Humor

Boulder Noir: The Theory of Diminishing Joy

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Frank sat at his desk pondering the Theory of Diminishing Joy. By “his desk” he meant the one he found in his newly acquired office. Its current state was “acquired” by dictionary terms, if the dictionary involved doesn’t mention anything about real estate agents or paperwork. He was at downtown Boulder’s newest vacant property and he was waiting for a good time to call Mrs Simpson, his first client, to tell her the good news.

He assured her that discussing it over the phone should be fine but he wouldn’t do it while she was at work. He’d wait until she got home since her husband was probably working late. “Really? She asked. “Really,” he said. She would be happy to hear her husband was just a workaholic and not a philanderer.

The Theory of Diminishing Joy was the most promising supposition about the “magic tunnel mural” that he had read about from the internet links Sticks had given him. The magic tunnel mural was the name he gave to the underpass painting. It wasn’t really a good name, as far as he knew the tunnel was not magic but the mural seemed to be a different story. He wasn’t married to the name. He was hoping inspiration would come to him through the eddies of time that existed in Boulder. That eddies speech had set up shop in his brain and when you’ve lived in Boulder for a while it starts to get some credence.

He had spent quite a bit of time losing himself down the various internet rabbit holes of musings, pondering and conspiracy theories about the mural from locals and non locals alike. The best idea that he had come across was the theory of diminishing joy. Joy was a fairly large umbrella but for many in Boulder the main component was creativity and the theory states that as creativity diminishes so does joy. Creativity takes many forms and as it leaks away the mural gains another character, symbol or some representation of that creative force according to the theory.

The shadow man appeared fairly recently on the mural and there were few ideas as to what he represented. There were also no known incidences of any figure from the mural materializing and appearing before the public at least not without the help of psychedelics. Frank was positive he had not taken any psychedelics on purpose. It was Boulder and he supposed anything could happen but he hadn’t licked any stamps lately and he was pretty sure the water source was safe. Sure he could have accidentally ate an edible but they didn’t tend to give him, um people, hallucinations or so he had heard.

He thought about shadow man for a while and nurtured any embers of a thought that could explain what he represented but the weather had been dry lately and apparently his embers were stunted by fire safety. He was going to have to ask the shadow himself. It was getting dark and jovial sounds from the street beckoned to him so he called it a day and went to investigate. He was in need of joy these days and took the opportunity to grab some when ever he could.

Emerging from his building he found himself along the route for the annual parade of lights. Vehicles and people festooned with holiday lights were cruising down Pearl Street. There seemed to be more people than vehicles sporting various forms of light but this was Boulder and it could be a part of their daily ensemble. The sight briefly brought a smile to his face until across the way he spied a moving shadow obscuring some Christmas lights. He saw an opportunity to get some questions answered and ran after it.

Humor, Noir

Boulder Noir: Trustafarian Thad

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Frank Bronski had just met with Trustafarian Thad. Yes, he needed a better moniker but inspiration is fleeting. In Boulder it ebbed and flowed like ripples in time. That stanza was getting stuck in his brain but it was a handy explanation for everything Boulder. The trustafarians name was actually Thad. His dad was a rich industrialist and Thad was just waiting till he was old enough to take over his trust fund but for now settled for a monthly allowance and whatever he could glean from the mean streets of Boulder.

Thad wanted to be called Sticks. He was between bands but of course he played the drums and his recent band had played a fusion of Reggae, Acid Jazz and Polka. Frank shuddered to think what that sounded like and although he accepted an offer of a demo CD, his days of psychedelics were in the past so he would be putting it to use as a coaster. “Sticks” didn’t sound very hard boiled but he had to admit it sounded better than Trustafarian Todd, who always looked violently ill when he was call that, so Sticks it would be.

His meeting assured that his first case was almost put to bed.It was a good feeling and it would be even better when he called Mrs Simpson and told her the good news. Her husband was a workaholic not a philanderer. After leaving Franks office, Steven Simpson had returned immediately to work where he remained there until he left some three hours later and returned home with no stops along the way. Soon It would be on to the next mystery. The next mystery didn’t come with a paycheck but a mystery nonetheless.

Who the heck was this shadow guy?

His meeting with Sticks uncovered a potential clue towards that question.

Sticks had insisted on meeting away from downtown Boulder and his fellow trustafarians. He had said he didn’t want to appear as a snitch and as Frank wasn’t holding any weed it would definitely look suspicious. Frank didn’t ask why the concept of “holding” still applied in a world where weed was legal but he just figured mindsets about that were baked in. Not that being on a bike path in an underpass was not suspicious but the path was empty at time of day so they went unnoticed. What did not go un-noticed by Frank was the mural that occupied the walls of the underpass.

