Things To Do in Denver ... Pt 2

Sometimes Nostalgia Is An Asshole - Boat Drinks

This one should be short, kinda bittersweet, a bit self-centered, and a little sad. I should also add that no one is responsible for the daydreams in my head but me, and that I’m not upset at anyone but me. This whole thing is more about me than anything else, but, hey, it’s my POV and we write what we think we know.

I went to Denver this weekend for a funeral … memorial … whatever. I went to celebrate a life lived out loud by a guy that, it seems, everybody loved. I certainly did. I went, as well, to wallow in nostalgia.

Ken Walters was unique. There really was no one like him. I’ve been a lot of places, and I’ve met an awful lot of people, and no one, absolutely no one was like Ken. When I saw that there was going to be a celebration of Ken’s life, I knew I had to be there.

Ken saved my life, both literally and figuratively.

I’ll summarize.

I broke my neck in 1996. 6 fractures in the C4, 5, and 6 vertebrae and another 9 in the C4, 5, and 6 spinous process. I was T-Boned by a drunk driver in a farm truck vs. a little 1985 Toyota Corolla.

I spent about a year getting “better” and when they finally took off the last neck brace, my 22 inch neck measured in at a measly 14 inches. I looked bizarre, and I looked weak.

Ken popped up and helped me help myself with a job at a bar that made the Road House look like a country club. Read That One Here.

There was a group of Denver folks back in the 90’s my brain calls The Coffee Shop Kids. I used to call it The Coffee Shop Collective, but now I’m old where we used to be young, and “kids” is where I’m at. I digress.

For the most part this was a group of exceptional youngsters. Artistic types, deep thinkers, and loving companions. I was, for a short time, adopted by these amazing people. Ken was one of them, and also apart from them, insofar as Ken ran in EVERY group, knew seemingly everyone, and would pop up in the weirdest places.

ASIDE: I took the kiddos to DisneyLand in 2009. Even having not seen him in more than a decade, I legitimately kept an eye out for Ken the whole time because running into Ken in odd places was, a lot of the time, just how you ran into Ken.

So … flash foreword to this last weekend.

I loaded up Tiffany into Mr. Truck and we headed out for Denver. The visions in my head were fantastical and totally unrealistic. I was ready for an adopted Family Reunion that just could not happen, but I ignored the voices in my head and got myself excited to see old friends and dive into some Auld Lang Syne.

Here’s the thing.

The majority of The Coffee Shop Kids left Denver decades ago. They live far away - some of them VERY FAR AWAY. It wasn’t realistic to think everyone would pour into town to basically make me feel better about a guy that they’d known longer than I had.

Life happens, even when death is involved, and there’s not a damn thing anyone can do about it.

We got to Denver and I started reaching out to old friends to see where everyone was and if we could get together while I was in town. Drip after drip of self-inflicted disappointment as I learned that no one could make it. It was too far, too expensive, too … much. I mean, I live on the other side of the mountains. A relatively easy drive for a weekend of reflection.

I did my best to brush it off because, in all honesty, this weekend had nothing to do with me.

I did get to spend some time with a beloved old friend, and we got to laugh about how silly it is to get old. We hadn't seen each other since 1998, and it was like so easy to get chatty and caught up, however abbreviated, on each other and our wacky adventures from the last 20 years.

ASIDE: When I broke my neck, it was Amy and her family that took me in while I mended. They cared for me, sheltered me, fed me, and helped me for more than a year. I owe them so very much, and what little gratitude I did show could never equal what they did for me. Life happens, sure, but falling out of touch with Amy was one of my larger dick moves. I've vowed not to do it again. I should probably tell her … be right back …

The Funeral.

It was held at a lovely pavilion at a large graveyard I can’t remember the name of. We got there early, and a very nice lady who looked and sounded like an extra from the Andy Griffith show, let us sit in the lobby and use the restrooms (more and more an issue as I get older).

