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Road Trip 2008: Day 15, Savoring the Stout


“They poured strychnine in his cup
And shook to see him drink it up:
They shook, they stared as white’s their shirt:
Them it was their poison hurt.
–I tell the tale that I heard told.
Mithridates, he died old.”
“Terence this is Stupid Stuff” by A.E. Housman

The next morning we hung out in the woods for a few hours, eventually packing up, hiking back down to the car, and heading into Estes.  Paul wanted to show me around downtown.  It’s designed like one of those mock old timey towns with extravagant street lights and roads made of brick.  We roamed around for a bit, got some burgers, and returned to the car a few hours later (I honestly can’t remember one highlight from our little stroll through tourist town, so I’ll spare you the details).

Next up breweries (now that’s more like it!). We headed west toward For Collins, a virtual Mecca of brewing with a whopping six breweries to choose from, including: Odell’s, Coors, Fort Collins Brewing, and the birthplace of Fat Tire (my all-time favorite brew): New Belgium. As we drove I became giddy. Sure, we already visited 17 breweries during our trip, but New Belgium was the Holy Grail (or pint), the Beer-topia, the Oz at the end of our beer soaked brick road.

Unlike me, Paul’s enthusiasm for New Belgium was less than thrilled.  In fact, he suggested several times that we skip the brewery altogether in order to visit some of the lesser known breweries in town.  I stuck to my guns; we had to visit what I imagined to be a Charlie and the Chocolate Factory type of wonderland with rivers of Fat Tire and little midget workers called Hoppa Loppas (I know, I’m reaching).

After driving around Fort Collins for about 30 minutes trying to locate the mystical brewery, we finally found 500 Linden Street, the address I’ve read many a night while staring lovingly at a Fat Tire box.  The brewery was impossible to miss; the large New Belgium emblem emblazon on the sign out front, the enormous steeple of glass, the log cabiny wood siding, and the parking lot filled with cars, bumper to bumper. Even the bike rack out front was filled, reminding me of the bike rack area in front of the middle school I attended as a kid.

The only thing missing was an angry Vice Principal Bish shuffling around and yelling at people.

When we finally found a parking spot, Paul turned off the car and looked at me. “I’m telling you this is going to suck…”  I didn’t really understand his hatred for New Belgium: maybe the popularity? I still think he hates Vampire Weekend due simply to their popularity. Or was it Paul’s penchant for disagreeing?  I didn’t care; we were going to the promise land, whether Paul liked it or not.

Instead of acknowledging his negativity, I handed him the camera and commanded, “Take a picture of me in front of the New Belgium sign douche.”

I'm all smiles, sitting on the bike like a giddy 12-year-old. The guy behind the camera is a different story. .

After our photo session we finally entered the tasting room, which was more like a tasting hall: the walls were adorned with moving sculptures constructed of bike parts, Warhol-esque paintings stretching to the top of the vaulted glass ceiling, and pristine wooden tables stretching the length of the extensive room. Pushing our way through the crowd, I noticed that the patrons were much different than what we’d seen at most breweries. Instead of middle-aged beer connoisseurs with curly moustaches and bald spots, we were surrounded by a combination of touristy rich old people and young naïve couples.

I hadn’t seen more than a couple women at the other 17 breweries we’d been to, yet inside New Belgium the females outnumbered the men, all of them clinging tightly to their male counter part’s arms as they daintily took sips of their beers, usually grimacing in anguish at a beer that didn’t taste like Bud Light. We took a seat at the bar, and after surveying the scene, Paul turned to me and mumbled, “Fucking terrorists.”  He was right about the crowd, but I wasn’t going to let it ruin my New Belgium experience.  I convinced myself that the crowd was due to the popularity of their beer.

We waited around for about 10 minutes to be served – I can’t blame the bartenders, the place was packed.  Eventually, a flustered server brought us over a piece of paper with a checklist of beers on tap.  He told us to pick the four beers we’d like to try and left us to our decision making.

Being a big New Belgium fan, I had already tasted most of the brews they had to offer: Sunshine’s citrus zest, Trippel’s fruity hops, 1554’s version of stout light, and Abbey, a malty journey that challenges the crown that Fat Tire holds in the kingdom of New Belgium (Mothership Whit, Skinny Dip, and Blue Paddle are like the red headed step-children I don’t acknowledge).   I decided to try the three unfamiliar flavors (Old Cherry, Loose Lips, and Mighty Arrow) and chose Fat Tire for my final taster.  I figured when you’re on Mount Olympus, you have to try the ambrosia.

