Guess who’s here?

GRETA!

Last night, we were walking around Wash Park, and looked to our right to see… a roof-top band!

They noticed us taking their picture, and yelled for us to come up.

Yes.  They yelled for us to let ourselves in through the front door, go down the hall to the staircase, climb to the attic, and then clamber out the window and up to the roof.

And thanks to my new-found Spiderman climbing skills discovered on Mt. Evans this weekend…

… well.  Needless to say, we bonded.

Yes, I played the trumpet.  No, I don’t know whose lips have been on that thing.  But how could I resist?  It was a real live HOOTENANNY.

When I first saw a copy of Jakob Dylan’s new album, “Women and Country,” I was immediately intrigued. I mean, come on – look at the cover.

Even better, check out the cover of his EP, the precursor to the full record.

Based on these two pictures, this is the coolest man alive. And this album confirms it… because holy mother of pearl, it is phenomenal. I’ve had it on repeat – it’s the soundtrack to my existence these days.

So on Friday afternoon, just before I left work, I checked his website to see if he was coming to Denver anytime soon. I pulled up the tour dates, and right there at the top of the list was my city. I couldn’t believe it – I checked the date, and… HE WAS PLAYING THAT VERY NIGHT, one mile from my house.

Serendipity? Me thinks YES.

I kicked it into gear, and ran down to the theater to buy a lone ticket. I couldn’t believe that there were still seats available with just an hour to spare, but $28 later, I was hurrying home to change and scoot back in time for the show.

Except.

Somewhere in the mile between my house and the theater, I lost the ticket. It was in my back pocket when I set off for the venue, but when I arrived at the door, it was gone. I panicked, telling the girl at the box office my situation, showing her my receipt – but no dice. No ticket, no admission.

The show was about to start, but I turned around and started to retrace my steps home. I bent down to check every scrap of paper I saw, but it was always a bus ticket, a receipt, a matchbook. My shoes started to give me blisters, so I took them off and walked barefoot in the dark. By the time I got halfway home, picking up every piece of trash I found, no sign of the ticket, shoes in hand, totally devastated – I just started to cry.

And I couldn’t stop.

In my own defense, I wasn’t just being dramatic.  The tears were the culmination of several incredibly difficult things happening in my life right now – things that are weighing around my neck heavier than a millstone. Losing my ticket put me over the edge; I was a hot mess.

So I did the only thing that I knew to do in times of distress, which was… you know, call my mom.

She encouraged me to go back and get another ticket, so I did. Except when I showed up at the box office (again – third time in two hours), I was STILL CRYING. It wasn’t that I was trying to make them feel sorry for me – I simply could not pull it together. I was sniffling and wiping black rivers of mascara from my cheeks – it was not pretty.

The manager took one look at me, and ushered me in without question.

And it was the greatest show.

Now, I’m not endorsing stuffing your emotions in until they erupt on a Denver street corner.  All I’m saying is… it might come in handy.

“At least it will make a good blog,” I laughed.

“What will you title it?” he asked.

I thought for a second, but really, there was only one choice: “‘Up to my crotch,’ of course.”

- – - – - – - -

See, what happened is… I have a friend named Bennett.  He and I knew each other when we lived in Seattle, but in the last few years, had totally fallen out of touch – until I ran into him at a church here in Denver last month.  I didn’t know he lived here, he didn’t know I lived here – there was hugging and exclaiming.

Yesterday, Bennett and I went hiking in Rocky Mountain National Park.  He is rugged and outdoorsy and works at REI, so he is a good person to follow into the wilderness.  The first two miles of the trail were snowy, but we only sunk in to our ankles or so.  It was promising to be a doable 8 miler.

But then.

“Look at that mountain,” Bennett said.  “We could climb it.”

I followed his stare to a 12,000 foot peak.  “THAT?” I asked.  “THAT is not on the path.”  A planner to the extreme, I have a hard time deviating from any original goal.  THAT mountain was not a part of my Sunday ambition.

“It wouldn’t take that long.  We could be at the top in an hour,” he said.  Bennett knows these things.  He cuts his own trails all the time.  He drives a 4-Runner and has a dog.  He owns, like, FIVE backpacks.  Plus, he is very tall.

And I, thirsty for adventure and a well-deserved beer at the end of the day, found myself saying, “Okay!”

We left the path, and began to cut our own across a snowy field.  Bennett went first, and I followed literally in his footsteps, stretching to place my foot where his had been by matching his very long stride.  “How tall are you?” I asked.  “6′3″,” he answered.  I grunted.

The snow got deeper and deeper, and suddenly, with one step, Bennett’s foot sunk and his entire leg was submerged.  The snow had to be at least 4 feet deep, and the sun had softened it just enough that it would no longer hold our weight.

Disaster?  Turn back now?  Not when you have a MOUNTAIN TO CLIMB.

I followed Bennett for two hours, one step at a time, across the snowy terrain and precisely in his footsteps – meaning that I was bending my knees up to hip-level, only to plunge my feet down into holes made by Bennett’s very long legs.  Sometimes, the holes were so deep that my foot would not reach the bottom, and I would be stuck, UP TO MY CROTCH, in snow.  And then, with both legs floating in holes so deep that I had no solid ground beneath my feet, immobile and helpless, I would call for Bennett – and he would come back and pluck me out of the ground.

