Prospectors, Explorers, and Men of Chance

Today’s a big day. We’re taking possession of our new home, just a stone’s throw off East Colfax Avenue. Very exciting!

So today I’m geeking out on Colfax, shown below in all its 1970s neon glory. A more detailed history of Denver’s iconic Avenue of Sin can be found here, but here are the Cliffs Notes.

Colfax in the 1970s

• Colfax was originally called “The Golden Road” because back in 1850 or so, it’s how miners got from Denver to the mountains in their rush for the motherlode.
• Colfax was also called Grand Avenue and The Gateway to the Rockies.
• Colfax is 26.5 miles long and extends from the plains to the mountains.
• Colfax is referenced several times in Jack Kerouac’s 1957 Beat Generation novel On the Road.

On the Road
Boring. You probably already know all that already, right? Blah, blah, blah. So let’s get to the good stuff.

Colfax is named for Schuyler Colfax (an Indiana Congressman, Speaker of the House of Representatives, and Vice President of the United States under Ulysses S. Grant), who back in the day had this vision for his namesake:

And that thoroughfare, born beneath the mountainous mountains of rocky peaks so high, seeing as it shall victual to prospectors, explorers, and men of chance, and whereas said men, in their sparse moments of recess and requiescence, require relief of an immediate and carnal conformation, let Colfax Way be a den of avarice, a cauldron of covetousness, a peccadillo wharf in a sea-storm of morality. Let not a man walk Colfax Way and wonder, ‘Where shall I deposit my virility this eve, where may I encounter mine intoxicant?’ for he shall find all he seeks on Colfax.

And here he is. Schuyler Colfax himself. He looks like a friendly storytelling grandpa with nothing more in his pocket than lollipops and bubblegum.

Which just goes to show you can’t judge a dirty politician sin monger by his bust.

Schuyler Colfax

Other things Colfax is known for: The Satire Lounge…

The Satire Lounge…where Bob Dylan, back when he was still Robert Zimmerman and covering Woodie Guthrie songs, got hissed off stage. This is also where the Smothers Brothers were discovered. They lived in the apartment above the lounge and were downstairs clowning around at the pool tables when a talent scout approached them and said they could make it big in entertainment. So they did.

And here’s another fun tidbit. This was the Bugs Bunny Motel…

Bugs Bunny Motel…which is now, due to copyright and all that, the Big Bunny Motel. Actress Sue Lyon, who played the titular character in Stanley Kubrick’s 1962 film Lolita…

Lolita…lived here back in the early 70s. She met and fell in love with some dude incarcerated at the Colorado State Pen in Canon City for murder and robbery. Yep. She even married the guy and became a conjugal-rights advocate…

Sue Lyon Jail Bride…although she divorced him less than a year later because he broke out an committed another robbery. Anyway, needless to say, Sue fell on some hard times. Both, uh, financially and mentally. She started waitressing in Denver and moved into the Bugs Bunny. One day, she had an argument with someone there and threatened to throw herself out a motel window.

Had she followed through, this would not have had quite the dramatic effect I’m sure she’d hoped for. The motel being a one-story building and all, she might have ended up with a few scratches, maybe a bruised knee, perhaps some shrubbery in her hair.

I wonder what Sue is up to these days.

And although I’ll be living near East Colfax, I have to pay at least some small homage to our distant and less storied cousin, West Colfax.

Casa Bonita
Enough said.

Fists and FroYo: Friday on the ‘Fax

I just witnessed an assault on East Colfax.

OK, I’m not sure what you imagined when you read that, but I’ve got to be honest: If I had just read those words on someone else’s blog, I’d have made some snap assumptions about the people involved in the assault. And I’d have been dead wrong.

Here’s what happened.

We were at Red Mango Frozen Yogurt over by Tattered Cover, about three blocks away from our new house. (The location of which, by the way, prompted my sister to say, “But do you really want to live so close to Colfax?” Heh.)

Red Mango

In comes an older couple. Mid-sixties, maybe. White as white. They look like church-going, golf-playing country clubbers.

In walks another older couple. Also mid-sixties. Also white as white. Also sporting the bridge-club, retired-from-a-long-career-in-banking look. Only this couple has their three young grandchildren in tow. The kids are maybe between the ages of five and eight.

Now, W and I are sitting at the first table by the door. Apparently, both aforementioned sets are trying to walk out said door at the same time. WG1 accuses WG2 of bumping into his wife. Next thing we know, WG2 has been knocked to the ground, WG1 is on top of him, straddling him, throwing some pretty serious punches. The wives are shouting. The grandkids are crying. The sidewalk is a yogurt-strewn battlefield littered with candy sprinkles and red plastic spoons.

Everyone inside runs outside. Us included.