When we handed in our slips the bartender glanced at them, grimaced, and handed them back. “You guys need to answer the question of the day.”

“What?” I asked in confusion.

“The question of the day: what super power would you have if you could have any?” He pointed to the bottom of the checklist as I pondered a question that sounded reminiscent of an 8th grade journal topic.  I thought back to when my brothers and I would visit my grandparent’s farmhouse and wear dishtowels as capes.  We decorated them with markers: I was Lightning Boy, Alex was Fire Man, and my brother Nick was Everything Man (basically, he had every power you could imagine, which in hindsight was pretty much bullshit).  I contemplated jotting down Everything-Man, but decided upon the power of reading minds, simply because Matt Parkman is easily my favorite character on “Heroes” (You know, that super heroe show that was good for a season and a half?).  Sure, there’s the goofy Hiro, the cute Cheerleader, and the brooding Peter Petrelli, but Parkman is just some dude.  Not a complex character, not funny, not adorable: just an everyday guy who just so happens to read minds.

The bartender picked up our slips again, and didn’t seem too impressed with my choice of “reading minds”.  After another 10 minute wait, four small glasses were placed in front of us containing a rainbow of brew colors, from gold to brown.

First up, Old Cherry made me wince in a cough syrup kind of way. But then again, I wasn’t expecting much. I love eating cherries, yet I don’t think I’ve ever tasted something cherry flavored that I’ve enjoyed.  I followed this up with Mighty Arrow, New Belgium’s version of a pale ale, and after all the amazing pales I tasted in Montana and Idaho, it paled in comparison.  Strike 2.  I didn’t know what to expect with the Loose Lips, and it’s a good thing I wasn’t expecting much, because it was pitiful…just plain pitiful. I should have known; loose lips are never, never a good thing.

Finally, after this series of brutal disappointments, I came to my saving grace: Fat Tire.    I sniffed the frothy head, cherishing every moment, looking for one last beacon of hope amidst my day of disenchantment at New Belgium. But for some reason, after an hour surrounded by terrorists, gaudy decorations, and a series of ever worsening brews, the Fat Tire didn’t taste quite right.  Maybe it was in my head, but the nutty undertones were gone, the refreshing finish vanished, the chocolaty aftertaste unrecognizable. Maybe the poison’s I drank moments before deadened my taste buds, or maybe my anticipation guaranteed disappointment.  Whatever the case, my visit to New Belgium ended up being a bust.  The curtain had been pulled back by little Toto (or Paul), and the money making tourist machine of New Belgium had been exposed.

 

Behind Curtain #1: Comercialism

 

As I dragged my feet back to the car, Paul mocked my discontent, “I told you it would suck. New Belgium are sellouts.”  I ignored his taunting, got in the car, and put the key in the ignition.

“Where to next,” I mumbled.

“O’Dell’s my friend. You will not be disappointed in them.”  I scoffed at his confidence and drove around the block toward O’Dells.  You have to love a town with four breweries located within a block of each other.

Remember when Mr. Roger's could drive a block one way and be on Broadway and drive a block the other way and be at a hotdog factory? Fort Collins except it's beer both ways.

Like New Belgium, O’Dell’s had all the trappings of a widely distributed brewery but lacked the packed parking lot.  Inside the walls were decorated with beautiful oil paintings depicting the labels of the various beers on tap.  We walked to the register and were greeted by a skinny hippie chick with shoulder length blond hair.

“Hey boys, can I get you a sampler or a pint?”

Paul and I shared smiles and told her a sampler sounded perfect.  She left to fill our beers as we looked around in awe at the spectacular surroundings.  When she returned she held a thick 2 X 4 with holes cut in it to hold six large sampler glasses filled with beer of gold, brown, and amber.

Decisions....decisions...

After paying she commented, “By the way, I love the shirt.” I looked down to see I was wearing my worn out, stinky Built to Spill t-shirt.

“Oh…thanks,” I sheepishly answered.

“Yeah, I almost got Doug Marsh to perform at my wedding.”

“Whoah, that would rule,” Paul commented.

