking clue about what the essence of this election is about, spew their particular God and country naivete is to become a little frightened; is to become a little concerned about the future of America; is to become a little concerned about what used to be the greatest country on the face of the earth.

I told my eighty-six year old aunt that the beginning of the decline of the American Republic was when Dubya made the decision to invade Iraq. Actually, I think the beginning of the decline came much earlier.

Gore Vidal, writes in his book, Imperial America, that, "As early as 1950, Albert Einstein understood the nature of the rip-off. He said, 'The men who possess real power in the country have no intention of ending the cold war.' Thirty-five years later they are still at it, making money while the nation itself declines to eleventh place in world per-capita income, to forty-sixth place in literacy and so on, until last summer (not suddenly, I fear) we found ourselves close to $2 trillion in debt. Then, in the fall, the money power shifted from New York to Tokyo, and that looked to be the end of our empire. Now the long-feared Asiatic colossus takes its turn as the world leader, and we -- the white race -- have become the yellow man's burden."

Oh, God bless America.

Our old house. New color on the bottom. Top yet to be painted. 

Garrison Keillor on Dubya

This is so articulate and to-the-point from someone who -- in other contexts -- I can't stand, that I had to provide it verbatim.

We're Not in Lake Wobegon Anymore.

How did the Party of Lincoln and Liberty transmogrify into the party of Newt Gingrich's evil spawn and their Etch-A-Sketch president, a dull and rigid man, whose philosophy is a jumble of badly sutured body parts trying to walk?

By Garrison Keillor

Something has gone seriously haywire with the Republican Party. Once, it was the party of pragmatic Main Street businessmen in steel-rimmed spectacles who decried profligacy and waste, were devoted to their communities and supported the sort of prosperity that raises all ships. They were good-hearted people who vanquished the gnarlier elements of their party, the paranoid Roosevelt-haters, the flat Earthers and Prohibitionists, the antipapist antiforeigner element. The genial Eisenhower was their man, a genuine American hero of D-Day, who made it OK for reasonable people to vote Republican. He brought the Korean War to a stalemate, produced the Interstate Highway System, declined to rescue the French colonial army in Vietnam, and gave us a period of peace and prosperity, in which (oddly) American arts and letters flourished and higher education burgeoned and there was a degree of plain decency in the country. Fifties Republicans were giants compared to today's. Richard Nixon was the last Republican leader to feel a Christian obligation toward the poor.

In the years between Nixon and Newt Gingrich, the party migrated southward down the Twisting Trail of Rhetoric and sneered at the idea of public service and became the Scourge of Liberalism, the Great Crusade Against the Sixties, the Death Star of Government, a gang of pirates that diverted and fascinated the media by their sheer chutzpah, such as the misty-eyed flag-waving of Ronald Reagan who, while George McGovern flew bombers in World War II, took a pass and made training films in Long Beach. The Nixon moderate vanished like the passenger pigeon, purged by a legion of angry white men who rose to power on pure punk politics. "Bipartisanship is another term of date rape," says Grover Norquist, the Sid Vicious of the GOP. "I don't want to abolish government. I simply want to reduce it to the size where I can drag it into the bathroom and drown it in the bathtub." The boy has Oedipal problems and government is his daddy.

The party of Lincoln and Liberty was transmogrified into the party of hairy-backed swamp developers and corporate shills, faith-based economists, fundamentalist bullies with Bibles, Christians of convenience, freelance racists, misanthropic frat boys, shrieking midgets of AM radio, tax cheats, nihilists in golf pants, brownshirts in pinstripes, sweatshop tycoons, hacks, fakirs, aggressive dorks, Lamborghini libertarians, people who believe Neil Armstrong's moonwalk was filmed in Roswell, New Mexico, little honkers out to diminish the rest of us, Newt's evil spawn and their Etch-A-Sketch president, a dull and rigid man suspicious of the free flow of information and of secular institutions, whose philosophy is a jumble of badly sutured body parts trying to walk. Republicans: The No.1 reason the rest of the world thinks we're deaf, dumb and dangerous.

Rich ironies abound! Lies pop up like toadstools in the forest! Wild swine crowd round the public trough! Outrageous gerrymandering! Pocket lining on a massive scale! Paid lobbyists sit in committee rooms and write legislation to alleviate the suffering of billionaires! Hypocrisies shine like cat turds in the moonlight! O Mark Twain, where art thou at this hour? Arise and behold the Gilded Age reincarnated gaudier than ever, upholding great wealth as the sure sign of Divine Grace.

