(Hope I) Get Well Soon!

Originally printed in Suburban Voice #43 – 1999

I’ve lived in Denver since I was 1, in 1973. The ever unique Colorado. I believe the only band from here that you would have seen interviewed in this magazine was The Fluid in 1990 or so. However, I also believe that the majority of times that you hear about our fine region (it is nice), it’s got a rather negative, peculiar angle to it. Have you noticed? If it weren’t for the recent, uncharacteristic success of the Denver Broncos, I sometimes think this state would be seen as just bizarre. And quite honestly, other than stupid violent crimes and our ‘image’ of being rodeo-obsessed hayseeds, I don’t necessarily mind it. Freaks do liven up the day, after all, and you needn’t be in California to know what I mean. Let’s see…

Who could forget about Ronald Reagan’s would-be assassin from Evergreen, John Hinckley? So close yet so far! Then there was that loon from Park Hill, Crystal Cartier, who sued Michael Jackson claiming that she was the one who wrote “Billie Jean.” Imagine suing Michael Jackson (oh, there’s been no shortage of that in recent years – MJ). Why not go after the surviving Beatles while you’re at it, too? Or how about Francisco Duran from Colorado Springs who fired several rounds at a White House wall with a semi-automatic assault rifle in broad daylight? That’ll show ‘em, huh? A little Glidden paint and some new glass and the President was able to get right back to that football game. Remember the “Focus on the Family” anti-gay and lesbian militia also from Colorado Springs? Or how about the insular and creepy “Promise Keepers,” dreamt up by CU Buffaloes Coach Bill McCarthy in Boulder? Then there were the “Boulder Beer Riots,” where all the trust-fund kids on campus set the town on fire and went looting after one too many of their keg parties were broken up. Awesome, bud! Or what about that “Bob” idiot from Denver (I don’t even want to give his full name, the creep) who bought up all of O.J. Simpson’s auctioned possessions and then set them on fire in front of that L.A. courthouse? Well, he had no sooner done that when he was arrested and sent to Denver County Jail for beating his girlfriend and her son. Whatever. The infamous “Deep Throat” star Linda Lovelace was also in a fatal car accident in Denver. Then of course you’ve got the perpetually vague circumstances surrounding the Jon Benet Ramsey murder in Boulder. I guess if you’re even richer that O.J., you too can kill a loved one in a feverish fit, then blow it off and come out even more unscathed.

Then there was all of that wonderful attention Denver got for holding the Oklahoma City bombing trials here. Who could forget the (semi) animated, (semi) controversial TV hit, “South Park” (a real place way up in the mountains). And if staying in your home 24-7 in lieu of a jail sentence appeals to you at all, you have Denver to thank for “House Arrest,” which originated here. As did the wonderful “Denver Boot” car immobilization device. I once went into my local Post Office to check my P.O. Box, as I do every week, and came out less than 2 minutes later to find one on my front wheel. Surprise! You can only ignore minor parking tickets for so long. You have both Sebadoh’s “As The World Dies,” and the Doughboys’ “She Doesn’t Live There Anymore” that make references to Colorado, but then conversely there’s all of the weird trouble that rock stars seem to get into once they come to Denver. Take Depeche Mode guitarist Martin Gore. All the poor guy was trying to do was live like a real rock ‘n roller, you know? So what if he hurled a large TV and a couch through a Denver hotel room window? Like, natch! Does that mean he really needs to be arrested and have his mug shot plastered all over town? Guess so. 

I remember waking up one morning and turning on the TV to find a visibly shaken Hootie & The Blowfish live at Denver International Airport (which is another story, in and of itself). It turns out that the airplane on which the band was flying had to have an emergency landing here when another (drunk, insane) passenger began shouting and throwing food at the band and flight attendants. He had claimed to be a member of the Blowfish and was temporarily allowed to join them in first class. When the band told him to beat it, the guy totally flipped out and the plane made a bee line for, where else, Denver, so they could lock the guy up. Hootie’s statement: “No, I don’t know who he is. Do you guys know who he is? We don’t have any idea what just happened.” Also, Black Crowes singer Chris Robinson tried to take some 3.2 beer (which is another story, in and of itself) from a Denver convenience store without paying. By the time the cops got there, it was just in time for the star to be heard saying, “Fuck you! Don’t you know who I am?” This is also when he apparently threw a $100 bill at the clerk, but he was still detained. And then of course, we had the Columbine High School massacre.

And people were surprised…why? It’s a question my friend posed and he’s not even from here. There does seem to be something in the southwest that does uncommon things to people’s minds, and no, I’m not talking about the altitude. But then, I don’t really know what it is, either. I am sure, however, that the type of environment that was already at that high school between early ’88 and late ’89 (when I was one of their students), did nothing to deter such a catastrophe. The enormous school, the disembodied artist types, the popular “Columbine Rebels” football team (who could do no wrong as far as the faculty were all concerned), and all of the forced ‘rebel pride’. So now it’s that situation, exacerbated by the availability of just about any semi-automatic weapon to affluent kids. Do the math! To me, sadly, it pretty much all figures. But I assure you, reader, that as frustrating as that school was to me, as much as the ‘peer’ rejection got to me, I had no intentions of going out like that.

