No Crime In Dreaming, Eh?

You know how it goes. You're sitting by yourself trying to enjoy a quiet moment, some alone time, when out of nowhere an attractive woman with a bubbly personality, a razor-sharp wit, excellent taste in music and an intellect that would challenge Einstein sits down next to you and just starts chatting away about how she thinks you look like some well-known leading man, except with a stronger chin and a much brighter smile, and can she buy you a drink and then gets all excited when you order a Guinness because that's one of her favorite beers too, which leads to her telling you an engaging story about how she was once in Dublin doing the Literary Pub Crawl when a man claiming to be the late Harry Harrison accidently spilled a whole pint of Guinness on her and she had to remove her shirt and put on one the pub sold, as the Guinness made the shirt nearly transparent and very clingy which revealed her, uhm, assets to the world, a point she illustrated by pulling her shirt tight around said ample assets while inviting you to take a look with a flirtatious laugh and a very welcoming look in her eyes...

No? You don't know how that goes? Yeah, me either.

Stumbling Into A Country-Folk Ballad

Bear Creek at historic highs three days after the storm, 9-18-2013

Today was a great day to get out and see what the countryside looked like in the aftermath of the storm. The sky was clear, the sun was blazing, and I had the morning free, so off I went.

Wanting to see what Bear Creek looked like after a week of just about the heaviest rain ever seen in this part of Colorado, I headed to the town of Morrison. Driving through Morrison the creek was clearly visible running along the south side of Morrison road, which was quite odd as it is usually low in the creek bed and difficult to see unless you are right on top of it.

Morrison road becomes Colorado route 74 just west of the town, as you head up towards the smaller communities of Idledale and Kittridge until finally arriving in Evergreen. I drove up 74 with the town of Evergreen in mind as my final destination.

Heading up the mountain I stopped at a few pullouts along the shoulder of the road that offered views of the rain-swollen creek. I made my way to a few precarious spots that offered good photo ops and took a few snaps. I did this for a few miles before stopping at a pullout area about a mile before Idledale where a young couple was standing next to a motorcycle with what looked like all of their belongs scattered around it.

As I was getting out of my truck, the young woman who had been standing near the young man approached me quickly and asked if might have a small Phillips screwdriver.

Being as I keep a vast array of Swiss-army and Leatherman type tools in my center console, I told her I probably did. I fished around in the console and found a multi-tool device that featured a fairly small Phillips screwdriver, handed it over to the young woman, and told her I was going to walk down to the creek to take a few pics and would be back to collect the tool shortly.

She was over-the-top with thanks, saying they had been there for awhile trying to flag people down but no one had stopped. I told her it was no problem, as I was stopping to take pics of the creek anyway.

After ten minutes or so of taking pictures, I headed back to my truck. I approached the young man who had been given the Phillips screwdriver and asked him how things were going.

This is where it gets good - you might want to make some popcorn.

The young man told me he wasn't getting anywhere with the Phillips screwdriver and said that he was probably going to have to cut the wires that lead from the ignition to the engine in order to hot wire the bike.

I, of course, asked the obvious question, "Don't you have a key?"

He looked at me with a brief flash of "Dude, if I had the key I'd be using it" before actually saying, "No I don't have the key. I accidentally threw it in the creek."

Which was not the answer I expected. Losing a key is one thing, but throwing the only key you have to your only transportation into a raging, overflowing creek, is a whole 'nuther.

I had that look on my face that says "How and why in the hell did you throw your key into the creek?" and without prompting the young woman chimed in that he accidentally threw the key in the creek when he threw their dog in the creek.

I was a bit taken aback by that statement.

She explained further, saying they had been traveling with their dog, a Chihuahua, and that when they had pulled over they had let the dog out of it's little carrier so it could stretch it's tiny legs, and it had scrambled up some rocks nearby, then had somehow lost it's footing and tumbled down the rock pile, hitting it's tiny head on a large boulder, and well, that was all she wrote for the poor little Chihuahua.

The young man had scooped the tiny dog up and watched as it convulsed in agony in his hands. Reacting in what he thought was a merciful manner, he tossed the dying Chihuahua into the creek. Unfortunately, he had forgotten he had the key to his bike in one of his hands when he had scooped up the dog, and it went flying into the watery abyss along with the poor little pup.

It's right about at this point the thought that I was bearing witness to a Country/Folk/Blues tune in the making popped into my head.

It was also about this time that a few other cars had pulled up. One was driven by a guy who, like me, was driving around with his camera looking for interesting sites to photograph, and the other was a truck being driven by a concerned traveler.

Both of these men approached the three of us as we were standing around the bike and asked if we needed help, to which we all replied that everything was alright, and then the young man explained further that he no longer had the key to his bike and he was probably going to cut into the ignition wires and attempt to turn it over via hot wiring.

The man who pulled over in the truck asked in the front wheel was locked, and the young man told it wasn't. That was good, as the man with the truck said he had a trailer he could but the bike on and would take it to the nearest locksmith for him. He jumped in his truck and headed off to get his trailer.

