A Small-Minded Town

Though small towns cannot offer a variety of cultures, cuisine or resident diversity, they certainly have their charms. Tiny burgs offer a times-past scenario where everyone knows everybody, the fire department is all-volunteer and people exchange baked goods. Instead one of those folksy villages, I recently stumbled across a small town full of small minds and have been regretting it ever since, as I will in months to come.

It was mid-January of this year, and I was driving home late from a volunteer shift at the National Western Stock Show. I was pondering my recent job loss and the financial challenges that came with it. As I exited I-70 onto Sheridan, heading south, I passed two cop cars on two side streets, both clearly spring-loaded and ready for action. Though I was alone, I said aloud: "That looks like a trap." 

Next thing I know, red cherry lights moved in right behind me, siren blaring. I tried to move over into the curb lane but two cars were already there. I waited for them to drive ahead and moved over; the cop car sped ahead.

Seconds later, another cop car appeared in the same fashion and practically kissed my bumper. So I pulled over as far as I could, into a King Soopers parking light. He followed me. The entire scenario happened in less than one minute.

I put my hands on the steering wheel, as a standard courtesy to the officer, so he knows I'm no trouble despite my black cowboy hat. Nevertheless, he stood away from the vehicle, shined a flashlight in my face and said firmly, "License and registration, ma'am."

As I collected the documents, I said, "I'm totally confused." 


"Do you know why I pulled you over?" 

"I have no idea. I don't think I was speeding and there were no stop signs." 

Now, there are a ton of good-hearted police officers in the world and, in fact, I have two Wonderful Cop stories I like to tell over and over, but I could already sense that Officer Dickhead would not be making it into my stash of feelgood lore. Not sure if it was the voice volume, patronizing behavior or the bully tactics - perhaps all three.

As instructed, I handed him the license, registration and insurance card. "Ma'am, this insurance ID card is expired." (It's true, by two whole weeks.)

"Oh, well the policy has not. I'm sure they've sent me the new card last month and I haven't put it in here yet. But you can check, the policy is in good standing." 


"MA'AM, ARE YOU ARGUING WITH ME?" 


"Wha...? No!"

"BECAUSE THIS CARD IS EXPIRED WHICH MAKES IT ILLEGAL. DO YOU UNDERSTAND? IT'S THE LAW." 

(Officer Dickhead was now addressing me in all caps.)

He then explained that although he could write me up for the expired ID card, he was merely going to write me up for obstructing an emergency vehicle. Apparently, I had not moved out of the way fast enough. When I explained the blocked lane scenario, he went back to his vehicle, called the driver of the first cop car to confirm his suspicions. OD then returned to inform me that I was, in fact, guilty. He wrote up the ticket (I was now crying, thinking about the cost) and I could show up on the designated date, dispute the ticket and take it to trial.

"Trial?! Are you kidding me? What is going on????" 

OD handed me the ticket and left. I sat in my car, stunned, finally grasping full meaning of the term, "hoodwinked."

At home, I noted that the ticket came from the city of Mountain View. Huh? I thought I was in Denver - wasn't I three blocks from home? A few weeks later, the city of Mountain View sent me a letter saying I could plead guilty, pay the fine now ($140) and accept a 2-point penalty instead of 4. Instead, I scribbled the court date in my calendar, knowing I had done nothing wrong. For the love of God, I am a child of Los Angeles and a former professional driver, I understand the road.

Weeks later, I arrive at the town's tiny courthouse. There are three cops standing outside, including the jackass who ticketed me. They check my letter to make sure I am qualified to enter. Clearly, it is Court Day in Mountain View because when we enter the room, it is filled with people equally perplexed as I.

I approached the desk and speak with the court clerk, a nice woman named Molly. I express my desire to tell my side of the story, to contest the charges and in a sing-song voice she will use all day long, Molly gently advises against it.


"Frankly speaking, you would not speak to the judge today but you would register your contest. Then, if wanted to get representation and take this to trial ... "

There's that word again! Holy christ. How did I become a criminal so quickly? I felt like I was trapped in a Tom T. Hall song.

"Or you could take the plea and pay your fine today." Here she used a tone of voice that clearly said, 'Trust me, honey, this is the better deal. We do this all day long.'


I wasn't ready to give up just yet. "But you don't understand, I disagree vehemently with the ticket. I'd like to speak to a judge and contest this."


