Author Archive for M. Toole

Mother Nature Reclaiming Vast Segments of Suburban Sprawl

(Levittown) The planet earth is coming back with a vengeance recovering enormous swaths of land once thought to be beyond resuscitation. The march of aggressive vegetation, revived jungle, and the increased rumbling from the planet’s core have resulted in a restoration once thought impossible.

Nature is in the midst of a revival not seen since the Renaissance according to botanists and geologists monitoring the spontaneous reinstatement of natural law in areas surrounding major population centers. Sociologists have long pinpointed these often-affluent communities for the worst abuses.

“The planet is winning back acres and acres at an alarming rate throwing man’s progress to the four or five winds,” said Dr. Efram Pennywhistle of the Rolling Hills Institute in Parma, Ohio. Even asphalt and concrete are no match for an angry mother where the relentless, powerful march of green growth and geothermal energy are measured.”

Pennywhistle, who often speaks through a straw, reminded readers that fracking, fossil fuel emissions, pesticides, chemical fertilizer and constant oil spills by negligent petroleum capitalists remain a grave threat to life on earth. He said he hoped that when Mother Nature is finished with the suburban housecleaning she will roll up her sleeves and turn her attention to these environmental disasters.

“A lot of us here at the institute have come to realize that the current effort is just a test run, a dress rehearsal for bigger and better things to come. We expect that in a few months we will observe the utter destruction of hydraulic fracturing sites, the sinking of oil tankers, the termination of gasoline-powered cars and the embrace of organic fertilizers even by the heartless corporate sector. These changes will not come due to a new-found altruism on the part of humans but rather by stepped up angry natural disasters and the might of the natural world against these choking technologies.”

Pennywhistle suggests that at the current rate (step-in-step with polar ice melt still denied by throwbacks in Congress) there may be no more suburbs at all by 2040. Poorly constructed shopping malls ma go first followed by the crumbling of ticky-tacky neighborhoods that have grown up around them.

Countless experts in the field have warned of the coming doom. One noted climatologist, Professor Myra “Bunny” Hopwilder, the inventor of Kind Pesticide, a brave, new notion that simply puts pests in a “state of swooning well-being”, rendering them harmless, has this to say:

“Prematurely cracked sidewalks, statues tumbled to the ground, scrambled communities draped in flat humdrum walls and ceilings steeped in sameness, carnivorous plants eating small rodents and insect for now. What will they do when the food supply runs out? Melting asphalt from above and below, plants growing to four and five times their normal size. Culture smothered and overpowered as nature chokes off whatever inhabits her sinister path.”

Whether this floral gentrification is a cure or remedy depends on the value placed on vapid architecture and human existence, according to Hopwilder.

“When the deed is done and the earth returns to an agrarian paradise, free of man’s convoluted meanderings, will we still be a welcome here? Will we learn to live in harmony with the world around him or simply begin the devastation again?”

Meanwhile governments from Nairobi to Nanking are encouraging people to take precaution.

“Keep all children and pets indoors and all cars in garages when available. Secure all lawn furniture, barbecues, fencing, lawn tools and sheds. Don’t overwater existing foliage. If you have an old bomb shelter this might be a good time to muck it out and stock it with canned goods. Otherwise you are on your own.

For related story turn to Wind Turns Violent at US Congressional Palace on Page 56 

– Arlene Fukushima

 

CANE LICENSE DEADLINE LOOMS

Montrose) People carrying canes have until Thursday to procure licenses for same or face stiff fines. Whether a citizen is using the cane as a tool, a crutch, a walking stick or simply an accessory, he must comply with the new regulation.

Critics of the law say it is just another agist step toward a national ID card. They say that although the card is presented as necessary security against illegal aliens and terrorists it is just another attempt by the federal control freaks to look up your dress/down your shorts.

“I’d prefer trainloads of illegal immigrants in my backyard rather than have an ID number stenciled on my forehead,” said Rocky Flats, a semi-retired atomic scientist and frequent cane user from Olathe. “I’m gonna use my cane and I’m not gonna buy no damn license. Them that gets in my way wanting to see credentials will get a close up look at my walking stick, you betcha.”

A free-lance gov’ment source defended the action.