Like a carrot.

We did not make it to the top of the mountain.  But our 4-hour adventure did result in me writing a blog featuring the ugliest word in the world – twice.

I’ll just cut to the chase: Southwest Airlines lost my luggage this weekend.

[insert me telling you how this sent me for a minor emotional tailspin, and how I was sick as a dog, and almost broke down and gave up, but soldiered on – for the children, really, and for America]

Flying from Nashville to Austin on Friday night, I was exhausted.  I was getting sick – and I had no Kleenex.  So on the plane, to my horror and shame, I had no choice but to use my sleeve to wipe my insanely runny nose.  Multiple times.

Southwest offered to reimburse me for $50 worth of necessities until they found my bags – which, when you are in town for a wedding, and all you have is the mucus-crusted cardigan on your back, won’t get you very far.  But I appreciated the gesture, and went to Target to max out on the necessary toiletries, medications, and two pairs of underwear.

Why two pairs?  Because I wasn’t sure what kind of a dress I would wind up wearing, and any woman can tell you that different dresses call for different undergarments.  Just… I just needed both pairs, okay?  Always be prepared.

I found a dress and shoes at TJ Maxx, took a hot shower, my meds kicked in, and a great time was had by all at Joey and Sam’s fabulous wedding.  All’s well that ends well, right?

Not so fast, sparky.

Southwest decided to itemize my Target receipt, saying that they weren’t sure that all of these things were truly “necessary” to my survival without my luggage.  Things that made the cut, no questions asked?  Cosmetics.  Medicine.  Eyedrops.  Tampons.  Thanks, guys, for deeming tampons “necessary.”  You are too kind.

The complication?  The underwear.

Apparently, because the luggage was returned within 24 hours, only one of the pairs was considered “necessary.”  And so there at the Southwest counter, I was asked to indicate which pair I wore that day – bikini or thong.  Multiple times, I was asked out loud, “Which pair did you need today?  The bikini or the thong?”

You will never know.

But Southwest does.

Although I watched the opening ceremonies of the Olympics last week, I have yet to watch an actual Olympic.  However, I must say that I’m liking Shaun White these days.  I don’t know why – I never paid him any attention before.  But isn’t he so likable?  His big smile and happy heart?

Don’t you think Shaun White has a happy heart?  He seems like it.

You know who DOESN’T have a happy heart today?  Yours truly.  The DMV is officially the thorn in my side, the hitch in my get-up.  After basically being accused of being a criminal and driving a stolen vehicle, they refused to issue me Colorado license plates.  I now have no choice but to make an appointment with a little organization called the COLORADO STATE PATROL to clear my name.

It’s practically the Salem Witch Trials.

Except, come to think of it, not really the same at all.

Was this week my personal pinnacle of pointless blogging, or what?

What happened to all of my gushing emotion, my wretched depression, my rants that get me labeled a “graceless man-basher”?  So far, December has been a tame and doltish month here on ye olde blog.

Today, I could make up for lost time, and try to redeem my reputation as an overly-emotive sap/jerk – but guys, it’s Friday.  It’s quitting time.  It’s 5 o’clock somewhere.  Let’s keep things light, let’s keep things loose.

I bring to you… THE BEST PICTURE EVER.

Why is this picture so awesome?  Is it my long, luxurious locks?  My effortless, casual smile?  My eyes pretending to stare at something that probably wasn’t there?

No.  What makes this picture awesome is my hand up in my hair, all nonchalant… and disturbingly, looking like a gremlin claw-arm growing out of my head.

I am SO SORRY for wasting your time.  It was either this, or a tirade about how Laughing Cow has started packaging their cheese in cubes rather than wedges.  In other words… you’re welcome.

But… I just love him so much.  So much that I want to be just like him.

I’m not feeling many words these days.  Obviously.

But I will say GOOD LUCK to my friends Joey and Stephanie who are both taking the bar exam starting today.  Rock it like it’s your job until it IS your job.

I tout myself as a thrifty person – one who hates to waste anything – and will find a use for every half-used jar of marmalade, every discarded ribbon from a birthday present, every unloved piece of furniture.

However, I am a fraud – no better than a snake oil salesman.

My parents recently visited me in Nashville, and my dad bought a 2-liter bottle of Diet Pepsi.  I don’t drink pop, but I couldn’t bring myself to dump out the still half-full bottle when he left.  So rather than tossing the $1’s worth of leftovers down the drain, I went out and spent $20 on a bottle of rum.

Rum and Diet Pepsi isn’t even an awesome drink.

But I tell you what: every drop of that Diet Pepsi was utilized.

Still, that was really stupid financial reasoning.

I suppose even angels fall.

Jeremy: “I have some great ideas for pictures on the cruise.”

Me: “Awesome!”

Jeremy: “I know.  There’s one shot that I’m positive I’ll have to get.”

Me: “Cool – what is it?”

Jeremy: “Well, it will be you, in some sort of dress.  And we’ll go to the very front of the boat.  And you’ll climb up on the railing, and spread out your arms.  And we’ll find a deckhand to come up behind you and whisper into your ear…”

Trust me: if we make this happen, you will be seeing it.