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 . . .