“Yeah, unfortunately the band was touring out east at the time…anyways, enjoy your beers.  The IPA is amazing.”  A girl who appreciates a hoppy IPA and Built to Spill?  I envied the man who found a girl with such great taste.

We took a seat near the back and prepared for our trip down O’Dell lane.  I sat staring at our wide array of choices, trying to decide which would be the perfect choice for beginning our drinking journey.

I tried the IPA first, and Built to Spill girl couldn’t have been more right.  All of the beers on our wooden platter were as amazing as the Built to Spill music catalog, but if the IPA were a song it would be “Carry the Zero”, a notch above the rest.

If only this song had come out when I was 10, I would have been good at math:

While Paul and I conversed over some of the best beer we had the entire trip, I noticed a couple guys next to us sitting with a tall brunette.  One of them was wearing a No Fear cap backwards and chomped away at his gum as he sipped on the Cut-Throat Porter.  This irritated me to no end. “Paul, look at that douche over their chewing his Juicy Fruit while drinking these beers.”

Paul began to laugh, saying, “Dude, you’re just like the guy from ‘Sideways’, freaking out about his buddy chewing gum while drinking wine.”  I joined in on the laughter, realizing I’d transformed into a beer snob during our brewery tour, a road trip that originally spawned from the classic Alexander Payne film.

I continued watching the douchey group of two red necks and a hot brunette, occasionally making eye contact with the towering vixen.  Like I’d done many times before on the trip, I wondered if one of the dudes was a boyfriend.  If they were, I didn’t think they would have appreciated her glancing at me once every minute.  Was she checking me out, or was I creeping her out?  If only I were Matt Parkman…

Finishing up our tour, feeling hopped up from the welcoming atmosphere and stupendous brews, we noticed a nearby table with a different sampler that contained only four beers.  Once finished, feeling quite accomplished, we returned to the counter and asked Built to Spill girl about the four beer sampler.  She informed us of the Specialty Sampler comprised of all their recent seasonals and cask brews.  We ordered up a round of specialties, had a little more small talk about Built to Spill with her, and returned to our table to continue our path to Shit-Faced Town.

The new four beers were surprisingly even better than the original six, although our inebriation may have been overpowering our taste buds at that point. The stout was especially potent packing a powerful burst of flavor to our palettes, mixing the hints of espresso, chocolate, and malts into a creamy poison fit for King Mithridates.  Paul fell in love with the stout proclaiming it his favorite of the trip (I don’t get Paul’s love of stouts considering he despises the taste of coffee).  He decided to approach the counter to buy a growler of the stouty goodness so he could enjoy the brew while back home in Nebraska. A few minutes later he returned, not with a growler of black gold, but two pints of the coffee black liquid.

“The guy at the counter rules.  He said they don’t sell the stout in growler because it’s a limited edition special reserve, so I just started going on and on about how it’s the best stout we’ve had on our brewery tour and that we really wanted to take some to appreciate back home. I think he might be the brew master or something because he talked about how proud he was of this batch and said we could have a couple free pints to appreciate the stout one more time.” Overflowing samplers, flavorful brews abound, and free pints of the greatest stout in the United States? Our O’Dell experience was possibly the best yet brewery-wise.  After the disappointment that was New Belgium, O’Dell’s totally redeemed our day.  We sipped our brews slowly, savoring each drop, while talking endlessly about our incredible road trip.

As I watched the pint slowly evaporate the next half hour, I knew that just like that pint of heavenly goodness, our road trip would soon be finished, and all we would be left with were the memories.  I knew I’d have many more tasty stouts in my future and that more summer road trips laid in the years ahead, but none would be quite like the one I’d just experienced.  As I sipped the last drops of the stout, I let it sit upon my tongue just a little bit longer, letting the flavor soak deep into the recesses of my memory.

Savoring the last bit of our trip.

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Road Trip 2008: Day 12-13, Hulk and Kong take on the Hipsters


“Chaos is a friend of mine.”
Bob Dylan

After hiking for a couple hours, we returned to the car and decided to get some lunch. Malcolm suggested Dairy Queen, and we both agreed that ice cream sounded tasty after our day out in the sun.  I ordered up some brownie/caramel mixture, Paul got a burger, and Malcolm ordered a quesadilla to go with his sundae.  I’m telling ya, the guy LOVES tortillas.

