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May 04, 2004 Change ain't that bad... or is it? So… it comes to this, the intrepid duo of Melissa and Kevin have not only changed states but also time zones, and, what appears on the outset to be, a drastic change in ideology.I look around my new neighborhood and I can't help but think two distinct thoughts, shit… it's beautiful here. As well as, holy crap… is that a "rat tail" clinging to the nape of that decidedly trashy looking kid? Yes, we have, in a manner of speaking, stepped down- economically, socially, and quite possibly intellectually- from our former neighborhood of in Portland, Oregon, to our new neighborhood in Colorado Springs, Colorado. The mountains are wonderful, and beyond majestic; Pike's Peak capped, even at this time of year, with a sprinkling of blazing white snow, while Cheyenne mountain, pinned and pierced by a myriad of antenna, rears green and wondrous. The infamous Garden of the Gods, with its dusty red rocks molded through time and weather into the semblance of what appear to be biological forms, making one think that at any moment they might rise up and stretch, as if from years of slumber, is only a few minutes away. Ute Park, vast and varied, cut with numerous trails and dotted with even more pine trees; as well as these interesting squat bushes/trees, what I call mini-trees, whose name at the moment I know not, and who appear to bear broad leaves. People in this city are kind and courteous. Mel and I walked trails the other day, and every single person we passed greeted us… EVERY SINGLE PERSON! That to me, after nigh nine years of living with the oppressed minds and haughty attitudes of the majority of Portlanders, is unprecedented. (This tiny point may seem, to those who do not hike or backpack, well… tiny, but it is in fact huge. In my youth, there was an unspoken code for those of us hardy enough to venture out into the deep mountains or dark woods. It is what I called, and still call, "Trail Law". It was, and is, simple- you greet the person or persons you pass by. Easy enough you might say, but there was a time in Missoula when you could tell an "out-of-state'r" by whether or not they followed Trail Law. The concept for me is survival. It is always intelligent to be kind to those who may, if fortune favors you badly- and you happen to break a bone while hiking, or have a cardiac arrest while biking, or get gourd by a moose while camping- end up carrying your ass down the mountain.) Colorado Springs is a city, but I do believe it is more accommodating than most. Sure, you have rattlesnakes and West Nile Virus, but what a small price to pay for manners. Right? Granted, I want to go smaller (Mel in particular is probably weary of hearing this particular rant). My heart yearns to return to my place of birth. My mind swells for the artisan community of my youth, and the mountains that were, at the time, my back yard. Will I be happy here in the mountains of Colorado? That remains to be seen. I certainly hope so. I, foolishly and stubbornly, am still holding out for the "obscene goal" (you know, the one where I make fist-full's-o'-money, build my castle in the hills, and live on 30 acres of wild land). But at the moment, it appears I cannot sell a jug of water to a man suffering from heat stroke, let alone a screenplay or a novel. So I will have to deal, and deal I will, with my current situation. (Which ain't that bad, considering I am loved, not just by family, but by friends, and a wife whose own patience and strength seems endless. Further more, please forgive me for the aforementioned whine regarding my career thus far. It has been a long, heavily worked, hard earned, and horribly fruitless year. However, I still got my agent. Who is, even as we speak, pounding the cliché pavement. Right… Lenny? Right? RIGHT?) Hope… hope and desire, however fleeting and distant, still lives eternal. Wait! I was not talking about me (oh how I love to brood selfishly); I was talking about my neighborhood. Okay, at first glance you would think, "how wonderful", or even "how nice". We have a decent townhouse, similar to the one in Portland. Mountains rise up behind us, sheltering in their feral embrace. In the morning, I can have coffee on the stoop and in the evening, Mel and I can drink wine on the deck. Barring a few minor glitches it is in fact "wonderful"… it is in fact "nice". Oh… but then, there are the neighbors. The first night spent in our new place I could not sleep because someone next door was revving their, muffler-lacking, souped-up, wholly American truck (oh, dear reader, this is a truck town… a ghastly, banal, luridly jacked-up truck town). The next morning I was awakened to the sounds of children crying and screaming, and the dead thwack of those same children being spanked. Afterwards, a neighbor, whose loathsome form rivals that of a bearded walrus, and whose she-voice sounds like the bleating, death rattle of a dying elephant, proceeded to reprimand her child at the highest echelon of her over-worked lungs. This woman seems only capable of speaking in negatives… don't do this… don't do that… sort of thing. Every apartment, or town house (one of the problems with the neighborhood is that it is so transitory) has at least one nugget-head (my loving term for children) more likely two, or even three or five. Every one of these running, scurrying, scuttling little petry dishes of unholy germs and godforsaken bacteria, caste in the stunted form of a little girl or boy, shrieks to the firmament in a voice far stronger than their tiny frames, like a drug-induced monkies on fire. The only level or tone these people, regardless of age, seem capable of communicating to each other in appears to be anger, and the only way they can do this is through yelling and shouting, or so they appear to think. I am awakened by the dulcet tones of diesel engine Semi-trucks ferrying dirt and gravel up and down Allegehny Road from a hole they have blasted in the side of the mountain, which appears to be a wound most horrible. And then lulled to sleep by the constant thrum of some "nugget head" kicking his soccer ball against the complex's fence, or hearing the chatter of a herd of such "nugget heads" at play, as they gather into even louder, even more boisterous groups; apparently to annoy and frustrate me even further. I do not mean to judge, but… holy crap! It is like a 24 hour episode of Jerry Springer out here. If it were not for Mel, and her calming and logical outlook on everything, I don't know what I would do. Come on castle in the mountains! Don't fail me now! 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