Ok, sorry for the posting delay, but I was out of town most of the week. Here’s the update, starting with last Monday.

Monday

I called my brother to find out what kind of guitar to get T for Christmas, and I found out that his girlfriend would be out of town most of the week. As we talked about guitar nuances he said, “this would be easier to show you” and, in a moment of inspiration, I talked about flying out to see him. M and I talked. She was ok with my flying out, in part, I think, because she wants to fly to NY to hang out with her mom and brothers later in the winter, and allowing me to fly out to Denver makes for good family public relations, if you know what I mean. I got online and reserved hotel rooms in Lincoln, Nebraska, for the drive out and back, then, on a lark, checked the airfares. I found a flight and car for a total of $400 bucks. Assuming I filled the gas tank eight times, at 25 bucks each, plus added 130 bucks on hotels for the way out and back, I’d be at $330. I decided to eat the seventy extra bucks and take the flight.

Tuesday

M dropped me off at the airport in the morning, and I hit the Memphis airport for a quick layover, Mystery Train style, before an early afternoon arrival in Denver. I picked the rental car from one of those way in the middle of nowhere rental car lots after a long wait for a shuttle. I decided that rental car clerk ranks high on my “jobs I never want to do” list. You have to work in these stunningly dull non-descript buildings, way out away from everything, all the while trying to convince people to buy extra insurance or upgrade to a Cadillac or something. A kid with dreadlocks and an island accent gave me my keys, and I was on my way. I followed a tollway sign towards Boulder, which led to another tollway, which led to another tollway. Six bucks later I was on the last road to Boulder. I was pissed at the toll people…false advertising, if you ask me.
Now, I haven’t been to Boulder in close to fifteen years, so I probably shouldn’t have been surprised, but I couldn’t believe the entire city had essentially become a large mall, not the Neiman-Marcus kind, but the Whole Food and Barnes and Noble kind. I hooked up with my brother in front of some coffee shop. He and I snagged a burrito, then I followed up the mountain, a thirty minute drive, and parked in the driveway next to his house. He had an open stage to host, but I was kind of tired, so I begged off and stayed home.
My brother’s rented house is crazy. The house is an A-frame, with a sleeping loft at the apex of the letter and a basement/secondary living space at the base. The main living space is between the two. You have to climb a ladder to reach the loft. A hole in the floor and additional ladder leads to the basement. The water, according to my brother, is not safe for drinking; he also has no television or microwave oven. The bathroom is pretty scummy, too. The house runs primarily on solar power and smells strongly of bad incense. Why can’t my brother ever live anywhere normal? I read Jon Savage’s incredibly detailed book on the Sex Pistols for a while, listened to Chopin, and fell asleep.

Wednesday

Snow was falling when we woke. Snow was falling later. Snow kept falling all day. We took my brother’s car into the city to shop for Christmas presents. We ate breakfast at some place called Dot’s Diner, a hot, stuffy place in a strip mall with servicable vegetarian burritos. By the time we reached Boulder the city had more or less shut down. We hit Circuit city for a home XM radio hook up, then Whole Food for water and hippy food. My brother was getting nervous about the weather, so we headed back up the mountain early. I got carsick from playing with his car satellite radio through the mountain curves. We spent the rest of the night listening to the radio, reading, and watching the snow fall. My brother assured me his landlord would plow out the rental car, now a vague outline in the snow, by morning.