With our arteries clogged, we returned to his place for an afternoon nap.  Around five Malcolm headed out for a meeting with an acquaintance who was starting his own weight loss system a la Nutri-System.  He wanted to meet with Malcolm to help create an exercise program to coincide with the meals.  Once he left, Paul continued sleeping, so I tip-toed around the apartment, eventually plopping down at the computer to catch up on the rest of the world.  While reading the latest in the political rumor mill, I came upon an interview with John McCain where he compared himself to Teddy Roosevelt.  The link to this story ironically sat just above a story entitled “McCain says, ‘Drill Now!'”.  Would the Teddy that Paul introduced me to support such a thing?  Can you imagine the King of National Parks backing the destruction of the Artic National Reserve to drill for oil?

Thoroughly annoyed by politics, I turned back to Dharma Bums and read for the next hour.  When Malcolm got back he cooked us some quesadillas (yep…I think you get my point), but I’m not complaining.  They were some of the best quesadillas I’ve ever tasted.  They went great with a side dish of spinach.  After dinner Malcolm’s girlfriend arrived, a cute little, athletic blond with a cheery disposition.  We made small talk for about ten minutes, and then the couple mysteriously disappeared for the remainder of the night.

Paul decided to put in a DVD from Malcolm’s video library that consisted of 15 Arnold Schwarzenegger movies and King Kong.  We went with Kong, naturally.  An hour into the movie I began to doze off, and would continue waking up randomly to see Kong throwing raptors, giant bugs, and fighter jets.  Eventually, the eight hour movie came to an end, and I could finally sleep without waking to the sound of a howling ape.

I awoke to the smell of eggs for the second morning straight.  Instead of spinach this time, Malcolm doused our breakfast in salsa, huevos rancheros style.  We of course used tortillas to sop up the spicy goodness.  With it being a Monday, Malcolm had to return to his gym to train old ladies and high schoolers.  We slummed around his place for an hour, and boredom was finally starting to set in (as I’m sure boredom is setting in with this blog you’re reading…).  Staying at Malcolm’s had been a nice, rejuvenating break from our adventures (I would compare it to Bilbo’s stay at Beorn’s in The Hobbit), but I yearned to be back out on the road, exploring mountainsides and sampling new and exotic beers.  To pass the time, Paul re-entered Malcolm’s testosterone fueled DVD library and chose “True Lies” I would have preferred “Kindergarten Cop”, but anything was better than sitting around the apartment in silence.

"Stop whining! You lack discipline!"

I grabbed my book and began reading.  While trying to read, my concentration kept getting interrupted by Paul’s raucous laughter.  Not remembering “True Lies” as a comedy, I began to watch and soon realized that Paul would laugh at anything Tom Arnold said.  Midway through the film he turned to me and said, “Dude, Tom Arnold is my new favorite actor!” and I knew he wasn’t joking.

Soon I joined in on the fun, not laughing at Arnold’s cheesy dialogue, but more at Paul’s complete amusement in Tom’s hacky one-liners. Afterwards, Paul asked, “Did Schwarzenegger and Tom Arnold ever make any other movies together? They were hilarious.”

“Uh, I don’t think so…” I replied.

“Damn dude, I love the Tom Arnold Schwarzenegger connection!”  Paul’s new found affection for early 90s Tom Arnold movies is just an example of what I love about the guy: due to his sheltered childhood he often makes discoveries about commonly known 90s pop culture.  There’s something intriguing about a guy who is an expert about 70s Kraut Rock yet knows nothing about Kriss Kross and Milli Vanilli.

Pleased with his morning film, Paul decided to take another nap.  I grabbed my book and tried reading, but became more and more annoyed that we weren’t out doing something. I wanted to scream, “This is a vacation! A road trip!  Let’s get outta here!” At the same time I felt guilty about my negative thoughts, knowing Paul just wanted to spend some time with his college buddy.  Plus, I knew we would be leaving soon.  That night we had plans to see HEALTH in Denver.  Since I had already seen HEALTH three times at SXSW, I became even more antsy thinking about the upcoming show.

Around four Paul began moving.  We finally escaped the monotony of the day around five, heading north on interstate 83.  While Paul napped, I had mapped out a path for us to hit a few breweries on our way up to the show, a bar crawl meets yellow brick road approach to our evening.

