Parking Lot

Sitting in the gym's parking lot, I had an amazing view of Boulder's Flatirons. The Flatirons are a row of jagged rock outcroppings in the foothills above this picturesque town. They are so beautiful it persuaded the first settlers to give up their trek farther west and settle down in the fertile valley that became Boulder. 

As I gazed at this majestic view, in my peripheral vision came a business man, dry cleaning in hand, crossing the expanse of parking lot. He didn't make an impact on me until he attempted to open the back door of his Lexus RX300 SUV. He quickly became exasperated that the door would not cooperate with him and open. His loud profanity broke the spell the mountain range held over me. He flung his dry cleaning wildly as he did that dorky straight guy angry dance. Mr. Business soon realized that the ubiquitous beige SUV that he was pounding on was not his, that his was right next to it. Happy with his Alexander Fleming like discovery he marched over to the other beige Lexus. At this point he had clicked his remote around eight-hundred times. Anyone within a mile could have seen that his uninspired SUV was on the next row, flashing away. I guess three people fell under Lexus’ fake luxury spell. 

I thought about getting out of my car and explaining that the second car he was about to assault was also not his. I stopped myself because I realized that this was his lesson for buying such an overly produce, lame, overly-hyped vehicle. The FlowBee of the SUV world. Instead, I watched the dance happen over again before he looked up to see the flashing headlights of his version of the brown box flash at him. 

I thought this event was a perfect analogy for  my work week. Me attempting to force open locked doors, jumping up and down to convince the doors to open, before raising my head up and finding the correct door that would open. 

I stopped staring at the mountains and went inside the gym to work out. 

I’m a Delinquent

Seeing it’s been so hazy due to the entire Rocky Mountain range bursting into flames (like me after four beers...or me in a furniture store...or me in a 4x4 parts store) the smoke from this years “burn-fest” has wafted down to Boulder.  This has driven my OCD of having a perfectly clean windshield/windscreen into high gear. 

Yesterday, leaving work, I began my endless ritual of grabbing a perfectly folded micro-fiber cloth and my aerosol can of window cleaner from my trunk to polish my car’s glass. As I sprayed a white zig-zag of foaming cleaner across my glass I heard a scream.

“Stop that!!! I’m calling the police!!” Somebody stop him!!”

I turned to see a woman desperately dialing on her phone. Mid-fifties, wearing age inappropriate workout pants. Never saying a word, yet giving her a sideways Suzanne Sugarbaker glance; I began to wipe the cleaner from my windshield. 

“Oh... I thought you were tagging...vandalizing that car...”

She turned to her phone and began explaining to the 911 operator her about her failings as a dutiful citizen. Then she just wandered away into the smoke, the bedazzled word ‘Juicy’ disappearing into the mist. 

Only in Boulder, CO. would someone thing the “tagging” is perpetrated by a gentleman in Eddie Bauer. 

Boulder, My Boulder

My career path has taken me to a new position in scenic and perplexing Boulder, Colorado. Right at the base of Colorado’s Rocky Mountains, it is the home to the University of Colorado, the JonBenet Ramsey murder house, and where Mindy McConnell harbored an illegal alien for five years, I admit this city has me scratching my head.

Now as college towns go, Boulder is pretty much the same as Austin, Texas. Sans the humidity, and the self-righteous inclination of being Texan that all Texas cities embrace.  Boulder possesses the same left-leaning green, outdoorsy, dare I say it “hippy” sensibilities. This is mixed with the extreme wealth of massive corporate headquarters, and the university with it’s drunk kids (wearing pajama pants at one in the afternoon) sprinkled with Prius driving university professors. This makes me want to experience the Prius section of the local Toyota showroom. A sea of tweed jackets adorned with elbow patches. “I’m sorry sir, city law mandates that all cars must be sold with bike racks, it’s what they come with.” The haggard salesperson would say. “Well. I see.” Says the tweed jacket. “I am from a place where this isn’t a requirement and we don’t end our sentences in prepositions.”

I will come right out and say that I love Austin, Texas. With my past interactions with Boulder, I am pretty much the right candidate for its unique quirkiness. The most expensive item of clothing I own are my Solomon trail running shoes, at any point in my life I’d rather be on my mountain bike, and I too spend my days wandering around the town in a red hunting hat.

What I’m scratching my head about this week is the empowered bicyclists and perderites. Sorry, not empowered. Jerkish. As a bicyclist and pedestrian myself, I love the separated bike lanes and protected lights to help keep everyone safe, yet there seems to be a level of dogmatic hatred of cars that is embraced in this environment. Maybe it's due to the sadness of having to finally cut off their yellow wristband? I have not received so many dirty looks, fist shakes, or “fuck you’s” since my days in the Mormon Church. Bicyclists hate cars in Boulder. I just smile and nod, knowing that my Solomon trail running shoes are way more expensive then theirs, and I'll never have to cut off a cheap symbolic wristband of a fallen idol.