“Hey sticks, who painted this?”

“Oh man I have no idea. I think it was a collective effort dude.”

“So no ideas as to anyone who could have painted it?”

“Sorry dude, no clue. It just started showing up here bit by bit. “

“Bit by bit,” asked Frank.

“ Yea, it seems like every few weeks someone would notice a new character or feature. There is a lot of rumors going around about it.”

“What kinds or rumors?”

“Oh the usual, one was a government conspiracy involving the CIA, NSA and the ABA.”

“Um, the American Basketball Association got absorbed into the NBA in the 70’s.”

“Not that ABA. This ABA is the American Baking Association”.

“The American Baking Association?”

“Don’t ask me, it’s the internet and lack of critical thinking skills enable people to spread BS virtually unchecked.”

“That is so true. Don’t get me started.”

“There is another story that aliens created it and it represents a plan to take over Boulder.”

“Just Boulder?”

“Hey like I said it’s the internet.”

“Right,” mumbled Frank his attention suddenly drawn to a character in the corner of the mural in front of some distant mountains, presumably the Flatirons. It appeared to be a man in a trench coat and a fedora but otherwise featureless and painted in flat black. He looked like shadow man.”

“Any details about any of the characters?”

“I don’t remember any but there is a lot of other theories online that talks about them. I can send you some links.”

“That would be great thanks.”

“The game is afoot,” said Frank.

“What dude?”

“Oh just a saying.”

He wasn’t sure if there was a game, let alone what it was, but he was a big Sherlock Holmes fan and he always wanted to say that.

Humor, Social Media, Writing

Writers Platform (Instagram OMG)

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To be online or not to be online that is the question. My apologies to William S. That’s what pretentious writers call him (wink wink). Since the dawn of social media, one of the more contentious issues has been whether or not a writer benefits from social media. The buzz in the ether is that a writer needs to have an online platform. From my personal experience that version of ether seems to be mostly made up of nitrous oxide.

Unlike the countenance from the ether, my blog does not focus on a giving advice on a particular topic. Any topics I am an expert on have nothing to do with writing and would probably leave the gentle reader passed out and drooling on their phone, keyboard, iPad…you get the idea. I am stubbornly clinging to using my blog to “showcase my sense of humor.” Don’t ask me why. Perhaps showcase is not the correct term. Perhaps it should be “exposing the public to the horrors of a mind that manages to prompt the question “This man is left unsupervised?”

Sometimes I get an idea and don’t quit on it. I finally gave up on trying to find an agent for my first book about George W. Bush lost in time. Yeah it’s a bit dated at this point. Some voices in the ether would whisper “self publish” but then again I would bring up the a fore mentioned nitrous oxide. In my constant effort of building a writers platform I decided that I would commit wholeheartedly to Instagram. Ignoring the fact the other social media platforms have let me down.

Not having much interaction with Instagram before, I was in for a rude awakening and by rude I mean tossed into the real world like an Amish schoolboy dumped in the middle of Times Square circa 1985. If your not familiar with the concept, think of cops standing on the same street corner as crack dealers and only being there for more serious crimes.

Since creating my Instagram account complete with head-shot, I have been inundated with all kinds of “shopping” opportunities. These opportunities offered all kinds of products and services involving ladies, both legal and illegal.

It’s as almost as if I walked into a Gentleman’s club and yelled “I have a wad of cash and I’m lonely” without the collateral damage a lady stampede would cause.

Suffice it to say I have concluded that my experimentation with Instagram as a a writers platform has been an abject failure. If by some miracle you have found this post by following an Instagram link, I am not interested in moving to a different app for a more private discussion thank you.

Humor

Boulder Noir: The Spirit of Boulder

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The Shadow guy had repeated the same explanation for the doppelgänger phenomenon and other unexplained events that were unique to Bolder. He told Frank “Time flows like a river. Sometimes water forms eddies and pools around transient objects and allow for something wonderful to be exposed or to join the river itself.” Which really told him nothing and he might as well have recited the standard mattress tag removal mantra that came with all mattresses.

In all honesty the threat of prosecution gave the tag more substance than the Shadow’s bland verbiage. His soliloquy was merely a placeholder for the following:

During the 1960’s Boulder became a happening place for the counter culture movement in America. Being a college town, it was a fertile field to grow seeds of contradiction. Throw in the Beat influence of Allen Ginsberg, Naropa University and the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics, the make peace not war vibe and Boulder embraced and fostered the counter culture with loving arms. The movement spread into education with the forming of the Community Free School in the early 70’s.