The other guy had retrieved his phone from his car and had started searching for local locksmiths to call. He found one who quoted a fee of $250.00 to come out and make a key, which the young man and woman balked at, stating they didn't have money like that.

It took a few more calls, but soon another locksmith was located who quoted a fee of $90.00. The young man still balked, stating they really didn't have that much money on them. I told him to have the locksmith to come out and I'd take care of it.

The whole time this was going on, BTW, various other parties had pulled over, both to take a look at the overflowing creek, and to see what was happening.

Oh, and the young woman was dealing with a bit of altitude sickness, as this was her first visit to Colorado, and it was the first time she'd ever seen, much less been in, a mountain range (this was all going on at 7,000 feet or so).

A half-hour had passed since the guy with the truck had left to get his trailer, and I was thinking it was going to be rather sticky to see him pull up towing a trailer with a locksmith on the way. Fifteen minutes after that thought had crossed my mind he came around the bend towing a really nice covered trailer, purpose made for hauling bikes and featuring airbrushed paintings of the stars of Easy Rider on one side looking out from behind the bars of a jail. There were paintings of a skeleton on a chopper on the other side, and a warthog astride a bike on the front - it was all really well done.

The young man went up to the guy and explained that a locksmith had been located and was on his way to cut a key for the bike, and the guy replied he would stick around until the locksmith showed and made the key, just in case the locksmith couldn't get the job done.

The story of the key being tossed in the creek along with the dog that had come to an untimely end was retold for the benefit of the guy who had retrieved the trailer, along with a bit more of the young couple's story. They were headed west from deep in the heart of Kansas on an impromptu vacation, one that hadn't been planned out all that thoroughly.

It was at this point that I began to imagine a few different scenarios - were they fleeing the law? Had they stolen the days proceeds at a place of business they worked at together and made off with delusions of being Bonnie & Clyde? Were they running away with each other from other relationships that had been failing? And why in the hell did they pack very little clothing but brought the dog along? Why didn't they have at least one bedroll? I suspected this trip of theirs was decided on rash impulse.

The locksmith showed up as I was talking with man with the trailer (we had both introduced ourselves by then, his name was Sean). Sean and I watched as the locksmith and his assistant (I believe his assistant was his wife) went to work on the gas cap (ignition, seat, and gas cap locks on bikes open with one shared key). He was able to get the gas cap unlocked and off fairly quickly, and then was able to turn over the ignition on the bike as well.

A couple of keys were then made for the bike (I insisted on two keys being cut - no sense in having a locksmith cut just the one key), and the young couple was ready to get back on the road. I invited them to follow me down into Morrison were we could grab some lunch, and after the locksmith was paid and everybody who contributed to helping the young couple out of this jam were thanked, that's exactly what we did.

Over lunch the young couple explained a bit more about what they were doing and what their plans were. That's their story though, and I don't feel at liberty to put it here. Suffice to say they were looking to build a new life together.

The young man and young woman were both profuse in their thanks and keep saying they had no idea how they ever could repay everyone's kindness and generosity, and I told them that it was simple:

The next time they ever saw someone broken down on the side of the road, whether it was due to engine trouble or just a flat tire, they had to stop to see if they could offer help.

That's how it works. The whole pay it forward dealio.

I wished those two the best of luck as they got back on the road. Whatever their final destination is, I hope they reach it safe and sound, and do not have to endure anymore absurdly difficult circumstances.

They gave me the small bag of dog food they had in one of their backpacks, btw - It's not like they had any further use for it. 

Threw the key in the creek with the dying dog. There has got to be a really great sad song in there somewhere.

Quiet Screams Are Made Of This...

The darkness that enshrouded his room gave rise to thoughts of monsters hiding in the corners, in the closet, under the bed, or behind the drapes. He knew that there were no such things as monsters, but his imagination, his overactive, overstimulated imagination, wrecked havoc on his ability to be rational. 

To add to his anxiety, on nights like this, when there was no moon, when the wind was still and even the crickets seemed to be taking the night off, he sometimes thought he heard whispers...quiet murmuring coming from the far end of the room, or over by the bookcase, near the waste basket. 

He couldn't make out any words, it was more of a sensation of people whispering quickly and quietly to themselves, or having huddled conversations with each other but with slurred and slovenly speech.

On nights like this the minutes seemed to pass like hours. He couldn't fall asleep, for every time he got close to drifting off he would be startled by an imagined sound, or worse, an imagined presence. He had been laying in his bed for twenty minutes now, and despite his use of a deep-breathing relaxation technique and even counting backwards from a thousand, he was as still as wide awake as when he first walked into the room.

Finally he began to feel the heaviness of fatigue begin to take him. His eyelids remained closed for longer intervals, and his heart rate had started slowing down. To occupy himself and ward off his imagination's penchant for creating disturbing thoughts he had begun to run the lyrics to every song from the Beatles' Sgt Peppers album through his mind. He became aware that he was drifting off when he found himself struggling to remember if he had jumped from Lovely Rita to the Sgt Pepper's reprise.