 

The Wizard of Buzz

Our first stop was the Dry Dock in Aurora, a tiny brewery nestled in the middle of a mini-mall.  Inside, the bar was dinky.  The bar and stools took up half the room, allowing little space to move around.  The brewing vats loomed over us from behind a makeshift wall.  We plopped down at the bar.  Despite the meager space, there was still a crowd at five on a Monday.  Everyone seemed to know one another, creating a friendly, “Cheers”-like vibe.

Drydock was "Cheers" meets "The Hunt For Red October"

I ordered a barley wine and Paul got a vanilla porter.  My barley wine tasted ancient, in a good way.  All the distinct flavors nurtured over years of fermentation intertwined on my tongue.  Paul’s porter tasted just as godly, a perfect mix of malt and hops with a smooth hint of vanilla in the aftertaste.  I asked if I could buy a growler of the barley wine so I could share it with friends back home.  Being such an aged relic, the bartender regretfully told me no.  Disappointed, I settled on a growler of the porter.  We stayed for another hour, trying several other tasty beers.  Looking back, I’m still amazed at the quality of the beers in such a little shit hole of a brewery.

Feeling invigorated by the quaint brewery’s quality thirst quenchers, we left in search of Bush and Bull Brewery, a British pub located in down town Denver.  Lost amidst the downtown traffic we somehow found the little brick building with all the British trappings, including a bright red phone booth out front.  The authenticity continued inside with British memorabilia and historical newspaper clippings lining the walls. The wooden planks of the floor were crooked and aged, and behind the bar a wall of over a 100 types of scotch hung proudly.  They even had a party room entitled the “Jury Room” with twelve stools placed neatly around a wooden table.  Later, while taking a pee, I read a USA Today article on the wall that placed Bush and Bull in the top 10 pubs in the United States.

They had 12 micro-brews on tap with a majority of them being kept in un-refrigerated barrels – warm beer, British style. We drank several beers during our visit; all of them were brimming with a strong malty flavor found in most British brews. Paul seemed to love each beer that touched his lips. While I appreciated their faithfulness, I was more in the mood for a American style beer like Dry Dock had to offer.

Since our last meal had been breakfast, we ordered a plate of lamb-chop skewers with a curry dip.  Our plate featured two measly skewers, but no other meal on our trip would taste quite as scrumptious. We thought about sticking around for more lamby goodness, but the HEALTH show started in 30 minutes.  We said “Good day” to the bartender and headed back out into the Denver traffic.

Around nine o’clock, north of down town, we finally found Rhinoceropolis, a tiny art studio in an industrial neighborhood.  At the door we paid five dollars to a new wave looking kid who stunk of body odor.  Once inside, we discovered we were two of ten in attendance.  We sat a while, staring at the empty room, when I finally asked a nearby raver when the bands would start playing.  When he told me HEALTH started at 11, I told Paul we should go check out another brewery and then come back.  He seemed unsure about my idea, but finally agreed.

Breckenridge Brewery, a well known microbrewery sold nationwide, was located right outside Coors Field, an obvious pre/post game drinking hot spot.  Unfortunately, with the All-Star Game in New York that same weekend, the entire baseball district resembled a ghost town.  This included the inside of Breckenridge, the biggest brewery we visited yet, and the most empty.  We bellied up to the pristine bar and ordered a couple beers, both of which were just as lifeless as the bar scene that night.  We both grimaced in pain with each gulp, but continued forcing down the putrid brew.  It irritated me to think their horrid concoctions were sold nationwide while amazing breweries like Madison River remained relatively unknown.

After taking our daily dose of poison, we hurried back to Rhinoceropolis.  When we returned, we found the art studio now packed wall to wall with skinny hipsters, mostly teenagers nodding their heads hypnotically to some noise/metal/art band.  In the cramped room, the heat and humidity enveloped us.  Realizing I wouldn’t survive long, I ran out to the car quick to grab a bottled water to bring back in with me.  I knew I wouldn’t get in trouble; most people inside brought their own beer.  The atmosphere reminded me a lot of little punk rock shows my friends and I used to attend in high school.  Some kid named Jake from Fairmont, Minnesota would somehow get punk bands to play at his house to a bunch of unsupervised teenagers.

Back inside, I listened to the end of some disco/crap band, and then made my way toward the front of the stage to await HEALTH.  The band came out and set up their gear quickly.  It amazes me how a little band like HEALTH can set up their gear in mere minutes, while national stadium touring bands, with roadies and all, take over an hour to prep for a band.