Here in 2004, George W. Bush is running for reelection on a platform of tragedy; the single greatest failure of national defense in our history, the attacks of 9/11 in which 19 men with box cutters put this nation into a tailspin, a failure the details of which the White House fought to keep secret even as it ran the country into hock up to the hubcaps, thanks to generous tax cuts for the well-fixed, hoping to lead us into a box canyon of debt that will render government impotent, even as we engage in a war against a small country that was undertaken for the president's personal satisfaction but sold to the American public on the basis of brazen misinformation, a war whose purpose is to distract us from an enormous transfer of wealth taking place in this country, flowing upward, and the deception is working beautifully.

The concentration of wealth and power in the hands of the few is the death knell of democracy. No republic in the history of humanity has survived this. The election of 2004 will say something about what happens to ours. The omens are not good.

Our beloved land has been fogged with fear; fear, the greatest political strategy ever. An ominous silence, distant sirens, a drumbeat of whispered warnings and alarms to keep the public uneasy and silence the opposition. And in a time of vague fear, you can appoint bullet-brained judges, strip the bark off the Constitution, eviscerate federal regulatory agencies, bring public education to a standstill, stupefy the press, lavish gorgeous tax breaks on the rich.
There is a stink drifting through this election year. It isn't the Florida recount or the Supreme Court decision. No, it's 9/11 that we keep coming back to. It wasn't the end of innocence, or a turning point in our history, or a cosmic occurrence, it was an event, a lapse of security. And patriotism shouldn't prevent people from asking hard questions of the man who was purportedly in charge of national security at the time.

Whenever I think of those New Yorkers hurrying along Park Place or getting off the No.1 Broadway local, hustling toward their office on the 90th floor, the morning paper under their arms, I think of that non-reader George W. Bush and how he hopes to exploit those people with a little economic uptick, maybe the capture of Osama, cruise to victory in November and proceed to get some serious nation-changing done in his second term.

This year, as in the past, Republicans will portray us Democrats as embittered academics, desiccated Unitarians, whacked-out hippies and communards, people who talk to telephone poles, the party of the Deadheads. They will wave enormous flags and wow over and over the footage of firemen in the wreckage of the World Trade Center and bodies being carried out and they will lie about their economic policies with astonishing enthusiasm.

The Union is what needs defending this year. Government of Enron and by Halliburton and for the Southern Baptists is not the same as what Lincoln spoke of. This gang of Pithecanthropus Republicanii has humbugged us to death on terrorism and tax cuts for the comfy and school prayer and flag burning and claimed the right to know what books we read and to dump their sewage upstream from the town and clear-cut the forests and gut the IRS and mark up the constitution on behalf of intolerance and promote the corporate takeover of the public airwaves and to hell with anybody who opposes them.

This is a great country, and it wasn't made so by angry people. We have a sacred duty to bequeath it to our grandchildren in better shape than however we found it. We have a long way to go and we're not getting any younger.
Dante said that the hottest place in Hell is reserved for those who in time of crisis remain neutral, so I have spoken my piece, and thank you, dear reader. It's a beautiful world, rain or shine, and there is more to life than winning.

Jersey Shore - Ocean Grove 

Jersey Shore - Redux

Down in town the circuit's full of switchblade lovers, so fast, so shiny, so sharp
As the wizards play down on Pinball Way on the boardwalk way past dark
And the boys from the casino dance with their shirts open like Latin lovers on the shore
Chasin' all them silly New York virgins by the score

Bruce Springsteen - Fourth of July, Asbury Park (Sandy)

My previous post with regard to my Jersey Shore adventure ended with me crashing on the Ocean Grove boardwalk while heading north toward Asbury Park during my morning run. Confession: I noted in that post that the fall resulted in a gash to my eyebrow which bled profusely. Actually -- although inserting the eyebrow gash at that point in my tale was more exciting, more sexy in a way than what actually happened -- the eyebrow gash actually occurred elsewhere. Sorry, poetic license took over. The day before I was due to fly back to Denver, and after we had returned from Ocean Grove, I stayed in a Marriott about a mile from my sister's home. So, my last day in New Jersey, I arose about 6 a.m., put on my running clothes and, since there really wasn't anywhere else to do it, ran up and down the sidewalk in front of the hotel as well as some other businesses. The street on which the hotel was situated wasn't very long, so I would run to where the sidewalk ended and the street turned into a highway on-ramp and then back the other way where the sidewalk ended at a rather busy intersection. Back and forth and back and forth and back and forth. And, then, whoops! Yes, I tripped over a curb, went flying forward and popped my head on the concrete causing the gash in my eyebrow. There. The truth is out. But, wasn't the Asbury Park version better? The real version just sounds like some doddering older guy who ought to be more careful.

