Mountain Girl

So here I am in Denver. My mom schedules many appointments for me when I come home to visit. So far I have been to the chiropractor, the naturopath, and the salon. My hair is more Miranda July than ever, my friends. Mom and I have also been to five shoe stores looking for some sensible/comfortable/cute Dansko shoes for me for Fall. I know exactly what I’m looking for, and they have them in Portland, but the dumb Denver stores are dumb and don’t carry them. Mom will buy them for me if we find them here, but in Portland I’m on my own. Weird unwritten mom-shopping rules. Oh well.
Last night I went to the Fortress of Awesome, aka my friend Mitch’s house in the Five Points neighborhood. A lot of people had gathered there to settle an argument between Sam and Perry. Sam thinks that Earl Grey tea smells like Froot Loops, and that Earl Grey milkshakes (made at a local coffee house) taste like Froot Loops. So we all acted as judges as Sam whipped up Earl Grey shakes and Froot Loops shakes. I didn’t get to taste the Earl Grey shake, but boy, the Froot Loops one sure tasted like Froot Loops.
This is the sort of activity my Denver friends invent on a Monday night. I love them. They are so creative and energetic, to the point that sometimes when I hang out with them I feel really old. They have prank wars and play Thundersneak, throw elaborately themed parties and do scavenger hunts. I uh, go out to breakfast sometimes. And sometimes I go to shows. Ooh! Sometimes I sing karaoke… sigh. Pretty boring in comparison.
I always feel slightly guilt when I’m in Denver, like I’ve never been completely forgiven for moving away, and no matter how long my visit lasts, it’s always too short. I love Denver, and I love my friends here, but I just don’t want to live here again. The urban sprawl is too depressing for me, the number of SUV’s per capita too high, the constant urban renewal too taxing. Year to year my hometown gets glossier, but it’s ultimate character chips away. Denver is a cowboy town come stipmall and it makes me sad. Of course there is an argument that Denver is experiencing a youth/underground renaissance, and I definitely see traces of it when I come back. There are some cool new bars (and to be fair my favorite old ones are still going strong.) The art/music scene is pretty vibrant, thanks in a large part to my friend Sam’s awesome theater company, Buntport. Buntport is a real hub of creative activity. If I ever did move back here the first thing I would do would be audition for one of their amazing, innovative plays. (And I’m not just saying all this because I found out last night that Sam reads my blog, I promise. Hi Sam!)
Tonight I’m going to a Colorado Rockies game (if it stops raining). I want to get up to my old camp for a visit, go to the Natural History Museum, see my dad one more time, and catch up with a dozen or so friends. I can’t believe I only have three days left!
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Before I sign off, I want to say a few words about Silver Plume, the town where my dad lives. Population: 200. Elevation: 9000 ft. I spent the weekend there, and got caught up on all the local news:
*A black bear has been cruising the town at night, knocking over fences and eating trash.
*A landslide covered the highway, making travel to and from Denver nearly impossible (as my Dad and I found out the hard way on Sunday.)
*Troy and Cass just had their 5th wedding anniversary.
*The Registers are at the lake.
*Some of the aspen leaves are already turning yellow up by Pavillion Point.
*The Silver Plume Irish Fest (organized my my dad) was a complete success last month.
*Grumpy’s Roadhouse, despite the recent death of its namesake, will remain open until the Register’s get tired of running it.
*Donnie, my dad’s drunk neighbor, has been shooting off his shotgun a little too often lately. (Here is a good Donnie/shotgun story: Last week a guy Donnie works with brought him a dozen homemade sweetrolls. This guy is recently on the wagon. Donnie told my dad, “that sober asshole and his fucking sticky buns! They tasted like shit.” Later my dad heard some shotgun blasts. He went out and found another friend of Donnie’s dropping the buns one by one off of the bridge. Donnie, who was positioned a little ways down the creek was blasting them as they floated by.)