Mountain Thieving Honkeys

An entire day dedicated to the exploration of Colorado Springs’ oddities was an easy itinerary addition for two unemployed fellas like Brian and me. We gassed up the ATM and headed due south for Garden of the Gods, a pocket full of natural wonders. Before we approached the official entrance it was quite apparent as to the beauty in which we were to be exposed. Monoliths jetting from scrub brush were painted with perfect shades of my favorite color, rust. We cruised in and around the chunks of rock winding our way to the gem attraction of Balanced Rock.

In the 1920s the jumbo boulder was owned by a fella who fenced it off and charged to be photographed in front of it while donning sombreros and smiling from the saddles of donkeys. According to my own personal theory after the city of Colorado Springs purchased the land surrounding the Balanced Rock in 1932 for $25,000, they knocked it off of its perch during restoration. Knowing that the chunk of stone was a guaranteed money making tourist trap they lifted it back up and cemented it in place. Sure, you can laugh and call this a crazy conspiracy theory, but the “stone” on its underside is a completely different color than any of the surrounding sediment.

 After completion of this post I discovered an article from the 1960s that reported cement being used to stabilized the rock after and evening of college hijinks went awry.

I kept trying to snap a pic of the Balanced Behemoth but a slutty single gal looking for a good time kept leaning against the rock and sticking her ass out. She would shout to her elderly mother, “Did you get it that time? How’s it look?” After the third attempt she climbed off of the shelf to give her mom a tutorial on how to use her camera and tried posing again. I am quite certain that a dozen or so Japanese families have a photo in their album of this moron.

Brian and Sara Joy are seasoned rock climbers with a training course built in Allen House Denver’s one stall garage. I followed Brian the ring tailed lemur up onto a pile of granite only to have my breath taken by my being a fat man combined with the eye orgy panorama. From our tippy top observatory Brian completed a successful “Northern Pike”, a yoga-like pose that our Grandpa Jack used as test for determining if he was sober enough to drive home from the tavern.

After a perfect Northern Pike dismount Brian pointed to the tallest of the surrounding mountains as Pikes Peak. Before the area was settled by honkeys the glorious crag was named “Trava” meaning “Sun” by the indigenous Ute. After being snatched from the nomadic peoples it was named after the first cracker who spotted it, Zebulon Pike. It must have been difficult to spot amongst the godless savages’ teepees and casinos.

I wanted to drive the ATM to the summit of Pikes Peak but changed direction once I learned of the $12 per rider in the car admission fee. The cog railroad would have been a grander route if tickets would have been cheaper than $34. At this point I was second guessing my strict policy of paying for attractions. I stuck to my caulk guns and rerouted our day to the Rose Lady Shrine.

George W Sporting Chaps with a Blue Bear

Instant scenery change blew through the ATM’s windshield as I crossed the imaginary dividing line between Nebraska and Colorado; from bare ditches and Great Plains that weren’t so great to ditches filled with wildflowers and a backdrop painted with real live mountains. Serendipitous timing cast me as voyeur to a good fifteen minute peep show of hardcore love making between Sun and Rockies.

I snapped this by holding my trusty Canon 40D out my sunroof while cruising down I-80.

Scents rarely found outside a naturist’s apothecary accompanied Cousin Brian’s welcoming embrace. Lucile Vanderbilt and Sir Winston Woo were introduced to Brian, his fantastic lover (fantastic as in an amazing person, not fantastic as in great lay, you fucking pervert) turned wife Sara Joy and their newly rescued hounds Juke (owner of the home) and Hops (statuesque shiba inu).

Staying at Allen House Denver feels as if you are part of an experiment of better living by way of intellectual exchange, non-processed consumables and a greater sense of the world around you. Yeah, I know this is some heavy shit, but these cats are operating on a plane in which the rest of the world should envy. Each night Brian pokes around in his stash of loose leaf teas and steeps a blend that magically represents the day’s events. We would sit in the portico with hounds to breathe in the Denver sky and absorb one another’s eccentricities.

Christ this is getting deeper. Pull up, pull the fuck up. Whew, that was a close one.

My first night made its way onto the list of best B&Bs via dandy tray. This orange beauty contained a bottle of mineral water, a horny Kama Sutra tumbler, Allen House harvested champagne grapes, dates, almonds, ginger candies, sprigs of sage poking from a water filled mason jar and a wooden bowl of dried lavender flowers. Further exploration of Allen House Denver revealed more bowls of lavender strategically placed throughout for finger pinching and oil releasing. Brian set a bowl on my nightstand and instructed me to rub its contents between my fingers before climbing into bed. Needless to say, that shit knocked me out.

I am more of a missionary with the lights dimmed kind of guy.
A position that is missing from this glass.

Day two started with yard time for four hounds followed by a swell haircut from Brittany at the hip Aveda salon that Brian recommended. Post trim, Brian readied a pair of bicycles for a lunchtime rendezvous with Sara Joy. I can now say that I peddled my chub through the streets of Denver on a one speed hipster beach cruiser. After lunch we stopped at a hound shop and were talked into buying what was described to us as the new rage for dog gnawing, ostrich knuckles.

Sir Winston Woo

Lucile Vanderbilt

Being the fancy fella that he is, Brian had a reading to attend for a production that he is managing. Sara Joy and I took this downtime as a chance to fit in some of my two-lane Denver attractions. Our first stop was a Bunion sized milk can, 2620 16th St, which housed a grand ice cream and gelato shop. I recommend sticking with tried and true malt and not ordering what Sara Joy described as a “meh” gelato. Don’t fret, the line moves much faster than you would ever anticipate.

