Brenda, Hooper & I all piled into the car today for a drive to Denver, to attend a birthday party for some friends of ours. Partners Greg & Ted share birthdays a day apart. Greg aged a year today, and Ted did the same yesterday. And so a joint birthday picnic/barbecue in the park near the Denver Zoo was in order, with dogs.

Greg & Ted have a pair of winning canines; Guinness the Pug, and Lucy the Mutt (I used to threaten to kidnap Lucy and take her home with us from their parties ever since we moved to Boulder; she is adorable and built just like Hooper). Many of their other friends have dogs as well, and so dogs were invited to the birthday soirée.

And so it was that we loaded a backpack with Nalgenes of water and a Tupperware container to act as a bowl, poop bags, dog treats and a couple of tennis balls, and rolled out towards Denver. We also had a secret weapon. We brought the basketball.

You see, Hooper is quite the ‘baller. He has an uncanny ability to dribble a ball around a field using his muzzle and his front paws, and this is a skill that he demonstrated the very first time I produced a bright yellow utility ball on one of our walks back in November of 2007. Hooper took to that ball like Pele, coaxing it around the field under the moonlight for over an hour, managing to steer the ball back to my feet every once in a while so I could try to kick the ball past him (which rarely happened). But suddenly, a pop and a hiss was heard, and the fun ended.

A regulation basketball is 30 inches in circumference, and comprised of a tough leather cover that can resist a dog’s attempts to bite through it, and we have one of these objects. And today, we felt that if Hooper was to be allowed to roam free on the grass of the Denver Zoo Park—with heavily trafficked roads bordering us—we wanted a reliable distraction to keep him close, hence the basketball.

When we arrived, we rolled the ball out onto the grass and Hooper immediately began working the field with the ball. People immediately inquired about how we “taught” him to do this. Shrugged shoulders and allusions to that cold November night followed. Hooper spent the next several hours rolling that basketball around, beckoning me and anyone else who was interested to kick the ball around, and to engage him in some goalie practice.

Brenda had mentioned to me that a couple of the small children present at the party were terrified of dogs, and that we needed to make sure Hooper steered clear of them, and I was paying strict attention to his movements around the guests. But at one point, a couple of kids showed up with Hooper’s basketball, and they were fighting amongst themselves over who should be the one who kicks the ball toward Hooper. I watched with great interest and joy, as Hooper adapted to the kids’ erratic movements and gestures.

This one kid was literally pushing his friend out of the way, directing the action. He was moving the ball around and gleefully watching Hooper’s attentiveness and reactions to his direction. I had a great time watching Hooper play with the kids, but when I heard on the ride home that the one kid was one of those “afraid of dogs” kids, I just beamed.

Hooper is turning into quite a gentleman, and an ambassador. A saint.

Eighteen years ago last night, Brenda & I kissed for the first time. For nine years and change after that, July 28 was our “anniversary”, until I finally got my shit together and married Brenda. Nowadays, May 7th is our anniversary, and we’ve celebrated eight of those, but July 28 is still our first official anniversary and yesterday we marked eighteen of them. Kinda cool. We will celebrate this weekend in Grand Lake.

This shit makes me crazy. The local paper ran an article today about the booming pet care business, especially in dog-crazy Boulder. Here in Boulder, there is a “law” that encourages Boulder pet owners to refer to themselves as their pet’s “guardians”, not “owners”. You know how I feel about this one; I have a receipt. But it gives you an idea of the mentality Boulder residents have towards their pets, and in general I think it’s great. Here, our dogs are our kids. They hike (off-leash) with us, they frolic in the many dog parks, they are welcome in many businesses, not just the multitude of pet stores and pet bakeries (yes, pet bakeries), and they are everywhere. In an attempt to appear balanced, the author obtained some dissenting views, views on people who pour themselves into the care of their animals; views I have had to put up with from many co-workers over the years and even my own family members. The one they chose to print was a doozy:

“They either need to have children or get the Internet.”

This scholar was quoted while standing in the most overpriced petstore in Boulder with her Australian Shepherd at her side. I feel sorry for that Aussie. She has a dog, but clearly it’s “just a dog”. No massage, no cancer therapy, no quality dog food for this guy, oh no; it’s just a dog.

Where do we begin? First off, we can’t all have kids (you stupid bitch). Some of us don’t want to have kids (you myopic wench). And besides, the internet is a global computer network infrastructure that is owned by no one and utilized by many. You don’t “get” the internet, just like Al Gore didn’t “invent” it. And if you equate the responsibility of raising kids with a monthly cable internet subscription plan, I feel sorry for your kids as well as your Aussie (you sick cunt).

