Frisco, CO (ACTJ) – A friend of mine once gave me a magnet for my refrigerator. We can address that later. Thursday evening in Frisco may be of little value to those who havenâ€™t been stranded alongside I-70, but this strange little town may as well be the nexus of the universe for a disillusioned American in the latter half of life. The days are a waste; filled with tourism of all conceivable manner. Fancy little fuck boys, rocking their grey sweatpants; masks underneath their chin, as they stroll up and down Main Street, looking for a chance to score with a fully vaccinated Caucasian female. Middle aged mountaineers, unloading their $5,000 bicycles, and preparing for a hard ride on paved trails that intersect with the municipality. Geriatric retirees, likely living out their remaining post-vaccine months, basking in the sunshine, 9,000 ft. Above sea level. Itâ€™s hard to tell whoâ€™s who anymore. With social distancing and mandatory masking a thing of the past, one must pay attention to more subtle clues. If clues cannot be gathered, itâ€™s always easy to judge. The year is 2021, and facts are nearly irrelevant. Itâ€™s far better to pay attention to our feelings. Fish at the Silverheels Bar and Grill is no laughing matter. At nearly $30 per plate, it must only be assumed that the pallet should be pleased. Wasabi Salmon for the win. Tigerâ€™s blood and Moscow Mules…..three may be enough for dinner, but eavesdropping a conversation could easily require more. Along came a guru. As best as I could gather, it seems as though our guru found his companions at the bar. Waxing eloquent about construction leadership, it seemed as though I was on the outskirts of the presence of a less talented version of Joel Osteen. The liquor was definitely doing the thinking, as he implored his captive college students to understand his vision. Heâ€™s â€œtrying to develop a new futureâ€. I canâ€™t say I blame him. Iâ€™m just trying to drink Moscow Mules. Ramblings of a lunatic mind became more evident as he recalled his many bouts of depression……there was a certain earnestness to his voice; the type of begging that we hear on a Sunday television program. The desire to smack him upside the head was getting insatiable…..just in time for him to ask his female target: â€œdo you exercise a lot?â€. Fucking hell……here we go. All gurus are the same. God knows Iâ€™m no better. â€œThe reason I brought it up. You know why I like you? I like to have the shit kicked out of me.â€ Itâ€™s like he could read my mind……Iâ€™d better be careful. Heâ€™s obviously a fucking Jedi. With the danger in this situation becoming increasingly apparent, its best to down the last Mule on the table, fret not for any unaccounted balloon knots, and motion to pay the tab. No good can come from prolonged exposure to this mad manâ€™s drivel. I can barely hear him anyway. He tells his apprentices that they have â€œintrinsic kinetic energy.â€ His female apprentice says: â€œI wishâ€ The guru responds: â€œYou wish. That means thereâ€™s hope. I believe in hope.â€ Itâ€™s so fucking weird…. Now he says some female â€œkeeps sending him crazy fucking things.â€……I can certainly relate…sometimes. Hope is a dangerous idea. Itâ€™s definitely time to go….pay the bill before my urges to interact become all encompassing. He keeps saying â€œSirâ€, emphasizing the consonants, as though they are but a prelude to some sort of linguistic orgasm…..heaven help us all. The guru is heating up from downtown. My server is lovely….she reminds me of the kind of woman that wouldâ€™ve stolen my heart 20 years ago. Back when I had a heart. Back before I sold my soul…… Tip her well. It may be the last opportunity. The last thing I heard from the guru, as I made my way out the door….â€when I was young, I didnâ€™t know how to…..â€ Shut up. â€œWrite drunk, edit soberâ€ Thatâ€™s what the magnet said. Hemingway be damned.