"Frankly dear, I suggest you take some time to think about it."

I looked around and saw Mountain View's entire police force - all six of 'em - crammed into the hallway. They were glaring in several directions and they all exuded this horrible sense of unearned entitlement. 

A trap, indeed.

With a sick feeling of surrender, I eventually wrote those motherfuckers a check with commentary in the notes section: "Donation." When handing my savings money over to the clerk lady, I noticed she had a map behind her. I asked her, "Just how big is Mountain View anyway? Is it here on your map?" 

She cheerily pointed it out to me, all 12 square blocks of it. (That's .1 square miles.) Proudly she relayed the town's history. "We were incorporated in 1904 and we still have all the old books. They're quite interesting to read. There was one complaint in the early 1900s about a cow trespassing on their neighbors lawn!" She thought it was the quaintest fucking thing ever. I wanted to smack her.



"And you've never had the urge to incorporate into Denver or Wheatridge?"


"No, we have considered it but we prefer to have our own town." 

So, I left that double-wide courthouse with some begrudging respect for the little town. I mean, who doesn't love a David & Goliath story? The tale of a small but mighty entity resisting big, modern-day forces that are robbing us of our Amirrrrican values?

Those seeds of warm fuzzy lasted until I went home and Googled the shit out of Mountain View. I then discovered that the sweet little town has quite a dubious reputation, and none of it very sweet at all. Far as I can tell, the town keeps its police force employed not to serve and protect, but to grift. Mountain View isn't a town, it's a hungry aggressive spider, snagging flies as they pass by. (Some might argue it's actually a frog, with a very long tongue.)

"With its land area of only 12 square blocks, Mountain View has a tiny retail sales tax base from which to raise revenue and relies primarily on traffic tickets to pay its police and municipal employees."

--Wikipedia entry on Mountain View, Colorado

Evidently, the town called an emergency meeting on March 2, 2009 to get input on its tenuous future. All 529 residents received a letter explaining that Mountain View faced a growing debt crisis, with a budget shortfall between $6-8,000 dollars a month. Evidently, the town's six police officers had been paid late "three times in the last two months, 40 percent of the town's businesses have closed" and that it petitioned the Attorney General of Colorado to use DEA seizure money to pay police department salaries. That request was declined in May 2009.

"Even though Mountain View is small, its police department is aggressive in traffic enforcement. In the last 2½ years, they've issued approximately 7,200 tickets, according to assistant town attorney Hilary Mogue Graham."
--Colorado Bureau of Investigations

Further digging uncovered several court cases against the city of Mountain View for issuing excessive and questionable traffic citations, both in and out of their jurisdiction. Still, in a beautifully scented irony, a new industry might just end up saving the town:

"Recent monetary problems in Mountain View led some residents to consider disbanding the town (incorporated in 1904 I believe) and joining Wheat Ridge or ….GASP…Denver. However, the new medical marijuana industry has changed things for tiny Mountain View. A new MMJ clinic, called the Berekely MMJ Shop, or something like that, is now located in this municipality. Now Mountain View has more than an Arby’s and its police force to add to the city’s coffers."
--Shaun Snow, DenverUrbanism

Here we have a tiny town so desperate to retain its futile independence in the middle of a metropolitan area that it survives by issuing questionable traffic tickets, selling bad food and medical marijuana. Actually, I'm fine with the Arby's and the dispensary but those bullies in black don't just police on passing motorists, they prey.

I wouldn't mind so much if the fine was a one shot deal but now I'm faced with a two-point loss on my driving record and a certain increase in my monthly car insurance bill. The town of Mountain View gives nothing to world - it only takes. Is this something to be proud of?

These days, when I drive on Sheridan, I observe the traffic around me cruise to a stiff, united speed of exactly 35 mph during the two-blocks it passes through the police state of Mountain View - between 41st and 43rd. Once traffic gets beyond this area, it resumes its normal differentiated flow. Creepy.

When I have relayed this story to my friends and neighbors, they are shocked and wary. I have yet to find one native Coloradoan who has heard of this lame-ass municipality. 

So, congratulations to the wee minds of Mountain View, Colorado with your civic income based on entrapment, bullying and fear. I hope tourism isn't part of the plan to save your sorry asses. Here's hoping you dissolve quickly.

