Author Archive for M. Toole
Discarded Telephone Books Clog Dumps
(Ridgway) Mounds of local telephone books, thrown away daily by postal recipients, have shut down the local landfill here. The books, which began flooding the market some ten years ago, now amount to 40% of the trash discarded by postal employees at the end of each working day.
The actual number of phone books published is estimated to be nearing 50 which computes to over 2500 sources of phone listings per capita. They come in all sorts of designs and colors, featuring combinations of communities who rarely call each other.
“Why can’t we just have one phone book?” asked a town councilperson here. “Wouldn’t that be enough?”
It is hoped that the landfill will be cleared and back open for dumping by the weekend. At present a line of semis, estimated to be 1/2 mile long, sits idle outside the Ridgway facility waiting to dispose of its pulp cargo. Persons attempting to dump other forms of debris have been turned away. The situation is no better in San Miguel and Montrose Counties where the books have once again out-muscled other trash for a place in the sun.
“Last winter people stopped buying firewood due to easy access to phone books,” said one postal employee. “They went out of here like box elder bugs in a lightening storm! Now the landfills are crammed full of chucked chain saws and scrapped log splitters.”
Publishers of the phone books defend their position saying that they had promised blanket circulation and did not want to short summer residents or visitors who might like to take home a souvenir. They say controls placed on press runs would jeopardize their right to make a living.
“Maybe we’ve reached a point of overkill,” said one account executive at Tele-Phoney Inc., appealing to the American sense of greed, “but there’s easy money in all that advertising.”
Consumer groups contend that the generic, specialized books are not large quite enough to benefit shorter Americans in bellying up the dinner table or to serve as a viable challenge to traditional side-show strongmen intent on tearing them up to exhibit their might.
None of the assorted producers cared comment when asked what happened to all the phone booths that used to grace the countryside. The booths, almost always void of phone books, have gradually disappeared in the face of the cell phone explosion of recent years.
“We’re responding to the needs of Americans who must talk on the phone all the time. It’s a security thing,” said the Tele-Phoney source. “What if their friends and relatives grow tired of chatting and they must turn to strangers for this anal form of communication. Who’ll pay the piper then, huh?” he puffed up.
Authorities all over the state have concluded that in the future the unwanted books should be discarded in hazardous waste dumps like the one in Uravan, which, despite the negative input of the local populace some years ago, operates there.
A federal study, completed last spring indicates that pulp used in the books actually neutralizes radioactive waste without the bother of having to bury it.
“Tailings and other atomic side effects are part of our culture,” said the Tele-Phoney man. “We’re just happy to be helping forge a cleaner environment. There can never be too much information for the common man.” – Melvin Toole
OLD NUMBER 7
I was sitting in the school cafeteria complex enjoying and loathing a candy bar and an order of fries, respectively, when I happened to glance up. There in a glow of an Asteroid game was the man himself – Mickey Mantle. Old Number 7 in you programs. The Mick.
Incredibly, astoundingly, no one else noticed him. I couldn’t believe it! The man hit over 500 official into the seats and no one cared enough to even say “Hi ya Mick.”
Well I, for one, was not going to let an opportunity such as this pass me by. Choking down one last potato, I sidled over to “the man.” “The franchise.”
“Say, aren’t you –“ I began.
“Sure am, “ Mick finished, thrusting to avoid a small asteroid fragment.
“Better hyper-space, Mick, I advised.
He did, and none too soon. “Thanks, kid.” Mick’s quarter lasted for about twenty more minutes. I was impressed. No doubt about it – a true champion on the diamond and off. After the game (and after gathering my courage), I invited Mickey on a guided tour of the community college campus. He gladly accepted. As always, more than gracious.
If I live to be a hundred I’ll never forget the look of astonishment on the Mick’s face when he first laid eyes upon the Dental Science Building. “That’s some building, kid.”
“Wait till you see inside,” I enthused.
Ten minutes and twenty classrooms later, the Mick summed it up: “I guess teeth are mighty important.”
“Sure are,” I agreed, beaming form ear to ear.
Next we toured the Library. Top to bottom. Inside and out. Mick was impressed. “You mean the kids can actually check books without paying for them?” he asked, incredulously?
“Biggern hell,” I said, playfully cuffing him on his chin.
About this time, nature called upon Mickey. “Where can a fella wring his root around here?” Like a fool I started telling him about all the fine restrooms we have at the community college. Enough for a school three times it size. I was about to give him the per capita urinal count when he interrupted.
“One is plenty, kid.”