I should mention that I was pissed from the get-go. My friends all went to Columbine’s ‘rival’ school, Chatfield High. My parents moved across the dividing line (Wadsworth Blvd.) and so there I was. Already a moderately dysfunctional teen who was completely enamored with punk rock and speed metal, this was not easy. And, there were no school buses for my subdivision. So, if I missed the public bus, I had to walk 45 minutes to be there by 7:00 a.m. Anyway, at first I was perseverant. I was usually late for first hour, Metal Shop class, so I would usually not go to that one, but I rarely missed my second class, Language Arts.

The Metal Shop class, when I was there, did not go well. Quite honestly, at that time I was more interested in pot smoking that spot welding. The other students in that class were all guys, and they were all hicks. When my grades in this class started looking grim, I convinced one of them to ‘help’ me with my welding assignment, which basically meant that I would give him $20 and he would do it for me. He did it, but it turns out that behind my back he also told the teacher all about it. So anyway, I turned in the project, and I missed the next 4 straight days of class. When I finally returned (early, for once) on the 5^th day, I actually kind of expected a positive turn of events since I had handed in a finished piece. I was sitting alone in the workshop 20 minutes before class, and the gruff Metal Shop teacher leaned out of his office, saw me, and muttered, “Oh no, no, no, no.” Then he walked up to me, firmly grabbed both of my shoulders and physically threw me out of class. “The park’s that way,” he yelled, referring to the adjacent Clement Park where everyone went to do their unapproved business. “Why don’t you go on and toke up your devil’s weed,” he added. This was the end of Metal Shop class. It was just as well, anyway. Now I could go to my new first hour, Language Arts, with renewed interest.

Here, I could actually make a respectable grade for myself. I began using the most verbose sentences I could in an effort to amuse myself and to let this teacher know that, although I might not resemble grade A material, I was. She was a jovial, kind of plump gal who took English quite seriously and knew that she ought not encourage or appreciate me, but she did. Once she put a smiley-face next to where I had written something like “…his idiosyncrasies were oft thwarted by jargon” in a short story. She called me a ‘card’ and a ‘pill’ a lot.

Anyway, it took me a long time to make friends there, and lunchtime in particular was rough. This is when the student cliques were most apparent. Not being part of one, I would hang out (for some strange reason) in the main entryway by the pay phone. What I would do (again, for amusement) was call and pester the Columbine main office. This office was just feet away from me. Using the phone company operator, I repeatedly made person-to-person calls to the school principal. I made up names like Dick Glick and Kermit Bullock and laughed when the bewildered principal struggled to recognize these nonexistent people calling him collect. I hadn’t even gotten bored of this moronic activity when finally, a secretary simply opened the door and peeked out into the entryway. I heard her say “here he is,” and then the principal rushed out and nabbed me. For several minutes, he just stared silently at me in his office. Later, the secretary entered the office and informed him that I was “not on file” at the school (due to some clerical error). The principal then stood with his back to me, gazed out the window and kept dramatically asking, “Who sent you?” and “Who do you work for?” I could barely even respond that I was a new student before he barked, “Listen punk, if you won’t cooperate with me, I’m sure the school superintendent would love to get a piece of you.” When it was finally resolved that I really was an enrolled student, who really did those pranks of my own free will, down came their decision: 10-day suspension. To this day, this is the one incident my folks actually laugh about.

When I returned to school, whether though some bizarre grapevine or some newfound appeal, I made a few friends at Columbine. All they ever wanted was pot, but at least that gave me something, uh, ‘constructive’ to do at lunchtime. And, at least we could talk about music. These kids were a combination of hardcore types, full-on stoners, and a few preppies, but when we were all together it started to feel almost as weird as when I wasn’t friends with anybody. Because these groups of kids all hated each other, they looked at me like a sore thumb. But my attitude was that they were just being petty, because it was those sacred athletes, the dummies on the Columbine Rebels football team that we had nothing in common with. I often saw these guys (unmistakable in their regimental school gear) hitting other unsuspecting students, knocking over their lunches and generally being loud and idiotic. But with me, they usually asked for pot or acid whenever they saw me. I always thought to myself, “Why do they even bother? Ignorance is bliss, right?” I always told them, “I don’t have anything like that,” the same response I would have given the principal himself if he’d asked me, which is what it sometimes felt suspiciously like.

