23 - Pass the Vaseline, and Other Exciting Moments at the Boulder Youth Hostel

Bruce snuck a photo of this guy at the Boulder Public Library, one of our common hangouts in 1978.

             When Bruce and I arrived in Boulder in 1978, we decided to look for jobs and stay a while. So naturally, the first thing we did was:

            Pulled into Burger Chef and tried to call Jim Morgan. I don’t think he exists.

            Like the mysterious Heather in San Francisco, this was the first and only reference I made to “Jim Morgan.” I have no idea who he is. But it is apparent I was somewhat persistent in trying to reach him. Did he have a job for us? Housing? The key to life? I will never know.

            Leaving Burger Chef, we went to Boulder's American Youth Hostel on 12^th Street.

         

            We were checked in by a young woman I constantly referred to in my journal as “Kathy from Lexington [Mass.]”

            We went to the hostel and made jokes with Kathy from Lexington. I lost my card and she let me slide.

            Hostels typically provide dormitory-style sleeping arrangements, often sleeping 6-12 people in a room furnished with nothing but bunkbeds, and shared bathrooms down the hall. They’re cheap, but often have strict rules such as curfew and performing chores. (I often got back too late after working at Bean and Spirits, and ended up sleeping in my car.) But they were a great long-term option if you planned to stay in town for a while. As with the hostel in Los Angeles, we treated the Boulder Youth Hostel as our home base - doing laundry, cooking in the shared kitchen, and even receiving mail there. (For example, when I was in Boulder, I received this awesome letter from Discount Tire, reimbursing me the cost of the flat tire I got in California.) 

            

This is why I will always be loyal to this company.

             I also gave out the hostel’s phone number as my own, receiving calls there from prospective employers and even “a walkathon girl to whom I pledged 15 cents a mile for 20 miles for some cause ... I forget what.”

            The hostel had a large community room, where visitors from all over the world would mingle and get to know one another.

            A Brit or Aussie is playing soft guitar, and singing well. All we need is a cozy fireplace.

            We met a lot of memorable folks at the hostel, whom I will discuss in no particular order.

Alex

            I described Alex in my journal as a “Clockwork Orange” character, because he reminded me of the lead character Alex (played Malcolm McDowell) in that classic 1971 movie: 

            

             Alex uses large words and non-sequiturs. “A trip to the moon. Demagogical anti-communists.” He flashes evil smiles for secret reasons. He is here with a friend who seems very naïve. Alex teases his friend with word games. “Umpire-Empire-Emporer.” His friend looks confused. Alex is from Peoria.”

            When I went looking for a chess game, I tried to avoid Alex, even though I could usually beat him.

           I’m back at the hostel, waiting for a chess game. Alex is in the corner, talking to himself, but I won’t ask him.

            Instead I worked on my remote chess game with my friend Mike Hooven back east.

            Called Hooven. His PK5 devastated me. I tried everything, but to no avail. I dreamt that he said on the phone, “I’ll be breaking out a case of Coors in celebration of my victory."

            As prophesied in my dream, I did eventually write a letter to Mike to resign and begin a new game. Just as resignedly, I did eventually approach Alex for a game.

            Played chess with Alex, who was saying numbers to himself in the corner. I asked him his name, he said “Ahhh …. Langstrom.” “Langstrom?” “Yeah, Langstrom.” I began telling him about the Bustop. He listened and said, “You know, Chinese people can’t say R.”

            Alex told me he played chess a lot in high school because his eye was too slow for camera club. “My eye was a second behind the shutter.” I beat Alex, then lost to another guy.

             Steve Jackson told me Alex once asked him if he wanted a bowl of soup, adding “There’s a dollar bill in it.”

            I memorialized Alex in cartoon form:

             But on October 29, 1978, I had to write this sad news: 

            Alex is gone from the hostel so I don’t have anymore interesting lines to relate, like, “The anarchist government is trying to rip the paper off my hands.”

[I looked up Alex Langstrom from Peoria, to no avail.] 

