Our next motel in the part of Aztlán now called Utah, had an
all-gender restroom. Calamity Jane wouldn’t have to worry about being arrested.
The coffee in the breakfast room was obscenely weak. The
mini-cinnamon rolls and muffins tasted like the plastic they were sealed in. I
was not satisfied.
The Mexican-looking people on the streets were Indians. Or are the
Indian-looking people Mexicans? Like my family gatherings.
Still hungry, so I grabbed a ham, cheese, and jalapeño roll at
Cowboy Donuts. The gals working there wore cute costumes. In honor of the
holiday. Halloween.
My emergency sunglasses had a tint, causing a red shift. I
switched to the broken pair to see the landscape in true color. It was classic
Wild West wide-open spaces studded with wild horses, antelopes, coyotes . . .
and cattle.
Colorado, like the rest of Aztlán, has many intersecting l layers
of reality. You need more than glasses to see it clearly. I’ve always
experienced hallucinogenic side-effects in my homeland.
It amps up in places like the Gates of Lodore—sure sounds like a
location out of a fantasy novel—in Dinosaur National Monument on the Green
River.
In Maybell we couldn't resist a place called the Oasis Bar &
Grill. There was a big WELCOME HUNTERS sign. It was full of colorful local
characters and sported Halloween decorations. The food was good, too.
That night, the big night, we checked into a motel in Grand
Junction. A morose desk clerk grumbled about how Halloween was a
“bastardization” of All-Saints Day. I had a feeling that I shouldn’t remind him
that there were other religions and traditions here before the Christian
missionaries invaded.
Soon the sun was setting and the streets were filled with kids, up
to their teens, some twenty something, in costume. Some were working at jobs,
others wandered the streets in search of fun. Maybe some visiting spirits
joined in.
Next day was Día de Los Angelitos, Day of the Little Angels, the
children who died. If the antivaxxers get their way, there will be more of them
to remember.
After another Chile Chorizo Omelette at yet another First Watch we were
on the road to Delta, and my sunglasses made the sky look a washed-out purple.
I decided to go with it, basking in the illusion of being on a funked-out Mars.
A sign on top of a wrecked truck advertised cornhole billiards,
and disc golf. Guess pickleball hasn’t made it into these parts yet.
There was also a lot of yard art and old cars.
In a Montrose thrift store, three classic Little Old Ladies from
Hell made all the registers crash in a thrift store where I found a copy of
John W. Williams’ The Man Who Cried I Am. Had to hand some cash to a
manager so we could escape right into some streets clogged with a rally of
Trump supporters in vehicles flying flags.
Later we stopped in a place Mike highly recommended called Don
Gilberto’s. Emily and I split an excellent, and large, burrito. A local waiting
for his order called it the “best Mexican food between Delta and Ouray.”
I grabbed a gratis copy of Enterate Latino (a .org
indicated that they had a website), “El Cronista de los latinos del oeste de
Colorado,” an interesting mix of local news as well as advice and opinions
about the current immigration situation.
We did a quick cut through New Mexico, and a corner of Arizona.
While driving into a typically spectacular Navajo Sunset–tinted by my
sunglasses.
Mike and I discussed a possible collaboration. We left him at his
studio in Flagstaff, got in our car, and headed for Prescott, where we settled
into the Ironhorse Inn at about midnight.
The next day was Día de los Muertos, the one for the rest of the
dead. Funny how you see sugar skulls and calaveras everywhere these days.
I wonder what the clerk in Grand Junction thought of Los
Días? He probably considered it more bastardization, which is just
recomboculture, or rasquache misspelled.
It also looks like the shape of things to come.
In Prescott, a Ford Galaxie was parked on Main Street. What
dangerous assignment brought Lemmy Caution to town? Is Cottonwood the new
Alphaville? Were Jerry Cornenius and Raoul Duke in on this caper? And what
about Victor Theremin?
Previews of a never-to-be- made movie flash through my brain . . .
as usual.
On the I-17 men in camouflage had pulled over and were arresting a
man.
When we got back to Phoenix, I saw a woman at a bus stop with a
wild red wig, black tights, nothing covering her breasts, swaying to the
rhythms of her altered state of consciousness . . .