“We don’t want to get involved in people’s personal lives, no sireee…We just want to defuse a potentially explosive scenario before it becomes a life threatening situation,” smiled Suzanne Compost of the Committee for Public Safety. “What with all those baby boomers hitting senior status we expect to see more people using canes. In fact, we estimate that cane use will all but double by the year 2020.”

Compost went on to deny rumors that the authorities will patrol older neighborhoods checking paperwork, observing suspicious behavior and kicking canes out from under elderly people who choose to ignore the law.

“That’s ridiculous,” she quipped. “Some of those old farts carry mace, bite and have mean cats. Why would we jeopardize the safety of our people? Our policy is to wait till these criminals take a nap on a park bench, lay their canes down at the local cafeteria or go to pick up their sociable security checks at the mailbox, then we simply the seize the illegal cane.”

The AARP, the ACLU, Reader’s Digest, the manufacturers of Viagra and several prune juice processing plants have promised to appeal the new legislation.

– Manuel Flushe

Imaginary Friend Population on the Rise

(Denver) The number of imaginary friends claimed by residents of the Confront Range has almost doubled since this time last year. Experts say the jump is the result of growing disenchantment and constant stress experienced in higher population areas.

Imaginary friends, defined as anyone from a fantasy pal to an invisible advisor, tend to surface when real people just don’t cut the mustard. They are, in turn, attracted to lonely people who find themselves the victim of the 21st Century—People who constantly breathe bad air, people who spend their lives stuck in traffic or crammed into the cheery suburbs.

“These are not to be confused with guardian angels,” explains Dr. Efram Pennywhistle of the Lookout Mountain Helicopter Traffic Brown Cloud Symposium. “They cannot be claimed as dependents on tax returns and are not recorded on the national census.”

Pennywhistle says guardian angels are good spirits while imaginary friends run the gamut from helpful to destructive. He adds that a pretend passenger can be of great worth while negotiating I-25 at rush hour or on the ol’ riding mower at dusk.

“We had one joker up here in Golden who claimed his imaginary friend bought him cheap vodka and made him drink it while driving up Clear Creek to the Central City casinos. Upon arrival the imaginary friend allegedly made him gamble away his paycheck and later threaten security personnel. When police arrived, and arrested the man,” quipped Pennywhistle, “the imaginary friend was nowhere to be seen.”

Up till now most urban planners and social scientists have chosen to ignore the existence of these others preferring to focus on logistical problems having to do with physical matter and space.

“It was bad enough trying to create housing for the first string (living, breathing humans) without worrying about these imagined individuals,” said one planner. “Now we have to build imaginary interstate highways, locate imaginary low income housing, develop imaginary neighborhoods and even maintain imaginary schools for their children. The impact on social services is astounding. We still haven’t figured out how to tax them and sell them licenses but that day is coming.”

In private, many sociologists resent the imaginary friends whom they say are parasites at best out only for a good time. Most feel humans would be better dealing directly with trauma rather than creating beefed-up linemen to do their blocking for them.

“Any way that modern man can deal with the bombardment of stimuli is acceptable,” explained Jorge Thorwell, a professor of Latter Day Metaphysics at Cal Amari University (Compton Fire Base). “These poor unfortunates in washed cars live life at a blow by blow pace traveling the robot highway in a world turned to bad science fiction. The road noise alone drives most slowly insane.”

At press time the number of imaginary friends living between Ft. Collins and Trinidad is estimated at about 500,000. While most have assimilated into ancient Colorado culture (they are Bronco fans) their presence is a constant threat to the fragile peace and harmony along that stretch of Colorful Colorado. – Fred Zeppelin

 

Quiet Observations

Martian Travel Benefit: Apollo National Park on the Moon

With the establishment of the new Apollo National Park on the Moon it should be easier to travel to Mars according to Jetpack Carriers, a pioneer transport service specializing in all-inclusive cosmic ventures into the great beyond. Jetpack, which will begin full service flights to Mars in November, says the preliminary taming of the lunar orbit satellite, will give travelers a host of options when cruising outer space.

“The trip to Mars can be exhausting and tremendously tedious if a person is not prepared for the experience. The opening of a National Park on the moon offers a safety net or failsafe where people can get out of the shuttle, stretch their legs and have a look around.”

The round-trip cost for the journey starts at $1.3 million, which includes chemical meals in clever packaging and in-flight films. Interest in one-way trips has spiked recently with many potential passengers eager to “get off the grid and rid themselves of the stress of earth-bound routines” according to Jetpack.