Thursday

Thirty inches of snow had fallen by Thursday morning. I listened to a fascinating interview with a priest from Homeboy Industries on my brother’s satellite radio. If I drove a lot I could rationalize getting a satellite radio system myself. I’m tempted. We drove into town and had breakfast again at Dot’s Diner. Only one waitress reached work, so we had to wait forever for our food. The waitresses’ two kids were with her, answering the phone and playing hangman behind the counter. The schools and just about everything were shut down for a second day. I didn’t get it. By Thursday morning the streets should have been cleared. Had the Milwaukee city crews reacted in this manner to Midwestern snow, heads would have rolled. My brother and I drove around town but mostly everything was closed. I did pick up a disposable camera and diet coke from a Walgreens. We headed back into the mountains, up to a town called Nederland. Nederland seems like a badly planned collection of buildings in the absolute middle of mountain nowhere with a huge bright sun bouncing off the snow blanket. However, they do have a Best Western, a library, and a few restaurants. We drank hot chocolate in a converted railroad car, then decided to get some food at a bar my brother’s band was scheduled to play Friday night. I ate a spinach salad and felt pretty good. We snagged some more hot chocolate and headed home.
By this time we thought the driveway, about 150 feet long, would be clear for my rental car. It wasn’t. My brother freaked out on his landlord. My brother describes his landlord as some asshole new age guy who just had a heart attack. Apparently the landlord wants to turn off power in the middle of the night to save power, etc., and agreed to plow. He and my brother shouted at each other on the phone, ending with the landlord telling my brother to “shovel his own fucking snow”. Even though my rental car was at stake, I suppose, I found two hippies screaming at each other on the phone highly entertaining. My brother was pissed. I suppose his anger and my fear coalesced in the desire to push the car down the mountain in the dark. Armed with two shovels we first cleared off the car and slowly, over about thirty minutes, dug out a circle large enough to turn the car so the front faced the bottom of the mountain. Over the next hour we pushed the car ten feet forward or so, then dug another set of trenches for the wheels, over and over again until we reached the bottom of the hill. I found the experience exhilarating. I was covered with snow, wearing sneakers instead of boots, pushing from behind while my brother drove the car, rocking backwards and forwards until we moved forward, me running behind, into the next snowdrift. We’d scream every time we succeeded. Anyone on the mountain heard us. We probably scared some deer. Once we burst through the last wall of snow, we parked the car tight against the road. I wanted to piss in the landlord’s mailbox, but my brother wouldn’t let me. We trudged up the mountain, hung up our clothes near the wood stove (the entire place is heated through wood and propane), and fell asleep.

Friday

I forgot two important points from earlier in the week:

My brother apparently doesn’t believe in smoke detectors. When I pointed out his was covered in cobwebs, he said, “we never put a battery in that, dude. Live a little.” Apparently a microwave isn’t included in his “living a little” definition, but sleeping through fires fits the definition. I didn’t tell M about the dead smoke detector until after I left, by the way.
As you may have heard, the Denver airport was completely shut down by the blizzard. Now, my brother had two gigs scheduled for Friday, and I didn’t want to attend either because of the impact they would have on a Saturday morning departure, so I had M check on moving my flight forward to Friday. Thank God she wasn’t able to do so, because all Friday flights were cancelled. I’d probably still be in the f—king airport. I also read that some nine year old kid got stuck alone in the airport. Crazy. Only one year older that T. I worry so much about my kids when I’m away from them.

My brother made a hippy breakfast, broccoli, mushroom, and potatoes, in the morning. He’s a decent cook. While he loaded his guitar down the mountain and into his car I saw a huge deer, antlers and everything, just above his house. I shot some pictures. The deer noticed me, even though I was inside, then jumped surprisingly gracefully through the snow into the trees. The temperatures were rising, up near forty, and the sun was blazing. My brother walked me to my car and I left at about ten or so. The ride down the mountain was more or less uneventful. I moved slowly, as the curves scare the hell out of me, and breathed in relief when I reached the bottom. I hate heights. By the way, my brother hates heights too. This trip reminded me of the weird quirks we had in common, like heights and a lack of social skills outside our fields (his, folk music, mine, teaching).
Boulder was open, finally, so I walked the Pearl Street mall, looking for M’s Christmas present. One knick-knack shop had promise, but nothing jumped out at me, so I opted for a cool card game I found at a game-specific store. M plays cards with the kids all the time, and I thought she’d like this game…it’s all about shapes and logic and matching. I think. The box said, “six and up”. I tried to see a movie, but I couldn’t find the theatre, and the mall parking lots were a mess, so I decided, at noon or so, to head towards Denver.
The roads into Denver were a mess. Even the highways still evidenced stray snow piles. Who the hell plowed? I ran over some of these and, between the spinning tires (we could smell burning rubber) and the rough ride, developed some rental car paranoia. I passed a couple more malls, along the highway, but cars were lined up and down the exit ramps, so I decided to skip them and hit the art museum. The trip was absolutely harrowing. Imagine driving through Dan Ryan traffic if the lanes are dotted with huge piles of snow. I had google directions, which I f—ked up, but I still managed to find the museum. I had heard some people got nasty vertigo in the new building, but I managed to avoid the feeling. The museum didn’t have many “knock it out of the park” pieces, but the modern art section was interesting, and a couple of individual collector exhibits were strong. I ran out of energy before I could complete the second building. I particularly liked a huge Pacific Islander exhibit, connecting art with cultural practices (cool canoe) and this one section with flashing, changing LCD numbers built into the floor. Oh, there was this human body form with steel rods sticking out all over the place. Very cool. Maybe I can find it on the website…I don’t remember the artist.
By this time I was tired and hungry. I reached the hotel area with a minimum of drama, stopped at a sleazy Subway for food, and hit the hotel. I’ve learned that neighborhoods near airports tend to be pretty, how shall I put it, scummy, so I planned on staying inside for the night. However, I lost my comb, so I asked the desk clerk for an extra, but she was out. I walked down the side of a busy four-lane (I felt like walking) to a large convenience store, where I bought a comb and a liter of diet coke. The hotel room was small but contained a television (yay!) and a warm, clean shower. I took two showers in two hours, ate a sub and a half, and watched two basketball games. I had a hard time sleeping. I was worried the airport wouldn’t be at full-force by the time my flight left on Saturday, and I was missing my kids big-time. Some pop tarts helped me fall asleep. Pop tarts in a hotel bed…never a bad idea.