Two of Red Mango’s teenage employees immediately take control and handle the whole situation with amazing cool-headed efficiency. One physically removes WG1 from WG2 and stands between them, even startes down a wild-eyed WG1, who clearly isn’t done with the fist-fight portion of his evening. (I don’t think I’ve ever seen such raw hate and anger in a man’s eyes–not in real life, anyway, and never that up close and personal. And it escalated so quickly! I have no doubt that if WG1 had had a gun, he’d have shot WG2 on the spot.) The other employee chases WG1 and his wife down and gets their license plate number as they flee the scene. Meanwhile, the first employee makes sure everyone is OK, calmly cleans up the sidewalk, confirms that the cops are on the way, apologizes to all the bystanders, and offers everyone who’d gathered around free yogurt or coupons for their next visits to Red Mango.

Adults behaving badly. Teenagers saving the day with calm heroics and common sense. Is there a moral to the story? Sure. Books and their covers and all that. The lesson is obvious. Indeed, this was a strange and unexpected night in my new neighborhood.

But the bottom line? I think I’m going to like it here.

An Earthy Preacher in a Pickup Truck

I recently discovered that all the back issues of LIFE magazine are posted on Google Books. Every article. Every glorious photograph. Every car and appliance and cigarette ad. And then I realized I was in trouble: I could lose hours of my own life scrolling through those digital pages.

I picked an issue at random. June 16, 1972. Because the cover article was about how the youth of the early 1970s were geeking out on the 1950s.

LIFE Magazine, June 16, 1972

LIFE Magazine, June 16, 1972

This cracked me up. The youth of every decade geeks out on some flavor of vintage, thinking they’re being cool and radical. (See my post “The Last of the Teddy Girls.”) When I was in college in the 1990s, it was all about trying to recapture the 1970s. And so it goes.

That particular article did nothing for me. But just after it was an article called “Fighter for Forgotten Men” by Marshall Frady. The subject of the article was “an earthy preacher in a pickup truck” who moved “among the Ku Klux Klan and the blacks, building bridges.” His name was Reverend Will Campbell.

1972 Will Campbell Article

I recently reread Flannery O’Connor’s Wise Blood, so the image of the Southern Gothic traveling preacher is pretty fresh in my imagination. It intrigues me. So I read the article. And then I Googled this Will Campbell. Who was he? Where was he now? What had he been up to for the last 41 years? What I found out made me break out in Jungian chills. Will Campbell just died 72 hours ago, June 3, 2013.

So what had he been up to? He’d been busy becoming a civil rights hero. You know. No big deal.

Now, I’m not a religious person, and, frankly, a lot of religious people leave me scratching my head. I do my best to keep an open mind, to look deeper and find good intentions behind the often unapologetic and unquestioning bigotry so many Christians believe they must cling to in order to avoid Eternal Damnation in the Fiery Pits of Hell. But this Will Campbell guy drew a pretty wicked bead on humanity. He was hard to argue with.

Frady’s 1972 article painted a picture of an extraordinary man. Campbell, an ordained Southern Baptist minister hailing from Mississippi, escorted the first black children into Little Rock’s desegregated schools in 1957. Campbell explained: “I was trying to find my home in black people, like a lot of other white liberals…then some of my black friends like Stokely Carmichael started telling me, ‘Look here, man, we pretty much got things cool and together with our folks. If you want to help out real bad, why don’t you go to work on your people.’ I said, ‘Man, you happen to be talking about red-necks–they’ll kill me.’ And he said, ‘That sort of means they’re the problem, don’t it?'”

Campbell followed his friend’s advice. He followed it right into middle of the Ku Klux Klan.

During one late-night communion service in a Klansman’s kitchen, Campbell intoned, “Everybody in this room now who believes Jesus Christ is Lord, let them say Hallelujah! and drink to his victory.” Frady writes that with that, everyone had taken long, grave sips from water glasses of bourbon. Frady also writes:

Campbell is engaged in a quiet, assiduous guerrilla ministry, and his congregationers are not only Klansmen but also the desperate and dispossessed, both black and white, throughout the South’s haggard backwoods and urban barrens and the wintry ghettos of the North. He moves among them in his clanky pickup truck, often carrying no more than his guitar case with a change of underwear and a bottle of Tennessee mash “medicine.” He tarries a day here, three days there–mostly visiting, sometimes preaching–but always serving as a kind of bridge over those furious chasms between the forgotten men of both races.

How, you might ask, could a man of God hang out and drink with the KKK? Campbell quietly–though not without a well-placed curse word–explains himself, and he does so in a way that makes it damn hard to argue: “Whatever it is that’s keeping the red-neck a Kluxer and the black man a nigger–whatever’s keeping them outside and poor and without any hope–is the same thing for both. It’s the lack of anybody giving a damn for them….Black, white, Kluxer, preacher–we are all bastards, but God loves us anyway.”