No more than a tossed honey pot away at the Colorado Convention Center (700 14th St) lives a forty foot tall blue bear. He is sniffing around for Linda from Atlanta that he met at a heating and air conditioning convention last fall. They got their hump on after tossing back one too many at the Holiday Inn’s leisure lounge.

Who would have thought that our last stop would put us at the base of a larger than life George W lookalike in chaps? This tall drink of water used to protect a filling station and is now all by his lonesome at a trailer park entrance on Federal Boulevard. I really wanted there to be a telephone pole high horse peaking from behind the gas station across the street, but the only thing peaking at us was a hooker in a phone booth.

We returned home to another amazing meal prepared by chef Brian; a salad assembled from couscous, roasted eggplant and zucchini, boiled eggs, autumn greens, tomatoes and balsamic vinegar followed by tea and fresh fruit topped cheesecake that I bought from a mean lesbian earlier in the day.

I am not sure if I ever truly got used to the lack of oxygen at life on what felt like a mile high rock in the sky. As the trip progressed more symptoms joined the list of what could only be explained as side effects attributed to the altitude:

     
     ·     Shortness of breath

     ·     Random erections

     ·     Minor headaches

     ·     Metallic tasting saliva

     ·     Affinity for hemp based fabrics

     ·     General malaise

     ·     Urge to punch pony and puppy faces

Next week I will cover my daytrip to the Rose Lady Shrine, Magic Town and explain why I no longer consume soy based products.

Allen House Chicago’s Celebración Día de los Muertos

Reporting on Operation Decompression has slowed to a dribble in the toilet bowl that is the Back Off Mustache Blog. To make up for disrupting your ability to live vicariously through me I present to you (trumpets and kazoos playing the Drifters’ “Up on the Roof”) Allen House Chicago’s Celebración Día de los Muertos.

Margot looks swell, I am looking older and older in each photo.

The National Museum of Mexican Art’s (at 1852 W 19th St, Chicago, IL) Day of the Dead exhibits have had the definite pleasure of entertaining the Red Head for the past ten years. I joined in on the fun around year two. Back in the old days you would be lucky if there were three other people wandering about the galleries. With each year came more visitors, tighter spaces and less air to breathe. This is the only place in the world in which we are happy for the increased crowds.

Margot is Allen House Chicago's Docent at seven different Chicago institutions.
Here she is sharing the glory that is NMMA with Tory, Leslie and Roy.

Being complete museum junkies we have a shortlist of our favorite spots in the city, the NMMA is second only to the Chicago History Museum (1601 N Clark St) so its growing popularity is bittersweet. There were times that we wondered if they were even making enough money through donations and gift shop sales and thought that they would soon start charging admission. Thankfully it is still the free part of our annual adventure through Chicago’s Pilsen Neighborhood (Little Mexico).

This fun sculpture was a real downer. It represented some heavy subject
like overbearing government surveillance or some bull shit.
Nonetheless Margot and Tory looked like they were having fun.

Our day usually begins with meeting friends at one of the traditional restaurants within walking distance of the NMMA. On recommendation from Dr. Crapple’s cop friend we tried Cuernavaca. To begin the meal we were served bowls of corn flour noodles simmering in tomato broth joined iced orxata (a traditional nonalcoholic drink made of ground almonds, sesame seeds, rice, barley and chufas), fishbowls filled with margaritas and the customary chips with salsa. Be sure to try the salsa that can only be described as spicy Ranch dressing. Burritos are in jumbo pairs like those fat twins riding little motorcycles in the Guinness Book of World Records.

Corn flour noodles simmering in tomato broth.
An upscale version of Campbell's chicken noodle and tomato soups mixed.

Two sexy gals and their fishbowls filled with ritas.

Tory and his twin Mexican logs of wonderment.

I ordered a bowl of the seafood stew that was filled with crab legs, a clam, beautifully fatty fish steak, loads of shrimp, a ridiculously big clam and at least a colander full of vegetables with a side of rice and tortillas.

We ended the dandy meal peppered by mediocre service with an amazing plate of fried dough generously tossed in sugar and cinnamon.

Our favorite part of the annual Allen House Field Trip is introducing the absolutely fucking amazing Día de los Muertos exhibit to newbies. We like to think that they quickly go from assuming the Day of the Dead is a weird and creepy celebration to seeing its beauty and relevance in keeping fresh the memories of loved ones who have passed. It should not be scary, rather it is time to share funny stories, happy memories and what you truly loved about the departed.

This year we assembled our eighth Allen House Día de los Muertos altar complete with chalkware saints that I have hoarded, ten years’ worth of the Red Head’s NMMA gift shop purchases, photos of the expired (I am totally running out of words for dead people), objects that they owned or made, sugar skulls, our grandparents’ favorite snacks and drinks all bathed in the glow of candles lighting the way.

Dale Phelps (1940-2009), Chris Harden (1954-2009), Viola Schwaman (1908-1998) 

Jack Allen (1923-2006), Jay Allen (1888-1959), Myrtle G Allen (1888-1958), 

Carol Billings (1933-2007), Leonard Thomas (1898-1976), Jerri Thomas, 

Hazel Thomas (1931-1952) and Jerry Billings (1929-1979).