4th of July Gonzo

I took my own advice and pinballed around the town for the Fourth of July. I’m a lot of things but I’m no hypocrite.

It was a wise decision my not entering the Independence Day Freedom 5k. The winning time clocked in under eighteen minutes, an absolutely blistering pace for over three solid miles which I haven’t achieved since I was a much younger man.

Having one’s clock cleaned by every conceivable age and sex bracket is no way to start a holiday.

BVHS athlete Z---- S---- took first in the women’s and second overall with a time of 20:14. She took the sort of time catching her breath and wits after the race that evidences a good effort.

Dignity gets slippery at the finish line. Even a victory might be attended by the kind of loss of motor or gastro control that civilized society simply won’t countenance. Many don’t know but the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat can be Venn-diagrammed with significant intersect.

S---- is finishing her sophomore year running the 800m, mile, 2-mile, and 4 by 800m relay.

She was appropriately modest when asked about her ambitions for state-level competition in cross country but after her recent win in the 2-mile at the state track and field championship and this impressive time for a summer fun-run, she’s definitely one to watch.

I proceeded to the Optimist Club’s pancake breakfast. The event was well-attended and smelled incredible. I would have partaken but being equal parts shamed and inspired back at the 5k, I had other plans. I dropped my car at home and jogged to the track to put in some 400m intervals.

Penance paid, my wife and I headed down to Art in the Park. The atmosphere was supersaturated with kitsch, commerce, and star-spangled apparel. I didn’t tell her so, but feel sure that it prepared her more for her upcoming citizenship test than the previous four days of arduous study she underwent.

Duty called me down to South Main, where I’m now writing this as I provide EMS support for the concert series. “FESTIVAL,” has been the regular crowd-frothing reprise of Leftover Salmon’s lead man.

By the end of this afternoon’s three-hour performance I’ll have experienced 9 hours in total of LS’s far-out jams. Sort of a lot of old fish even for a guy who’s spent a good bit of time in the Isaan.

Luckily every set’s been 100% unique—no songs repeated—and the material quite varied.

Opening bands the first two nights were Tejon Street Thieves and Tara Rose and the Real Deal. Both groups were a couple guys and a gal with guitar, banjo, and stand-up bass.

Tejon started and ended their set with songs about whiskey and their voices had authentic rasp. Tara Rose fronted her Real Deal and the result was similar but sweeter.

Wood Belly is a 5-piece that opened tonight. Adding a dobro and mandolin to the aforementioned instrumentation filled out the sound considerably compared to the previous openers.

This was the classic, quintessential bluegrass arrangement, as my coworker informed me.

Coworker’s a big fan of the Salmon. He has I think sensed my lukewarm attitudes toward bluegrass and jam music and resents me for it.

The getting-to-know-you has been a roller coaster. We can both handily quote Dumb and Dumber, which is a crucial fallback when things get tense.

More and more I find little in common with fellow ski patrollers besides the job. Coworker, for instance, voted not to unionize his patrol this past season because, as he told me, he trusts his boss completely and knows what he signed up for.

I left it at that. The history of the labor movement is probably not best shouted over bluegrass music in a security/medical tent.

He did after all willingly sign up to be paid a fraction of his worth while his boss runs interference for the CEO that makes 4,000 times more than him per hour and what more is there to say?

Things only got worse when I commented on the outrageous price of housing in his county of residence. What could median rents on abodes mean to a generation that has forgotten full-time employment earning the means to obtain an entire dwelling of one’s own?

Coworker makes a new friend

He told me he lives for free by charging his friends rent in a modular home he mortgaged. He stays in the master bedroom, he said.

Total trust in a boss who says the multi-billion dollar company is paying him fairly and unions divide workers. Landlord to his friends. What a guy.

Shouldn’t judge too harshly though. He’s living some kind of Colorado Rocky Mountain American Dream and here I am just yearning for a dream from some lost past.

Which of us is more misguided? Difficult to say.

But I won’t ever bilk a friend out of my share of the rent, I know that much.

Local fiddler C---- S---- has joined Leftover Salmon for this closer set and the lead player is shredding on a flying V guitar. This and the upcoming DeadPhish Orchestra will constitute this reporter’s July Fourth finale, as I’m contracted through dusk and beyond.

Wish I could join everyone for the Legion fireworks down at the rodeo grounds but I must do something that’s become perhaps even more American and chase some holiday wages.

Happy Fourth of July and solidarity forever.