Campbell once spoke out during a hoity-toity civic conference at Georgia Tech. He said: “In a way, see, the red-neck’s been the special victim of the whole system. It took his head away. The system got about everything else from the black man–his back, a portion of his spirit maybe–but it never really managed to get his head. All along the black man’s known more or less what’s been going on. But the red-neck–hell, he’s never known who the enemy was. If you remember anything about the course of Populism, every time the poor white began getting together in natural alliance with the equally dispossessed black, he’d be told that it meant blacks were going to ravish his wimminfolks, and the Bolsheviks were going to invade the courthouse. He’s never known how he’s been had. So it’s the respectable folks, like us sitting right here, who took that head, blew out the light in that brain.”

And finally, I’ll leave you with this conversation between Campbell and a Nashville church official, as relayed by Frady:

Not long ago, Campbell incredulously announced in his committee’s magazine that one of the large church denominations headquartered in Nashville had just adopted an office security program that included Pinkerton guards and emergency provisions for the use of tear gas. Soon an amiable official of that church appeared at Campbell’s study….

The trim, dapper official explained that the church really had a duty to protect its premises.

After a short silence, Campbell softly inquired, “Protect it from who?”

The official cleared his throat lightly behind his fist: “Well, I’m aware you’d have no way of knowing this, Reverend Campbell, but the fact is, we’ve had a number of our people report lately—they’ve seen undesirables in the building—”

Campbell’s whittling knife paused. “Undesirables?”

The official blinked: “Well, yes, you know what I mean the sort—”

And Campbell murmured again, “Undesirables? Can you tell me, for the love of Jesus Christ, exactly who it is that our Lord asked us to reach and to serve?”

The official again cleared his throat and patiently submitted, “Reverend Campbell, I don’t think you understand what I’m trying to get across, exactly. You see, there’s also been some stealing going on—”

And Campbell snapped dryly, “Some stealing? Didn’t our Lord tell us, if any man take your coat, give him your cloak also?” Campbell’s voice now lifted slightly: “Yes sir, I do understand, I think. Yes sir. We’ve somehow wound up in the position, God help us, where our Savior’s church is forced to regard as undesirables those very people it was commanded to save, and to barricade itself against them, even if it takes gas to do it.”

The official, his face now florid, a faint film of sweat having appeared on his temples—said, “Now, I think we might be getting jut a little bit overzealous here—”

Campbell, shaking his head, muttered, “No we ain’t. We supposed to be zealous in these matters. See, I’m not blaming you, understand that. If I were in your position, I’d have to feel exactly the same way. You got to protect all that stuff over there. You enter into a contract with the devices and assumptions of Caesar—let’s don’t even say the devil, let’s just say Caesar—you got to act then according to Caesar’s terms. But those ain’t exactly the terms of the gospel, are they?”

The official only started at Campbell for several seconds, motionless, mute, and finally Campbell offered, “But it’s hard, ain’t it? It’s hard to get.”

After a long moment, the official at last said in a small voice, “Yes, it is. It’s very hard to understand, Reverend Campbell.”

Geeking on Googie

You know those old buildings with the sloped or angled roofs? The ones that throw you back to mid-century America’s manic preoccupation with space exploration and the atomic age? (Think gas stations, motels, fast-food restaurants, diners, laundromats, car dealerships, airports, and drive-ins.) Well, it turns out that that bizarre style of architectural weirdness has a name: Googie.

Yeah. Googie.

(It’s OK. I hadn’t heard of it either until a couple days ago.)

The word itself is just cutesy enough to sound like an appropriate adjective for structures designed in this particular style. As in, “Ooh! Look at the googie Space Needle! It’s simply adorable!”

Space Needle

Seattle’s Space Needle. Yes. It’s Googie.

Or, “Dude. Don’t tell anyone how googie I got in Vegas.”

Welcome to Las Vegas

The “Welcome to Las Vegas” sign. Also Googie.

But, in fact, the moniker has a sweeter origin.

The origin of the name Googie dates to 1949, when architect John Lautner designed the West Hollywood coffee shop, Googies, which had distinct architectural characteristics…Googies was located at the corner of Sunset Boulevard and Crescent Heights in Los Angeles. (Wikipedia)

And here’s what Googie turned into over the next couple of decades:

Features of Googie include upswept roofs, curvaceous, geometric shapes, and bold use of glass, steel and neon. Googie was also characterized by Space Age designs symbolic of motion, such as boomerangs, flying saucers, atoms and parabolas, and free-form designs such as “soft” parallelograms and an artist’s palette motif. These stylistic conventions represented American society’s fascination with Space Age themes and marketing emphasis on futuristic designs….Some examples have been preserved, though, such as the oldest McDonald’s stand that was put on the National Register of Historic Places in 1983. (Wikipedia)

The Oldest MacDonald's

The Oldest MacDonald’s. You guessed it: Googie.