Nature appeased, we directed our feet to Furniture Hall. There, in respectful silence, we watched as ten diligent, dedicated students gave birth to a foot rest. Awe engulfed us. I suddenly felt immortal.
We then headed south to the Commercial Arts department. En route to one of several fine galleries, Mickey told me how much he loved and appreciated art – especially the ‘poker-playing dogs.” He was truly amazed at all the great talent we saw displayed. “Damn,” he said, more than once. I had to agree. “Some of these kids can really stroke ‘em, huh, Mick?”
“You betcha,” said Mick, full of vim.
After that, we visited several other points of interest. Went to the Service Careers Building and looked on anxiously as seventeen nursing students worked diligently to save the life of a transparent mannequin. We even dropped by Machine Hall and watched them de-gunk a battery terminal.
The tour ended where it began – the cafeteria. Munching 5th Avenues and socking down Tabs, we talked. Some of the stuff Mick told me was incredible. For instance, during a two-week period in 1954, Yogi Berra was gay. But, he soon snapped out of it and went on to become one of the game’s all time greats. And the things Mick said about Casey Stengel. His drinking, his gambling, his sadomasochistic love affair with Irene Ryan. I could hardly believe it. Had anyone else been saying these things I would’ve bonked their breezer.
All too soon, Mick glanced at his digital and said, “Gotta go, kid.” The hours had seemed like minutes. Seconds, even. As Mick rose to leave, I felt like I had to say something. Something other than “so long.” My mind swirled with possibilities. Finally, and even though it was only September, I blurted out, “Merry Christmas, Mick!
Mick stopped at the glass exit doors and turned to face the cafeteria. “And to all a good night!” he shouted. Then, he was gone. Down the walk, into his car, and gone. But not forgotten . Good Old Number 7.
-Steve Cooper
Most Americans vacation to impress neighbors, relatives
(Tellywood) According to recent studies conducted by the ski industry, some 90 percent of all vacationers take trips to impress the folks back home. Of that group, 80 percent say they often seek the approval of these significant others when deciding on where to go.
As silly as it may seem, most of these people still manage to have a good time while on a trip. Skiers, as a whole, are far more conscious of what others think. Whereas vacationers such as fishermen and hunters could give a damn.
“These groups have tremendous influence on our potential customers,” said an industry spokesman participating in a series of holiday seminars here. “We have to be responsive to the changes occurring every day.”
According to the spokesman, many of these neighbors and relatives are the type who stay at home most of the time. In fact, 35 percent hadn’t taken a vacation in 10 years.
“They are basically too lazy to get on a plane and go skiing. They just sit around all the time and stick their noses in other people’s business. But despite this situation we have no choice but to target them in our marketing scheme.”
In response to these findings, some Colorado resorts have already begun a direct mail blitzkrieg aimed at this slovenly segment of society.
“We know they’ll never come here but we can’t let them get away,” he said.
ˇ -Uncle Pahgre
Paper Severs Mob Connection
(Gunnison) The San Juan Horseshoe has terminated its business relationship with the local syndicate due to what it calls philosophical differences and irreconcilable differences. A spokesman for the paper said simply that the two entities were growing apart and had different priorities as to the proper way to conduct business on the Western Slope.
“Those mob guys were too damn nice when it came to overdue bills and dealing with other publications,” said Melvin Toole, who broke the news this morning. “We feel that it is necessary to send a strong message to our customers and our adversaries. We mean business and there are no second chances when it comes to fiscal tardiness.”
Sources on the Front Range, which was only recently purchased by Japan, said that many mob bosses were heartbroken at the decision. Some may never recover from the shock of sudden separation. Already many have lost interest in their normal pursuits and have taken to going to church.
Apparently the decision came with the realization that the paper was grossing a fortune without the input of the mob.
“In the early days we needed the support of these enforcers but with the coming of peace and prosperity we have outgrown that kind of approach,” said Toole, “but I will miss these colorful characters hanging around the composing room.”
Toole added that there is nothing quite like arriving at work in the morning to a gangsters in white ties and black shirts hanging out in the lobby, flipping coins and frisking visitors.
“I especially likes it when they’d pick their teeth while talking,” he said. “Now there’s a sight to behold.”
Toole said that several of the paper’s former associates will be kept on to train new collection agents arriving from the former Soviet Union next week.
“We just want a smooth transition and will help retrain the workers affected by these changes. Advertisers who remain cooperative will not even notice a difference,” he gestured.