Well, my tale was going to give greater detail on how the gay uncle/great uncle (me) weathered those four days with all those women and children (there were eleven of us ... I was the only adult male). But, now that I think about it; now that I've had some time to reflect on it all, there's no need to say anything other than how I began the prior post. Blessings abound. And, those blessings were my great nieces and nephews: Bella, Michael, Mischa and Aidan; and my nephew, Jack and my niece Kate; my little sister, Michelle and my nieces-in-law, Sarah, Shelley and Mimi.

I still think the Asbury Park/gashed eyebrow version was better.

Now the greasers, they tramp the streets or get busted for sleepin' on the beach all night
Them boys in their high heels, ah Sandy, their skins are so white
And me, I just got tired of hangin' in them dusty arcades, bangin' them pleasure machines
Chasin' the factory girls underneath the boardwalk, where they all promised to unsnap their jeans

My little sister, Michelle, and her daughter Katharine Linda, prior to heading to the Jersey Shore.

Jersey Shore, looking toward Asbury Park. "Did you hear, the cops finally busted Madame Marie for tellin' fortunes better than they do? For me this carnival life's through -- you ought to quit this scene too." Bruce Springsteen - Fourth of July, Asbury Park (Sandy) Lyrics

The Jersey Shore. 

My niece-in-law Shelley with her son Aidan George on the Jersey shore. 

My precious niece Kate, on the Jersey Shore. 

My nephew Jack on the Jersey Shore. 

Blessings Abound - Nieces and Nephews, Grand Nieces and Nephews on the Jersey Shore 

Preemptive Strike Against First Amendment

This story in the New York Times should offend every American who still believes in the gift and the promise of the First Amendment.

What Have You Done to My Country?

This morning's New York Times carried this distrubing piece about how Dubya's government has forsaken the very core of what used to be the greatest democracy on the face of the earth. Will we ever recover from the mess Dubya has made of this country, much less what he has done in the Middle East, much less the utter contempt in which much of the world now views us?

Frustrations of Youth

Reading Anonyboy and A Ridiculous Raw Youth today brought back the good words first attributed to Kurt Vonnegut Jr. purported to have been made during a commencement speech at MIT in 1997. (Interestingly, Vonnegut didn't deliver the commencement speech at MIT in 1997 and -- although he has said he wished he had -- didn't even write the good words attributed to him.) But, they were good words anyway, which read, in part:

"Enjoy the power and beauty of your youth. Oh, never mind. You will not understand the power and beauty of your youth until they've faded. But trust me, in 20 years, you'll look back at photos of yourself and recall in a way you can't grasp now how much possibility lay before you and how fabulous you really looked. You are not as fat as you imagine.

"Don't worry about the future. Or worry, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubble gum. The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind, the kind that blindside you at 4:00 p.m. on some idle Tuesday.

Do one thing every day that scares you."

I noted in one of A Ridiculous Raw Youth post that there was an expectation that he, apparently at twenty-two, wouldn't get laid until he was thirty. And, Anonyboy has reported that he hasn't been laid in year. Oh my...

Not that getting laid is as important as, oh, friendship or fresh air or trees or good words or dogs; no, it's just that I worry that the frustration of youth (in not getting laid) -- albeit, probably normal -- doesn't really have to encompass that much angst; that much time.

I would -- if I had the opportunity to be twenty again -- follow Stephen Spender's good words and:

Oh young men oh young comrades
it is too late now to stay in those houses
your fathers built where they built you to breed
money on money it is too late
to make or even to count what was made

Count rather those fabulous possessions
which begin with your body and your burning soul
the hairs on your skin the muscles extending
in ranges with lakes across your limbs

Count your eyes as jewels and your golden sex
then count the sun and the innumerable lights
sparkling on waves and spangled on the soil
It is too late now to stay in those houses where
the ghosts are
ladies like flies imprisoned in amber
financiers like fossils of fish in coal.

Oh comrades, step forth from the solid stone
advance to rebuild and sleep with friend on hill
advance to rebel and remember what you have

ghosts never had entombed in his hall.

The Wrath of the Tempest

Oops!

This all probably began eighteen years ago when David and I moved into our old house and realized quite quickly that our neighbor directly across the street from us was one of those benign oddballs; those quirky eccentrics that most neighborhoods tolerate because they're generally harmless.

Well, our benign oddball (I'll call him Joe) was/is a hoarder. Not only is his little house jam-packed with God knows what but he also keeps three or four junker vehicles loaded up with his stuff. He parks the junkers on different streets around the neighborhood and moves them periodically so the city won't identify them as abandoned. Currently, a bright pink, 1982 or '83 Ford van sits resplendent in front of his property and viewed without difficulty from my study window. Ugh!

