News
ENLARGE
BRECKENRIDGE — Chris Gonzales, or “Gonzo” to most anyone who has known him since he was 5, never has had much use for stereotypes.
He fits a few, to say the least. He is a Mexican-American mechanic from Southern California with tattoos all over his flesh. He sports a long, stringy black goatee and constantly rubs his razor-shaved head with weathered hands smudged black by many years working in a garage. He has taken part in his share of fights.
He is also a cancer survivor, a doting father of two daughters — Drea, 7, and Skyler, 10 — and two dogs — Diesel and Tierod — who has been to jail eight times in his life and prefers Budweiser to microbrews.
He is vice president of his homeowner’s association and a passionate motorcyclist, one who resisted the lure of joining a biker gang but maintains a rare brotherhood with members of the Hell’s Angels, Banditos and Sons of Silence all at the same.
You might remember the hard, in-your-face Gonzo of old, who tended bar at Shamus O’Toole’s for eight years in the 1990s. Or, more recently, the kinder, gentler Gonzo who served back-to-back two-year terms on the Breckenridge Resort Chamber’s board of directors, plucking muffins from the basket with his grubby hands at monthly meetings, as more refined sets of eyes gawked.
Few people, even in this county, run with as many different crowds as he does — and none are as comfortable in so many environments.
Taking a break from an endless workload, Gonzo, 48, sat down behind his Breckenridge Automotive counter one recent evening, loaded up a bowl of homemade chili that’d been simmering since that morning, and pulled himself away from Wheel of Fortune to explain his honest, unabashed view of the world.
In his words …
• Progress is wonderful, but I’ve always run away from progress. I moved here from Hawaii in ’89. I bought two acres of land on the Big Island when I was 17 and lived in the woods, basically, for five years. Camped. Slept in a hammock under a tarp, collected rainwater for drinking water, cooked on a Coleman stove. No electricity.
• It was really hard to get ahead there. I did anything from farming ginger to, well, I moved there growing pot, of course. But that was before the whole war on drugs, Reagan’s war on drugs. I used to go to the airport with a big old backpack full of weed, and they’d go: “Oh, this is all you’re taking back, Gonzo?” “Yeah.” Fly into California, go hang out for like three months, and come back with all kinds of money.
• At 18, 19 years old, my nearest neighbor was a mile away. So I finally got a bartending job down in town just so I could talk to people. I also ran ’dozers, paddled outrigger canoes and raced them for years. We did Molokai Channel a couple times. Thirty-eight miles. Six in a boat. I miss that.
• One day, my brother called me up and said, “Hey man, I want you to move back to California, I’m gonna open up an autobody shop.” So I moved back and moved in with him and we opened up this shop called Gonzo Brothers Autobody and Paint. It was pretty much after the first month that the neighbors and we both decided to change it to Aggro Brothers because we’d be out on the front of the parking lot throwing fists to fists and having rock fights, just beating the s--- out of each other because we couldn’t get along.
• I drove limo for Hunter S. Thompson, twice. From Hollywood Hills to Southern California, man. Had to be the wildest ride I’ve ever been on. I was up there waiting for him, and I go, “Hey, we’re gonna be late,” because he was doing a show, a talk. And he’d go, “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” And he’s walking back and forth to his house. And I’m going, “Man, we’re gonna be late, we’re gonna be late.” “Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.” So finally we get him in the limo, a couple other people are with him in the back, he’s downing Crown, they’re back there smoking on the pipe. And we’re cruising down the interstate, and he goes, “Hey man, we’re gonna be late!” I go, “Yeah, yeah, whatever.” And he goes, “No man, we’re gonna be late.” I go, “Yeah, yeah, whatever.” And he goes, “All right. There’s an extra 500 if you make it on time.” And I go, boom, man, hit it up to a f----n’ hundred, we’re bookin’ along, weaving through traffic. Man, they’re back there just laughing. It was a good time. He gave me a T-shirt out of it, I got my 500 bucks, and he gave me an autographed book. I was stoked. He’s one of my heroes, for sure.
• When I first moved here, I tried to get a job bartending, but the one place I wanted to work was Shamus O’Toole’s. So I walked in there and they went, “Yeah, right.” Because back then it was who you knew. Now it’s the opposite. They don’t want you knowing anybody because you’re gonna give away drinks. Back then it was who do you bring in, who comes with you.