Marie

            Another worker at the hostel was the popular, charismatic, and crazy fun “Marie.” (Not her real name.) Marie was a poet with an amazing singing voice. She told me that Judy Collins was interested in one of her songs, and I believed her. Marie’s sisters were both musicians; one still performs professionally. It seemed Marie knew half the people in Boulder, including a lot of the Bean and Spirits folks. And best of all, Marie had the self-assurance of someone who didn’t give two shits about what other people thought of her:

            I heard two hostel workers, Kathy from Lexington and her boss, discussing Marie. “She just can’t rub her breasts when she talks to a customer. She can’t sit on the steps and flash beaver. She can’t scream, ‘I hope the rapist doesn’t get me tonight!’”

            Marie was always up for adventure. One fine Saturday Bruce and I went to the mountains with her and Kathy:

            They spoke highly of a restaurant called Sundance in Nederland, which offered a spectacular view of the mountains. Their omelettes were good; the banana bread worth dying for.

The lodge is still open today, but someone told me café is closed pending permit issues.

             We paired off for a game of horseshoes, having a great time, demonstrating “proper” methods of throwing, kidding around, throwing snowballs, and laughing. We then drove on, through the windy mountain roads, listening to Bach, Handel, Telemann, Mozart, and Beethoven, joking around and enjoying the day. In Eldora we saw people skiing. We laid on the rocks, relaxing and watching, and left at 3:00 to go to work.

            Another time Marie took me to "Mother’s," where she treated me to a spinach and avocado omelette because I was broke.

            After I left Boulder, Marie wrote me long letters up through 1982. She’d tell me about her life and catch me on people at the hostel. She’d talk about concerts she attended (like Crosby, Stills and Nash at Red Rocks); send poems she had written; and - after someone gave her a “used Polaroid Land camera for helping them move from Nederland down into Boulder” - she sent me this photo:

            I lost touch with her after that, but was so excited recently to find her number and catch up with her on the phone and by email. Alas, I was crushed that she expressed having no memory of me whatsoever – despite me going as far as to send photos and copies of the letters she had written me. Marie is dealing with serious health challenges these days and I wish her nothing but the best.

Stephen Jackson

            One traveler Bruce and I met was Steve Jackson, a fun-loving aspiring architect with a fine North Carolina drawl and a mischievous sense of humor. Steve reminded us of Steve Martin, especially with his dead-on rendition of Martin’s classic “Well ex-cuuuuse me!” We’d often hear Steve singing in the shower, songs like “The Lollipop Guild” and “Bluebird of Happiness.” Bruce and I loved spending time with him.

           

            Went to a lake in the mountains with Steve – beautiful day, laid around, made jokes, tossed stones at tin cans. Came back and went bowling. We spent all our money.

            Here’s the same view, 1978 and 2018:

            Steve got caught up in my and Bruce’s fascination with mopeds, and quickly became a regular testing them with us. He and Bruce took these photos on one of their test rides:

            I joined them occasionally, as the moped dealership was quite generous in allowing long test rides:

No longer in business.

            On one such ride, I suffered an “incident.” 

            Steve, W and I went to the Table Mesa “Spoke” store to test mopeds. I rode five miles up and back to the atmospheric research center; the view of Boulder from atop the hill is exhilarating. I rode up twice; first on the Motebecane, then on the Puch. I wiped out on the Motebecane – scraped up but not hurt, nor the bike. I tried to take a turn too fast and hit the front brake all of a sudden.

            Steve took a slightly exaggerated view of the rescue effort:

             We talked serious economics. Mopeds are great; they give me a giddy, high feeling, almost one of losing control. We had each other talked into buying at least one, but no one took the first step. Bruce wanted the Puch Demonstrator, for $359, and Steve and I the Motebecane for $399. 

            

            Despite all that talk and test-riding, none of us has ever actually purchased a moped.