Garden of the Gods

After living so close to Garden of the Gods for four years and yet, never actually seeing it, I finally got to investigate for myself. Oh, and it's fuss-worthy, I can assure you. GoG is 3,300 acres of jaw-dropping beauty located within the city of Colorado Springs. The park offers tons of hiking trails, bike lanes and an endless amount of immense orange boulders, ideal for scrambling over - all totally free.

Reid had made arrangements to stay at Glen Eyrie, a genuine American castle (if there is such a thing) built in 1871 by General William Jackson Palmer, the founder of Colorado Springs. Conveniently located next door to GoG, Glen Eyrie is Tudor gem, boasting 67 rooms and 24 fireplaces. It is also - we couldn't help but notice - THE perfect place for a haunting.

Our redonkulously huge room, The Castle Suite.

Now on the National Register of Historic Places, Palmer had Glen Eyrie built to comfort his wife, Mary, who'd been homesick for her native England. Glen Eyrie was purchased in 1953 by The Navigators, a Christian ministry that regularly hosts conferences and seminars on-site. (Nice of them to let heathens stay there too.) The grounds were lush and filled with giggling children and super mellow Bighorn Sheep. We found a herd of 16, with their famous Joan River 'dos, just chillaxing. Incredible.

Glen Eyrie

We spent the weekend 'ooohing' and 'aaaahing' over the castle's majestic grounds and the stunning GoG next door. The whole area is like one big geologic porn palace. Honestly. Not sure why but the landscape consistently reminded me of food. It had nothing to do with cravings or hunger, it just seemed that food was always the best description.

Exhibit A: "Petrified Bacon"

I also had another one: "Spilled Root Beer Float." Once Reid understood where I was coming from, he offered up his own example: "Chocolate cake with melted strawberry ice cream."

Bighorn Sheep at Glen Eyrie: Are they cool or what?

Other than oogling the scenery and shopping/eating/drinking in Old Colorado City, we noted two things. First, there was something very Twilight Zone going on all weekend with regards to signs and directions. It felt similar to being trapped in the Gaelic section of Ireland (true story) with everybody advising you to take mysterious Trail 14, although never meeting anyone who had actually done so themselves. The situation was repeated on car and on foot ("Um, what are we dong in Manitou Springs?") and we began to wonder what mystical GPS-related hex had been put upon us.

Pottery store in Old Colorado City

Second, I had perceived Colorado Springs as a bastion of white conservatism and unyielding Christianity. It is, after all, the home base for the evangelical Christian group, Focus on the Family, whose website currently offers helpful marriage survival tips: "When a spouse struggles with homosexuality." Good Lord, do they think it's like having a migraine or something?

Hiding you from what?

 Colorado Springs is also home to the U.S. Air Force Academy. I only saw it from miles away but that sucker is ha-yuuuuuuuge. We also spotted some serious Sky Cops during our visit, which is just fine by me.

ANYHOO, the fact that we were lodging at a Christian compound only confirmed my perception. But then, something else happened too. First I noticed that in addition to those attending the conference at Glen Eyrie, there were other regular guests, two of them bi-racial couples. Not a big deal but still surprised to see it. (I have to wonder if Reid & I had been a gay couple, how that would have gone down.)

Bighorn Sheep were all over the grounds at Glen Eyrie.

Then, on Saturday evening, Reid and I ventured 'downtown' to the strip of bars and restaurants along Tejon Street. There, we saw all kinds of people, all races - many of them dressed up and partying down.

We made the smartest decision ever by setting up camp at Jack Quinn's Irish Pub, which provided an ideal outdoor spot for people watching, a super friendly waitress who sounded exactly like Paula Poundstone, yummy fish & chips, and one of the best bands I've heard in a long time - Big Paddy. It's just two guys that play there every Saturday night but the place was rollicking. There were even big, hairy dudes in kilts doing traditional Scottish jigs. FUN. Of course, the Jameson on the rocks helped too.

Note the hairy meatballs in the pock marks - hidden by God, of course.

Then there was the couple who made me rethink everything I'd heard about Colorado Springs. One half of the couple was a tall, tough looking cowgirl in full Western get-up. The cowboy hat, vest, jeans and boots didn't appear to be a costume, it looked like what she wore every day. Her girlfriend was much shorter and rounder, with deep black skin, bright pink hair and some crazy outfit straight from a New York runway. Anyone looking at them could see they were in love and honestly? Nobody (except me) looked at them twice. This was not the Colorado Springs I was expecting.

