Holiday Cheer

Normally, I don't seek out house music. I'll happily listen to it, and dancing like an entranced whipsaw at a live show brings a smile to my face. The names of the individual DJ's themselves, though, mean no more to me those of my neighbors' pets. I'll gladly throw a stick for the friendly Labrador at the end of the cul-du-sac, just as I can be convinced to pay $15 bucks to hear somebody like Pete Tong or Armin Van Buuren spin a record at a downtown club. I don't want to buy the dog food or pay for a trip to the vet, though, just as I'm not too interested in getting obsessed with the club scene.

The problem with techno in Denver is that the clubs themselves are, unless you're incapacitated with drugs, unrelentingly self conscious. If you look hard enough, you see plenty of empty space, and a decor that looks more like recycled linen than anything else. I've yet to find one that tricked me into thinking that I'd stumbled into a reincarnation of Studio 54. Instead, I'll dance knowing full well that a glittering 7-11 stands just next door. This is fine if I get thirsty and need a Gatorade, but somehow it detracts from the allure that the party of a lifetime is going on back inside. When I was living in Madrid, I went into a few clubs that were large and ostentatious enough to leave me wondering if the Spanish government wasn't partly funding the place. Golden pillars supported a hovering stage where the DJ played to a 6 story house utterly packed to the gills with revelers. Everyone was dressed in their best leather and mesh, knowing full well that anything like a John Elway jersey would get you thrown out of the establishment and possibly deported to Portugal. Back in Denver, though, the shine just isn't the same, and some tool in his Bronco shirt has a good chance of getting into the festival.

This disparity in ambiance didn't stop my friend Rob from getting me a ticket to see Christopher Lawrence play music at a place in Denver called 'The Church'. Rob is much more of a music connoisseur than I am, and in homage to his superior knowledge, I tried to replicate his excitement for the show. In truth, I'd never heard of Christopher Lawrence, but I didn't want to ruin the fun. Playing along, I even rallied the enthusiasm to eat a bunch of mushrooms just to get in the groove. It wasn't too long before the crowd turned into a pen of bouncing rabbits, much to my delight. I was dancing like a maniac, and at the end of the night, I had developed a sort of affinity with Mr. Lawrence in spite of any shortcomings with the Denver club scene. He and I had bonded.

So you'll understand my nostalgia and surprise when I met a man named Christopher Lawrence on a climbing trip years after the bunnies attacked my cerebellum. I was down in Kentucky enjoying the out of this world climbing at the Red River Gorge, camping with my friends Dan and Derek. Dan had grown up in New York, and had moved to Colorado for college. He and I met out in Rifle, and have been buddies for a few years. Derek is another climbing buddy, although I just met him a few weeks before the trip to the Southeast. He had been on a cross country road trip, living out of his Toyota LandCruiser and climbing for six steady months. Derek had just finished his fellowship as a pathologist, but wanted to indulge in some climbing before getting too serious with medicine and regular employment. Immediately after meeting in Rifle, we hit it off, and he invited me to fly to Lexington after his road trip took him to "The Red". There, he'd pick me up and climb with me for a few days. Knowing that Dan and Derek were both down there, and that Derek had generously offered enormous convenience if I made the trip, was too much to pass up. I booked my ticket and prayed for good weather.

When I arrived, the guys had set up a tent city at a campground called Lago Linda. This sort of redneck resort caters to climbers, and has cabins for rent along with their rougher amenities. We camped in a converted horse barn, but had access to electricity and hot water. Survival is practically a given, and comfort is entirely possible, with these two facts. On my second day at the "Lago", Dan ran into his old buddy Christopher from New York. He sauntered up and we immediately started talking.

Christopher was also a climber, and was renting one of the aforementioned cabins from the resort. He had known Dan for years, and even took him climbing a bit before Dan turned into a total wonderkid and started crushing 5.14. When I was introduced to "Christopher Lawrence", I thought there was no way it was the same guy. Sure, he looked much like I remembered him, but my view of the stage wasn't immaculate. His bleach blond hair was the same, but he looked a lot older in person. 'Huh,' I thought. Name checks out, hair looks the same, and the fact that he is nearly deaf from years "in a band" also seemed to fit. I couldn't tell if it was the same guy, but I just hung out and tried to cover my bases by not doing anything foolish either way. I didn't want to act starstruck and fawn over "my favorite DJ" just in case it was mistaken identity, but I wanted to mention that I'd seen some great house shows just in case it actually was him. That way, I could play it cool and tell him, when and if his identity was confirmed, that I had known all along.

I asked him about his music, and he started telling me about all the punk he played growing up. The wall of amps behind his head was the main culprit for the hearing loss, but he'd gone from the drums to a career in photography. He'd been climbing for 25 years, and had plenty of stories from trips around the globe, but he made his money behind the lens.
"So you're not Christopher Lawrence The DJ?"

He smiled wryly and said I wasn't the first person to get confused, but he was in fact Christopher Lawrence The Photographer. That's how his contact info went into my phone - "Christopher Lawrence, Photog not DJ". Christopher and I spent a few days hanging out together, climbing and drinking at a Halloween party. We were talking about trips we'd like to take, and places we'd been, and had a bonding moment regarding sailing. Where he'd taken to it, and found it almost as gratifying as climbing, I was just getting over my most recent sailing experience in Greece. Regardless, the talks would always come back to climbing and travel, and he told me about his yearly trip to Mexico during the Christmas holiday. For the past couple of years, Christopher and a few friends had been down to Potrero Chico for Navidad climbing. Given my longstanding desire to climb the huge sport routes down there, some heading skyward for 20 pitches, I found myself salivating with jealousy. My holiday traditions didn't leave much room for rock climbing.