The Last Year of My Life
compiled from the journals of Patrick McGinty, 1919
Travel this spring is different. I am not long for this world. That old sawbones in Denver should be able to tell me something next week. At least he’s honest, not like that croaker in Lamar. Sure, I’ll just get lots of rest and stay away from whiskey. Yeah, that’s a good idea. Did he have to go to medical school back east for two years to figure out that remedy. I think all these doctors should go off somewhere together and search for a cure for stupidity. They could start within their own ranks.
In just about an hour we’ll reach Gunnison and I can stretch my legs. This train is hell on my back and my kidneys. Maybe I’ve got that Chrone’s disease. It sure did a job on Harry Selig and he was no older than I am. He could have managed in the Majors but for his health. I can see Tomichi Creek. There’s agreat hotel in this town called the LaVeta but one doersn’t stay there overnight on a baseball man’s salary. They say there are even tunnels right from the hotel to the houses of delight. Maybe someday, when one of my teams goes all the way, I’ll go all the way. I’ve always had a great time in Gunnison but I do miss my old third baseman Chuck Morganthau who caught a bullet at the Marne. He had a pretty wife and a lot of ability but something tells me he’d never be able to support a family scooping up grounders and hiting line drives.
The train has finally stopped. My back feels better. I wonder if there’s a pharmacy in this town anymore. What with all the federal interference it’s hard for a fellow to get anything that works on pain. I hear there are a couple of fine pitching prospects working the mines in Crested Butte. Of course if they decide to give baseball a shot they could put their futures in jeapordy. The mines, although dangerous, pay a decent wage and one’s career can last longer. Nobody wants to pay for entertainment these days unless it’s Ziegfeld’s or neighborhood cock fights. Why that Rosenkrantz kid might have gone all the way to the big leagues if his father didn’t insist on his going to the noraml school. I suppose he’s teaching scholl somewhere in these mountains. At least he makes a decent salary. The Jews aren’t stupid. It’s the Irish like me that fall in love with the game and just can’t quit.
The two boys that I heard about in Crested Butte can throw hard but one is married with three kids and the other can’t speak a lick of English. Maybe next year? It’s back on the damn train for me after a night of sleeplesness at Molly Duran’s Boarding House and a breakfast of biscuits and gravy at the Sodd House. Elmer Sodd told me he’s help sponsor a Fourth of July double-header between the Gunnison team and whatever heap of scrap I manage to put on the field. I say I’ll get back to him. What a pompous bastard he is sitting back in his kitchen but he was quite a prize fighter in his day, even fought Dempsey down in Romeo. He’d have whipped him too, from what I hear, but the ref called the fight due to Sodd’s broken ribs and an eye that refuses to go back into its socket, even to this day. The joke around here is that the thing will end up in someone’s pancake batter before it’s all said and done with.
The train pulls out of Gunnison and we’re already in Montrose. I must have nodded off despite this damn gout. I wonder if that’s the trouble. Can somebody’s gout creep all the way up the legs and make mush out of the back. I wonder if I ruptured something last season and it’s just waiting around to line one past me when I’m not looking? Montrose has fielded some fine teams over the decade although the war took its toll. I was too old for that dance but I did spend a few feverish nights in Cuba at the turn-of-the-century. According to the morning paper Babe Ruth hit a 587-foot homer against the Giants down in Florida. That boy has all the tools and he’s making a living. Other than the White Sox, and Joe Jackson, the Yankees seem to have an inside track on the pennant. The Reds look good in the National League. The rest of the paper is full of careful debates on Prohibition and updates on the peace conference at Versailles. It should be fun checking out the whiskey operations in the San Juans. I’ve got three kids signed from this part of the valley and all of them should show up at least until the sugar beets are ripe.
Is this a rash I see? Good lord I’ve got the pox! Maybe that’s the problem. One would think the doc could have diagnosed something so obvious. The train conductor tells me of a brother who dies of ulcerative colitus. That sounds important. If I’m going to drop dead I’d just as soon it be from something with an important sounding name or maybe it would be better to get run over by this train. It’s quicker. The conductor shakes me. We’re in Ridgway. He says I passed out and was mumbling about covering home with the bases loaded. The pain is bad today. There’s a McGinty family living somewhere in Ouray County. They might be relatives although they’ve never produced any ball players, so I doubt it. Prospects here are slim since everyone is working for the railroad or in the gold mines. Who can blame them for wanting to get ahead. Damn the pain! I hope if this is it they bury me with my spikes on. I’ll have to dig them out of my locker back in Denver. It’s been 10 years since I’ve played ball. What torture sitting there on the bench watching our boys take a pasting.