Guess there's room for Goddesses there too. Who knew?

See more photos from my trip here.

Frozen Dead Guy Days

For three years now, I've been dying (!) to check out that bizarre local festival known as "Frozen Dead Guy Days" in nearby Nederland (Pop: 1,337). At last, I got my chance last weekend when I grabbed Laura and we made the journey, 100 miles round-trip.

Here's the back-story on the festival:

In 1989, Norwegian citizen, Trygve Bauge, brought the corpse of his recently deceased grandfather, Bredo Morstøl, to the United States; nobody seems to know why. The body was preserved on dry ice for the trip, and stored in liquid nitrogen at the Trans Time cryonics facility from 1990 to 1993. Again, no one is on record as saying, "Trygve, WTF?"

In 1993, Bredo was returned to dry ice and transported to the town of Nederland, where Trygve and his mother, Aud, planned to create a cryonics facility of their own. When Trygve was deported from the United States for overstaying his visa, Aud continued keeping her father's body cryogenically frozen in a shack behind her unfinished house.

Aud was eventually evicted for living in a house with no electricity or plumbing, a violation of local ordinances. She told a local reporter about her father's frozen body and her fears of him thawing out. The reporter went to Nederland's city hall to let them know and the story exploded.

Nederland then added a broad new provision to Section 7-34 of its Municipal Code, "Keeping of bodies" outlawing the keeping of "the whole or any part of the person, body or carcass of a human being or animal or other biological species which is not alive upon any property."

However, because of the extensive publicity, they made an exception for Bredo, a "grandfather" clause. (Get it?) Trygve secured the services of Delta Tech, a local environmental company, to keep the cryonic facility running. Bo Shaffer, CEO of Delta Tech, is known as 'The Iceman' for transporting the dry ice necessary for cryonic preservation to the IC Institute for over 12 years. About 10 years ago, the local Tuff Shed supplier built a new shed to keep Grandpa in.

In honor of the town's most famous and beloved resident, Nederland began celebrating "Frozen Dead Guy Days" in 2002. Festivities include Coffin races, a slow-motion parade and "Frozen Dead Guy" lookalike contests. The documentary on Grandpa Bredo called "Grandpa's in the Tuff Shed" as well as the updated version, "Grandpa's Still in the Tuff Shed" is shown.

Other events include the "Polar Plunge" - for those brave enough to go swimming in the ice - and a dance, called "Grandpa's Blue Ball." The festival, which is also a celebration of winter's wind-down also includes pancake breakfasts, a artists showcase, snowshoe races and snow sculpture contests.

Glacier Ice Cream, headquartered in the nearby city of Boulder, mixes a special festival flavor called Frozen Dead Guy. It includes fruit-flavored blue ice cream mixed with crushed Oreo cookies and sour gummy worms. Laura and I were content to drink beer and take it all the goofy weirdness while trying to stay warm.

All in all, a very typical Colorado way to spend a day.

For more of my photos from the FDGD, go here.

The Ride

Last Saturday, I took Beanie up on a challenge - a day-long horse ride up a mountain. "It's a test," she said.

So, there I was bright and early, ready to experience loading a horse onto a trailer. Here's a tip: Watch those hooves! We loaded three horses in all - her Bob (1/2 Paint and 1/2 Clydesdale), Ben (Arab) and a white horse I've been riding lately, also named Bob (Arab). Just to make it confusing, we brought along a human named Bob - he's Ben's owner.

We hightailed up the road to Evergreen and tacked up our steeds. Sadly, my initial mount was something straight out of 'America's Funniest Home Videos' - I shiteth you not. My considerable ass did not land in the saddle as I intended but just behind it, on the horse's rump. God, how embarrassing. The good news is, I didn't panic and neither did my horse. It wasn't until Beanie yelled, in full exasperation, "For God's sake, slide off!" that the solution occurred to me. Heh. Oh yeah.

Once we all got our butts properly secured, we were off! And I mean m'fucking OFF! Normally, when I ride Bob, he is terribly slow so I was not prepared for his hidden turbo engine. They were all so excited to be out that evidently, a full-speed celebratory canter was in order.

I lost control several times and even yelled out "NO!", which is not becoming of a horsewoman. Still, I managed to stay on - a miracle. Once again, a completely terrifying and totally exhilarating experience.