Over the past eighteen years, Joe has let the vegetation on his property take over the small lot so that if I look out my front window, all I see is a mess of untended bushes, weeds, Sumac trees and a massively overgrown Silver Maple. You really can't see his house any more. Which, I believe was exactly his intent in letting the vegetation take over. Out of sight, out of mind.

Okay, so far...

Months ago, I told David that I believed our own giant and ancient Silver Maple should be thinned out and cleaned up because I feared that some day, probably with some spring snowfall, one of the huge branches of that wonderful tree would topple right onto our old house; probably right through my study window. David agreed and, just last month and $1200 later, our Silver Maple became healthy, svelte and ready for whatever weather may come our way. And, in Denver, weather is something that can be shockingly, unpredictably severe.

Well, the homeowners who live on either side of Joe have been requesting for some time that he cut down the Sumac weed trees and have his Silver Maple cleaned up and thinned out. Joe puts them off with his bright smile and a promise to get to it as soon as he can. He then climbs into one of his junkers and drives off. (Did I mention that Joe doesn't even live in the house? He just stuffs it full of crap and comes by once a day to check his mail.)

Tuesday, August 10th, at about eight-thirty or nine in the evening a ferocious tempest passed through our neighborhood -- and much of eastern Colorado -- brining rain, hail and winds so intense that, yes, trees were toppled; branches were broken.

Our Silver Maple, our beautiful, lovely Silver Maple weathered the ferocity of the storm without damage. But, guess what happened to Joe's Silver Maple? Or, more precisely, guess what happened to my Lincoln Continental when a huge branch broke off Joe's tree?

The picture is worth a thousand words. My car may be totaled.

When Joe came by to pick up his mail yesterday I told him that I was through considering him to be the benign oddball of the neighborhood. I told him he had become a dangerous nuisance who hadn't bothered to care for his property for eighteen years with the consequence that my Lincoln was destroyed by his neglect.

Joe's the kind of guy who thinks he's an intellectual and speaks softly, always with a smile on his face and a Have a good day ending to every conversation. When I used the word "...fucking..." three or four times, he advised that if we couldn't have a civil conversation, then he wouldn't attempt to discuss the matter with me.

I told him I didn't give a shit about having a civil conversation with him; that the only thing I cared about was for him to begin to take responsibility for his property.

Okay, that's it. Pray for my Lincoln. I loved that car. But, I really don't think it can be fixed.

Bummer!

Jersey Shore

Jersey Shore

Blessings abound.

I spent most of last week on the Jersey shore in a little beachside community called Ocean Grove. Ocean Grove was established as a permanent religious resort (Methodist) in 1869 by Reverend William B. Osborn who wanted the resort to be a "camp meeting" or "revival camp," sporting lovely little tents in which the faithful could live while renewing or affirming their devotion to their faith. The Ocean Grove Camp Meeting Association would eventually add an auditorium which, by 1894, could seat 6,600 of the faithful.

Although, at one time, there were 660 tents leased or owned on individual lots in Ocean Grove, today, there are only about 114 tents left. However, the majority of dwellings have, over the years, evolved into wonderful two, three and four story Victorian painted ladies that line the little east/west streets that lead to the well-kept Atlantic coast beach. In fact, Ocean Grove contains the largest aggregate of Victorian and early 20th century structures in America. Many of the painted ladies are bed and breakfast establishments within one of which we (and, I'll provide the details of who the "we" were) stayed.

Interestingly, during the Ocean Grove's religious heyday, rules and regulations were established that banned all carriages and automobiles on the streets on Sunday, as well as the banning of Sunday beach bathing, and the prohibition of the sale of liquors within a mile of the community boundaries.

Another interesting fact about Ocean Grove is that the person who bought the first lot in the community for $86.00, James A. Bradley, would also later purchase and develop the land directly to the north of Ocean Grove known as the city of Asbury Park.

Now, in case you're wondering, I am a lapsed Catholic who would, under no circumstances, seek out a religiously oriented summer resort town in which to spend a little time. I have given-up my soul to good deeds and the truths of my heart and have a very intimate and commited relationship with the Great Maestro who conducts the gyrations of the cosmos to the satisfaction of some us and the consternation of many of us. Indeed, I am happy, I am ecstatic simply to wake up each morning and see the giant and ancient silver maple that fronts David's and my property. It is a beautiful tree; certainly inspired by the best the Great Maestro had/has to give.

So, why Ocean Grove?