One tradition has been our family's attendance at a weird, old restaurant up in Empire, CO. We'll all go out for a dinner right before Christmas. The roots of the experience lie with my stepmother, who found this old hotel and restaurant decades ago when she was still in her first marriage. Each year, her for over 20 and our family for 12, we'll pile into the car and head West towards the ski areas, stopping in a town on the shoulder of Berthoud Pass to take over a certain dining room. The Peck House always has a roaring fire going when we get there, and the menu NEVER changes. The waitress, her hair always in the ever tight bun, and her slim figure tucked neatly into the same formal red dress as always, describes with pride the pate or mushrooms that are special for that night. She makes her announcement as though we'd be blown over with surprise. Actually, we all know what we're going to order before we even step out of the car, just as we know there will be a family picture in the sleigh on the front porch while we try to avoid freezing to death. The evening is typically a nice reunion, and it doesn't last so long as to become a burden. After dessert, we head back down the highway and close the chapter on The Peck House tradition for another year.

Another annual ritual, though this one more of a recent phenomenon, is overt charity. Oprah took to her daily television show one specific episode a few years ago, and talked at length about what a wonderful and fulfilling experience it was to give away money or gifts to perfect strangers. I imagine that it is entirely superficial for her bottom line, given that she has a net worth that is greater than the GDP of many developing nations. My stepmom saw this particular show, and liked the idea to the extent that a few weeks before Christmas, we would get an envelope stuffed with $100. The catch: the cash wasn't for us. We had to take to the streets like a modest Oprah army, distributing the loot to unsuspecting strangers. We were forbidden from doing something like give it to our girlfriends in order to curry naked favors, or engage in any other kickback schemes. The rules have remained fluid over the years, and have recently expanded to prohibit any internet microcredit organizations. That bylaw was directed mostly at my sister Megan. A few years back, she'd pledged the money to a candy vendor on the streets of Asuncion, Paraguay, via the internet. Simultaneously, she aroused suspicions amongst my dad and stepmom that she'd broken rule No. 1 and simply pocketed the dough. They heard of her "internet donation" because that was another rule. We all had to hit the streets and give out the money before Christmas eve, so that when we had dinner that night before Santa stuffed our stockings, we'd all be able to share our tales with the benefactors. I mean, how much fun is it to give away money and not hear about the homeless man's reaction when you bought him new boots? If a tree falls in the forest with no one around, does it make a sound? If your kids give away your money without you knowing exactly how and to whom, are you still generous?

I like to spread the $100 around, preferring to drop $20 here, $10 there. One night, though, I went a bit bigger than usual, and offered to pay for a large part of the dinner bill for an adjacent table while eating at a restaurant. Colorado was enduring quite a snowstorm, and my friend Ethan was in town for some skiing. After a day on the slopes, we were ready for a hot meal, so Ethan, Kate and I went out for a burger and a beer. The table next to us had two men and one woman, all of whom appeared middle aged. They were pretty somber, expecially in light of the huge snow the mountains were getting, so I assumed they needed some cheering up. Perhaps their goggles had gone missing, or they'd failed to tune their powder skis. I slid my chair to their table, startling one of the elders into grabbing his knife in defense. I talked quickly, and flashed the cash to keep from getting stabbed. When the older woman began to gently cry, I wondered what the hell I'd gotten into. She explained that her mother had just died, but her flight was cancelled out of Denver because of the weather. Now, she was going to miss the funeral. She said that it made her day, and though I don't think even giving her the whole $100 would have brought her mom back, at least I'd lucked into doing something.

That story went over well when I retold it at the dinner table on Christmas eve.

And on the very night of retelling my tale, Santa slid down the chimney and deposited a heap of gifts at the bottom of a 20 foot fir tree standing in my dad's living room that, luckily, has a vaulted ceiling. You might ask, 'Where the hell does one find a tree so over the top?' I'd answer, 'At Greg Penkowski's forest hideaway, of course!'

Greg and my dad shared a law practice for a few years back in the 1990's, and they've remained passing acquaintances ever since. It seems like quite a regression to go from sharing an office with someone to seeing them just once a year, but Greg is a huge Soviet man with more than a hint of oddness. I guess that's enough for my dad and his old law partner. This isn't to say Greg's a bad guy, and he has sincere kindness and generosity in his heart. He will always shake your hand with his bear paw, though just a bit too firmly, and for a few seconds too long. Now and then, I see him sitting on a bench downtown, watching the crowd stroll by on 16th Street with a grin from ear to ear. I wonder, then, if Greg has lost every last marble, or if he's just more suited to fresh air. Aside from my coincidental meetings on the sidewalk, I see the Penkowski clan only one other time during the year. We march onto their mountainous 160 acre estate with saw in hand. Greg sets aside a Saturday in early December each year, and has a whole team of wannabe foresters slip and slide on the hills above Golden in search for that perfect Christmas tree.

Along the way, my dad has gotten the idea that bigger is better, so each year we're all called into action to scour the hillsides for the perfect two ton behemoth. It gets chopped down, we gather around and grab branches, and then lug the sacrificial foliage back to the waiting Suburban. When we're back at the vehicle, my dad does some strange gyration he calls "The Tree Dance", which is more seizure than coordinated movement honoring the fir's demise. When he comes to a stop, all the Pharo kids look over their shoulders in prayer that no one was looking, and then heft the tree onto the roof of the car. After everything is tied tightly, we walk back to the campfire Greg has stoked, and rip through some of the wine he's donated. After a few glasses, our feet will get cold, we'll have caught up with all the necessary pleasantries and platitudes. We'll leave Greg, his wife Francis, and their two kids for another year.

And on my way home, I'll usually think to myself, "These Pharo traditions are nice. But man, it sure would be pretty great to be down in Mexico, climbing with a deaf man and a herd of rabbits."