As we headed up the mountain, the trail got steeper and the rocks got bigger. In trying to maneuver around two sharp boulders, Beanie/Bob had a little trouble but his sheer girth got them through it. The Bob/Ben duo did not fare as well. I watched in horror as Ben's hooves slipped and slid down the boulder and both my friends struggled. We all held our breath but thankfully, they did not slide down the mountainside. Both rider and horse were pretty scraped up but survived.

This is where being the caboose helps. White Bob and I agreed, we would take the long way around. From there, it was easy. I had a blast just climbing up and up and then, galloping through the trees. I have to admit, I love that bikers and hikers have to get out of our way when we walk through - kinda makes you feel like you're in a parade. Ever since Burning Man, I can't seem to get enough of parades.

Several hours later, we made it down the mountain and let the horses graze. I've met some hardcore vegetarians in my day but nothing that matches the passion that horses have for grass. In fact, a horse is capable of eating himself to death without much thought. (Dogs are the same way about running.)

What's really weird is that after you hang around horses enough, you start to see things as they do. Large expansive fields of green grass become more than picturesque - they look juicy and tender, like a steak. "Mmmmmm, that looks good," you think to yourself.

Since they were eating, we did too. We broke open the hard cider to wash down grilled chicken, pasta salad, chips, fruit salad and best of all, angel food cake with some intensely red strawberry/banana/blueberry compote. YUM. After the ride, it tasted even better, as you might imagine.

Until the rear end of White Bob, mere feet from me and my fork, dispensed with another load of manure. "Nice timing, bud," I chastised him. He just kept nibbling from his hay net and blinked his big brown eyes at me. Sigh. How could I possibly be mad? One cannot argue with extreme equine cuteness. So, I took another bite of cake, a swig of cider and relaxed in the sun.

It was another perfect summer day in Colorado.

Smile Train Benefit Show TONIGHT!

As previously mentioned, my beloved improv troupe, The Rodents of Unusual Size, have graciously agreed to host two benefit shows for my favorite cause, Smile Train, an organization that trains local doctors in Third World countries to fix the cleft palates of children. (These before/after photos are of Shivarudrayya (Shiva), who was born with a severe cleft lip and palate in a very poor, rural area of Northern India.)

We've been planning and plotting for several months now and hopefully, some folks will show up. (Tickets are $10 - which includes a drink - and show starts at 7:30 p.m. @ The Avenue Theater, 417 E. 17th Avenue in downtown Denver.)

Also, I sent a plea to my out-of-state folks and they've already donated nearly $300 through our Smile Train Donation Page! If you feel the urge to bring more smiles into this world, we are happy to be your enablers.

Admittedly, I'm a tad nervous. I've never done something like this before. What if no one shows? What if we're not funny? (Ha! Fat chance.) I got butterflies in my gut parts that feel like DC-10s but once we get up and running, I'm sure I'll breathe easier. Either way, it feels great to take what leftover face angst I still have (from numerous surgeries as a child) and channel it into something positive.

Hope to see some of ya'll tonight!

Never Say Never

Evidently, the theme of my Colorado experience is to tackle things I assumed I'd never do. Learning the guitar, for example. Singing in public - good Christ, I still can't believe that one. The latest is jogging.

I've often said, "I hate running. If I'm running, look behind me. There is probably a guy with a knife." I'm just too slow and clumsy plus I've got this giant rack that bounces around. I assume it's not pretty.

Well, somehow, I've got it in my brain that Denver's Washington Park jogging path is the only path for me. I even got up early this morning and ran before breakfast. Bizarre behavior for a woman famous for her sleeping-in capabilities.

I blame the State of Colorado. The culture and the climate pretty much insist that her residents be in tip-top shape so you can climb (insert mountain peak here) before noon!

Seriously, I keep waiting for Governor Ritter to knock on my door with a pair of calipers and an assistant bearing a clipboard: "Hmmm, it appears that your Body Fat Index is beyond the allotted amount for all bad ass Coloradans. I'm afraid you'll have to relocate to Kansas by Friday." Then, he'd move on to the next apartment while his super rugged helper would ask me to sign something while giving me a mixed look of pity and contempt.

I've even recruited a cheerleader for my new habit. Sharon is such an old friend that she's like family. She lives in Southern California and is a bad ass in about eight million different ways and one of them is running. Via email, she is giving me tips and says I am inspiring her too. For what, I'm not sure, but all that matters is that we're off and running.