We knew pretty quickly we were at the right place because of all the black button ups and ponytails. We took a seat in the back and listened to a member of Ken’s family say some nice things, invite everyone to eat something, and, please, step to the microphone and share your memories of Ken. No one moved. The crowd had the “shys” and we all nervously stared at the empty mic.

The first two folks to speak were friends of Ken’s from junior high school. One of them mentioned the Paris and Muddy’s* crowd in passing and I was aware that, unless my shitty memory was causing problems, I was the only one of the coffee shop kids to make it.

I spoke for a minute or two, managed not to swear more than a couple of times, and told one of the stories I had of Ken. I ended up nearly choking as I tried to tell this manly tail, but I couldn’t. After I finished, Ken’s mom called me over and gave me a hug. I have no idea what she said, I quickly sobbed “I loved Ken. Thanks for making him,” and went back to my seat.

Speaker after speaker got up, and through tears, talked about how exceptional Ken was. Stories of junior high, high school, and the years after flowed through the crowd. There were a lot of sniffles as the stories flowed, and I sat quietly leaking eye water while they talked. The make up of folks that made it was diverse as hell. People from all walks of like, on every step of the social ladder, were there, proclaiming their love and fond memories of an exceptional man.

It was beautiful.

I left early.

They took a break so that people would eat the food the family had brought, and I’d had just about enough. I knew I couldn’t emotionally handle any more, so, I left and went to a comic book warehouse**. I think Ken would have been more than fine with that. He understood people on a fundamental level that would forgive what to most would be a social blunder on the scale of farting in a crowded car.

I did dabble in nostalgia, in spite of my sadness. I had breakfast at Pete’s Kitchen and it was perfect. I had dinner at Jerusalem, a restaurant I love, and it was several levels of perfect. I drove Tiffany around and pointed at places I’d lived, and in-between pointed at places my friends lived. We drove past Civic Center Park where I’d been beaten half to death by Nazis because I had a loud mouth, a hateful dislike of skinheads and a certain misery because I’d been dumped just an hour before.

We did about 2% of what I wanted to do in Denver, but just didn’t have time.

Denver, for me, has always felt like home. Some of the most impressive people I’ve ever know became known to me in Denver. I ran away from Utah when I was 18 years old, based on a false fact that Jack Kerouac spent a lot of time there, and that no one checked ID’s when Mike and I would go play open stages at the bars. I was in a band in Denver, and I miss the hell out of it. I fell in love a few times in Denver, and I had my heart broken more often. There are people I’ve not spoken to in decades that I would take a bullet for today just because of how I felt when I knew them young.

While there are a few folks that still call Denver home. the majority of my Denver friends left a long ass time ago. For the most part, they grew up there, and were not young, culture shocked, ex-Mormon transplants. They, I am told, were all looking for a way out of town, much like me escaping Utah, and so, they did.

Denver in the 90’s is special to me. Magical. Mysterious. Dangerous …

ASIDE: The only other place I’ve ever been mugged was in Sacramento, CA.

… exactly what I needed at that time and at that age. I love that town, no matter how big and expensive it is. I want to go back almost constantly, again, to escape Utah.

I love Portland. I love Seattle. I love San Diego … but I LOVE Denver and I always will, no matter how gritty she is.

So, thanks, Ken. Thank you for letting me be your friend, thank you for the sporadic and chaotic care you showed me, and everyone else who loved you. I’m sorry for the gaps in our time, brother. I would have loved to see you more often even if I never did a damn thing about it. You were amazing. I miss the hell out of you. Rest, brother. You are loved, and you are remembered.

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* Paris on the Platte and Muddy’s were quite different coffee shops in Denver in the 90’s. I loved both places and spent a lot of time, for a lot of reasons, at both.

** Mile High Comics is huge. HUGE! All it did, sadly, was give me anxiety about things I needed to do at Volts, and how much I wanted to tidy up every area I went into.