Saturday

I woke before five. The hotel had a continental breakfast, but it didn’t open until six, so I cruised the hotel’s internet connection in the lobby. I sent some emails and checked on my flights. The continental breakfast sucked, but I ate a lot anyway, as I felt guilty about spending any more money than necessary. The owner, a fat Mexican guy, kept watching me as I ate two bagels. I was worried he was going to ask me to slow down. After breakfast I checked out, filled the car with gas, and dropped off the rental car. The interior still evidenced a decent amount of snow, esp. near the driver’s feet, but the guy checking in the car was too busy to worry.
I caught the shuttle to the airport. As we pulled up to the terminal, I could see a line stretching out along the side of the building. This did not exactly inspire confidence. However, there are advantages to flying into Denver through a non-hub airline (NWA, in this case), because I needed less than ten minutes to check my bags, whereas apparently United and Frontier customers had to wait a couple hours. Ten minutes passed before I found the end of the security line. Yes, the line was that long…I’d say probably three-quarters of a mile long. We waited ninety minutes to pass through the security gates. A young couple behind me was on the verge of missing a flight to Houston. I hope they made their connection. A set of teenagers in front of me were flying to Rockford. They did not seem amused by my Rockford jokes, but perhaps the security line isn’t the time or place for such discourse. A fight almost broke out when this huge (about ten people) white trash family cut in the security line. There is a special place in hell for that type.
My flight didn’t leave until past eleven, so I had a couple of hours to blow before leaving. No worries. I splurged on a James Elroy book (Destination Morgue) for the plane and read leftover newspapers. Dan called (my friend, not my brother) and told me this other guy we know lost his mother to a car accident. This conversation did not fit the context…strange to talk about that type of incident on your cell from an airport. After boarding we waited on the runway for about an hour until we left. I wouldn’t have minded, as I was scheduled for a two hour layover in Minneapolis, but by this point I was getting hungry. This Asian girl fell asleep next to me while I read the first hundred pages of the Ellroy. Good book, worth buying, even if I already had four books in my luggage. In Minneapolis I ate a pizza and a burrito. I was starving. Afterwards I wasn’t feeling too well (apparently pizza and burritos are not natural dietary companions), but after reading more stray newspapers, I felt a bit better. I was lucky enough to get the one seat on the Minneapolis/Milwaukee flight next to an empty seat, but my pleasure was marred by a loud guy behind me who kept on trying to pick up the young mother across the aisle. She was no catch, either, trust me. I read Spin’s end of the year issue, which I had picked up in Minneapolis, and I realized I hadn’t heard of most of the albums in their top fifty. I’m too old to keep up with that crap.

Ok, that’s it for now. This trip was important to me…I can’t quite explain why or how, just yet. Give me time. Merry Christmas.