 

Kim Jong-un Having Trouble Getting Dates

(Pyongyang) Korean news sources intimate that Dear Leader, Kim Jong-un has been experiencing a downturn in his social life after ordering the execution of a former girlfriend, Hyon Song-wol, a well-known Korean performer with the Unhasu Orchestra. Hyon, who was accused of breaking domestic pornography laws, was the victim of a firing squad that took an estimated dozen lives. Most of the others killed were members of the Wanghaesan Light Music Band.

Whether Kim will rebound from his social snafu was not discussed however many here say he will be back on the dating trail by the weekend. Many potential partners are afraid to say no to the Korean dictator and don’t dare answer the phone. Others reportedly dream of a date so as to get a decent meal in the starving country. The sources did not dwell on the leader’s charms, calling him “quite a catch” even though he is currently married to Ri Sol-ju, who had objected to the high profile of the ex-girlfriend.

“It is not known if these murders will undermine the dapper god-king’s efforts to woo the women of North Korea,” said one South Korean mouthpiece, “but it certainly can’t help come Saturday night.”

 

Many Zombies Sticking Around After Film

(Montrose) An alarming number of zombies and assorted extras say they are planning to relocate to Montrose after a positive experience filming the movie “I Am Alone” in the Western Colorado city. Of the 50 or so zombies taking part in the filming most told The Horseshoe that they hope to stay here.

“It all comes down to jobs and there aren’t all that many good ones to be had,” said one of the Walking Dead, sipping a zombie downtown yesterday. “Sometimes quality of life is more important than money and we have a powerful support group quickly forming in these environs.

Zombies, thought to be corpses brought back to life by witchcraft, generally led productive lives and often blend in with the local population. Many are attracted to the shadows of the urban arena yet others prefer the wide-open spaces.

The city of Montrose, in keeping with bullying practices toward small business within its confines, has announced that it will hire 200 more police officers to head-off disturbances. Readers may recall an upsurge in the zombie population in Delta after Attack of the Vegan Zombies was shot there in 1997. After marked concern on the part of authorities there it became apparent that zombies and regular humans could co-exist even though compatibility was in question when the days grew shorter.

– Jack Spratt 

 

Starter Colonies Anticipated in Cyberspace

(Hotchkiss) Scientists attached to the Roger’s Mesa Alien Study Institute at Lazear say they expect starter colonies in cyberspace by 2010. Crowded conditions and the lack of farmland on earth were cited as the major reason for human relocation to the otherwise uncharted terrain.

At present, research indicates that cyberspace is ready to support inhabitants and sustain life forms such as animals and plants.

“Most of us fall into one of those categories,” laughed Dr. Laura Borealis, Director of the Institute that was established to counsel dogs and monkeys sent into outer space in the 50s.

According to a host of filed reports cyberspace is endless enough since asphalt, tacky subdivisions and mindless sprawl, are still illegal within those environs. Although oxygen levels fluctuate and gravitational concerns have yet to be undressed, the scientists have given a firm thumbs up to the more than 200 potential homesteaders who have applied for high speed trip permits and thousands of dotcom caches up to 80 acres.

“Cyberspace pioneers may feel like a one-eyed cat in a henhouse or even a dog on three legs right now,” said Borealis, “but they are a resilient group in search of a better life for their children where clean air and water are the rule and all is in sync with nature. Sure, things are mellow around here but that is not the case on most of the planet.”

Conflicts with the Hotchkiss National Fish Hatchery have been blown out of proportion, according to the director who emphasized that there is a place for trout, as well as kokanee salmon in cyberspace. Principles at the hatchery have repeatedly accused the alien study institute of mollycoddling recovering space travelers and secretly housing refugees from Aspen.

“I’ve pretty much had it up to the gills with these fishwits,” winked Borealis. We have always been careful not to muddy the water or observe the trout during intimate spawning moments. Any moron can tell you that mixing trout with the aliens, galaxy-challenged chimps, stressed out doggie astronauts and even our technicians is bad medicine.”

Borealis added that the fish hatchery people were simply jealous in that they are not allowed to send clients into space.

