Before Twenty-Twelve Slips Me a Roofy

Holy Peter, Paul and Mary - I had better fit one last entry into the Operation Decompression archives before twenty-twelve slips a roofy into my tonic water and wipes out my twenty-eleven memories.

Quick refresher: I took a soul searching adventure from Chicago to Des Moines to Omaha to Denver to Cheyenne and back - successfully found my soul, my sobriety, my mind, my marriage and my love for two-lane highways.

In my last post I left off with a visit to the Garden of the Gods in Colorado Springs, CO with my old pal Cousin Brian.

After feeding our eyeballs with the Garden of the Gods we were off to the Shrine of the Miracle Rose Lady. This dim bulb was perched atop an eroded gravel driveway at the corner of 36th Street and Pikes Peak Avenue.

The first thing you spot is a sign warning visitors of alarms and guard dogs.
There were no attack dogs or sounding alarms, just creepy overgrown shrubs
and broken lights that once illuminated a sculpture garden.

 

One of several stately marble sculptures from the booming days of the late 1960s
when the Shrine was a popular Catholic pilgrimage destination.

A folk art painting of Rose Averson dominates the ramshackle enclosure
that houses the shrine, bundles of artificial roses and piles of paper
containing correspondence to the miracle maker.



Faux marble painted onto rotting plywood sets the tone of this odd and neglected space.
In 1963 Rose posthumously brought life to six roses atop her casket. Her daughters built
the shrine to spread the word of said roses' ability to cure sickness. Oddly enough the shrine
only housed the filthiest of artificial roses.

All marble statues aside, this primitive sad sack was the best part of the shrine. Nothing better than a weathered anthropomorphic mass fashioned from cheap cement and exposed rebar.

After sliding down the loose gravel driveway that lead to redemption we hopped into the ATM and set course for Magic Town. Our destination was across the street from Colorado Springs' Town Square in a shop that artist Michael Garman has filled with a cartoonish universe of one-sixth scale vignettes.

The shop itself housed resin reproductions of Garman's little people (not midgets) for exorbitant prices. Attention to detail was the best part of the displays, perfect scaled down radios, filthy street trash, a dirty bird bartender grabbing his crotch, high riding Daisy Dukes on a 1950's sexpot.

After snapping photos of the "gift shop" displays for Magic Town we went to enter the exhibit itself and were greeted by a sign demanding a $7 fee for admittance and complimentary popcorn. I reminded Cousin Brian of my rule of not paying to see any of the attractions on Operation Decompression. As we exited the shop to grab some coffee at the delightful java spot next door I spotted a lard ass on a  couch, positioned in front of a continuous loop of a documentary featuring Garman, with a jumbo sack of popcorn. That fat bastard was eating $7 worth of popcorn to make his tour worth it.

I made an effort to strike small talk with the purveyors of coffee houses, diners and shops along my routes. More often than not it ended in amazing tips on local oddities, but this stop at Jive Cafe produced a doozy of a lead. I am quite certain that the barista took a shining to me after telling of my Operation Decompression adventures and disbelief in discovering a Magic Town admission fee. She said, "I can take you in back." My mind went right to its dirty place. I asked, "Take me in back?" She motioned to a hallway leading to the bathrooms, "The back entrance to the museum is just pass the bathrooms."


The hallway was sure as shit a Bat-Cave entrance to Magic Town.

We slid around the red rope and into the world of magic town. It was really wonderful, but not $7 wonderful. Again the attention to detail was more than one could hope for in one-sixth scale replicas of life in a world of yesteryear. 

Amazing coffee drinks were had on our way back through along with a game of over sized checkers. Upon further research of the rules of checkers it is quite evident that Cousin Brian cheated his way through several king me's and wins.

If my lazy Jimmy Dean sausage fingers can make their way to a keyboard I plan on completing my Colorado leg this week. Until then, may your new year be filled with fond memories, adventures and naked one-sixth scale ladies.

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).

Sod House Architects Hunting Rusted Indians

I woke early enough to rouse a herd of tree rats from their feeding post in the Compound’s courtyard, but not early enough to catch Rooster and Hen before they headed off to the Isles of Friendly Smiles. After loading Lucile Vanderbilt, Sir Winston Woo and enough luggage to satisfy the dandiest of African safari dandies into the ATM, I set course for Allen House Denver in Colorado.

As a teenager my pal Mike Moran from Brooklyn helped his dad train for the New York City Marathon by roller skating next to him as he ran. Mike still roller skates (NOT rollerblades) every now and again on his lunch breaks through downtown Chicago and along the lakefront. His love of the skates prompted a stop at the National Museum of Roller Skating, 4730 South Street in Lincoln, Nebraska. These people are serious about their shit and display skates dating back to the early 19th century as well as two centuries worth of documentation, photographs and artwork.

Somewhere in 1985 is a towheaded brown, eyed lad who loves red Kool-Aid more than any other drink in the world. Even more than glass bottles of Mountain Dew with fruit chunks in the bottom. He is lucky enough to have just finished off the last slosh and yells from his usual perch of yellow Formica countertop, “MOM! Kool-Aid’s gone,” with the hopes of a thumbs up to make the next batch. He knows damn well that the packet calls for one cup of sugar, but loses control as soon as he unseals the canister of crystals – scooping two heaping cups into the pitcher. An orange Tupperware pitcher with a red buttoned lid that has seen nothing more than colored sugar water in five years. He loves dumping the packet of mix real quick like with hopes of inhaling the delicious clouds of flavor as they roll from the pitcher. Using a wooden spoon as pestle to the Tupperware mortar, he is melds crystal and powder into an alchemist’s wet dream. Once he is certain that the two have become one he adds water from the tap that has been running during this entire process, ensuring that it is as cold as possible. He can still hear the granules of sugar being drug along the bottom of the pitcher no matter how much he stirs.