            Steve and I often talked about cartooning, and collaborating on a strip. We got as far as trading our creations with each other. Steve sent me letters for years and occasionally enclosed his cartoons; I drew one of him working as a desk night clerk at the Travelodge Motel that he kept a long time. If he still has it, I’d love to post it here. (Hint, hint, Steve.)

            Steve stuck around Boulder longer than we did, quickly moving up from the Travelodge to an architect’s position, designing buildings for Arab sheiks, and was able to move out of the hostel. Marie wrote me on December 26, 1978:

            Steve “Action” Jackson had some people over to his new apartment – complete with a fireplace no less – and a cathedral ceiling – nice, right. He showed me a picture of the model of the palace he’s working on – it’s really tremendous.

            George (Bean and Spirits) invited Richie to Christmas dinner, which I thought was really nice. Don gave him and Jim tons of food to take over to Steve’s for Christmas Eve. Leslie is now head cook there.[i]

            Stephen has since done everything – not just in architecture. He had a bicycle touring company in New Zealand, and back in North Carolina, amassed a collection of kitschy Christmas decorations he called “the Aluminum Tree and Aesthetically-Challenged Seasonal Ornament Museum and Research Center,” which caught the eye of various media, including the New York Times, BBC and NPR. You can still visit the collection:

            Steve, Bruce and I have remained friends all these years. Steve is the source of most of the cartoons I have posted on this blog, including his strip “Moving On” inspired by the journey Bruce and I took.

            The multi-talented “Action Jackson” is also an excellent painter, who often exhibits:

  

            His hope is that my blog will make him more famous than Ernie Bushmiller.

             Stephen today:

"Norman Bathking"

            I wrote Norman’s actual name in my journal, but for reasons that will become readily apparent, I made no attempt to track him down, nor will I embarrass him by using it here. We instead called him “Norman Bathking” after the same odd brand name of the hostel’s bathroom fixtures. We also called him the “Kitten” for his unusual preening habits, as well as the “Piston” for certain relentless, mechanized movements, to wit: Norman, who slept on the top bunk in a crowded room, was simply unable to stop himself from taking advantage of himself every night, to the consternation of his roommates.

            Awoke to the words of the Kitten, Norman -- alias Norman Bathking, and recently renamed the Piston. He asked W to give him his Vaseline, and proceeded to accelerate his moped, barely concealed by his white sheet. Steve claimed to have witnessed this spectacle twice before, at night, but this was the first his claims had been confirmed. And it was not the last.

            But a few days later:

             

            Norman cried in his sleep last night. In the morning he requested a room change; it made us all feel guilty.

            Marie wrote shortly after we left Boulder:

            Today I confiscated Norman’s key, who was rather upset with my decision – well, the less said about that the better.

            Steve made a cartoon about Norman, but I cannot bring myself to publish it.

Assorted Other Characters

            Mark was an incorrigible mooch. I wrote:

            The mooch in the bunk below me asked to borrow my hairbrush. A few days ago he borrowed my soap and used my deodorant without asking. He has also used my towel more than once.

            There was somebody I called “Bright Eyes.” Didn’t have much to say about him, except noting once that he “did his talking belly button trick.” The less I picture that, the better.

            We called a fellow named Roger “Dim” who often laughed out loud to himself. I once wrote: Awoke to hear Dim tell about his dream, a man standing at the foot of his bed. “It was the weirdest thing!”  he said, shaking his head.

Steve's take. Marie on the lower left, Pamela next to her. I think Basil (my middle  name) is me.

Richie and Walter

           Richie from Brooklyn was irreverent, and the only one friendly to Norman. He wrote me a letter in February, 1979 describing some new crazy characters at the hostel, including:

            … the “Buffalo Brothers” because of their unkempt lifestyle, way of walking and their aversion to soap and water.

            Walter found one guy taking a shower with a dirty jock strap on, laughing hysterically to himself with no water running. I am trying to stay away from there as much as possible.

            Richie went to work for Bean and Spirits, but after reporting they were not doing well and “really pinching pennies,” he got a good job at Colorado University.         