• So I got a job at Tiffany’s working the door. And it was just before the World Cup came to town. (Alberto) Tomba was here. This broad Laura was the manager. And she goes, “Nobody gets in without an ID.” So I was at the door and Tomba comes walking up with these two smokin’ chicks. I go, “Yeah, IDs.” And he goes, “Oh, you know who I am, right?” I go, “Yeah, I know who you are, man. IDs.” And he goes, “No, you know who I am.” I go, “Yeah, I know who you are, but I need IDs.” And he goes, “No man, I’m Tomba.” And Laura comes walking up and goes, “What are you doing? Do you know who that is?” I go, “Yeah, I know who he is, but nobody gets in without an ID.” And she goes, “No, that’s Tomba, you gotta let him in.” And I go, “So you’re telling me how to do my job again? You just told me how to do my job. Now you’re telling me something different.” And she goes, “You gotta let him in.” And I go, “Well, I guess you’re doing my job then. I f-----g quit.” And she goes, “You can’t quit.” It was World Cup weekend, the place was packed. And I go, “Watch me.” I punched the timecard and walked out.
• Finally I got a job at Shamus’s. It was the perfect place to work. Chicks would come in with their fur coats and stuff, “Oh, I’ll take a blended daiquiri.” I’d go, “Oh, don’t you know, ma’am? Blenders don’t work above 10,000 feet. They go the opposite way and everything comes flying out.” “Really?” “Yeah, what kinda beer, what kinda shot.” It was just about being yourself, that was the great thing about O’Toole’s. Those kinds of places are falling away, man.
• The town’s becoming sterilized. Some of the money that’s spent around here — we pour money into a gondola to increase the real-estate values. Oh, great. I mean, where on earth do you get on a gondola in a parking lot and get off a gondola in a parking lot, then get on a cold lift to go to the top of the hill?
• I own property here. I pay taxes for this place, but I don’t have the right to vote, because I live not even a quarter-mile outside the town limits. It’s just kind of a pisser. And there’s people who live in Texas but own residential property in town, and they can vote. But I, a guy who lives in the county full time, who owns a business in the town, who owns property in the town — I’ve got no say in how they spend my money.
• I moved here with 500 bucks, and pretty much have made what I’ve got. That’s what I love about this town — it has definitely given me opportunity. It’s available for anyone who wants to work hard. But of course, I worked three jobs, you know, and sometimes I work 18 hours a day in here. But I got goals. When my kids graduate from this high school, man, I’m gonna have my s--- packed, my bike will already be crated up, and I’m going to some small beach somewhere down in Argentina with a fishing boat I can push out, no motor. And I’ll get 55 gallons of beans and rice and some chickens and pigs, and I’ll just take all those with me, start raising my own. I’m gonna ship in a barge full of Jameson cases, and I’m gonna build my whole bar and the walls out of Jameson cases. Then I’m going to start depleting the cases. Leave me alone. I don’t want a phone. Somewhere far away from everybody. Live a simple life.
• There’s two things in life they call practicing. One’s law, the other’s medicine, because they never master it. But doctors have been working on the same two models for hundreds of years, and the parts have never changed. Me, my models change every year and the parts change three times a year. But I don’t get the same acknowledgement as a doctor.
• I opened this shop because there’s such a bad name about every mechanic’s a crook, you know, we’re out to rip ’em off, especially women, blah, blah, blah. But you know what? It’s not that way. There’s a lot of fair mechanics and fair people in this business.
• Some people bitch at me about, “Oh, why so much?” It’d be an awesome business if I didn’t have to deal with the customer. If the car could bring themselves in and go, “Hey I’m sick, this is what hurts.” I’d fix it and take it out of the owner’s account.
• I went through cancer seven years ago. That’s why I lost my hair. Hodgkins lymphoma. I got misdiagnosed for a year. By the time they found it, they gave me a 10 percent chance to live. I had it Stage 4b. I had it in my neck, my chest, my lungs and my abdomen. It gives me patience now, a pretty carefree outlook on life.
• I’m not really affiliated with any political party. But I’m not a big fan of the Republicans right now. I think I’m going to vote Obama. I just think what’s happened to this country the last eight years is scary.
• I think the Senate should be like jury duty. You get a letter in the mail that says, “It’s your turn to serve.” Get all walks of life in there.
• I want to become one of the first green autobody shops in Summit County. I recycle all my metal, I recycle my antifreeze, I use recycled antifreeze, I burn old oil to heat my shop, and I recycle all my plastic and cardboard.
