I was in the state of Colorado from Wednesday night to Sunday afternoon; however, I was only able to see what Colorado was really like from about 10:45am to 1:30pm on Saturday when I was able to borrow someone's car and escape Beaver Creek.

Beaver Creek is a resort. I guess I kind of knew this, but now that I'm 30, I find that I experience things with a much more clear sense of what I like and what I don't like.

I don't like resorts.

Some people need to have children to turn into their parents. I only needed 14 dollar french toast to turn me into a raving version of my dad. By the end of my stay, a simple conversation about the price of room service set me howling about the failure of capitalism to always deliver the most competitive prices, the questionable legality of a 25% "resort tax" and possible grounds for a law suit over a ten-dollar grilled cheese sandwich.

The people we worked for were very nice. The employees were very nice. It was hard, though, to feel like a have in a land of work-for-haves. The employees are never allowed in the pool. Some of the only color we saw were the nice, latina maids. I am just not comfortable in that scene.

Presidents went smashingly, though. We got approached by a lot of people at the resort about the show and even though the crowd was very conservative, they were very receptive.
We also performed two nights of Too Much Light at Allie's Cabin up the hill from the Vilar Center. That went well on Friday but not so well on Saturday. The house was too conservative and didn't much like our political sensibilities, let's say.

One group of people, however, were happy to see Too Much Light that Saturday night. Two women and one man approached Genevra and I on Sunday about a half hour before we were to leave for the airport.

"Andy!" I heard. This happens to you when you perform in Too Much Light. People sometimes recognize you and say "hey, you're that guy..." which is what theater performers are more used to. But performing in Too Much Light as yourself, means that some people learn your name like they learn a character's name. And if they're a big fan, they even get to feel like they know you personally. When they bump into you, they call out your name and it sounds very much like they know you. The first reaction I usually have is "shit. Who's this person? Do I know them? Have I forgotten them?" Then to my relief they follow up with "I love you in Too Much Light..." or something to that affect.

Anyway, back to Colorado. "Andy!" I heard, in that same familiar tone. And up walked three people--two women, one older, and a man who appeared to be in his mid-thirties. He spoke again "How 'you doin' Andy? We liked your show."

Yes, Genevra had been in the show with me but she's not a short, thin bald man with a beard and unusual glasses so I tend to be spotted a little more readily. I asked the man's name and I shook his hand. He didn't have a very firm handshake. His name was Brian.

Brian was developmentally disabled. He certainly didn't appear so, but after a few words it was obvious to me. The two women with Brian (I'm guessing a mother and a sister?) began to speak with Genevra about the show while Brian seemed pretty interested in talking to me.

Unusually, I felt confortable around Brian.

"I've got a story for you that you could do in your show" Brian said.

Afraid that I might be listening for too long, I replied with "well, you can email the story to me."

It seemed that Brian didn't hear me and so launched into this: "It's called...um, Mom, what's it called? Mom?"

We both looked to Brian's mother, but she was talking with Genevra. I heard a snippet of the conversation..."Yeah," Genevra said, "it's very much a reflection of our daily lives..." Mother and sister were smiling and nodding, quite interested.

Brian gave up and turned back to me. "It's called," he tried, "called, um..." and then it hit him. "It's called butt darts."

"Butt darts?" I asked.

"Yeah. It's when you put a quarter up, um, in your behind, like between."

"Between your butt cheeks?" I asked.

"Yeah. Between your butt cheeks. And then you squat down..."

I wanted so badly for Genevra to hear this so I looked her way. Their conversation was still continuing. The three of them were missing all of it. "It's very immediate, for us" Genevra continued. "Something can happen to us on Tuesday and we can write about it that day and it's in the show on Friday..."

Brian continued. "You squat down over a cup, and then you let the quarter out your butt, and you try to get it into the cup. And that's butt darts."

I laughed. I mean, I really laughed. And I wasn't laughing at Brian at all. Brian's story, it's innocence and honesty and the heady, polite conversation happening in my right ear while they all missed Brian's story, it was too much for me to bear. Brian laughed too. He could tell that I was genuinely amused.

And to cap it all off, he added "my mom's an expert."

Perfect!

I had to look over again. They missed it all, and were wrapping up their conversation. Brian then asked me "do you take stories from people over e-mail?" He had heard me.

"I never have," I said, "but I'd be open to it."

"Because we've got a lot of good stories," Brian said.

"I'm sure you do," I said. And with that Genevra and I bid the family goodbye and I was able to tell Genevra about butt darts and Brian's accidental comic brilliance.

Meeting Brian was the most real and fun interaction I had at Beaver Creek. I met some great people but never got a chance to talk to anyone because of all the work we had to do, or the trips Genevra and I would take alone to recover from all the work we had to do. And because, frankly, a lot of the resort guests I met at Beaver Creek didn't make me feel as comfortable as Brian made me feel. Meeting that family was like meeting an American abroad. Brian made up for it all.

A part of me sincerely wishes that the whole world was as honest and funny as Brian was with me. I bet, even if he couldn't quite put it into words, that Brian wasn't totally comfortable at that resort either. If I had my way, I'd get the entire resort to participate in a game of butt darts.