Author Archive for M. Toole

Your dog knows you’re stoned

(Crested Butte) Extensive studies conducted by higher-ups in the humane society have concluded that dogs, especially one’s own, are quite well aware when humans are high on cannabis. The 4-year study, which ended in the classic man-bites-dog syndrome, is expected to change nothing.

“If my dog thinks I’m stoned he will try to get me to feed him sweets and take him the park more often, thinking I cannot manage my time. He tries it whenever he smells marijuana,” laughed one member of the study group. “There have been days that I have taken him for walks five and six times.” 

“He has that keen sense of smell and the perceptive ability to read one’s level of tranquility.”

– Rufus Maxwell

EGO TOURISM MAKES LANDFALL THIS SUMMER

Arriving on the heels of ecotourism, ego tourism is already making inroads despite the current snow depths and recent monsoons. According to the experts it all plays into the same idiocy as selfies and cosmetic surgery.

The bitterly acknowledged clean air industry allows outdoorsy clientele to be photographed next to a snow-capped 14er and yet look bigger and more important than the Goliath peak. Shorter customers might enjoy a wide-angle experience along a raging river bank sandbagged by egoists in muscle shirts and tight yoga pants, then monkeyed with to cover the rough spots.

“The idea is to apply, employ and document our client’s strong points,’ said ego tourism pioneer Irma Button. 

“If someone wants to be swallowed by a trout that’s one challenge. If someone wants to run down a herd of elk they may have to do so on their own time.”

Fortunately most ego tourists stick to the daily menu of ladders and waterfalls, guard duty in full military regalia, 300-foot high dives and fighting badgers with cutlery. 

“Discovering gold, hunting wooly mammoth, milking moose and parachuting from drones are often more expensive,” added Button, due to leaden inflation, access to Chinese props and the much publicized lifeguard shortage on public radio,” continued Button from a prepared text. 

It is expected that privileged pariahs with time on their hands will line up for this new experience in lifestyle presence and trendy self-promotion*. 

*If you are already larger than many of our parks and monuments please see our customized excursions for bigger groups.

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Czar and Family Murdered

The Russian Imperial Romanov family (Nicholas II of Russia, his wife Alexandra Feodorovna, and their five children: Olga, Tatiana, Maria, Anastasia, and Alexei) were shot and bayoneted to death by Bolshevik revolutionaries under Yakov Yurovsky on the orders of the Ural Regional Soviet in Yekaterinburg. That cloudless July night in 1918 could have just as easily been last night in the Kremlin.

Shocked and brainwashed Russians expressed concern that precedents like this could dictate an end to the current administration in Moscow as soon as this week. Vladimir Putin, the ex- KGB strongman, remained in seclusion, fighting his war in Ukraine from “the other end of the table”. Inside sources ay he has requested asylum in North Korea should the current tide of disapproval continue to grow in the country.

“He is frightened that either assassination or poison will be his demise,” said a former aide.

-Polly Pushkin

Talking Baseball in Ecuador

   Nobody gives a damn about baseball in Ecuador unless you are eating lunch at Café Hatuey.

     A small marble staircase divided the plaza from the upstairs Cuban restaurant with its shady balcony and high ceiling fans. It was a perfect redoubt for a dining-alone gringo wandering the colonial streets. One could watch the entire plaza from up here.

     The black bean soup experience would have been sufficient invitation.

     The waiter, a handsome Cuban of 24 years, brought me a Havana Club and a menu. I asked for his recommendation. He nodded. There was a soccer game on the television. I asked him who was ahead.

     “I don’t know,” he flinched. “I’m a baseball fan and it’s Opening Day up in America. Is that where you live?”

     I told him that I lived in Western Colorado and that despite the six-hour drive I made it to several Rockies’ games over the course of the season.

     “The Rockies, huh?” he said. “A streaky team, prone to injuries with questionable relief pitching and a strong fan base.”

     “You’ve done your homework,” I acknowledged, apologizing for my limited baseball jargon in Spanish.

     “Then let’s speak English,” he snapped saying he had learned my language from his old baseball coach named Adolfo Luque, who had enjoyed a brief career in the Big Leagues prior to the Revolution.

     “The food came out and we shared a feast of past Cuban players who had excelled it to the Majors. Tony Taylor, Luis Tiant, Jose Canseco and Rafael Palmeiro accompanied my Fabada Asturiana (beef and bean stew), three tamales, a cup of black bean soup, plantains and fried yucca. Then he brought rhubarb pie and asked why a heated argument on the baseball field was called a rhubarb? 

     “I think it’s something like a catbird seat or the bull pen,” I said. “Most of those terms came straight from the lips of tobacco chewing bench jockeys waiting around for the next pitch. After a few seasons these words became the jargon on the diamond.”

