Jim “Jethro” Martinez has gotten canned for the final time.
I should’ve taken a picture. It would’ve been one of the few times when someone pointed a lens in Jim’s direction and he didn’t immediately point to his johnson just as the shutter clicked.
Because I was at a celebration of my old amigo’s life. And Jim was in a Chock full o’Nuts coffee can.
It was a nod to “The Big Lebowski,” of course. Also, there were “The Blues Brothers” — brother Larry and Jim’s son, Kelly — who wore dark sunglasses on Saturday as they spoke of their loss to a standing-room-only crowd at the Bull & Bush Brewery in Glendale, Colorado.
Hey, it could’ve been worse. Jim and the El Rancho Delux gang watched a ton of “Miami Vice” Back in the Day®, so it’s nothing short of miraculous that Larry and Kelly weren’t stylin’ like Sonny and Rico.
Or maybe costumed as characters from another old favorite, the Firesign Theatre’s “The Further Adventures of Nick Danger, Third Eye.”
“Where am I?”
“You can’t get there from here.”
Me, I went for the “Outside Bought REI and Went to Whole Foods” look: Santa Fe School of Cooking cap, Timberland fleece vest, Patagucchi flannel shirt, Levi’s 505s, Darn Tough wool socks and low-rise Merrell hikers.
One of the many things Jim taught me was how to dress more like Possibility and less like Probable Cause. Another was how many times you can play your favorite Merle Haggard cassette in your own truck without Jim snatching it out of the deck and tossing it out the window at 85 mph somewhere in Utah. (The answer: One time too many.)
Anyway, it was good that I stepped up my fashion game a bit for the celebration of my old friend’s too-short life. Because this wasn’t just the old El Rancho crew, even though we were all in the Bull, shouting at each other over drinks as in daze of yore.
Former Denver Mayor Wellington Webb and his wife, Wilma, were in the house, as was the mayor’s former press secretary, Andrew Hudson, who got us started down memory lane with tales of working (and goofing) with Jim.
Hizzoner likewise delivered a fond remembrance of his longtime fixer, whom he called his “Luca Brasi,” as Jim’s cigar-puffing pals from the Smoking Cave lined up along one wall like an honor guard.
For me, the sentimental journey reached its peak when Kelly backstopped Larry as emotion took him off-script during his remarks. Whenever someone told Larry how fortunate Kelly was to have his support after his dad’s sudden passing, Larry replied that it was the other way around. His nephew is a remarkable, self-possessed young man, running smooth on a strong blend of dad and mom.
Mom — the love of Jim’s life, Teri Sinopoli — was in the crowd with her sisters. So were Jim’s sis, Betty Jo, and her husband, Tom; Larry’s wife, Sherry, and their sons, Stefan and Will; Stan the Man; Rudi Boogs and his wife, Tanysha; cousin Guillermo. Lots and lots of cousins, real and aspirational.
I was honored far beyond any merit of mine to be called a brother on Saturday, though anyone who didn’t know the backstory must’ve wondered how this blue-eyed, baldheaded old gabacho with a mug like a dried-up creek bed could’ve been any kind of kin to these beautiful people.
“Oh, one day we thought we smelled a dead raccoon in the attic and found him up there in a nest of old girlie magazines, mumbling something about where was his daddy the mailman. Didn’t seem right, so we brought him downstairs, gave him a little chile. Bad idea. Never feed a stray perro. He ain’t all there, and he’s too often here, like evil tidings from DeeCee.”
I wish Jim’s mom, Lucy, had been there to chide me for making myself scarce in recent years. But she has a lot of mileage on the odometer, even more than the rest of us, and wasn’t up to the journey. And anyway, I wasn’t really a franchise player.
Her son had a deep bench, and never more so than on Saturday at the Bull. Friends and family. Young and old. Colleagues and co-conspirators. Politicos and pendejos. Tales were told; photographs submitted as evidence; the legend rewritten and amplified.
