I killed the engine and dismounted- swearing, confused.
What did I have? What could I work with.
A dilapidated motorcycle, a bag of clothing, notebook, my instinct to survive. etc etc.
I was splitting rent with Baggins on cap hill, him on his bed, me on an air mattress in the kitchen. The beginning Denver days consisted of waking up thinking about nicotine and coffee, both of which I felt obligated to indulge in down at Roostercat coffee house. I got wise to buying groceries pretty quickly, though it felt I wasn't at home, at liberty to do so.
[Groceries are some of those things that connote “feeling settled”, you know, like “taking the robe out of the closet”; I slept in long johns next to a radiator on a sack of air with a hole in it. You need to have an imagination in harrowing times like these.]
The baristas at RC gave me free coffee about half the time, as they started to warm up to me. I spent many a morning, many a night at the coffee house; chain smoking, dialogues with new friends- of course there was sort of a core group at the time- centered around friends of friends of the owner, Colin, who, being a director/producer/set crasher, attracted the small clique of Denver filmmakers to his coffee house.
It was mostly just comedic blathering. Smoking, drinking coffee till your teeth rattled and piss stank, exchanging ideas that may never reach fruition… And everyone seemed to be there for a reason. Graduates, students, very few poets (in comparison to my Boulder days…), musicians, people humbled by the security of drudgery. And strangely enough for being a “metropolis” most of the people were native Coloradans. That was my social circle.
And there was me: a lost fucking outlaw, head in the clouds, hand on the throttle, having to bullshit my aspirations because it seemed like everyone had them except me.
The influence of film makers at RC started to tickle my gooch. Bagzinski had recently took on a project (unpaid) for some friends in a band. A daunting project- that of taking a video of a live performance and cutting it together. He was novice on the camera at the time, had probably had his gooch tickled by the tantal of our peer group.
We were sitting around and I saw that one of my first influential contemporary bands, Devil Makes Three, was playing in a couple of days. Struck by boredom and lack of a solid direction, I wanted to go, but knew it wasn't quite conducive with my Mortimer budget.
Draggin the everlastin cig, I look over and see Harlem Brando chipping away at the music video. Hmmmm. Hit up Devil Makes Three and interview them on video for a free ticket.
Having a flash of inspiration and task driven determination like that is refreshingly sobering, especially for a lost asshole like myself.
I didn't know how to use a camera. First thing that jumped into mind was forging a press pass. 'Post Homestead Press' was the company name. I began peeling away at the layers of managers, PR, press agencies involved to get to Devil Makes Three.
Continue reading tomorrow.