Emma, our dear departed cat and companion of 16 years, was my child and I loved her. When she died I struggled with my feelings of loss and attachment and was alternately devastated and frustrated—by my immense sorrow on the one hand, and the I-should-just-get-over-it-already-vibe I felt from some of my child rearing friends and family members.

Some people just don’t get it. As I type this, Hooper lies at my feet looking content and I get a warm feeling knowing that Brenda & I are responsible for this. A domestic dog living in a city is as dependent on us as any child. They can’t talk, they live much shorter lives, they have no opposable thumbs and they eat cat poo, but does that mean they don’t deserve to have someone take care of them and raise them? They didn’t ask to be born on the street, and they certainly seem to enjoy the spoils of good dog ownership: Hooper has a comfy bed and eats like a king, a diet of raw food and grain-free dry food that is supplemented with fish oil and other supplements. He is engaged in learning new “tricks” and goes to the park every single day. Is this indulgent? I don’t think so; he is canis familiaris, not canis lupus. He is descended from the wolf, but he is something else, an evolved species that owes its existence to the fact that it figured out 15,000 years ago that maybe these humans could work together with them to make a greater existence for us both, and we have. And now that we are all in a better situation than our ancestors of 15,000 years past (hey, we even have Internet!), are we supposed to simply treat these animals like some barely-alive, barely-feeling entity? What the hell is the point in that? Look, if you want to have kids, great. But bear in mind that you are engaging in the least sustainable practice possible in the world today, and an overwhelming number of you are doing a shitty job of raising your progeny, to boot. So get the fuck over yourselves. Your kids consume more than any dog, and most of them are rude, snotty and grow up with an overwhelming sense of entitlement. How does that validate what you do? I’ll tell you: it doesn’t.

So let me and my people raise our dogs and cats, naming them and petting them and feeding them and massaging them and playing with them and training them and loving them, worrying about them, caring about them, putting up with them when they are being assholes and just connecting with them. You do what you feel you need to do, I won’t implore you to get an internet of your own, but if your kid comes up to me and tries to talk to me in a restaurant while you bury your head in a burger, I’m telling it it’s an asshole, and I don’t care how young it is, capiche?

And this leads me to my latest announcement: I’m thinking about my third of fourth career change (depending on how you quantify a career): I have been thinking of becoming a veterinarian for a little while now (fleeting thoughts go back decades, but serious thought has occupied the last months or so), and I’m really starting to look into it. It’s past the “idea stage” of many of my hare-brained schemes and more into the active planning stage. More on this later.

And I’ll scare them all away for you.

This weekend Brenda & I drove to Avon (a few miles west of Vail, CO) to meet my Cousin and Uncle for some fly fishing on Gore Creek and the Eagle River. I stunk up the joint.

To say my Uncle is an experienced fly fisherman is a serious understatement; he’s an ichthyologist by trade, has discovered an entirely new species of fish, and has been fly fishing since he was sixteen years old. He loves fish and fishing, and over the years we had thrown words at the idea of hooking up and having him teach me the finer points of the wonderfully archaic world of fly fishing. When we moved to Boulder, that put Brenda & I just under a few hours away from my Cousin in Avon, and so this summer Uncle Bob came out for a summer visit that included lots of fishing and a visit from his favorite nephew.

After a trip to the park for practice casting, I tried on the rental waders, which make you look like half a fireman. It’s not a good look. Down to the stream we went, but instead of flinging flies into the water we got a full education on the main food source of the trout—the mayfly. Picking up rocks from the creek bottom, we saw primordial creatures in the midst of metamorphosis, culminating in watching one mayfly literally crawl out of its skin, spread its wings and fly off of my Uncle’s thumb. It was pretty cool. Time to fish.

Uncle Bob set us up with some nice kit, some quality rods and reels and expertly rigged line, leader, tippet and fly. And that’s when everything went down the shitter.

I propose we change the term from “fly fishing” to “untangling”, since I spent 45 minutes out of every hour untying complete bird’s nests of leader line that got created after mere seconds of inattention while casting. Oh, and did I mention that trout have excellent eyesight, and so the trick in fly fishing is to use a super-thin leader so they can’t see it? If they can’t see it, you can bet your ass I can’t see the goddamned line either, especially when I’m standing in a river trying to untangle the aforementioned bird’s nest of this invisible thread for the umpteenth time.

Uncle Bob was more of a hunter on the water, able to spot the fish in all conditions (“there’s a fish, right there; you see it Rob?”; “yeah.” (no)), and his actions were more like stalking, his casts more like setting a trap. Me, I was wandering around the river like a drunk, sliding on the rocks and mindlessly casting into the river at nothing in particular and hoping for the best. I might as well have been playing the slots in Vegas, my odds of catching a fish probably longer than hitting a decent payoff on the reels.