My love affair with Kool-Aid was supposed to have been rewarded at 518 1st Street (Hastings) in the form of a spectacular historical marker dedicated to the birth of a DIY beverage. Sadly the only items worth noting at this sacred site were a couple of plaques on a nondescript building. A local informed me that an exhibit honoring Nebraska’s official drink was housed in the Hastings Museum at 1330 N Burlington Street. Being an underwhelmed fatty I jumped at the chance to actually learn its history and buy a tote bag full of merchandise. The one bit of information that the local failed to mention was that on Mondays the museum was closed, making this 90 minute detour all the more special.

To make up for lost time I bypassed the two-lane route and set course for Interstate-80. Now one would think that the spiky wreck of the Odyssey was already four too many monstrosities straddling the great American thoroughfare that is I-80, but they would be wrong. The $60 million longhouse style sweat lodge turned hovering eyesore is 200 miles and a crappy rivet’s width west of the Spiky Towers. A bureaucrat jealous of St. Louis’ Gateway to the West decided that Nebraska could also house a gateway of sorts. The Great Platte River Road Archway is nothing more than a double-wide trailer on steroids.

In need of some gas I stopped pulled off a few clicks down the four-lane on EXIT 211. Behind the gas station rests a life size buffalo being hunted down by a life size Indian riding a life size horse, all of which are constructed from life size barbed wire. Rust being my favorite color and all, I had to get closer to this lockjaw inducing vignette. I leashed the hounds and walked around the gas station to discover the world’s largest plow marking the entrance to a red barn labeled Sod House Museum.

As if everyone received the memo except for me, the museum was closed. To deter lookie loos from approaching a real life sod house and barbed sculptures the curators erected a split rail fence from one end to the other. Being a cunning chub I spotted a break in the fence hidden in the tree line. The hounds and I traversed the rugged terrain and found ourselves face to face with a swell prairie sod house surrounded by natural grasses and vegetation.

We circled each sculpture and the structure several times to soak in the history and craftsmanship. Once I was satisfied with the photos taken we headed for the ATM. Just as I opened the rear passenger door for Lou and Win I spotted the hundreds of sandburs imbedded in their silky hair. Thirty minutes and a couple hundred expletives later we were headed into Gothenburg to carve our names into an original Pony Express outpost. Keep your fingers crossed that ponies of the Shetland variety were involved.

Coffee with a Lot Lizard and a Sapp Brother

Jumbo art silos caught me off guard on my return from Boys Town. Vinyl condoms printed with digital farmland images clung to the side of the shaft exposed to freeway bound commuters. The other side of these abandoned grain bins have been transformed into an extreme climbing wall for prairie dwellers. A fun fact to those of you traveling in my footsteps, recreating your own version of this adventure: don't slow down to 35mph on this particular stretch of highway - other drivers will honk at you, ride your ass and make ghastly hand motions. I'm still trying to figure out what it means when someone grabs their right wrist with their left hand, sliding it up and down their forearm while hanging out their window screaming, "I ruin your hole!"

After drowning in Olive Garden slop courtesy Leo, I rolled my chub into the ATM and headed out for one last photo-op before my time at the Compound came to an end. Being that I love me some coffee, the Sapp Brothers' water tower turned percolating coffee pot became my final destination. You can smell the 24 million cups of piping hot java from I-80 Exit 440. As sun hits horizon the percolator flashes red letting all passing semitrailers and motorists know that they are approaching a world of wonderment.

The Sapp brothers operate hundreds of truck stops throughout the Midwest. It just so happens that truck stops are the natural habitat for the elusive Lot Lizard. What is a Lot Lizard you may ask? Well friends, a Lot Lizard is a special type of woman who trolls parking lots looking to make a buck. A nocturnal bunch that communicate with truckers via window knocks; 1 tap for handies, 2 for a mouthful and 3 for anything goes. After an encounter with a Lizard one usually ends up at either a health clinic or 24 hour cafe, those below the Sapp Brothers' coffee pot don't have far to walk.

You have had some lovin' and some grub but there seems to be something missing that you can't quite put you finger on - then it hits you, the good Lord Jesus Christ. Sapp Brothers have you covered there too. No more than a Lot Lizard's panty toss from the cab of your truck is the Mobile Chapel.

To bid me a fond farewell Rooster and Hen pulled together a swell sendoff parade that started in their wing of the Compound and ended in my guest room. You should have seen old Hen wrapped in chicken wire stuffed with red, white and blue napkins. She looked like a glorious Ms. 4th of July with sparklers in each hand. Rooster's head was topped off with one of those fuzzy tubes found on members of the Irish Guard while humming Steam's Na Na Hey Hey Kiss Him Goodbye. The next morning I packed the ATM once more for what I thought would be the longest leg of the race, but ended up being second - right behind my 14 hour ass burner from Wyoming to Leo's place in Griswold, IA.