Catfish aggression down in August

(Ridgway) The tally of documented catfish attacks has fallen off sharply at the end of summer, landing at less than 35% of the confrontations charted in July. Authorities over at Fish and Game expressed confidence that the diminished onslaughts will continue to decrease with the coming of winter.

Our reader may recall a series of shocking incidents that plagued Colorado during the early summer, beginning with a suicide sortie on the town of Naturita  on May 20. Difficult as it may be for tenderfoots to buy to attack was coordinated with a simultaneous strike on DOW fish trucks in Almont and a vicious assault on a heavily guarded beaver ponds at Silverjack Reservoir.

“These out of character thrusts have been blamed on the drought that lingered into July.

On July 30 the entire Kokanee school was defiled by a large catfish that eyewitnesses say weighed in at at least 200 pounds soaking wet.

Brain trusts within the DOW say an ongoing sting has convinced more radical elements of the channel cat population to back off on these finless episodes at least until spring.

– Small Mouth Bess

The Night I Met Kenny Stabler

Editor’s note: Alabama All-American Kenny Stabler is a former quarterback for the Oakland Raiders. On one Saturday night in 1974 he was sitting at the bar in the Brown Palace Hotel preparing a game plan for Sunday’s game. With him was good friend and fellow conspirator, Fred Biletnikoff, a sneaky receiver with more guts than natural talent. Neither of the men were strangers to a good time.

Bobby and I had disguised ourselves as gentlemen, ala herringbone sport coats, shined boots and wallets bulging with one-dollar bills. If not blue-blood portraits of affluence we looked to be brown tin types of cowpuncher chivalry. Two taxi-delivered hayseeds grasping for an evening of sport or at least a mild diversion from the never-ending cattle drive of the Gunnison drywaller.

“There’s the bar,” said Bobby. “Every man for himself.”

We grabbed a stool at the end of the mahogany barricade that stretched around the stately tavern.

“Good evening,” said the bartender wiping away the sins of our thirsty predecessor. “What would you like?”

“Scotch with a beer back,” said Bobby. “It’s only Saturday night once a week.”

The bartender smiled. He was well polished like the oak floor and as eloquent as the market would bear.

“And you, sir?”

“I’ll have the same but with a Bud.”

“What’s an Irishman doing drinking Scotch?” started Bobby, the red-haired outrigger of a longshoreman and a chowder chef. “What’s the matter with the Jameson? Has it gone bad?”

 

We survived several toasts, secure in the fact that our safe return to the Pig N Whistle was cinched by prior prudence and the good fortune that a praetorian cabbie would still be lurking in the wee hours.

“I’ve got the cab money in my left pocket and the brannigan funding in my right,” laughed Bobby. “Two-fifty a beer, damn this must be a nice place,” he mumbled.

I looked around the bar stopping short of stare in the direction of two men sitting in an adjacent booth. They were overcome with laughter, slapstick tears in their eyes rising from the complexion of their banter. They ordered another, tipping the barkeep with wave of the hand.

“I know that tall guy,” I whispered. “And the little guy looks familiar too.”

“I think he used to be President of the United States,” chided Bobby. “I think I saw him on a ten thousand dollar bill.”

“You’ve never seen a ten thousand dollar bill,” I responded. “You’re lucky if you’ve seen a hundred.”

Bobby turned in his stool, frowned, and looked compulsively in the direction of the pair. His brass texture charged ahead like a fumbler with one last match looking for a lantern in the dark.

“He’s Kenny Stabler. It’s Kenny Stabler!” Bobby shouted gaining the attention of most of the patrons and the glance of the Oakland quarterback.

“You win!” snapped Stabler, not offended, in fact entertained by the remark. “And who are you?” he asked in a muddled Alabama twang.

We exchanged introductions and, as I had calculated, the other guy was Fred Biletnikoff, the enchanted receiver, built more like an ballet dancer than a football player.

“It’s nice to see the two of you uptown,” said Bobby. “You look larger than you do on television.”

Stabler told him it was all done with mirrors and that he really should buy a TV with a larger screen, at least for the playoffs.

“Can we buy you guys a drink?” I asked.

That’s how it started. We talked about football, and women, and living in the Bay Area. We talked about Bear Bryant and Gulf Shores and Pat Sullivan in the Auburn game back in 1970. Fred told us Sullivan, who had won the Heisman that year was out of football altogether.

“I think he’s selling cars or insurance in Mobile,” said Biletnikoff. “And the no name left-hander from the Crimson Tide is sitting here at the downtown Brown Palace surgically dismantling yet another defensive backfield while he masterminds the collapse of yet another set of brain cells.