Chris James “Jethro” Martinez always left the light on and the door open. What a blessing it was to have crossed his threshold, to be made welcome, to feel at home; to feel like family.
Mad Blog Media 
Nice.
Gracias, hombre. Another moment: As the formalities wound down and we enjoyed a bite of dinner, a black cat slipped into the Bull’s tent, hunting treats. Rudi’s wife, T, obliged with bits of this and that.
A thought struck me. I looked over at Larry and said, “Jim?”
He looked back at me as though the same thought had occurred to him.
I’ll spare you the direction the convo took after that. …
Your last sentence in the post says it all. To have good friends for a long time is unusual. Moving, changing jobs, or changing interests gets in the way. But, real friendship can survive all that, again, you are a lucky old dog! Peace, Patricio
On a different note, Andy and his St. Louis, Mo buddy Mat are doing the Oro Valley Triathlon again this year. So, we will be meeting with them, and Liz, uo there that weekend. I’m sure the Mad Dog colors will be involved.
Thank you, sir. Good news about Andy, hey? A stint in the desert will boil some of that PNW water out of the lad.
They are doing the Sprint event this year instead of the Beginner. And, with Liz and I there, there will be craft brews shared in the evening! Too bad Khal ,Herb, and your own bad self won’t be in town for the weekend. Herb, Liz, and I could head over to Barrio Brewing and get lost for a few hours. And, we all would be one hell of a cheering crew for Andy and Matt, cowbells included, with a memorable dinner after the finish.
POB as I’ve said before…I don’t drink alcohol….. unless I’m alone or with somebody…..
If forced, I’ll drink beer but only as long as it comes from a can, bottle, growler, keg, downspout or out of the ground.
I don’t drink anymore.
Also don’t drink any less.
But with today’s chinooks bringing us an unhealthy dose of Föhnkrankheit, I’d recommend tonight sticking to tap water, and maybe putting the knife block on the top shelf, locking up any firearms, and giving everyone a wide berth while we navigate these hopefully temporary waters.
If you’re in need of a chuckle, think about a random northern Coloradan, approx 60, trying to walk his dogs after dark when he realizes the sidewalk is covered in goose shit. And just then, the pups decide to play tetherball with their fearless leader, with one running clockwise while his counterpart spins anticlockwise until they’ve bolo’d him from ankle to kneecap.
Let’s just say changing trousers was the first thing I did when I got home.
Wow: What a great word. From Mental Floss:
I remember going out on a first date in Corvallis, Oregon, after a chilly drizzle that turned to black ice on the sidewalk. As we were walking toward the restaurant, chatting, both feet shot out from under me and I landed flat on my keister in a puddle.
A change of garments was indicated there as well. And the relationship? It did not thrive.
May we all live a life worthy of a Maddog Media-style obit. Best I can tell, to make the cut, you don’t need awards, degrees, diplomas, or three letter abbreviations after your name. You simply have to be there for your amigos when they need you. Give more than you take. Shine a little light here and there.
Well met, kind sir.
I imagine when I hit the road for The Hereafter, the three letter abbreviation on my headstone will be S-O-B.
My three-letter headstone will be A.M.F. You used to see that on hot-rod differentials Back in the Day®.
American Machine and Foundry, yeah? Made cigarette machines, bowling pinsetters, and nuclear reactors. Maybe the most American company ever.
Chure, maaaaaan .. that could be it. Or it could be something else that you don’t wanna say around your grandma.
Thanks, señor. I need to remember to say these things to people before they slip away on me. That early childhood training as an Air Force brat enduring move after move — “Oh, you’ll make new friends.” — is a bitch to overcome.
I traded in my dependent ID for an active duty one forty-two years ago, and I still expect someone new to move in next door every twelve months.
Haw. When we hit 10 years here I was getting that old familiar itch.
“Shouldn’t we have been elsewhere about seven years ago?”