My little sister lives in Rutherford, New Jersey. She has one son, six years old; and one daughter, eleven weeks old. Each year on my nephew's birthday, my little sister orchestrates a pilgrimage to Ocean Grove -- which is only about an hour away from Rutherford -- and family and friends merge upon the resort town which, incidentally, does not check your religious affiliation or your bags for stowed vodka or whiskey at the gate before entry is granted. Anyway, this was the first time I've been able to attend the annual rite in Ocean Grove. And, it was, ah, interesting.

Besides my sister and her two children, three nieces-in-law flew in from Denver with four of my grand nieces and nephews between them. So, in all, there were eleven of us in the same bed and breakfast celebrating the birthday of my nephew Jack.

Leaving Rutherford, it was decided that my little sister's Subaru would be loaded up with everyone's luggage and my sister and her children and one of my nieces-in-law would occupy my little sister's newly-purchased Volvo station wagon and my other nieces-in-law and the remaining grand nieces and nephews would be carried to Ocean Grove in the Lincoln Navigator my niece-in-law had rented at the airport. I alone -- and absolutely terrified of losing my way on the New Jersey Turnpike -- would navigate the Subaru to Ocean Grove by following my little sister's Volvo.

Now, my little sister's Subaru has a standard transmission. For those of you who don't even know what a standard transmission is let me explain that with a standard transmission it is necessary for the driver to actually physically shift the vehicle into the various gears that are necessary to propell the vehicle to its destination. Suffice it, for now, to say that the clutch immediately seemed to be a little off the moment I first shifted from first gear into second. Remember now, I am alone in the Subaru.

We were actually travelling on the Garden State Parkway, but I think it is emminently more dramatic and poignant to sugggest we were on the New Jersey Turnpike when, alas, the clutch on the Subaru gradually, regretfully but inevitably failed. I could not make it up the hill just past exit 109. I pulled the Subaru over to the side of the road, dialed my sister's cell and said, "Okay, honey, the clutch just went out. I'm sitting in the weeds on the New Jersery Turnpike watching the cars go past and wondering what the hell we're going to do."

My sister called the Garden State Parkway number and, within a hour, a tow truck arrived to take the Subaru (and me) into I have no idea what town we ended up in.

Long story short: The garage I was towed to could not complete the clutch job until Monday -- I was flying out on Sunday -- so we had AAA come and get the Subaru and tow it into a Subaru dealer maybe ten or twnety miles away who was able to have the vehicle ready for operation on the Saturday we were scheduled to leave Ocean Grove.

Okay, so now we're at Ocean Grove.

I am a runner. I usually run on asphalt surphaces in Denver around Berkeley Lake; even, smooth surfaces that dont' require a lot of adjustment of foot movement, up or down. But, let me tell you that the wooden boardwalk along the Atlantic at Ocean Grove is not smooth; is not even; is not safely flat like the surfaces I run on in Denver. So, the first morning I arose at 6a.m. and headed for the boardwalk for my first run (two miles). I headed north toward Asbury Park. I was going at my normal clip when I caught my foot on a raised plank of wooden boardwalk and, guess what? I fell. I smashed my knees, and the right side of my head into the boardwalk. My glasses went flying; the gash along my right eyebrow began a profuse flow of blood; my knees were destroyed and, AND, I stood up, grabbed my handkerchief from the waist of my running shorts and said, "Wow!' I put the handkerchief to my right eyebrow, turned around and ran another mile in the opposite direction.

Oh, believe me when I tell you that life is not fulfilled unless there are adventures; unless there are the unexpected results of what would otherwise just be another day in the life... Please understand that the essence of life; the excitement of life; the essential meaning of life is about the unexpected; is dependent upon the unexpected; is enriched, is enhanced, is blessed by the unexpected...that is, if you remain conscious after taking your tumble.

I'll go ahead and publish this post. But, there is much more to report. I'll do that later. The adventure will continue.

Oh, America

Okay. I watched Edwards' speech last night. It was a pretty good articulation of what the Democracts are espousing this year.

As I was growing up, my father used to tell me that the honest politicians in this town (Denver) wouldn't fill the back seat of his car. My father was fond of big-assed vehicles, so I figured he was probably talking about three or four people. My father served the City and County Of Denver as a police officer (the last four and one-half years as Chief of Police) for twenty-six years. I served the City and County of Denver for twenty-three years, ending my career with six years as Director of Purchasing.

My father's admonition that honest politicians are few and far between was, in my own experience, confirmed. My father used to say that politicians lacked a backbone; that they were gutless, spineless sons-of-bitches who wouldn't commit to the time of day, much less anything else unless it enhanced their electibilty at the next election.

And, watching the Democractic convention, I'm convinced that politicians have not changed their stripes. They're still full of shit.

I did think John Edwards' speech was inspiring. But, then, Edwards is, indeed, still a politician.