• First year I moved here, I skied 160 days. Last year I think I got five. Typical story, really.
He fits a few, to say the least. He is a Mexican-American mechanic from Southern California with tattoos all over his flesh. He sports a long, stringy black goatee and constantly rubs his razor-shaved head with weathered hands smudged black by many years working in a garage. He has taken part in his share of fights.
He is also a cancer survivor, a doting father of two daughters — Drea, 7, and Skyler, 10 — and two dogs — Diesel and Tierod — who has been to jail eight times in his life and prefers Budweiser to microbrews.
He is vice president of his homeowner’s association and a passionate motorcyclist, one who resisted the lure of joining a biker gang but maintains a rare brotherhood with members of the Hell’s Angels, Banditos and Sons of Silence all at the same.
You might remember the hard, in-your-face Gonzo of old, who tended bar at Shamus O’Toole’s for eight years in the 1990s. Or, more recently, the kinder, gentler Gonzo who served back-to-back two-year terms on the Breckenridge Resort Chamber’s board of directors, plucking muffins from the basket with his grubby hands at monthly meetings, as more refined sets of eyes gawked.
Few people, even in this county, run with as many different crowds as he does — and none are as comfortable in so many environments.
Taking a break from an endless workload, Gonzo, 48, sat down behind his Breckenridge Automotive counter one recent evening, loaded up a bowl of homemade chili that’d been simmering since that morning, and pulled himself away from Wheel of Fortune to explain his honest, unabashed view of the world.
In his words …
• Progress is wonderful, but I’ve always run away from progress. I moved here from Hawaii in ’89. I bought two acres of land on the Big Island when I was 17 and lived in the woods, basically, for five years. Camped. Slept in a hammock under a tarp, collected rainwater for drinking water, cooked on a Coleman stove. No electricity.
• It was really hard to get ahead there. I did anything from farming ginger to, well, I moved there growing pot, of course. But that was before the whole war on drugs, Reagan’s war on drugs. I used to go to the airport with a big old backpack full of weed, and they’d go: “Oh, this is all you’re taking back, Gonzo?” “Yeah.” Fly into California, go hang out for like three months, and come back with all kinds of money.
• At 18, 19 years old, my nearest neighbor was a mile away. So I finally got a bartending job down in town just so I could talk to people. I also ran ’dozers, paddled outrigger canoes and raced them for years. We did Molokai Channel a couple times. Thirty-eight miles. Six in a boat. I miss that.
• One day, my brother called me up and said, “Hey man, I want you to move back to California, I’m gonna open up an autobody shop.” So I moved back and moved in with him and we opened up this shop called Gonzo Brothers Autobody and Paint. It was pretty much after the first month that the neighbors and we both decided to change it to Aggro Brothers because we’d be out on the front of the parking lot throwing fists to fists and having rock fights, just beating the s--- out of each other because we couldn’t get along.
• I drove limo for Hunter S. Thompson, twice. From Hollywood Hills to Southern California, man. Had to be the wildest ride I’ve ever been on. I was up there waiting for him, and I go, “Hey, we’re gonna be late,” because he was doing a show, a talk. And he’d go, “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” And he’s walking back and forth to his house. And I’m going, “Man, we’re gonna be late, we’re gonna be late.” “Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.” So finally we get him in the limo, a couple other people are with him in the back, he’s downing Crown, they’re back there smoking on the pipe. And we’re cruising down the interstate, and he goes, “Hey man, we’re gonna be late!” I go, “Yeah, yeah, whatever.” And he goes, “No man, we’re gonna be late.” I go, “Yeah, yeah, whatever.” And he goes, “All right. There’s an extra 500 if you make it on time.” And I go, boom, man, hit it up to a f----n’ hundred, we’re bookin’ along, weaving through traffic. Man, they’re back there just laughing. It was a good time. He gave me a T-shirt out of it, I got my 500 bucks, and he gave me an autographed book. I was stoked. He’s one of my heroes, for sure.
• When I first moved here, I tried to get a job bartending, but the one place I wanted to work was Shamus O’Toole’s. So I walked in there and they went, “Yeah, right.” Because back then it was who you knew. Now it’s the opposite. They don’t want you knowing anybody because you’re gonna give away drinks. Back then it was who do you bring in, who comes with you.