The train creeps over Dallas and makes a stop at Sams. Two young boys are playing catch along the tracks. One says he lost his only pair of shoes in Leopard Creek and is hoping for an early summer. That one kid has a cannon for an arm. I leave him my calling card. A prune-faced woman approaches as a reboard. She scolds the boy, and tears up the card while letting loose a scowl in my direction. They never said it would be easy. The pain in my back is getting worse. I wonder if it’s the altitude? I think I’m developing puritis ani…or something like that. Dr. Turlo prescribed a furlough from whiskey then he headed off to the local bar for lunch. I wonder if there’s a hospital in Telluride these days and, for that matter, if I’ll make it that far.
It’s snowing as we climb the last pass to Telluride and it’s only a few months till the dog days arrive back in the Midwest. There’s a rancher’s kid here by the name of Collins that I came to see play but the weather could be a problem. His dad was shot during the labor dispute in 1902 and I think he wants out of Telluride. Too many bad memories. All this way for another snowstorm. Maybe I should seek honest work like preaching or gallivanting around the countryside with a medicine wagon. I’m too old to find a rich woman to marry and too young to reteat to the rocking chair. Mining and baseball have a lot in common. The workers and players do the sweating and the owners make the money. But at least we play ball above ground in the sun. I sign up Eddie Dougherty, Mike Finnegan and two Italian kids named Petresko. One looks like a catcher and the other throws funny. Who knows. Telluride’s really hopping tonight. The miners must have just got paid. There’s not much point in getting back to the room since I can’t sleep anyway. I think I’ll take a walk.
I wake up in a room filled with the smell of ammonium. There’s a nurse standing nearby. Did I die? Isthis some kind of celestial emergency room? She brings me water as a young man walks into the room. He asked how I’m feeling. I say it’s too early to tell. He tells me how he found me passed out in an alley in Finntown. Thought I was drunk but then thought better when he checked me. Says I was screaming like bloody murder. Says he brought me here. It’s all foggy to me. Says he’s a basbeball player and was the youngest member ofthe state championship team in 1913. Then the doctor comes in and we go through all the pleasantries again. Hey, the pain is gone. Upon consultation with the doc I find that I have passed a kidney stone. He says I acomplished this feat at about three o’clock in the morning on the way to his office. Says I kept the whole town up half the night. Asks if I want to see the little devil and I decline. Damn, I feel better. He brings soup as the nurse encourages me to get up and walk around. The kid wants to talk baseball. Says he remebers me when I played for the Tigers in 1908 but that he won a few dollars betting on the Cubs in the World Series. We lost it four games to one.
The doctor comes back into the room and says I should be fine in a day or two. He adds that he can’t do much for my gout. Iask about my strangulated hernia and he just shakes his head. What about that pain? I thought I had turberculosis or something. He laughs and says a kidney stone is no walk in the park. That’s a great way to put it, doc. He says I’m as healthy as a horse but should slow down on the drinking. I wire the doctor in Denver that I will not be keeping my appointment. I hear there are a couple of prospects down in Dolores. I’m on my way.
DRIVING INSTRUCTOR JUMPS FROM BUILDING
(Montrose) A veteran driving instructor was slightly injured last night in an apparent suicide attempt here. Jack Spratt, 56, allegedly jumped from the top of the Masonic Building on Main Street as a small crowd watched.
According to an eyewitness account the suspect hurled himself downward in a sort of neurotic swan dive, did two flips in the air, than braced himself in a ball before crashing into a minivan full of pottery parked on the street.
“The distance that he fell could not have been more than 50 feet,” said Estelle Marmotbreath, a fry cook at Kentucky Fried Chicken, who just happened by on the way home from work. “If he really wanted to do the job right he would have jumped into the Black Canyon or attempted to negotiate a crosswalk downtown.”
Spratt had reportedly been distraught of late due to the amount of traffic that had descended on the once peaceful city of Montrose. Close friends indicated that he was also upset by the quality of driving and the rudeness of many drivers here.
“The other day some elderly woman on her way to bingo flipped him off, then, a few moments later he was run off the road by a turbo-charged turnip cart with Olathe plates,” said a neighbor. “He just couldn’t handle the stress anymore.”
Another development said to have depressed Spratt was the disclosure that city engineers had completed the blueprints for the Grandjunktification of Montrose by 2001.
“Already the Wal-Mart sector has begun to look a lot like the Mesa Mall quadrant,” said a spokesman for the city. “What can we do about it? Besides, there gold in them thar’ sprawls.” – Uncle Pahgre
