Skip to main content

Hometown

You wanna be where you can see, troubles are all the same,
You wanna go where everybody knows your name.   (Theme from Cheers)

I was driving through the mountains today, gawking at the 14ers along highway 285, feeling fine, soaking in the scenery, pondering how I might figure a way back to this place.  The radio faded, so I hit 'seek.'  The numbers fluttered, then landed on the first notes of Man in the Mirror.  I started snapping my fingers, singing along.  Gonna make a change, for once in my life... I got to ... It's gonna feel real good, gonna make a difference... and burst into tears.  Shit!

Did I mention that I had a lovely dinner with the Cress family at my/their house?  A steak as big as a tractor tire, but much tastier.  Of course, I've never eaten a tire, so I'm just assuming...

On Tuesday afternoon, Dr. Gloria Beim delivered the stellar news: I have no arthritis in my hip.  None.  Nada.  Zippola.  Did I mention this already?  I ran out of ginko a while ago and with the hormones fluctuating as they do these days, sometimes I forget.  Anyway, it's comforting, since my mother has two artificial ones, a titanium shoulder and pins in her fingers, all due to the disease.  Lindsay Wagner's got nothin' on my mom.  (For all you younsters' benefit, Lindsay played The Bionic Woman on TV, way back in the stone age. Now she sells mattresses through a gauze filter.)  So, all I have to say about the lack of joint trouble is, thanks Dad.  Instead, I have bursitis, with an excessively tight IT (iliotibial) band, probably due at least in part to the fact that one leg is longer than the other.  I'm not sure who to thank for that.  Anyway, a shot in the rump, some new orthotics and a bit of physical therapy and I'm on the road to recovery.  My literal pain in the ass is already fading. (We'll save talk of my figurative pain(s) in the ass for another blog entry.)

Gunnison was Gunnison, complete with people I know in restaurants and shops, walking along the street, at the gym, on the cot next to me in PT, talking on the radio, everywhere.  

 My friend Stephen invited me to attend a spoken word performance at the Gunnison Arts Center Wednesday night.  I started downtown from my digs at the Comfort Inn, but soon realized I'd forgotten my purse and wallet. Blast! How on earth was I to buy a beer?  I turned around and high-tailed it back up Main Street, figuring I could make it to my room, snag the bag and be back at the Arts Center is eight minutes flat.  Not so fast.  That's what the sheriff's deputy told me when he pulled me over.  Well, actually he said, "Slow down," which is the same thing.  Thank you Deputy Medina for letting me off with a warning.  I arrived just in time to catch the last of the milling and mixing prior to the performance.  It felt like old home week. Mark Todd was there, a guy so famous around these parts that people still ask me if I'm related to him.  George Sibley hung in the wings.  No, not the actor George Sibley. (Remember Babe?) This is the writer, teacher, philosopher George Sibley from Colorado.  I don't think anybody in Gunnison doesn't know George.  Mark read a couple of poems in his spirited way. The young poets were impressive, too.  Stephen did a fine job as MC.  Last night, it was dinner with my pal Delaney.  We vowed to make it our ritual to eat at the new Mexican restaurant every time I come to town.  There's always a new Mexican restaurant in Gunnison.  It was fun hangin' with all my homies in G-town.  To those of you I did not get the chance to see, I apologize and promise to connect next trip.  Yes, there will definitely be a next trip.

A thunder storm just ripped through here.  The sky rumbled and flashed, the heavens burst with a deluge.  Sheets of water defied the awning over my hotel room door and soaked the walkway.  That's what I love about Colorado.  It's exciting!  Don't like the weather?  Wait a few minutes.  And the rain?  No biggie.  It's here and gone in a few minutes.  The sun will come out tomorrow.  Bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow, there'll be sun. 

I've included a little eye candy, a shot from Monarch Pass, for your viewing pleasure.

Aloha.  A hui howdy.






Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Born and bred

The creature stared at me, wide-eyed through the florescent glare, Saran Wrap stretched tight across its broad back. Alone in the seafood cooler, he was the only one of his kind, there among the farmed, color-added Atlantic salmon and mud-flavored tilapia, perched on a blue foam tray, legs tucked 'round him like a comfy kitten. He didn't blink. He was dead, red, cooked and chilled, ready to eat. Such a find is rare in the City Market fish department in Gunnison, Colorado. What if nobody takes him home? I thought. This beautiful animal will have died needlessly, ripped from his home, family and friends (Dory, Nemo, Crush and Gill?) only to be tossed in the trash when his expiration date came and went. I lifted him for closer inspection, checked that date, felt the heft of him, scanned his surface for cracks and blemishes. The creature was perfect. I lowered him back into the cooler, nodded farewell, turned to walk away, took one step, and stopped. Shoppers strolled past, stud

General goofiness

I was driving home from an abbreviated shift at work last night when I turned on the radio and heard Bob Dylan singing Everybody Must Get Stoned .  I was reminded of a placard I once saw at a Dairy Queen in Colorado that read, Everybody Must Get Coned .  So it occurred to me, there navigating through the misty darkness, that with a slight modification, this could be a great slogan for a number if different businesses.  Here's my list. Telecommunications company: Everybody must get phoned . Cutlery shop and knife sharpening services: Everybody must get honed . Credit Union: Everybody must get loaned . Brothel: Everybody must get moaned. Winery: Everybody must get Rhoned . Fitness Center: Everybody must get toned . Local planning commission: Everybody must get zoned . Bio-research company: Everybody must get cloned. Doggy daycare: Everybody must get boned. Manufacturer of modern, unmanned spy planes: Everybody must get droned . Reader of corny mottoes and slogans listed on a chees

Re-writing Twain: Adendum

The best thing about rants, at least among the civilized, is that someone smart always makes a valid point to the contrary. My fellow University of Alaska Anchorage classmate, Wendy, directed me to this column, written recently for the New York Times by a writer I admire, Lorrie Moore . She's on both sides of editing Twain issue, and for good reason, posing the notion that maybe Mark Twain was never intended to be children's literature and that that is the problem. Give it a read, then tell me what you think, if you're so inclined. It was Flannery O'Connor who said, "The fact is that anybody who has survived his childhood has enough information to last him the rest of his days."  No matter how idyllic one's childhood, no matter how hard grown ups try to protect their young charges, trauma happens, sometimes the likes of which no child should endure. Stories that reflect this are often the fodder for great literature, stories not necessarily suitable for y