But I learned a lot, Brenda & I had fun, and standing around in the Eagle RIver under a beautiful blue Colorado sky is not a bad way to spend a Sunday. Seeing Uncle Bob and Kate was great, and Kate prepared an awesome dinner Saturday night out of a 21.5” rainbow trout that Uncle Bob caught the day before we rolled into town. That fish was the largest he’d ever caught in all his yeas of fishing, and carries its own story which I’ll not get in to now. Naturally, his luck changed as soon as I arrived.

Brenda & I also got a taste of the hell that is I-70 east on a Sunday evening. I’m told this stretch of highway—the gateway to the Rockies from the Denver area—is a nightmare during winter, as all the weekend warrior skiers and snowboarders head back to civilization, but I was hoping that in summer the crowds would be a little lighter. Boy, was I wrong. After sailing all the way to the Eisenhower Tunnel, shortly thereafter we hit a traffic jam that brought us to a 12MPH crawl for an entire hour. And I thought the Jersey Shore traffic was bad!

We stopped in Idaho Springs for ber and burgers at Tommyknocker Brewery and formulated a plan to get home by staying off I-70 as much as possible: we took Rte 6 through Clear Creek Canyon, which revealed—once again—a beautiful, unwinding vista, this time all the way up to Golden and then it was a short ride back to Boulder.

A couple of odd sensations hit us as we arrived on the outskirts of Boulder. First, as “the flatirons” appeared on the horizon on our way, we felt like we were “home”. The flatirons are now “our” mountains, our identity with our place called home. Second, all our empty water bottles were compressed on arrival. This makes sense, since the atmospheric pressure in Boulder is much greater on average than it is up in Eagle. But that means that now when I think of going to Boulder, it’s going down to Boulder, even though Boulder’s at 5,400’ above sea level. After spending 37 years living basically at sea level, it’s kind of odd to consider this place, 5,400’ high and nestled against the mountains, home. But it is home, and I’m just as happy as ever to call it such.

The Long’s Peak preparations continue, and this weekend it was Mount Audubon (our first thirteener!). Once again, the views were amazing and the hike was a huff-and-puff extravaganza as we neared the summit. As usual, the summit revealed views that made it all worthwhile, and something about the effort and the oneness with nature even causes me to eat rice cakes and fresh fruit—and actually enjoy it—while I’m up there. So this hiking thing is really healthy for me, all ‘round.

From the top you could see Long’s Peak, and it sorta just stood there saying “yeah, that’s right, I’m right over here, bitches; whenever…”

Leslie was headed for Peru on the day of the hike (on any given day in Boulder, you probably know someone who is on their way to some hiker’s paradise) so it was just Brenda, Bryce and myself. We had a ball and more pictures are sure to follow, I just need to go to sleep right now.

On the way home we made a quick stop in Nederland, to pick up some acid. (Anyone who knows me knows that this was not for me. The last thing I need to see is a melting floor, or say, a purple rabbit. I merely mention this because I think it’s pretty damned funny.)

Yesterday’s long day was followed by another great day today, where we got to once again see our dear friend Patty who was visiting her brother in Parker, CO and we celebrated her niece Grace’s fourth birthday with presents, cake and amazingly sweet Colorado corn (and yes, Patty once again brought cold cuts!).

Vegas baby, Vegas. Been there, done that.

My 38 year-long streak of never having visited Las Vegas has come to an end, as I just got back from spending three days in that pit of depravity. Lightfair, the architectural lighting community’s annual trade show and convention, alternates between New York City and Las Vegas for its host cities and this year it was once again being held in Vegas. I generally made the New York shows, but now that I call Boulder home, the desert location makes more sense. We were lucky enough at work to get funding for the entire daylighting team – all four of us – to go, so off we went to Vegas.

My review: eh.

The trade show was great, a chance to meet new people and see old friends, see new products and learn new things. But the town itself was sort of a mixed bag. Las Vegas has never been a place that interested me; I’m a very competitive person, and hate to lose. When you throw money into that mixture, you have a recipe for disaster with me. Losing sucks, and losing money sucks even more. Growing up watching my family play cards and play them exceedingly well only made me withdraw from these games of chance and skill, feeling that I’d never be as good as they were. Furthermore, I’m in a committed relationship with my wife. So a town in the desert whose only redeeming features are illicit sex and gambling just never seemed to make sense for me. I’m funny like that.

With expectations already low, Vegas still managed to disappoint upon arrival. I was staying at the Las Vegas Hilton, which I’m pleased to tell you is a friggin’ dump. Interested in taking in the city (and getting out of my shitty room), I walked down to the strip and then down about halfway, and was struck by its resemblance to Wildwood, NJ – essentially a carnival atmosphere loaded with simpletons oohing and ahhing over all the fancy lights.