            Richie became good friends with a quiet fellow named Walter. They met after we snuck back to the hostel after a night on the town, well after curfew. Entering the dark bedroom, I nodded towards Walter, whispering to Richie that Walter was also from New York. This exchange happened next:

            “Oh yeah?" shouted Richie. “What part are you from?” “Long Island,” mumbled Walter. “And quiet! It’s 2:30 AM!” Richie continued loudly, “Long Island? That’s not New York!” Walter responded,“Yeah? Just what is New York?” Richie replied with pride, “Well I come from Brooklyn!” “That’s not New York either!” said Walter, turning back into his bunk and closing his eyes.

            Marie reported that by 1981, Walter had returned to New York, but Richie is reportedly still around Boulder to this day. Alas, I don’t know his last name or how to reach him, but would love to catch up with him.

Bruce Gottliebson

            We had great fun learning Australian slang from our Aussie mate Bruce. He taught us such terms as “faedinkum” (really?), “ratbag” (somebody or something not cool), “wowser” (old stuffy dude), “troppo” (crazy), and our favorite phrase, “shout me a bicky!” (give me one of those cookies). Unable to track him down.

Jan and Brandon

            I met this couple at one of our informal get-togethers at the hostel.

            Tuesday night Bruce worked. Steve made brown rice and garbanzo beans at the hostel which I accompanied with molasses pancakes. We ate in Marie’s room, and she gave us her wine and played guitar. Jan and Brandon from Ireland were there, professional travelers. Jan is absolutely beautiful. Brandon is 39 years old, rugged, wears an eye patch. “You’re as young as you feel.” They were such a smooth, mellow couple, open to anything.

             

Today they'd be about 80 years young.

 Jim

            He was the oddest looking dude, but totally cool. Constantly wore a floppy hat over his shaggy blonde hair, and old, patched clothing set off with suspenders and an actual cape. He kicked my ass in chess repeatedly. He stayed at the hostel a while after we left, though Marie wrote in her letters that he planned to leave in the spring of 1979 to find work in California, and then save enough money to travel in South America.

The day we left

            November 17, 1978 was my mother’s birthday. My dad was born a day later, same year (he never let her forget that he was married to an older woman). I sent them a birthday card and had the idea to ask my hostel friends to write something I could include for them. Everyone enthusiastically obliged. Richie wrote a poem, and Jim even sent a five page letter under separate cover!

            We enjoyed the beautiful day:

            Richie, W, Walter, Bruce the Aussie, Jim and I played Frisbee football in front of the hostel and had a blast.  

            Kathy from Lexington took photos:

Bruce the Aussie, Richie, Jim, W, Walter.

That's Marie in front of W. Not sure who anyone else is, including the person under Marie's blouse.

Jan, Brandon, W, and Marie the only ones I know here.

Walter, W, headless Richie, Bruce the Aussie, Jim.

Bruce the Aussie, Kathy from Lexington, Jim, Walter, Richie in front.

Clockwise from bottom left: me, W, Kathy, Bruce, Marie, Walter, Jim, Steve.

W's Jet hat sure made the rounds. Not sure who that is wearing it here.

             Kathy from Lexington

            She was one of the few whose last name I noted, and after Marie mentioned on the phone with me that she was still in Boulder and teaching at Naropa University, she was easy to find. Kathy responded quickly and warmly to my now-standard email introduction, “Hello, I’m sure you have no idea who I am, but I knew you 40 years ago.” I was thrilled that she agreed to meet with me. She even hugged me hello.

            Kathy from Lexington is no more, however. She now goes by Katharine, which pleased me as well, since it’s spelled the same as one of our daughters, named after Katharine Hepburn. We fell into an easy chat. Her mellow congeniality, gentle humor, and tolerant listening skills were the same. (I can be a bit of a fanatic when I am trying to convince veritable strangers that I used to be friends with them.) Katharine remembered Bruce - not so much me - but endured my blathering nonetheless.