Anyway, it is so important; it is so vital that the ignoble, digustingly evil administration of Dubya -- fratboy President -- be ended that I can move beyond my innate distrust of all politicians -- Democratic or Republican -- to embrace the Democratic polemic; the Democratic ideal.

Oh, America, wake up! Dubya has so divided our nation; has so divided our world that we will be so very lucky if the election of John Kerry is able to salvage our greatness; our humanity; our democratic spirit.

"...and I am waiting
for a rebirth of wonder
and I am waiting for someone
to really discover America
and wail
and I am waiting
for the discovery
of a new symbolic western frontier
and I am waiting
for the American Eagle
to really spread its wings
and straighten up and fly right ..."

Lawrence Ferlinghetti, "I Am Waiting."

Micheal Moore (Goodbye Dubya)

Just watched Michael Moore on CSPAN. He's at the convention and was invited to speak at one of the many rallies the Democrats are holding in one of my favorite cities in the whole wide world -- Boston.

Anyway, I was a little agitated with the media reporting that Dubya is gaining percentage points in the polls and Kerry is dropping. I mean, given that the Democratic convention is going full steam, wouldn't you think Kerry would be gaining points?

Well, Michael Moore had a good point (as he usually does). The pollsters provide that their numbers, Moore said, are based on "...those most likely to vote..." in the November election. And, who is most likely to vote in the November election? Well, naturally, those who have voted in past elections. Moore wondered if that included the young, the poor, people of color. He cited a precinct in, I believe, Toledo, Ohio that is 98% African American which, in the last presidential election of 2000, realized a 13% voter turn-out. How sad is that? Moore's point, of course, is that Kerry and the Democrats have to give those folks in that Toledo precinct a reason to get out and vote for Kerry.

Moore also pointed out that Kerry and the Democrats have to give those inclined to waste their vote on Ralph Nader a good reason to get out and vote for Kerry.

Otherwise -- in both the case of the previously disinterested in that Toledo precinct and the Nader fans -- he warned, Dubya will retain the White House for another four years.

Moore is a good speaker. I understand why the Democratic Party probably didn't invite him to address the convention, but, damn, he would have fired up those delegates; he would have frenetically energized what, to date, has been a pretty boring process.

Dubya has got to go. I think the integrity, the greatness, the humanity, the strength of America depends on getting the little fratboy President out of the White House and back on his ranch where he can do us no further harm.

Sweet Melissa

Sweet Melissa 

This is our ten-year-old Alaskan Malamute, Sweet Melissa Marie, who recently lost her yardmate, Calvin, to Lymphoma.  She has, since the loss of Calvin, become quite needful.

She rarely leaves my side or, if she's more than five feet away from me, she keeps her attention focused on me to see if I'm going to modify our daily routine at all.  She is obsessive about our routine, which begins at about 6:30 every day with a run in the park.  Our day generally does not end without a walk to another park before lunch and, if it isn't too hot, another two mile walk when David comes home from work.  Then, of course, dinner; a drink for me with some teevee and a few slices of cheese for Melissa.

Melissa sleeps in the house.  She has, since Calvin's death, become anxious and uncomfortable in the back yard and will not stay in the back yard by herself.  In fact, if she has to do her business she will not do it in the back yard unless I physically go out there with her and wait until she is done.

She is my buddy, my companion.  David and I love her very much.

 

Love?

The other day,  I was taking a look at blogs, clicking on the ones that had cute, interesting or intriguing names when I came upon anonyboy and read the post entitled, "Boys on the Brain."  Here is a twenty-six year old, articulate, cute, chatty, intelligent young man who by his own confession hasn't "...gotten laid in almost a year."  Anonyboy is (I think he is convinced??) indubitably gay.
 
I emailed anonyboy with the information that I and my partner, David, will celebrate twenty-two years of life together this November.  I provided this information to him simply to communicate to him that, hey, if he has any questions about what this whole gay thing is about, I could probably provide some answers.  And, now that I think about it, what I could provide has probably more to do with just the nature of commitment and love than with how any of us are oriented sexually.

Hmmm... Love?
 
I have been reading lately about Peter Illyich Tchaikovsky. Last night I read that his death from cholera on November 6, 1893, (the same year David's and my old house was built) was, most likely caused from his decision to intentionally drink a glass of cholera-infested water; seeking the comfort of death rather than living with the painful knowledge that his beloved nephew, Vladimir, had forsaken their relationship by associating with female prostitutes.

Love hurts, or so the song says.