“Where’s Floyd Little when you need him,” teased Stabler. “Get him on the phone, Fred…Fred, Get him on the phone. I want to talk to Floyd,” slurred Stabler. “Bartender: Get Floyd Little on the phone and get us another round while you’re at it.”

The other patrons smiled.

“And get me George Blanda too,” demanded Stabler as the bartender scoured the phone book in mock response to Stabler’s sudden request.

Kenny held up a menu in false desperation.

“I have a secret message for Daryle Lamonica. Please. Clear the area. I must speak to Daryle. We’ve broken the code.”

“Daryle Lamonica. Now there was a quarterback.” drooled Biletnikoff, swimming in his bourbon and water.

“Damn, Fred, you’re old. I can hardly remember back that far. I was a just a boy…”

“Oh, shut up, Kenny or I swear I’ll forget to block for you tomorrow,” said Fred. “It’s hard enough catching those flimsy passes thrown from the wrong side.”

“Your brain is on the wrong side,” said Stabler, “but what can we expect from a sawed-off Cossack surfer masquerading as a wide receiver. Besides the last time you threw a decent block was in high school.”

Although it was entertaining to listen to the two it was also difficult for Bobby and I to keep our mouths shut especially with the tonnage of alcohol that miraculously orbited our table through the evening. I still had cab fare and, considering the importance of the meeting, ordered some shrimp and potato skins.

“I thought pro athletes had to stay in training,” said Bobby fueled by libation. “Don’t you guys have a curfew?”

“Oh, I think so, don’t we Fred?” he laughed, “but once Madden’s asleep we can pretty much do as we please. What are they gonna do? Trade me for Craig Morton?”

Stabler stopped his windy rambling long enough to sign an autograph for a man who wished him good luck in tomorrow’s game. Caustically sketching a conglomeration of Xs and Os on a bar napkin he covered up his work accusing us of spying for the Orange and Blue. His cloak and dagger shenanigans continued pressing the shrimp and potato skins into service. It then culminated with an offer to sell out the entire Raider game plan for another drink.

Someone at the bar sent over another round.

“What time you getting up tomorrow, Kenny,” asked Fred suddenly squinting at his watch.

“What time is the game, Fred? laughed Stabler attempting to return our attention to his pigskin schematic.

“It’s at two, or three,” answered Biletnikoff now returning to a more jovial mood. “Is this Rocky Mountain Time?”

“What time does the bar close?” continued Stabler.

“Two or three,” quipped Fred which brought another chorus of whoops.

Just then a voice from across the room interrupted our rare silence.

“Hey Kenny, the well-oiled man bellowed. Isn’t it past your bedtime?”

“Thanks for the reminder,” joked Stabler, “but Al Davis should be by to pick us up in a minute.”

“I wouldn’t wait if I were you,” continued the drunk. “You look as if you need a little sleep before the game tomorrow.”

“Oh, it’s no problem,” quacked Stabler. “We’re only playing the Broncos!”

The bar grew quiet. One could hear a mouthpiece drop. Everyone gazed in disbelief. This ruffian from Oakland via Alabama had insulted our sacred Broncos. Seconds crept by. The drunk stood up, walked to our booth, staggered once more trying to say something to Stabler, he then fell head first over into a large Boston fern minding its business in the corner.

That was enough to bring an explosion of laughter and more drinks.

“I didn’t mean to insult your team,” smiled Stabler in our general direction.

“That’s no problem,” said Bobby, “the plant got the worst of it.”

“Yeah, we’re Raider fans anyway,” I swilled. “You’ve been buying most of the drinks.”

“There’s still hope for you provincials,” said Stabler as he and Biletnikoff headed for the door at last call.

“We’ll be watching you tomorrow,” said Bobby. “We’ll be in the South Stands.”

“I’ll throw you one late in the fourth quarter,” said Stabler as he hopped into a cab.

The next day the Raiders beat the Broncos 42-6 with Stabler tossing three touchdown passes to Fred Belitnikoff, who ran his pass routes with uncompromising precision, although he did look a little shaky on the team bus at the end of the game.

– Melvin Toole 

 

Colona County Line

with Melvin O’Toole

CANDIDATES WAVING AT WHOM?

During this and all election years the image of a smiling, waving politician intrudes relentlessly into our grey matter. Impeccably packaged, this highly charged hopeful parades around lip servicing the issues, one eye in the mirror and one on the prompter.