When the pioneer of the free school was elected to the Boulder City Council, the counter culture had firmly established roots in the community and the Republic of Boulder was born. The energy that created and inspired this movement became its own entity, a spirit if you will.

The Republic sustained this energy at varying levels across the years, waxing and waning with the zeitgeist of the decades. Thru the years the scions of various counter culture moments capturing mind body and spirit, grew businesses, became successful and eventually sold out to corporations for the promise of early retirement or the desire to create something new.

The sellout process caused the creative spirit to break apart. Some of it drifted off to inspire counter culture movements in other locations. Some of it formed the unexplained phenomenon that gives Boulder a flavor unique to each observer and as special to them as their favorite fried chicken or tofu recipe.

The unusual number of doppelgängers was the result of the spirit
attracting people similar in appearance to Boulder. “Similar” is really understating the fact that these people could be twins.

But what about this Shadow Guy? The entity known as the Shadow Guy consists of some of the orphaned counterculture spirit. It is looking for a new movement to inspire or a new local phenomenon to create. It is looking for purpose. It remains to be seen how long it will remain in its present form or if it will drift off to inspire a different town in another land. Currently it occupies space on a mural located on bike trail underpass. It breaks free from time to time in search of inspiration and to do good deeds.

Memories

Time Travel is Possible

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The sounds of Pat Metheny’s “Cross the Heartland” dance from my ears to my brain and carry it away to the 1980’s of my early adulthood. Images of wheat fields, bad 70’s hairstyles still clinging for relevancy and the fading remnants of bittersweet memories leap from one brain cell to the next.

A few images stick for a while. My father and his 70’s “stache” and my mother and her late 70’s perm. I am not sure if they were still rocking those styles in the early 80’s but your brain locks on to an image whether its factual or not and thus becomes reality for a little while to be replaced when other memories ask for recognition. Music for me takes me back to the exact moment I began listening to the artist responsible and awakens memories that have not been at the forefront of my conscious for quite sometime. The clothes that I wore, the smells of the favorite perfume of my girlfriend at the time and the painful memories of love lost replay in my mind like a forgotten movie. Time travel is possible but it is not a trip I like to take too often.

Humor, Noir

Boulder Noir: Shadow Guy

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Everything remained dark and judging from the thunk of his landing and the surrounding aroma he’d be willing to bet he was back in a dumpster. Somehow the familiarity gave him comfort. What is it with dumpsters and this guy.

“Hello Shadow Guy?” he whispered.

Nothing, not a sound.

“Hmm, well I guess he assumed I’d be ok. I am a hard boiled detective after all,” he thought trying to convince himself.

Then convincing turned to pondering. And people said he wasn’t a deep thinker.

His first case has morphed into a multitude of problems, mysteries really.

Mystery sounded much better than problem. It seemed to have less stress associated with it.

The first mystery was where was he going to sleep tonight after this clean sneak.

It was pretty clean he thought. He left nothing behind. He even cleaned his finger prints off the doorknobs and other obvious places.

It’s too damn cold to sleep outside without warmer clothes, and a blanket, and a fire and a roof….

The next mystery is who the heck was after him? He thought he had that narrowed down a bit. All the people that would be upset at him originated with that little issue about missing merchandise and he knew who was at the beginning of that line.

The third mystery was , wait, there is a fourth but that can wait.

The third is the question that started this whole adventure in the first place.

His first case. Is Mr Steven Simpson stepping out on the missus? He’ll just need to get in touch with the trustafarian that followed him so he can verify his place of employment and possible after work activities. The fourth and not the least important is who or what the heck is this shadow guy? For now he’ll assume he is a good guy because he’s saved his bacon a few times.

Now he had to get down to brass tacks. He could probably find a flop house who’s proprietor he did not recognize. Not a guarantee that he won’t get rousted but it’s too cold to expect a guarantee. There was still a one lingering thought in the back of his mind.

“Who is that shadow guy?”

It was time to find a safe warm place to sleep. He was getting too familiar with dumpsters.

Just north of downtown Boulder, there exists a bike/walking trail meandering through an underpass festooned with a mural. The mural is an homage to the nature around it. In one corner of the mural appeared a new addition out of place with the rest of the mural. Surrounded by mountains was a lone silhouette, a shadow perhaps, of a figure sporting a fedora.

Humor, Noir

Boulder Noir: No Tell Motel

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.