Yes, and love laughs and love cries and love is silent and love is cacophonous and love is ugly and love is pretty and love is all there is and love is lacking and love is fulfilling and love is a tear and love is a smile and love is a nod and love is a mystery and love is known and love is unknown and love is brilliant and love is stupid and love is bright and love is dull and love is tough and love is easy and love is … a many-splendored thing.
 
And, I guess love could sometimes simply consist of sitting before a monitor and, through cyberspace, just connecting with someone, somewhere.    

Love? No, I still don’t know what the hell that word means. I just know that the years David and I have had together have been … lovely.

And, I guess that’s really all that needs to be said, except … yes, except that the spirits who haunt our old house have returned. They whisper in my ear … their breath a cool wisp against my cheek. "Peter Illyich," they say in a voice as old as the walls of this house, but as vibrant as a new spring. "Peter Illyich," they say as softly as the creak they make as they pass through the floor to surround David sitting on the love seat below. "Peter Illyich," they say softly, sweetly, as they leave me to kiss David’s eyes with their smiles as our old house reverberates with the sound of the Sixth Symphony, known as the Pathetic which Peter Illyich gave us in 1893.

Anyway, give anonyboy a visit. 

 

   
  

Running

I hate to run.  I've always hated to run.  I've never enjoyed running and would rather eat nails than run.
 
But, over the past three or four months I've begun running at least a mile in the morning with my trusty companion Melissa Marie at my side.
 
Melissa Marie is a ten year old Alaskan Malamute who, before we started running, was about twenty pounds overweight.  In fact, the Vet prescribed some RD prescription food for her.  (She absolutely refused to eat it, so I took the big bag of dry and the twenty-four cans of meat to the Maxfund, a no-kill shelter in near West Denver.)   At the worst, Melissa weighed about ninety-six pounds.  She's now down to about eighty pounds.
 
I'm down to 165 after eight months of following Atkins and exercising.  (I started out at 205.)
 
Anyway, I hate to run.  But I do.  Every morning with Melissa at my side.
 
It's curious.  I've never really studied the physiology of running, but let me tell you there is a significant physiology to running which begins with pain.  Yes, after the first minute or so of actually giving physical movement to that commitment to run, the body churns up this, Hey are you kidding me! message to the brain, suggesting that this body, my body, is not capable of this much torture; every muscle, every bone, my lungs, my heart scream:  Stop!  Please Stop this insanity!   But, I move on.  I keep going.  I keep chugging ahead ... with Melissa at my side who, by the way, doesn't really have to run to keep up with me.  She just kind of walks fast. 
 
Soon, after about four or five minutes, my body says, Okay, I can do this, and the pain, the torture in  every muscle and organ of my  body abates, lessens.  As a matter of fact, after about four or five minutes, I feel as though I could go on forever.  I feel good.  I feel like what I am doing is about the most incredibly remarkable thing I've done in a long, long time.  (This is probably what's called the runner's high  which probably has something to do with endorphin production by the body.)
 
It doesn't hurt either that Melissa and I run around the Berkeley Park lake where we've seen storks (egrets??) and other exotic wildlife cohabiting with the gnats and mosquitoes, geese and squirrels, trout and suckers, all of whom call Berkeley home.
 
Pretty boring post.  But, what the hell.  If you're ever at Berkeley Park at, oh, six-thirty in the morning and see a newly svelt older gentleman in shorts, t-shirt and baseball cap with a beautiful, haughty Alaskan Malamute leading him around the lake nod a hello and understand ... I really hate to run.
  
  
  
 

More Hickenlooper

Today's Rocky Mountain News lavished great praise on John Hickenlooper's first year as mayor of Denver. And, he deserves much of that praise. He's done a good job.

The article did, however, point out that Hickenlooper has chosen to take a "back seat" on issues like the gulag Wal-Mart intrusion into our neighborhoods. For me, that's unacceptable.

The News praised Hickenlooper for his public stand against the same-sex marriage Constitutional amendment that Dubya thinks is the issue that's going to save his ass in November. What the News didn't report is if Hickenlooper supports same-sex marriage. He's never, to my knowledge, said yea or nay. I'd like to know.

You know, it occurred to me that Hickenlooper's success as a restaurateur prepared him well to be the essential cheerleader, the inveterate performer who knows intuitively how to play the crowd. And, play the crowd, he certainly has over the past year, beginning with his ingenious campaign for mayor and continuing up to the cute photograph on the front page of the News, this morning showing Hizzoner bouncing on a trampoline.

Any restaurateur knows that you gotta' give 'em what they want to keep them comin' back for more.