But who are they waving at? Nobody in particular, say campaign watchdogs, who add that the robotic interaction is practiced right along with the right smile, the right swagger, a knowing wink and the right applied compassion.

“All this waving in the air at nobody parallels the big charade these pseudo-elections often portray,” said Syd Pennywhistle of Body Language Starts with You, a lobby cluster for the exercise and ankle weight industry. “If the candidates were really waving at someone in particular we might actually see a whisper of accountability after the polls shut down.”

Pennywhistle adds that in recent years fewer people in the audiences have been waving back leading political analysts to believe that the electorate is having trouble connecting to its leaders.

“Politicos have always been far more concerned with voter perception than decisions based on performance. ” he explained, “and waving at the walls and ceilings seems to be an appropriate gesture.”

 

Bear Shock Collar Could be Solution

For years mountain towns have been invaded by hungry bears in search of a meal this time of the year. That sustenance could come as a bag of human-generated garbage, an unattended late afternoon barbecue or even as a small pet.

A recent letter to the Aspen Daily News outlines a bold, new plan to install shock collars around the necks of offending bruins. Bears would be anesthetized, tagged, examined and collared by authorities in each locale. Then residents would be given remote push-button devices with which to send a charge to the neck of the furry intruder.

While this approach could be an effective, albeit cumbersome, solution it also creates potential budgetary and procedural problems. Aside from offending animal rights advocates the practice could be expensive, unduly punitive and downright dangerous.

Plus, if history is our witness, the bear might soon build up a resistance to the shock and, in some cases, may associate it with food (See Pavlov’s Bear studies). Maybe the plan goes too far, or maybe not far enough.

The suggestion has generated a response from the Uncompahgre Valley where the problem grows with the gentrification of mountain towns and the bear population. A letter from Colona says:

“We realize that Colona is perceived by ski barons and their serfs as the North Korea of Colorado however our solution to the bear problem is valid. For years people here have attached shock collars around the private parts of the animals in hope of creating the strongest impact when charged. The practice of wrapping the collar tightly around the testicles of the boar, although rarely implemented, is thought to have some merit while this approach to the sow appears to have little or no value at all. Over the years we have had trouble convincing the bears to cooperate with this crude application even though in the end it is to their direct benefit. We laud your progressive approach to bruin discouragement which is a far better idea than the current plan to cede large tracts of Utah and Wyoming to these monsters.

 

Masterpieces Stolen

An array of priceless art masterpieces have been reportedly stolen from a downtown Colona gallery today leaving curators stunned and the population feeling violated. The bold heist was perpetuated during daylight hours, despite a security vigil maintained round the clock by the Blue Belles, a militant canning unit attached to the light infantry battalion at nearby Fort Crawford.

The value of the stolen art items was not clear at press time.

Police remain baffled as to why thieves did not hijack the life-size mural entitled Wonder Woman of Log Hill Mesa which was displayed at the museum. Conjecture has it that the unframed, delicate mural might have been too difficult for the thieves to unload due to size and subject matter. Craft critics agree that the loss of this piece would have delivered a crushing blow to the local art community.

An admittedly incomplete inventory of the missing classics has listed an Elsa Saint Vincent Monet, two faded Vincent Van Gundys, a collection of Candy Warhol nesting oils depicting migrations on Dexter Creek, and an extended collection of Joey Piccaso charcoal etchings made in Silverton during the expulsion of the Chinese in 1902.

Responding to a mid-afternoon alarm, police found a badly torn Lenny da Vinci watercolor and sketches allegedly made by Junior Matisse, a celebrated law enforcement officer known for outstanding brushwork, and, as readers will certainly recall, the earliest gothic portrayal of Dogs Playing Poker in North America.

The only other brazen theft of this magnitude occurred in 1981 when two six packs of Coors and a cardboard cut-out of Marilyn Monroe were lifted from the Colona Store while the owners were out chasing cows.

 

LOST PETS…

A badly matted Mohican Westfield terrier was lost in the vicinity of the Colona marijuana dispensary on Friday. The 40-pound male, who is missing one eye,  goes by the name of Spike, but don’t call him that as it makes him aggressive.

A Newfoundland mix who goes by the name of Rhonda was reported missing yesterday. Owners say she could be traveling in the company of a truck driving chihuahua named Les and is most likely attired in a slinky black cocktail dress. Reward.

A border collie with a PhD. went missing earlier in the week after teaching a weekly calculus, nuclear physics and thermodynamics class at the Wimpton Library. A graduate of the highly accredited Paper Training for the Gifted, the canine was last seen getting into a late model Toyota with New Jersey plates.