Then suddenly he was wide awake again, conscious of...something different in the room. He slowly opened his eyes and looked into the dark, hoping he would not see anything. He looked into the near-blackness at the far end of the room, at the books and papers stacked on his desk, at the cluttered bookcase, the even more cluttered dresser and finally he looked towards the drapes and the closet door. Nothing was amiss. 

But then a thought hit him like a twenty-pound mallet. Why could he see anything? Where is the soft light coming from? He turned his head toward the door to the room and his breathing stopped. The door was open. It was only open a inch or so, but it was open. When he had shut off the television set and walked upstairs to his room, the first thing he did after he turned on the light was securely close the door.

And now the door was open.

The Oddest Duck In The Room

Of all the perplexing conundrums I was ever presented with when I was a child, the biggest had to be the idea that in order to succeed, I would have to blend in. 

That was something that was hammered into me constantly, My Mom, my teachers, and even my peers never seemed to stop harping about how important it was to conform to the social norm.

"Don't make waves", "No one likes a show-off", Try not to draw attention to yourself", were statements I heard nearly everyday when I was young, and that was confusing for the sole reason that at a very early age I had already figured out that the boldest, most adventuresome, most original people were the ones everyone admired, were the ones everyone considered successes.

Knowing that however did not save me from the influence of those who demanded conformity. Over time I became as docile as everyone else, a slave to the conventional. Even my pursuit of artistic endeavors became conventional.

Which is a damn shame and one of my quiet regrets. There is no excusing my acceptance of this soul-crushing construct of conformity, not entirely. I could make excuses, draw up elaborate rationales, even fabricate convincing justifications, but there is actually no escaping the truth, which is I took the path of least resistance, I accepted the lowest common denominator.

That however has not damned me to a pathetic existence of mindless drudgery. Quite the opposite actually. Once I became aware of the manner in which I had compromised my own integrity, sold out the courage of my convictions, etc., it was easy to determine the course of action I needed to take.

Part of that course of action is this blog of course, but an even larger part is the acceptance of myself as, well, as an odd duck. 

It's a tricky thing though this odd-duck acceptance, primarily because I loathe people who bring attention to themselves with pretentious displays of hipster dandy-ism, especially those displays that rely on manufactured odd-duckiness.

I'm looking at you Mr. ear gauge and elaborate tattoo guy. How about presenting the world with something tangible, or credible, or at least a bit more interesting than the beaten dead horse of look-how-I've-modified-my-body oh so '90's school of forced reactions?

The odd-duck acceptance I'm talking about is more along the lines of "Okay, my tastes in almost everything is a bit different than most people I know - how do I incorporate that into the world I prefer to live in without alienating myself?"

That might read a little odd to some people, but what I'm trying to convey is the concept of being a creative type, one of those cursed with an artistic temperament, without being a self-aggrandizing asshat who isolates instead of originates.

Yeah, I realize that last paragraph really didn't clarify anything.

Second attempt: I don't need to be looked at as an odd duck to have my odd duckiness quantified. It's there, it's a part of me, I accept it. Done.

Make sense to anyone? If so, send me an email so I can benefit from your insight - It couldn't hurt, and it just might help.

Rainy Days And Rainy Nights

They are now calling this a "One hundred year storm". The rain is still coming down, still saturating the entire area within a 100 mile radius of Denver. At first all of the rain was great - it had been hot and dry for most of the previous month, so when the heavy cloud cover brought cooler temperatures, most people were happy.

However, with the light rain becoming consistently torrential, the area began to suffer extensive damage. Roads and bridges have been washed out, and flooding has taken it's toll on nearly every community in the Northeastern corner of Colorado.

As I write this there are Flood and Flash Flood warnings for nearly every county along the front range. Rivers and lakes are reaching historic levels. Usually, high intensity storm systems like this dissipate quickly, but that does not seem to be the case with this one. This storm has been lingering since Tuesday, the 10th, and is not expected to lighten up until tomorrow evening.

So many roads, both major highways and minor side streets, have been closed due to damage caused by sinkholes, Inadequate drainage, undermined roadbeds, or danger from mud and rock slides, that travel warnings have been issued by the Colorado Department of Transportation advising people not to drive anywhere unless it is absolutely necessary.

Which it is for a number of people being evacuated in various communities that are either along rivers overflowing their banks, or are actually situated on floodplains.

Things They Did...Or Didn't Do

He
Never made her feel like
She
Was the one in the spotlight
He
Never thought she really cared
She 
Was never sure he understood her
He 
Tried his best to make sense of it all
She
Couldn't understand what he was thinking

Putting No Shoulder Into It

I know people who don't like to work

As if that makes them particularly unique

                                 They are partial to lazing around the house

                                 Or the garage

                                 Doing their own thing

                                 Ain't that special

                                                         

Somehow  they have managed to find someone

Who is willing to put up with this lack of initiative

                                  For the pleasure

                                  Of their company

                                   

                                                                       I guess some people

                                                                       Really don't want to be 

                                                                       Alone