In Art class, the jocks sat right by me and were obsessed with drawing different examples of cat torture (their legendary pastime) whenever it was free-art hour. I liked the Art teacher, but that this was acceptable to her (of course it was, they’re “Rebels”), made the outcome of this class even worse for me. One night, my mom told me that the Art teacher and Principal had gotten together and called her to recommend that I be temporarily excused from school to obtain psychological counseling. It seemed that the Art teacher didn’t find anything redeeming about my very colorful drawings of giant pumpkin-headed people and their giant cats driving cars and throwing bones as wrestlers wrestled. I was stunned. I continued to do the class and do my own thing, albeit with justifiable disdain for my ‘Art teacher’.

In History class, the teacher was the father of one of the star football players who, in a terrible car accident, had become a quadriplegic. Needless to say, I felt sad for him and his family. However, the fact remains that this teacher was a terribly closed-minded person who had chosen me to make some sort of stupid example out of. Maybe he didn’t like the looks of my Einsturzende Neubauten T-shirt. Whenever we would watch a filmstrip with some kind of tribal, indigenous music going on, he would always pause the film and ask aloud, “Is this your kind of music, Mike? Huh?” I never responded to him. He would always push it, too, saying, “Come on! Fight back!” Sometimes he would go so far as to turn the lights back on to needle me. I resented every minute of it, but tried to be understanding of the personal anguish he must have been going through. So whenever I couldn’t remember the answer on a test, I inserted terms out of context, such as “Détente” and “Mekong Delta,” that did have some significance. This astounded him, and he made the class aware of that. Mine were the only answers that he read aloud, and (much to his chagrin) the class urged him to give me partial credit for them. I then ditched his last class before summer vacation. Months later, when school was again in session, he made sure I was yanked from my first class and suspended for 3 days for that absence.

Around this time, there was a girl, Shannon, who regularly propositioned me to have some kind of relationship. I thought her being forthright about it was pretty cool. But I really liked someone else, Michelle, who ironically was one of the most serious students the school had. I didn’t get involved with Shannon, but twice I got her to divert the salesman’s attention at a nearby electronics store so I could steal microphones. Michelle was flattered by me, and she sometimes volunteered to do my homework for me. We made out once, but she knew my C-/D+ average was no match for her 4.0 GPA, let alone her family’s expectations, and that was that.

I was getting really frustrated. In my Math class, we had the most meek lady teacher I’d ever met. I completely took out my frustration on her, and of course she was totally undeserving. When she passed out tests, I’d take the entire stack and begin working on the top one without passing them on. She glared at me but didn’t even respond! The next time, she handed out each test individually. When she got to me, I took my sheet and began working on it with one hand, and held on to her arm with the other. Without me even looking at her, she would repeat (in the mildest tone possible), “Please release my arm” and “Unhand me, please.” The entire class was on the floor. Finally, she kicked me out of class, but didn’t even send me to the Principal. Instead, she kindly offered to let me “go sit in the commons,” as long as I stayed on campus. On my way out of the classroom, I turned off the lights and turned on the overhead projector so that a disarray of numerals was projected onto her face. The ex-Marine Math teacher next-door caught some of this and dragged me by my spiky blond hair to the Principal’s office. One week suspension.

I was almost completely out of control, although in a ridiculous, mind-boggling sort of way. When I came back to school I realized that I had developed a wild, or just plain bad reputation. I had made a few real friends, but I was quickly realizing that the other ones just hit me up for weed and then would ignore me when I tried to talk to them. They were all aware that I played guitar, and that I intended to buy a new one. So, when this guy offered to trade me 3 ounces of pot for my crummy Flying V copy, I accepted. What he showed up with was of a similarly green color, but absolutely not real pot. One good look at it and a hit of it proved that. It was some kind of mossy olive stuff that I never did learn the true origin of. I ridiculed the guy for thinking I was ignorant. He then seemed ashamed, even though he claimed he had no idea how real or unreal it was since he didn’t personally smoke it. Convinced of the bogus nature of this substance, he just gave me the large amount of stuff and left.

That was it. I was tired of people and their crap at this school. I started telling anyone who didn’t know the difference that I had bags for sale. I managed to sell 4 or 5 quarter-ounces of this thicket-type substance. After the last sale, I entered the school to find that the entire administrative staff had surrounded me. In the Principal’s office, now joined by police, they looked at the remainder of the big bag. I was then asked to wait alone in another office as they talked. I heard them laughing and when I was asked to return, the police were gone. They knew it was bunk. No crime in fooling fools, I guess. I felt better about that too, since those kids would say any lie to you or about you just to smoke a damned bowl. The school’s decision was unanimous though, I was expelled.

So, whatever. I got done with school and got my shit together (somewhat). My sister successfully graduated from Columbine. And those two kids who did all that killing at Columbine ten years later, well, they got their wish: attention and revenge. I guess that’s what I got too, but now somehow it all seems so much healthier.