Remember: Illegal transport of erotic birds over international waters is a class seven felony punishable by fines and imprisonment. Persons receiving these species are responsible for cleanup.

Ayn Rand Appears

Ayn Rand Appears to Crystal Lake Fishermen

(Ouray) Author of the objectivist philosophy, Ayn Rand appeared to sturgeon fishermen here today stumping for GOP candidates in this traditional union workplace. Rand, thought to have died in 1982, looked drawn and tired according to reports on the scene. Accompanying her was Friedrich von Hayek, the neoclassical Austrian economist.

Her companion, Professor Hayek, whose death was recorded in 1992, told fishermen that government intervention in a free market system can only make things worse. He added that the adoption of an objectivism philosophy, where everyone pursued his own happiness in deference to the plight of his fellow man, was the only real path to economic growth.

“We are not our brother’s keeper,” he said.

A third apparition, who remained in the background during the intercourse, looked suspiciously like former President Ronald Reagan.

Many freewheeling fiscal saviors have cherry picked from Hayek as far back as Herbert Hoover and Milton Friedman. Margaret Thatcher embraced his beliefs of classical liberalism, seeing personal and economic freedom as entwined and essential to a healthy world economy.

Despite persistent rumors, no one walked on the water during the sojourn.

Rand, born in St Petersburg, Russia, urged the local sturgeon industry to throw off the chains of government meddling, while harvesting high altitude caviar “like Atlas in the silver veins of yesterday.”

Fishermen, who have been testing these waters for centuries agreed that the appearances provided a positive distraction in what can be a tedious daily existence. Meanwhile people in town concur that the whole thing was concocted as a publicity stunt by cults living on Red Mountain.

– John Galt

Do Your Work and Don’t Be Late for Dinner

W Mountain Infested with Sage Grouse

(Gunnison) 8625-foot Tenderfoot Mountain has been invaded by hordes of endangered Gunnison Sage Grouse, a species that has inhabited the region long before the arrival of modern man. Most of the birds, who experts insist are hiding from well-intentioned environmentalists, are clumped together around and under the giant “W” that graces the peak.

 

The birds have seen their population fall from some 16 million in 1812 to only 200,000 today. Respected as wild things and as a source of food by the Ute, the birds have become victims of human encroachment and now have been recognized as endangered, a status not conferred on the above mentioned tribe.
Unreliable sources contend that no such occupation problems have been reported on nearby Signal Peak, Green Mountain, Flat Top, or on Cooper Mountain. Local residents say the birds will leave in the autumn when the W is lit on fire according to age-old Homecoming tradition at Western.Tenderfoot Mountain and the W, the largest college emblem in the world (or was that the largest collegiate emblem above 8000 feet?)  by virtue of links with higher learning, have been spared the impact of grazing, geo-thermal exploration and subdivisions . Not to be confused with 11,444-foot Tenderfoot Mountain in Summit County, this spot may be seen by grouse as a last stand or at least  safe haven for the present.

“Around here we don’t call 8600-foot no mountain,” said Clyde Colon, who spoke without clearance or encouragement from anyone. “It’s more of a big hill but it’s the 2587th highest peak in the state and we cannot have this bird inundation messing with our cherished landmarks. I say let’s send some of those idle administrators from the college up there to run them out. Maybe they can increase enrollment at the same time.”

To complicate matters the Gunnison Sage Grouse is known for elaborate courtship rituals which can be observed by field biologists in the early morning and early evening when the lek (breeding ground) comes alive in mass proportions. The males of the species strut around for a while then copulate with any willing female and nesting follows. Many potential aves voyeurs have been turned away by Friends of the Sage Grouse, an armed  paramilitary group that has set up daily patrols at the bottom of the peak. Sadly some have slipped through the lines and threaten to distract the birds from the mating business at hand.

“They are up there strutting around, partying all night, every night and in the morning too. They’re having an orgy and the authorities do nothing,” said Colon. “What if children happened by? It’s all out in the open with no discretion whatsoever. If it wasn’t for these fancy rituals nobody with pay them a tinker’s damn.”

The ground foraging Gunnison Sage Grouse (Centrocercus minimus), a smaller, more intelligent grouse, has been recognized as a species distinct from the Greater (than what?) Sage Grouse (Centrocercus urophasianus) which is the largest in North America. Both nest on the ground, and eat copious  amounts of sagebrush as well as a whatever insects might be hanging out. The Gunnison Sage Grouse is considered to be far advanced in matters of winter survival techniques and general thermodynamics.

– Melvin Toole, Science Editor