Barely Legal

I never went inside when it was called "Middle Earth." Back then, it was a hard-rock venue for cover bands that served 3.2 beer. Truth is, it probably should have had massive appeal for me, as both metal music and watery beer were things that I sought out for my voluminous spare time. But I was going to school in Colorado Springs, and "Middle Earth" was across the street from the University of Colorado in Boulder. Instead, I found myself in a number of similar taverns in Colorado Springs, usually on "Southern Rock Night." On those nights, cover versions of "Freebird" could last forty minutes. The cadets from the Air Force Academy and the soldiers from Fort Carson (Zoomies and Doggies, respectively) would drink themselves into a frenzy and then retire to the parking lot to pummel each other for choosing the wrong branch of the arm service to join.
I could tell you that I moved back to Boulder because the nightlife in Colorado Springs was just too tedious, but it wouldn't be exactly true. But by the time I got back to Boulder, the New Wave had crashed on the Hill, and "Middle Earth" had evolved into "Pogo's." Yuppies ripped up their t-shirts and poured into the low-ceilinged basement to hear music they wouldn't admit to liking in the light of day: Devo, Human League, The Cure. Sometimes I like to wear my punk badge of honor, which is to announce loudly that I attended the same high school as Jello Biafra, but I know for a fact that Jello wouldn't have been caught dead in "Pogo's," even if it was just a few short blocks from his parent's house.
"Pogo's" was a place that always felt more dangerous than it was. Probably because of the harsh black and white decor, but more because of those low ceilings. Truth is, drinking 3.2 beer and listening to the Vapors wasn't going to get you into any real trouble, it was probably going to give you a headache in the morning, not a safety pin in your cheek. This was the early eighties, and conformity was still a hot commodity. New Wave washed off. Punk was more of a permanent stain.
And so it went through the eighties. By the time I finally hauled myself out of my undergraduate malaise and earned my degree, "Pogo's" had morphed once again into the industrial outpost called "Ground Zero." In 1987, 3.2 beer fell by the wayside when a "national drinking age" was established, and the need for "baby beer" disappeared. Coincidentally, this is right about the time my own personal prohibition began, so when I went to "Ground Zero," I was there to dance. To be more precise, I was there to thrash about wildly, just outside the mosh pit, and sweat myself into a tumultuous frenzy. That's where I met my wife. Again, to be more precise, we had already met, we just had one of our first real dates there.
I have no idea what is in that basement on College Avenue today. My hope is that they sealed it up, salted the earth, and no one has ever set foot in the place again. Or maybe not. I have many varied and mostly lucid memories of that spot, and those years.