 

The show sharpened me for a bit of the ol' ultra-violence

When the band burst into their first song, “Heaven”, the crowd of teens instantly exploded into a mass of shoving, squishing, and sweating, all combining into a cluster-fuck of mass confusion.  Before I knew it, Paul had disappeared and I was alone up front, fending for myself as the bounding drums toked the flames of fury in the audience.  Chaos.  It’s the only word to describe what I found myself caught up in – and I loved every minute of it.

Soon the mass of swinging arms and falling bodies pushed toward the stage; equipment fell, yet the band went on.  Something in HEALTH’s music brings out the tribal Neanderthal in me, and obviously others. There is nothing quite like a little bit of the ultra-violence. As skinny teens flew toward me, I’d raise my elbow and watch them bounce off like a pinball. My mind began to conjure up my dream images from the night prior of Kong throwing bugs effortlessly in every direction.

The songs continued pushing us forward, even when our energy waned.  I kept wiping the perspiration off my bald head, trying to avoid the inevitable dripping of sweat into my eyes.  At one point I looked down at my hands to find my fingers pruned like I had just spent the day at the swimming pool.  I felt like fainting from exhaustion, yet couldn’t stop moving to the magnetic music.  I soon found I wasn’t alone in my fatigue from the heat when a little hippie girl in front of me ripped her shirt off (no bra) and continued enjoying the music. This wasn’t your usual rock concert “flash” for attention.  This was a girl who was feeling hot and found a solution.  I commend her for her ingenuity.

The band finally brought a close to their passionate performance.  I turned around in search of Paul, but he came running to me first.  When he approached I said, “Great show, eh?”

He began tugging at my shirt, “Dude….we have to get out of here…” With Paul, it’s never a good sign when he rushes up and tells you that you have to leave.  We speed walked out the door and down the sidewalk; the entire way Paul glanced nervously back to see if some mystery hipster gang was chasing us.  Instead of being worried, I became excited knowing another great Paul story awaited me in the car.   We hopped inside the Element and he egged me on, “Go, Go, Go!”

Once blocks away from the Rhinoceropolis, Paul began giggling about what had went down inside, and then commenced telling his tale.  When the crowd got crazy, Paul made an exit to the back where he could see the band without worrying about flying elbows.  While watching the powerful performance, some schmo unexpectedly jumped on his shoulders, attempting to crowd surf, but in the process, aggravating Paul’s past wrestling injury.  This transformed Paul from a calm relaxed guy into an angry monster reminiscent of the Incredible Hulk (I’m sure the booming music also had something to do with the building anger).

When the same back jumper tried moshing into Paul moments later, throwing his elbow into Paul’s sternum, Hulk Paul reacted quickly, pulling back on the guys shoulder and laying down a hard right cross into his face.  The back jumper rolled to the ground and Paul retreated to a different section of the club to reconvene his viewing of the show without any troubles.  Five minutes later a few other guys approached Paul.

“Where you from man?” the kid up front asked.

“Nebraska,” Paul responded, with his Hulkian anger seething just beneath the surface.

“It’s not a good idea to start fights when you’re not from…” and just as he was about to spit out his threat, Hulk returned, pulling the kids legs up in a double leg takedown and raising his fist in a sign that he would strike if necessary.

“Sorry dude! I don’t have a problem man!  Was just wondering!”

Paul jumped off him and quickly disappeared into the crowd, hoping to be able to watch the last bit of the show in peace.  Of course, this didn’t happen. He found himself standing next to a skinny raver wearing a bright green sequenced hat.

As HEALTH played their loud, grinding music, this kid performed boy band-esque dance moves, spinning and performing arm gestures.  He kept looking back at Paul and others, in hopes they were enjoying his dance recital.  Paul wasn’t.  When the kid performed his third spin/hat grab/pose, Hulk Paul reached forward and pushed the raver’s face in disgust.  This occurred right about the time the last song came to a close, at which point Paul searched me out to escape the legions of hipsters in search of revenge.

With Paul’s story finished, we neared Parker where we were going to stay one more night.  We both laughed at our crazy evening, one more chapter in our summer adventure.  I thought about how earlier I yearned to escape Malcolm’s place to exert my pent up energy, and the HEALTH show provided the perfect avenue for the unbridled bedlam I had been searching for.

 

"You won't like me when I'm cranky!"

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