Frank Bronski lay on his bed staring at possible water stains on the ceiling in a no tell motel on the edge of town. He actually couldn’t see the ceiling because he was lying in the dark but there were always water stains on the ceiling in these places. Frank had always used the term “no tell motel” because that was just the hard boiled thing to do. Actually the hard boiled term would be flophouse but even Frank had his standards. Motel had more class.

He never worried if anyone knew he was at one of these joints because there was never anything to tell. He stayed at them because the price point was always right, cheap. This time however he cared if a particular person knew he was here which is why he was laying in the dark. The big problem was the he didn’t know who that person was. He had not figured out who was attached to the voice yelling “I thought I recognized that SOB”. Given his past the possibilities were endless.

The term “endless” was a bit of an exaggeration. There was a theft involved and he was the victim. Unfortunately the stolen merchandise was only his for the short time it would take to turn it into cash for the rightful owner, minus his small cut of course. In this case the rightful owner was beholding to someone else and that someone else was also beholding to someone else and so on…yea he probably had a lot of people looking for him. It was the reason why he left town in the first place.

With the legalization of marijuana in Colorado he made the mistake in thinking he could come back with no problems. He wasn’t a very good drug dealer. In fact he really hadn’t been a good hood (criminal) in general so why not try the other side for a while. He pulled out his notepad and pencil from his coat. Given the amount of people that could be after him it would probably be a good idea to make a list and see if he could narrow down the suspects.

“I am not sure you have time for that,” boomed a voice from the corner of the room.

“Crap, Who is it ,” asked Frank into the darkness.

“Answer me this. Is there anyone you know in this town that can get into your hotel room unseen that would waste time on conversation instead of killing you?”

“Um, you do have a point, no. Are you the shadow?”

“For lack of a better label, yes”

“What did you mean by ‘not sure you have time for that?’ ”

Those gentlemen that were “interested” in you earlier are on their way here as we speak.

“Crap, I thought the desk clerk looked familiar.”

“Now is not the time but at some point we really should discuss who are these people and why are they so interested in you.”

“Yes, later, when I figure it out myself. For now just call it bad career choices. What the heck do I do now? There is no dumpster in here.”

“Is there a window in the bathroom?”

“Of course. I am new to the detective gig but not new to laying low.

I always have an exit plan.”

“Oh and what is your plan?”

“To go out through the bathroom window.”

“Brilliant, I’ll meet you outside.”

Frank looked around but the shadow was gone.

He took his cue and crawled through the bathroom window.

Immediately upon hitting the ground he heard “Psst over here.”

Frank thought he saw the shadow near a telephone exchange box.

“Where is the dumpster,” asked Frank.

“It’s not always a dumpster. This time it’s this old PBX box that hasn’t been functional in years.”

Frank shook his head, opened up the small door to the PBX box and crawled in. Everything went dark.

Image by pikisuperstar on Freepik

Humor, Noir

Boulder Noir: Dumpster Diving for The Alternative Boulder

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Boulder Noir: Episode #? Dumpster Diving for The Alternate Boulder

Frank was a few blocks away from his office hiding behind a dumpster and puffing hard.” I’ve got to get in better shape,” he thought.

He had hit the ground, or to be specific the fire escape, as soon as he exited the window of his third floor office and had made it several blocks before he needed oxygen.

Over the din of his breathing he heard “Psst”.

“What again,” he thought. Looking over his shoulder towards the source of the sound he saw the shadow in the dumpster.

“Quick, get in”.

“The dumpster? We’re just going to hide in a dumpster?”

“Not exactly, it’s kind of like an alternate universe without the universe part but I don’t have time to explain just get in.”

Having no choice Frank gracefully tumbled into the dumpster. Instead of landing amid refuse and assorted detritus he found himself landing on soft grass. Looking up he appeared to be along side a bridge next to the Boulder Creek. What the fudge , hard boiled detectives don’t swear. Sure they may fire off their gun when they don’t have to but they don’t swear. Don’t ask me just go with it.

“Psst”

Frank looked around for the shadow because by now he figured that’s who it was.

Surprisingly he found him right where a shadow should be, under the bridge among the other shadows.

“What the heck? Is this an alternative universe? How the heck does that work,” asked Frank. “Magic?”

“Don’t be silly,” said the shadow “there is no such thing.”

“Ok I’ll begrudgingly accept that but how did you do that.”

“Well, time flows like a river. Sometimes water forms eddies and pools around transient objects and allow for something wonderful to be exposed or to join the river itself.”

“Yea you’ve mentioned that before but there is no where in that nice little speech that tells me how I can jump into a dumpster in Downtown Boulder and end up several blocks away. Is the dumpster a transporter?”

