Aug. 9th., 2004, Monday,
Made it to the South St. Vrain, 50 miles outta' Golden. What an odd feeling - I've stopped at the same spot I lived at for the first three months that I was in the Lyons area, way back in 1976. I remember distinctly what propelled me from Berkeley, CA to CO : Charles Edward Carrion Crow - my mentor, friend and Native American Shaman (and, I only deduced many years after the fact, my CIA handler for the LSD study portion of the black-op "M K Ultra") had awakened on the other couch in Cal's living room to find that he had wet hinself sometime after passing out at the end of our weekly weekend long party. He woke up, dicovered his sodden state and, seeing me waking as well declared: "Gandalf, we gotta go some place else. This place is getting old, and I'm tired of waking up with a hangover all the time."
"OK, Scott", I said, "I'm ready for a change? How about Colorado? Let's take my VW Bus and go see Bellow." I had just been laid off at the candle-factory in Half Moon Bay for questioning the ownership about the reason for the persistant coughs that the illegal immigrant women had, the ones who worked in the unventilated room where damaged candles were repaired, and had qualified for Unemployment Insurance, so we would have money coming in when we got there.
And that was it, within 3 days we had made ourselves enough money to buy food and fuel for a month or so and we hit the road. Had a fairly Thai-dyed journey through the Sierras, Nevada and Southern Utah, arriving in Boulder no worse for wear and loaded for bear.
Ah, Boulder in the '70s, before the Mall, before Yuppie-scum-greenbelt-earthtonedrabness grabbed it. Back in the days when Time Magazine had articles about what a party town it was, what with the "daily flights from Bogota" (we actually had shirts printed up with "Where's the Flight from Bogota?" after that article was published). Mother's Cafe at the bottom of the hill with Roscoe (the owner) dishing up hash browns and asking all my squeezes: "What are you doing with that hippie when you could have me?", his pot belly quivering with laughter and crumbs falling out of his beard into the omelets he was cooking. Yep those were the days . . .
Then, after months of hanging out in Boulder, hooking up with 'Dan and the Clan', who were moving our 'purplemicros' and who had a house in Nederland about 1/2 a block from the Pioneer Inn (back then, famous musicians who lived in the area would appear at the bar after midnight, mustaches looking like they had just scarfed about 200 powdered donuts, and play for hours, just for the hellofit!) my VW bus blew a seal going up Boulder Canyon, right by the Falls, where it gets steep, and I found myself in living next to the South St. Vrain river outside of Lyons.
I had a new van (a '70 Chevy Sportvan) bought with the last of my UI money, and was living in it by the river and commuting to the first Machine Shop I worked at, in Longmont. This was the place where I broke my back (the first time: "Clay-Shovelor's fracture of the 7th cervical vertebrae) and both the company I was working for AND the doctor they sent me to covered up the injury. So here I was again and wasn't it strange.
This time though, I knew a great deal more than I knew then. I knew that as long as there is an entrenched coterie of powerful idealogues protecting a wages-and-profit based venture [complete with 'employers': Undercover Federal and local drug agents, and 'employees': hapless addicts coerced into cooperation &/or paid confidential informants; who depended upon it for their very jobs, and next 'fix' (respectively)] that was itself dependant on the existance and expansion of a criminal subculture of substance-abusers, that the elimination of said subculture would never be in any of the "war On Drugs" proponent's best interests. In fact, I had learned that anyone (such as myself) attempting to assist in getting people OFF drugs, and asserting that the abrogation of 4th. Amendment freedoms was actually treasonous, would end up being persecuted, at the very least, or with a price on their heads, as there was in my case in my last days in Golden.
Believe it or not, agents of the "West Metro Drug Enforcement Task Force" had allocated $9000.00 for the job of inducing someone to plant evidence on my person or property that would allow the aforementioned agents to then bust me and remove my influence from their towm and their sick game. And even though all that was ever offered to various compromised individuals in the area was $4500.00 (the agents always took THEIR cut, you see) there were NO takers! I had at least managed to impress the oppressed with my attempts to help them, and boy, did that frustrate and anger the agents and their bosses.
So, I had to leave. Not so much for my safety, but for the safety of the poor people I had tried to help, because even KNOWING me was beginning to mean trouble for the coerced, such was the wrath of the their Nazi inspired 'employers'! Hence, my exit . . .