As an added bonus, the other end of the strip, with its newer and more extravagant hotels, has that sickening aura of Disneyland; that “we can build our own Paris, because we are rich, and you can just enjoy yourself here at Paris-in-the-desert rather than bothering with those rude French people” type of feel.

One evening, as I stood on the Strip talking to Brenda on the phone, I was treated to a water show in front of the Bellagio featuring forty foot geysers of water blasting into the sky, dramatically lighted, with Toby Kieth’s Lee greenwood’s “Proud to be an American” booming through an amazingly high fidelity sound system. Just as I was choking back the vomit from that whole scene, a truck motored by with a giant advertisement on the back. The ad was essentially a large picture of a whore wearing a black leather bikini lying on a white background in a suggestive pose, with the simple headline “HOT BABES”, and a phone number. As this scene unfolded before me, entire families with kids in the 8-12 age bracket waddled past, taking it all in with smiles on their faces. Proud to be an American, my ass.

One day, returning to the hotel after a day at the conference, I entered the hotel at the opposite end from the lobby (which left about a mile to walk before I actually reached the lobby). On my way through the maze of cavernous corridors and meeting halls, I encountered a herd of old zombies shuffling out of a huge room. The banner over the door read “$100,000 blackjack tournament”, and judging from the looks on those people’s faces, the winner was not present in that crowd. Mingling in with the old folks, I was hit with the aroma of farts and Old Spice. It was a memorable moment.

It wasn’t all bad, though. I returned to the craps tables, after my last and only other casino visit (Atlantic City, with my dad, in 1998 or so), and walked out a winner. Not big, but shit, I won. After dropping $80 the first night and $60 the second night, I had a couple hours before my last seminar on Wednesday, and plopped $40 on the table. An hour and a half later, after standing shoulder to shoulder with high rollers who the dealers knew by name, and after being called a “gunner” by one of these same high rollers for making so many points, I was running for my seminar, with my pockets full of chips. After the seminar, I went back to get my bags. With 15 minutes to spare, I placed a couple more bets, backing my pass line bets with odds bets, and cashed out with more money than I started with when I got to that place. Yeah!

My main regret is not purchasing one of the “Barry Fanilow” t-shirts that were for sale in the lobby gift store (apparently Mr. Manilow calls the Las Vegas Hilton “home” in Vegas, which should help my case about the place being a real past-prime dump).

I’ll definitely go back to Fake City, because Brenda still wants to check it out, and because now I have some money I can lose. It’ll certainly be fun to gamble with Brenda, and maybe we’ll take in a show or whatever. But I fail to see the magnetic draw that that place holds for so many people on this planet. It’s a toilet and a real sucker magnet, you ask me.

Well, this past weekend was a bittersweet reunion with the Land of Enchantment—Santa Fe, New Mexico. It’s where I fell in love with the mountains of the southwestern United States, and, in the summer of 1990, working as an electrician for the Santa Fe Opera, it’s where I fell in love with my wife. And it’s where Brenda is right now.

Brenda’s been doing freelance projects both at home and in Denver for the last few months, but had an offer to go to work at the Santa Fe Opera as a draper for part of the 2006 season, and seven weeks doesn’t sound like a long time when that seven weeks is eight weeks away, so.

The weekend was spent visiting old haunts, and old friends in new arrangements.

The burger joint “Dave’s not Here” is still, uh, there, and the 9oz burger with grilled onions and pickled jalapenos still the Burger Benchmark.

The restaurant at Rancho de Chimayo is not anything at all as I remembered, but the fact that I arrived there sober and during daylight hours may have something to do with that. Not sure, though.

There’s something about working in a building an average of 80 hours a week for a whole summer that paints an indelible mark on your brain, because as I walked out of the costume shop after dropping Brenda off and saying goodbye, I was mesmerized by the matte black cinder blocks that formed the foundation and walls of the lower floors of the theatre. Sure, the roof was redesigned a number of years ago, to allow for the enclosure of all seating, but the rest of it looked very much the same way it did in ‘89 and ‘90.

Brenda’s in charge of a crew of seven, and back in a high pressure situation. As compensation, she’s left a detailed care & feeding instruction list for the many plants we have here, which carries a certain expectation that the plants will remain alive for the seven weeks she’s gone.

Six years of marriage today, and closing in on sixteen years of being together! Happy Anniversary to us.

May your marriage bring you all of the exquisite excitement a marriage should bring, and may life grant you also patience, tolerance and understanding. May you always need one another, not so much to fill the emptiness as to help each other know your fullness. May you want one another, but not out of lack. May you embrace one another, but not encircle one another. May you succeed in all important ways with one another, and not fail in the little graces. Look for things to praise, often say “I love you” and take no notice of small faults. May you have happiness, and may you find it in making one another happy. May you have love and may you find it in loving one another.
—Reverend Ellen