Hickenlooper's Curious Silence

Denver's new mayor, John Hickenlooper, has been curiously unsupportive of neighborhood groups who oppose the intrusion of the corporate gulag Wal-Mart into communities. The following is an editorial I sent to our weekly Northwest Denver newspaper,The North Denver Tribune:

Helen Hu’s Hickenlooper refrains from weighing in on Wal-Mart proposal, that appeared in the July 1st edition, reminded me of a recent article in the Rocky Mountain News (June 11th edition) entitled, Citizens seeking ‘missing’ mayor. That story, too, involved Hickenlooper’s penchant for sidestepping issues related to citizen opposition to Wal-Mart intrusion into our neighborhoods.

What I've noticed about our mayor is that he wishes to be all things to all people. And, if that's not possible; if he can't stand center stage and please everybody, then he ends-up missing in action.

Hizzoner ran for mayor on a platform that centered on a convenient issue which captured the imagination of an enormous block of Denver's citizens: parking management and the bureaucracy that lorded over it. Yessir, a reformation of the bureaucracy was in order and John Hickenlooper -- private sector entrepreneur that he was -- was just the guy to do it. Little did he realize that being mayor of a major American city really doesn't dovetail nicely with being a successful restaurateur. Being a millionaire doesn't help much either.

It is axiomatic that there are essential differences between the running of governments and the operation of a business in the private sector. One of those differences is that if you're the CEO of a private sector business you can pretty much hide out whenever you want to. When you're the mayor of a major city, hiding out on major issues is just plain dereliction of duty. It may even be evidence of a wee bit of pusillanimity -- (some Denver cops have come to refer to hizzoner as chickenlooper). What's more likely is that Hickenlooper's team has become quick studies in the artful dodger style of politics: coat the boss in Teflon, keep him out of harm's way when the heat's on and, by all means, don't do anything without a committee or commission to blame if a decision happens to backfire.

Hickenlooper’s spokeswoman, Lindy Eichenbaum Lent, put a curious spin on the mayor’s silence with regard to the West Highlands’ Wal-Mart issue by explaining that all the mayor can do is to assure the bureaucracy does it’s job in evaluating whether or not the Wal-Mart proposal meets the letter of the law.

Forgive me, but that sounds a little like the kind of bureaucratic tap dance Hickenlooper’s run for mayor promised to wipe out at city hall. Indeed, this was the guy who was going to take the nonsense out of the bureaucracy.

Lent’s comment in nonsensical. There are many ways a mayor leads and one of them is NOT hiding behind the bureaucracy.

Come on, Mayor, you can do it. Just say it: West Highlands is NOT the place for a Wal-Mart. Period.


"All politics is applesauce!" said Will Rogers in 1924. (The word applesauce in 1924 was slang for "attractive nonsense.")

Denver Drivers

Why, I wonder, do Denver drivers no longer stop at stop signs or red lights? David believes that it just simply is not convenient for them to do so. So, they don't. They just cruise right through the stop sign; some of them totally pausing -- as David says -- for a microsecond and then going on their merry way. Others don't even totally pause when they come to an intersection with stop signs, but just quickly whip their head from side to side checking, I suppose, to see if a mass of metal is close enough to cause mayhem and, if not, they just accelerate right on through. Ignoring red lights is a problem for me. When Denver drivers see amber they accelerate. It doesn't matter if they're 100 yards from an intersection, they accelerate. Most of the time, this results in the Denver driver running a red light. They enter the intersection just when the light turns red for them and green for others. If you happen to be standing on the corner, waiting to cross the street when the Denver driver accelerates through the red light and the Denver driver knows you're there, they will look the other way, knowing you're probably giving them the finger or shouting something pretty inane, like, "Hey, that was a red light!" But, see, to the Denver driver, it's okay what they've done if they turn their head away from you and don't have to experience your anger or gesticulation. Now, if the Denver driver is going to make a right turn on a red light it's kind of the same stop sign mentality in that the head quickly whips from side to side and, without really slowing down, the turn is made on the red light without stopping.

I actually saw a Denver driver stop at a red light, then -- since no vehicle was dangerously close to him -- make a left turn on a red light. And, no, these weren't one-way streets. Once again, it just wasn't convenient for that particular Denver driver to wait for the green light.

I guess the more important concern is the collective mentality behind this kind of behavior. Disrespect for the law? Or, is it more likely that what's going on is just what David implies: This is not convenient for ME so, fuck it, I'm not stopping; the law at this particular moment is just not convenient for ME to follow.

Denver drivers are the worst drivers on the face of the earth. They wouldn't last ten minutes on the streets of Boston. Ever driven in Boston? There is no ME on the streets of Boston. There's a collective WE in Boston and you'd better get with the program, 'cause ME just doesn't cut it in Boston.

Anyway, just thought I'd get this off my chest.