Those summer trips often involved an International Harvester Travelall towing a small trailer, and sometimes I wonder how I still have regular contact with my sisters and how my parents didn't divorce or sell the three of us into slavery (not necessarily in that order).
Ours was navy blue with the wood paneling and my dad would never have tried to off-road like this chucklehead. |
Long story short, by the time I got to high school I'd visited more states than most of my classmates could name. On some of those trips I was trusted with the Rand McNally Road Atlas, and thus the navigation, so I've always been a more-than-competent map reader. My 10th-grade geography teacher told my mom that I named the five boroughs of New York City before anyone else could figure out what a borough is ("Ah, the New York City Marathon goes through all five," my mom explained, my teacher nodding slowly).
About that same time, my parents got me two books that have done more for fostering my itinerant nature than any amount of childhood travel — John Steinbeck's "Travels with Charley," and William Least Heat-Moon's "Blue Highways." I guess when I first read these chronicles of long road trips I realized it's far more normal to want to see things, places, people and events than to grow roots and live in a state of inertia. OK, fine, one can also get paid for doing stuff like this, and that has weighed on my mind as well.
So it is with great disappointment that I chronicle the extent of my travels this year. I've left the city limits just 12 times for non-work reasons, and my work hasn't even taken me out of the state; not surprising given the Wyoming-centric nature of said occupation. Mostly I've had to catch up financially from a snafu a year ago today; I scheduled bills for the regular payday, forgetting that banks get Columbus Day off and that we'd get paid a day late without direct deposit. Long story short, the mistakes cost me hundreds in late/return/overdraft fees and I haven't had the capital necessary to skip town. That plus a new computer plus some medical issues equal Dave in debt and in house. And to be creative one needs frequent temporary changes of scene, be they familiar or otherwise.
March 29, The Toadies, Gothic Theater, Englewood, Colo.
Todd in the middle — just like old times. |
April 14-20, Atlanta, family visit
Brasstown Bald, the highest point in Georgia, looking northeast. I think. |
April 27, lunch with a friend, Evans, Colo.
It turns out my friend Linda lives with her family about an hour south of here. So I had dinner with her and her kids as well as a few drinks. It was nice to catch up and awesome to skip town, as always, even if I'd been there before.
June 6, Jon Butler Trio with Frank Turner, Red Rocks Amphitheater
Frank Turner opening up and raging against machines. |
I saw Frank Turner at the Ogden Theatre in Denver last fall and he just blew me away. So much fun anger that I felt like a punk for the first time in my life. Anyway, when I learned he'd open for jammy up-and-comer Jon Butler at Red Rocks, I jumped on tickets. He played an acoustic set for about 45 minutes and hit some serious highlights before Butler came on — and the douchebags came out. I got spilled on and the gentry couldn't be bothered to ice their conversations when the main act was on stage. First time I've ever left a concert early because the lardass posse with pastel polo shirts, cargo shorts, flip flops, receding hairlines and a beer in each hand wouldn't shut the fuck up.
June 9, Jamie Cullum, Arvada Center
He left me hanging on high-fives, but I will forgive him. This time. |
For the second time in my life I sat front-row, and the elfin British song stylist knocked my socks off. Part of it was the seats, true, but Jamie hit all the conceivable high points in his two-hour set. There was my life before this show, and my life since.
June 16, Mount Elbert
Fucking 'ell, I'm cold, hungry and sleepy. |
My friend Sarah and her friend Rachel joined me for my assault on Colorado's highest point, and the second-highest point in the lower 48. I got no sleep, had very little for breakfast and commando-crawled the final 50 feet to the summit. Trust me, I'm holding on to my sign for dear life, and I think it ended up slipping away at 50 mph before we headed back down. Three high points down, 47 to go; five Colorado 14ers down, 49 or 51 to go (depending on your source).
July 6, poetry reading at Coal Creek Coffee, Laramie
My buddy Adrian Molina speaks truth via hip-hop, slam poetry and educational opportunities. He did a reading at my coffee place of choice just down the road, and uttered profundities at great speed. He's very gifted and I recommend hanging with him if you get the chance.
July 17, Happy Jack Recreation Area/Laramie; July 18, Denver International Airport
My sister Diana came to visit me for a few days before the rodeo. We ate steak and brick-oven pizza, toured the Cheyenne Botanic Gardens and got horribly lost while on a hike. We ended up walking through ankle-deep swamp just to get to a road. Then I drove her to the airport; while not a serious change of scene, I did leave the city limits.
My sister Diana came to visit me for a few days before the rodeo. We ate steak and brick-oven pizza, toured the Cheyenne Botanic Gardens and got horribly lost while on a hike. We ended up walking through ankle-deep swamp just to get to a road. Then I drove her to the airport; while not a serious change of scene, I did leave the city limits.
I took my friend Jenny on a little date to Laramie, where we strolled around the UW campus and ate at Sweet Melissa's vegetarian restaurant before having foo-foo coffee drinks at Coal Creek downtown. Laramie is my favorite place in Wyoming, and I make it a point to take any visitors there because it's sort of the anti-Wyoming — open-minded, sophisticated, artsy, intellectual, maybe a wee bit pretentious in its backwoods way.
August 5, Cubs-Rockies at Coors Field, Denver
The thunderstorm in the background precluded seeing batting practice. |
August 31, Phish at Dick's Sporting Goods Park, Commerce City, Colo.
I already documented this little jaunt. I won't waste time. It ruled, though not as much as Jamie Cullum.
So with two days of vacation remaining to burn, I'm nearly at the dart-at-a-map stage, though I would dig someplace warm around Thanksgiving weekend. Money is no object because I can't place a price on my sanity. I have credit cards (and massive amounts of debt) for this very reason. Maybe I'll just lick a finger and put it to the wind on the morning of Black Friday. Who knows?
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