• So I got a job at Tiffany’s working the door. And it was just before the World Cup came to town. (Alberto) Tomba was here. This broad Laura was the manager. And she goes, “Nobody gets in without an ID.” So I was at the door and Tomba comes walking up with these two smokin’ chicks. I go, “Yeah, IDs.” And he goes, “Oh, you know who I am, right?” I go, “Yeah, I know who you are, man. IDs.” And he goes, “No, you know who I am.” I go, “Yeah, I know who you are, but I need IDs.” And he goes, “No man, I’m Tomba.” And Laura comes walking up and goes, “What are you doing? Do you know who that is?” I go, “Yeah, I know who he is, but nobody gets in without an ID.” And she goes, “No, that’s Tomba, you gotta let him in.” And I go, “So you’re telling me how to do my job again? You just told me how to do my job. Now you’re telling me something different.” And she goes, “You gotta let him in.” And I go, “Well, I guess you’re doing my job then. I f-----g quit.” And she goes, “You can’t quit.” It was World Cup weekend, the place was packed. And I go, “Watch me.” I punched the timecard and walked out.
• Finally I got a job at Shamus’s. It was the perfect place to work. Chicks would come in with their fur coats and stuff, “Oh, I’ll take a blended daiquiri.” I’d go, “Oh, don’t you know, ma’am? Blenders don’t work above 10,000 feet. They go the opposite way and everything comes flying out.” “Really?” “Yeah, what kinda beer, what kinda shot.” It was just about being yourself, that was the great thing about O’Toole’s. Those kinds of places are falling away, man.
• The town’s becoming sterilized. Some of the money that’s spent around here — we pour money into a gondola to increase the real-estate values. Oh, great. I mean, where on earth do you get on a gondola in a parking lot and get off a gondola in a parking lot, then get on a cold lift to go to the top of the hill?
• I own property here. I pay taxes for this place, but I don’t have the right to vote, because I live not even a quarter-mile outside the town limits. It’s just kind of a pisser. And there’s people who live in Texas but own residential property in town, and they can vote. But I, a guy who lives in the county full time, who owns a business in the town, who owns property in the town — I’ve got no say in how they spend my money.
• I moved here with 500 bucks, and pretty much have made what I’ve got. That’s what I love about this town — it has definitely given me opportunity. It’s available for anyone who wants to work hard. But of course, I worked three jobs, you know, and sometimes I work 18 hours a day in here. But I got goals. When my kids graduate from this high school, man, I’m gonna have my s--- packed, my bike will already be crated up, and I’m going to some small beach somewhere down in Argentina with a fishing boat I can push out, no motor. And I’ll get 55 gallons of beans and rice and some chickens and pigs, and I’ll just take all those with me, start raising my own. I’m gonna ship in a barge full of Jameson cases, and I’m gonna build my whole bar and the walls out of Jameson cases. Then I’m going to start depleting the cases. Leave me alone. I don’t want a phone. Somewhere far away from everybody. Live a simple life.
• There’s two things in life they call practicing. One’s law, the other’s medicine, because they never master it. But doctors have been working on the same two models for hundreds of years, and the parts have never changed. Me, my models change every year and the parts change three times a year. But I don’t get the same acknowledgement as a doctor.
• I opened this shop because there’s such a bad name about every mechanic’s a crook, you know, we’re out to rip ’em off, especially women, blah, blah, blah. But you know what? It’s not that way. There’s a lot of fair mechanics and fair people in this business.
• Some people bitch at me about, “Oh, why so much?” It’d be an awesome business if I didn’t have to deal with the customer. If the car could bring themselves in and go, “Hey I’m sick, this is what hurts.” I’d fix it and take it out of the owner’s account.
• I went through cancer seven years ago. That’s why I lost my hair. Hodgkins lymphoma. I got misdiagnosed for a year. By the time they found it, they gave me a 10 percent chance to live. I had it Stage 4b. I had it in my neck, my chest, my lungs and my abdomen. It gives me patience now, a pretty carefree outlook on life.
• I’m not really affiliated with any political party. But I’m not a big fan of the Republicans right now. I think I’m going to vote Obama. I just think what’s happened to this country the last eight years is scary.
• I think the Senate should be like jury duty. You get a letter in the mail that says, “It’s your turn to serve.” Get all walks of life in there.
• I want to become one of the first green autobody shops in Summit County. I recycle all my metal, I recycle my antifreeze, I use recycled antifreeze, I burn old oil to heat my shop, and I recycle all my plastic and cardboard.
• First year I moved here, I skied 160 days. Last year I think I got five. Typical story, really.