             Much to my delight, Katharine brought her photo album and let me share her many photos of the hostel crowd that are in this post. She apologized for not having any of me - though several of Bruce. She confessed she may have had a bit of a crush on him at the time: 

            

Bruce was not a smoker, but had this cigarette-flipping trick he liked to show off.

             Katharine did what Bruce and I thought we were going to do – stay in Boulder. Though she went back to Lexington periodically after we left, she eventually returned and made a rather unique home. Marie mentioned in a 1981 letter:

            Today I helped Kathy roll another huge stump into the yard for her goat’s enjoyment.

            Katharine was active in modern dance, and Bruce and I even visited one or two rehearsals for her show. Here’s her self-portrait, from the back of the envelope of one of Marie’s letters to me: 

The closest I ever got to a letter from Katharine.

            So it was no surprise that Katharine has remained in dance. She now teaches it as adjunct faculty at Naropa, along with poetry at Naropa’s Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics. (More on this fascinating university in my next post.) Katharine also has an independent career teaching meditation, yoga, and writing, and occasionally leading retreats. Katharine is “doing what she loves.” On top of her work, she recently adopted two three-legged dogs from India (called “tripods”).

            Katharine hasn’t kept up with the hostel crowd either, with one exception – she and Marie stay in touch periodically.

Leaving Boulder

            Bruce and I left Boulder the morning after Katharine took all those photos, on November 18, 1978. We were headed to Santa Fe with Bruce the Aussie in tow. Our destination was the “free hostel” we had read about, that also reportedly offered “free meals.” But when we arrived at the address to check in, the clerk told us, “Hostel? Oh, no. Not anymore. It’s a halfway house.” So it was off to the Motel 6, where we watched a special on Dr. Sam Sheppard, and I read Agatha Christie’s “Death on the Nile” late into the night.

            Bruce the Aussie left in the morning to hitchhike to Albuquerque, and that’s the last we saw of him. We weren’t going there – or so we thought. Forty miles south of Santa Fe the car started accelerating erratically. I limped it into a service station, the only one within miles, at Cline’s Corners – a town of a few houses, a store, and 2 service stations.

            The next four pages of my journal were filled with nothing but car trouble, and we did end up  in Albuquerque, at a repair facility. We spent Thanksgiving eve at a bar in Dalhart, in the Texas panhandle, and dined on Thanksgiving at a salad bar in Liberal, Kansas. Leaving there I got a speeding ticket, and had to post $40 bond in the mail. It was time for W and I to have a serious discussion:

            The result: we bought No-Doz and cigarettes [neither of us were coffee drinkers at the time] and prepared to boogie all night. Precisely 1000 miles from Ann Arbor was where we made our decision. I drove another 425 and Bruce took over as I rested.

11/24/78 Friday

            Day was breaking as we passed the arch of St. Louis into Central Illinois. We stopped for breakfast at a Dutch Pantry outside Indianapolis and continued good time to A².

            And so ended my 1978 journal.

            Why we didn’t stay in Boulder, why we returned to Ann Arbor where I still live, and what I learned when I went back over all this ground in 2018 - about myself, my friends, and America - will be in my next, and final, post.

---

[i]           Three weeks later, Marie reported Leslie was quitting Bean and Spirits, just after she assumed Mickey’s role. That’s two head cooks leaving within five months of the restaurant’s opening. The next year or so, Marie wrote that Bean and Spirits had permanently closed.

Photos and Illustrations: 

Bruce Weil - "Genius for War," Kathy from Lexington, Steve and I at Nederland Reservoir, moped photos.

Stephen Jackson - moped comics, "Moving On," drawing of hostel residents, paintings, profile photo.

Katharine Kaufman - hostel residents from November 17, 2018.

Marie - Polaroid of Boulder scenery.

NR - photos of Discount Tire letter, Table Mesa business card, KK drawing on envelope, Nederland Reservoir today. Sketch of Alex and the Dollar Bill. 

Internet searches - American Youth Hostel in Boulder, Clockwork Orange stock photo, Ernie Bushmiller and Nancy.

Stranger I handed my phone to - photo of me and Katharine.