As with any other rage, Googie went the way of the dinosaurs. Googies that once looked like this:

Googie Denny's

Now look like this:Googie RuinsAnd so it goes. But no matter. I’m happy to have found a name for this iconic style. I’m happy that “Googie” is such a googie word. And I’m happy to have dug up a couple of awesome Googie illustrations that take me right back to the musty pages of the 1961 Childcraft Encyclopedias that were, when I was a kid, the Source of All Information.

Childcraft EncyclopediasBecause who wouldn’t want to live in a Googie house on Googie stilts? I know I would.

Googie House

The Last of the Teddy Girls

I recently surfed across a series of photographs taken by Ken Russell in 1955 and published in England’s Picture Post magazine. The subjects were called Teddy Girls. I’d never heard of them before, but after a little digging, here’s what I found out.

Teddy Girls, aka Judies, were young girls who, in the wake of WWII, quit school to work in shops, factories, or offices. They had pocket money. They smoked.

Teddy Girl Smoking

They hung out with dangerous boys.

Teddy Boy and Girl

They lived among the rubble of a bombed-out, postwar London, which kind of makes the Pink Ladies from Grease look like candy-stripers.

Teddy Girls on Rubble

And they did it all in style.

Teddy Girl with Boys

If there’s anything we can do to bring back their killer Edwardian fashion sense today, I’m so in. From Wikipedia:

Their choice of clothes wasn’t only for aesthetic effect: these girls were collectively rejecting post-war austerity. They were young working-class women, often from Irish immigrant families who had settled in the poorer districts of London — Walthamstow, Poplar and North Kensington. They would typically leave school at the age of 14 or 15, and work in factories or offices. Teddy Girls spent much of their free time buying or making their trademark clothes. It was a head-turning, fastidious style from the fashion houses, which had launched haute-couture clothing lines recalling the Edwardian era.

I couldn’t find much else about the Teddy Girls online. It appears Russell captured most of what is currently known about them and that he knew, even then, that he was documenting a small pocket of counterculture already in decline. What became of the girls in these photographs? Where are their children and grandchildren? Have any artifacts–costumes, photographs, personal accounts of the time–survived? How I would love to know.TG2

Wil Wheaton Sighting

Spent much of the weekend downtown, battling the crowds. Rockies games both Saturday and Sunday; Denver Chalk Art Festival both Saturday and Sunday (which was very awesome, if the pieces we actually got close enough to see were any indication of the show as a whole–I totally want to do this next year); some sort of race on Saturday morning that no one seemed to be in any hurry to finish but that closed off lots of downtown streets anyway; a farmer’s market; some other Sunday festival that had Colfax closed off and required us to take a detour; and, of course, Denver Comic Con.

Warren had one more panel today (topic: the future of space opera) with the lovely and talented Betsy Dornbusch, et al, so I did get in to walk the exhibit floor for about thirty minutes beforehand. Which was more than enough to catch the drift of the DCC experience. And I do mean “drift.” By Sunday night, cons begin to smell a bit like upset stomachs and unwashed hair. People are tired. Their costumes are droopy. Their body paint is rubbing off. It’s time to go home.

Highlights of the weekend included (a) lunch at the Rio with Warren, Mario Acevedo, Bonnie Biafore, Jason Heller, Daniel Abraham, and Jesse Bullington–accomplished writers all, (b) getting lots of my own writing done, and (c) walking right past Wil Wheaton at 17th and Blake. (What were he and his entourage doing over there after dark anyway? Jax? McCormick’s? Curious.)

Now, I’m not a trekkie. Never have been. So the Wil Wheaton of my childhood is this guy:

Wil Wheaton

Wil Wheaton in STAND BY ME

But I love that he’s become a beacon for the Geek and Proud Crowd and that he seemed to be enjoying Denver. At least, he looked like he was enjoying Denver. The day he flew in, he had this to say:

Wil Wheaton TweetAnd then he linked to this. Which is awesome. I live here, and I didn’t know this stuff.

Denver Chalk Art Festival

Today, I’m geeking out at the Denver Chalk Art Festival, where my friend Mario Acevedo is hard at work. Go, Mario, go! I took this picture and texted it to him, then walked away. He never even knew I was there. Me so sneaky.

In other geek news, Denver Comic Con is in full swing this weekend. Warren has a couple panels there this weekend, and when I dropped him off at the convention center this morning, I saw, I don’t know, maybe a thousand people waiting in line to get in. Lots of capes and slut boots and Marvel tee shirts. Good times. I won’t even try to get in. Instead, I’ve skulked off to Starbucks to get a little writing done.

Mario Acevedo

Mario Acevedo working on his contribution to the 2013 Denver Chalk Art Festival