In a related development, NASA is calling agricultural experiments on the Martian surface “a dismal failure” in that tomatoes grown and picked green there before shipment to markets on earth taste like plastic.

“Even though they are all shined up and look exactly like tomatoes they taste like cardboard,” said one genetically altered NASA investigator. “They just ain’t maters.”

– Suzie Compost  

 

HEROES AND BEARS AT 14,000 FEET

My midlife crisis can lick your midlife crisis. Whenever I get down I go up, and there was Red Cloud Peak reaching toward the sky at the end of the Silver Creek Basin. I had decided to climb the mountain solo so as to have time to slow down that 21st Century noise and clear out the cobwebs that engulf my brain from time to time. In addition I had made the mistake of mentioning my plans to a friend named Popcorn who had recently lost a close family member, a 16-year-old cat named “Dad”, to a dog attack. Popcorn, who conveniently enough owned a liquor store in Crested Butte at the time, handed me a miniature vodka concoction and asked me to drink a toast to Dad on top of the mountain. No more excuses. I now had a holy mission.

Heading up an abandoned jeep road into the forest I began thinking, with the wisdom of humans, how politically correct even the wilderness had become. No jeeps humming, no dirt bikes screaming, lots of little check-in posts for hikers, plenty of bear tagging, controlled burns, stocked lakes, and lots of signs prohibiting litter. It’s the Information Age in the pines.

That’s all very nice on a sunny Sunday morning, but I remember the days prior to all the obsession with political correctness, you know, when people simply respected each other for the hell of it. The first part of the hike is taxing and I push myself up the trail hoping it will level off long enough for me to catch my breath.

Soon I enter dark timber and catch a glimpse of Handies Peak just waking up for the day. My mind wanders as my legs do the work. The other day I was shocked to hear a classic Motown tune backing up a sales pitch for some animated stick of margarine on television. Copyright limitations be damned! Don’t these propagandists have any respect for what’s left of our culture? I think what really bothers me is that most of the beaten down people don’t even notice anymore. I’m moving back to Uruguay tomorrow. Damn.

I can hear Silver Creek crashing down through the rocks. I wonder what ever happened to my college girlfriend or to that bastard in the Saab that cut me off on Highway 135 last week. I wonder how many loyal patrons are attending Sunday morning services at Restless Spirits down in Lake City.

As I cross the first of three wide snowfields I can see Sunlight Peak in the distance. Realizing that I have been talking out loud I’m relieved that there is no one else in earshot. There seems to be no distinct origin for, or welcome end to the involuntary thoughts that, like blind, charging snowmelt, are running through me.

Is it just that I’ve been around too long? Have I seen the same movie one too many times? At 46 am I sentenced simply to growing old? Will I reach mild euphoria knowing that it’s ten o’clock and time for the news? At my age most of the former custodians of this place, the Utes, walked out into the mountains alone to meet their creator. Honor.

Back when I was in my twenties I was certain that by the time I reached this point I would not only be wise and affluent but that I’d have my emotions in tow. Good luck, sailor. That was in the Sixties. Maybe we all missed something during that time but it’s too late to run the whole decade by again. All we have succeeded in preserving is tie-dyed shirts, lava lamps and gender confusion. It’s not the shock of waking up to find that one has waltzed through 20 years without realizing his goals. The difficulty comes in accounting for the wasted time. I’m talking out loud again.

The thought that Mick Jagger is a grandfather weighs heavy on my mind. I remember a conversation the other day where my friend Terry Starr told me that the only true escape from midlife crisis is to become just that, a grandfather. Another friend bought a bright red Corvette and he’s only 43. What will he do for an encore if this approach falls short? What would Sigmund Freud say, or Carl Gustav Jung for that matter?

Climbing out of the creek bed I am surrounded by wildflowers. The wet spring did its work well and…Wait! What’s that large black, fury  thing coming over the ridge? I scope it out with my zoom lens. My God, it’s a black bear. Does he see me? He’s heading in this direction. Now, I’ve read where these bear are quite docile but I’ll bet this one weighs in at 400 pounds!

As the animal methodically approaches I instinctively go into an emergency bear response like the one outlined in the four-color government brochure, produced, of all places, in Denver. He sees me now alright. I wave my arms, so as to appear larger than life and make noises to give him every reason to retreat. He meanders down the slope in my direction. Careful not to look him in the eye I begin to back up but it’s at least three miles to my truck. He comes close. He doesn’t look that frightening but…

“Excuse me,” says the bear, “but I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation with yourself, and what’s all the mumbo jumbo about? Do you realize how silly you look waving your arms around and screaming?”