“Ho ho ho, Chrome-Dome. Like I’m leaving this Sandia gig before Orange Hitler shuts off the money spigot. What, I’m supposed to be all wet to the knees dreaming of living in a van down by the river, collecting aluminum cans for recycling with you?”
I’m used to moving often until one day I realized that “Holy shit ! We’ve been here 20 years”. That’s longer than anywhere else for both myself and the wisened matriarch. I guess I was out riding my bike all the time and she was knitting, painting, sewing and crafting so much, that neither one of us looked up to see how long we’d been here. Now the damn roots have grown around a few things and it’s easy to make excuses for not going anywhere else. Perhaps I’ll wait until the wildfire burns the shack down, or the Cascadia subduction zone decides to alter the foundation, and I’ll take the insurance payoff to run away to some other green pasture in my own mind.
That happened to us during our last tour of duty in Bibleburg. Thirteen years went by like a snap of the fingers.
I was in no rush to leave. Never cared for the politics of the place, but there were hints that the Christo-Fascist No-Fun Klub wouldn’t have its Bible-banging paws locked onto the levers of power forever.
We had good neighbors in the Patty Jewett Yacht Club & Gun Club ’hood. Locally owned coffee shop a block from the house; the Safeway of the Living Dead, a bank, and a hardware store within walking/cycling distance. Downtown, such as it was, just a wee bit further away. Plus excellent parks, paths and trails.
But when Sandia told Shannon to come on down, and she showed me the numbers, well, shit. That was that.
Chez Dog in the B-burg.
Nicely done. And condolences. Sad when a fellow like “Jethro” heads off from this life, but we all gotta get there eventually.
True dat. And some of us will draw a bigger crowd than others when the word comes to gather round. It was a great joy to see a full house honoring my bro’ Jethro. All Herself will need for me is a 10×10 popup and a four-pack of Guinness cans.
Only a four pack? Remember Herb and I will be there.
Herself has a tight budget for this one. She’s ruthless. I’ll be lucky to get a coffee can. I’m expecting a paper sack.
If I’m still around, it will be a suitable container made from Reynolds 853. If not, you and I can discuss it on the way to the pub.
Hey, that’s a great idea. A short section of 853, sealed at one end with a cork in the other. Like a chromoly test tube. Maybe a Steelman decal on one side, if my man Brent has any tucked away in the garage some’eres. Well thought out, sir.
At least a paper sack is compostable, like we are.
Just don’t mistake it for that day’s lunch. Whoops.
“Hell’s this, and where’s my ham sammich and tater chips at?”
Saw that Al Trautwig passed today, complications from cancer. Always thought he got a raw deal from Tour de Farce viewers. Bike nerds want it both ways: they desperately want their sport to go mainstream, and cannot stand it when their sport goes mainstream.
I liked Al. He had a great voice. I hadn’t read that he had passed.
I hadn’t said so earlier but I’m sad to hear about your friend and thank you for letting us know a little about him. Where was El Rancho located approximately? I wonder if I ever raced by it and hollered for the stoners there to keep it down as I sped through the neighborhood – Not likely but it’s fun to think about where lives may have crossed in the past.
I to got away for a few hours this weekend and met up with a couple of chums from the ’80’s. I got a chance to meet one of their sons as he introduced himself outside the meat house that we were to dine in. For a moment I felt that I had time traveled back 44 years. Wow. Where did the time go?
“The years just flowed by, like a broken down dam.”
El Rancho Delux was on the grounds of a former dairy/nursery operation, an easy southeasterly stagger along a stretch of doubletrack from the Bull & Bush at Cherry Creek and Dexter in Glendale. Our old dive is buried underneath a ton of “apartment houses” now, and I’ll bet the Ghosts of Substance Abuse Past keep a lot of folks there awake at night.
“Honey, did you drink all the beer?”
“I thought you drank it all.”
(insert ghostly belch here)