“Transporter, um, nicely put.”

“Yea Star Trek had a big impact on our culture but cut to the chase.”

“Cut to the ….Oh yes. Um, would you believe small earthbound worm holes?”

“Well, it’s not magic but let’s go with that.”

“It’s like parallel universes on one planet and with the same universe.”

“You’re making it more convoluted. Stick with the earthbound worm holes.”

“Ok, I’ll accept that.”

“But why is it that I and seemingly everyone else have no clue about these earthbound worm holes, which I will call EWH because as a human in the twenty-first century I must use an acronym for something related to science or technology, lest my attention span get’s lost like a dog losing focus to a running squirrel.”

“Only a very few beings and some people can sense them.”

“A few people? So why are they still secret?”

“Because those people are either institutionalized or shunned as being mentally unbalanced.”

“That explains it. We tend to shun what we don’t understand. There’s a lot of shunning going on in society.”

“Yes, there is an awful lot of it. It’s used a coping mechanism to avoid the complicated issues or the things that don’t fit into your simplified view of the world.”

“I think I’m insulted.”

“Don’t be you’re not alone.”

“Ok, I’ll accept that. Thanks for helping me out when I was caught in the rain.”

“But it is not raining”

“It’s an expression it means I was in a jam. You know, in trouble.”

“Oh, my pleasure, you seem like you need help when you’re ‘caught in the rain.’ You haven’t been a detective long have you?”

“No but I’ll get the hang of it. In the meantime I appreciate the help in a squeeze.”

“Squeeze? Oh yes, not a problem.”

“I have to cheese it. I’m not far enough away from those guys to be comfortable.”

“Oh yes by all means cheese it. I’m sure I’ll see you again.”

Image by pikisuperstar on Freepik

Humor, Noir

Boulder Noir: Steve Simpson Roulette 1 Empty Chamber

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Frank was just wrapping up a successful sting operation. Technically there still was one more target to show up but he was pretty sure he had the right Steve Simpson. He was playing Steve Simpson Roulette and there was still one left in the chamber so he had to sure. The roulette analogy didn’t quite work but it sounded cool.

The first guy who showed up was Jon S. Doe. Jon arrived bright and early. Frank reasoned he was either expecting a rush or he wanted to show up when it was the least busy on the street. It would be easy to spot Feds watching the place.

From what Frank could tell, Jon S. Doe may or may not be his real name. He listed his occupation as a Paranormal Guide. Just because Frank had never encountered the occupation didn’t mean it wasn’t legit. On the other hand, it may be something that quelled the urge to ask questions although he thought Mortician would have done a better job. This is Boulder so it could go either way. His questionnaire indicated he was single. He had no ring and if he did have one it couldn’t have been on for long period. There was no tale tan or ring line on his ring finger.

It turns out he actually could have picked the guy with the closest correct name. S. Simpson turned out to be the guy. He was married, had a ring and definitely looked like he was keeping late hours. He mentioned “he had to get back to work before they realized he was gone but at the amount of unpaid overtime he was working they should just deal with it.” Now he could have also taken that as an answer to the question of cheating on his wife but he needed to be thorough.

To be sure he had the correct guy, he paid a “trustafarian” 1to follow Mr. Simpson to his car and get the make, model and license plate. If the guy took a ride share he was to get the same information. If he took a bus he was out of luck.

It was getting a bit chilly with the window open but Frank was trying to quit smoking and he was having a rough go of it. Besides in addition to clearing out the smoke it kept him awake. The decision to finally quit was helped out when he discovered upon returning to Colorado that smoking indoors was now banned. He was waiting for the last potential Steve Simpson. He was playing roulette. He had to be sure he had the right guy. He decided he needed a warm up courtesy of a short pour of the old GlenBargain. He took a sip and savored the slow warmth in his stomach

His thoughts were interrupted but the ring of a small bell he had put on the door downstairs.

“Ah, the last Steve Simpson in the chamber. Time to finish the game of roulette,” he thought. He finished off his Scotch and decided against another pour. He could celebrate when he was positive he had the right Steve. Suddenly he heard more than one set of footsteps on the stairs and a man’s voice “I thought I recognized the SOB”. Frank started to panic. Someone had recognized him. It wasn’t the previous two Simpson candidates they would have seemed familiar.

I’ll have to figure who later. Frank cut his thoughts short. It was fight or flight time and he was outnumbered. Time to cheese it. It’s a good thing he left the back window open .

Exit Backstage.

Image by pikisuperstar on Freepik

A Place To Share Some Grins