My God, I’ve finally lost it. Senility has arrived. Hallucinations. Flashbacks. A talking bear.

“I know I look like a bear but in reality I am the reincarnation of Chief Colorow, of the Utes. While I normally avoid humans, especially white ones, I couldn’t resist talking to you.”

“Oh,” I responded.

“I’m not a mind reader, or anything, but your voice really carries in this basin,” said the bear. You are engaged in climbing a mountain. What  is the source of your frustration? When I was your age we had to contend with white folks plowing up our race tracks and gold miners plugging up our hot springs. Look at these wildflowers all around you. They have a life expectancy of about two months and you don’t hear them whining, do you?”

“No,” I responded quietly. “Are you really who you say you are?”

“You don’t believe me?” said the bear.  Ask any marmot. Do you want me to perform a war dance or something? That’s the trouble with you people today, you don’t trust anyone. You people live right here in the Garden and yet you can’t get out of first gear.”

“How did people in your day deal with aging?” I ask. “I don’t recall ever reading about early evening bingo and tubs of jello salad in your lodges.”

“First of all,” he answers, “there weren’t so many of us. We didn’t live as long. While modern medicine pats itself on the back for stretching out the average lifetime, we saw life as a challenging puzzle with an defined end. That end came alone in the mountains. Secondly, we had heroes and you don’t.”

“What do you mean? We have heroes,” I protested, becoming a bit antagonized by the pompous nature of this large bruin.

“Name one,” said the bear arrogantly.

Well,” I began there’s…Uh…there’s…Give me a minute…”

I realized the bear was right. I could not think of a real hero. Everyone from Bill Clinton to Duke Snider had fallen from grace. Even Connie Chung wasn’t what she seemed.

“See,” said the bear. “That’s what’s the matter. You have no heroes. It’s so simple yet so very complicated. Without heroes one cannot break out of the stark, familiar rhythm of life and let his desperate soul go out for a full moon stroll.”

I listened as the he went on thinking to myself that this sounds like a motivational seminar and that this is one receptive, if a bit corporate bear.

“What about you?” I counter. “Who are your heroes?”

“Well there’s Dick Butkus, for strarters. Now there was one fine Bear. There’s Geronimo,” frowned the bear, “who fought on when he knew he was whipped and Bella Abzug…”

“Bella Abzug?”

“Hey, growled the bear, “everyone has the choice of who they choose as a hero. That’s the beauty of it all. You choose and no explanation is necessary.”

“Oh,” I say, “so picking a hero isn’t really so hard.”

“No, he reponds, “but emulating one is something altogether different.”

At his suggestion I resumed my climb reaching a ridge full of shale that it a bit more difficult to negotiate.

“You are someone’s hero,” said the bear, “or could be with the right moxie. That’s our roll and if it is embraced we have no time to worry about our own problems. Soon they blow away like ashes and we are one with our surroundings, a complete person.”

“What about you,” I retorted. “From what I read that as Colorow you were an overweight bully who drank too much and  never accomplished anything during your entire life.”

“Cruel, but true,” said the bear, “and that is precisely why I’m talking to you now. Once I was a Ute chief and now I’m a smelly, old bear who sleeps in a cave. It could happen to anyone. Accept your potential roll as a hero to someone else and you will quickly overcome all the insecurities and the confusion that plagues you. Inspire someone else and you create more and more heroes as you go. The whole thing is contagious,” he said.

The bear then said goodbye and disappeared into a muddy stream before I could ask him anything else. I guess he figured that sooner or later I’ll be coming back down and, if further conversation is necessary, that he can catch me on the descent. I continued my trek up the side of Red Cloud, crossed yet another windy ridge and finally plopped down at the summit. I signed the Colorado Mountain register which was filled with the names of an assortment of heroes. Tomorrow there would be one more everyday hero, or at least someone attempting to experience that quiet distinction.

Kevin Haley, a self-described sensitive male for the ages, lives in Colona where he collects Citrons and publishes the San Juan Horseshoe. He is a former lead singer for The Tattooed Shoelaces.