     He said one of the cooks had met Hank Aaron in Miami after the Braves’ slugger had broken Ruth’s home run record. 

    “All three of the cooks are baseball fans. Come and meet them!”

     We walked into the kitchen and returned to speaking Spanish. I told the first cook that I too had met Aaron and that I had his autograph on the same score card with the signature of Pete Rose and Tony Perez.

     “Perez was a great one,” offered the second cook who was patiently monitoring the progress of a large pot of pintos. “He was one of the great players to escape Cuba after Castro. “He came to the United States along with Tony Oliva, Camilo Pacscual and Bert Campaneris. The Cuban government was not happy about this heralded exit from its socialist paradise.”

     “Castro was quite a pitcher too,” offered the third cook who wore a Yankees’ hat atop his baldhead. I saw him play in Santiago de Cuba while on the Las Barbas team where all the players wore a beard. He might have played pro ball except for politics. The Cleveland Indians were after him in the Fifties. He could hit too.”

     But what about Minnie Minoso?” chided the waiter. “How can we talk Cuban baseball players and not mention Minnie?”

     “And Sandy Amoros and Tito Fuentes and Cookie Rojas!” yelled the bean watcher from the corner of the kitchen.

     “What about Jose Canseco, Rafael Palmeiro, and Orlando Pena,” chimed another cook.

     “Don’t forget Leo Cardenas,” I said and the kitchen went silent.

     “Wow,” said the waiter. You do know your baseball.”

     “I grew up in Southern Ohio” I admitted, “and Cardenas played shortstop for the Reds for fifteen years.”

     Now that I had the floor, I asked them if they thought Fidel Castro would have been a better baseball player than a President.

     They all laughed, 

     “Fidel is Fidel,” one said. “The United States is the United States. Castro is eating well even if the rest of us on the island are not. So much for punishing the Communist Party with the Great Cuban Embargo.”

     All of the cooks had family back in Cuba and they missed them very much but opportunity was better in Ecuador.

     “If you didn’t go along with party ideas there was no future in Cuba,” frowned one.

     “My daughter is a doctor in Havana and barely makes enough to survive, said another.

     “My son is twelve,” offered the waiter. “He’s the best hitter ever to come out of Trinidad (Cuba). I hope some day that he can come to the United States and play for the New York Yankees. He stands proud at the plate and waits for that big, fat pitch.”

     Everyone smiled and nodded in agreement.

     The restaurant was filling up. The owner stuck his head in the kitchen and frowned at his employees then smiled at me since I was spending money. I returned to my table. The lights are coming on in the plaza.

– Melvin B. Toole

     

     

The Wall comes crashing down

O’Sullivan Brothers Tavern, Bay Ridge 1955

He drank himself up

till calm there wasn’t any,

stabbed himself peeling pratties

and graced the cemetery.

                        – Mary Boyle, Union Hall, Cork

Tom opened the door just as the first customer arrived. The early enthusiasts were thirsty for more than a beer this Saturday morning. It will be interesting what drama will unfold by the evening when he would head home, leaving the tavern in the capable hands of his son Sean.

The world was still intact today, a blessing to be sure, with all the man-made problems splashed across the papers. Spaceships and little wars everywhere up and down. We got a well-worn letter from Ballydehob last week and the local boys won the hurling match over the weekend. 

The Dodgers lost last night and the Yankees beat the Senators again. We Dodger fans hate the Yankees but have a special place in our arses for those Polo-grounders, the Giants.

“Hello Mr O’Brien”, says Tom O’Sullivan as the open sign appears. “What’s the news today?”

“Eisenhower and that phony, Nixon are competing with the Mickey Mouse Club again. Poor Ike with his heart attack and his sideshow vice president. Poor man.

“Then there’s this Elvis,” he said. “I don’t know what all the to-do is about. He’s just some redneck with greased back hair, but the women love him.”

O’Brien went on talking about ballistic missiles, polio vaccines and Red China. He was subsequently joined by a few other regulars who were not as well read as he. Being a kind man he let them jabber on, smiling and winking at Tom.

Hey, let’s talk about baseball, a subject that everyone might agree on,” said ‘O’Brien.

“Everyone’s talking about the Dodgers’ Jackie Robinson, yeah so,” he offered, “but have you heard of a young kid from Puerto Rico named Clemente? I’d keep a keen eye on that one if I was you.”

I’ve to no problem with the negro fellas,” said Tom. “Several stop in here from time to time. They are bright and pleasant. “Some of them even tip which is more than I can say for our squeaky regulars. One such man is a famous lawyer round here. About as nice a man as you’ll meet anywhere.”

“Not like some nosey old Swedes I know,” jibed Mr. Harrigan, a retired longshoreman rolling his eyes at his lifelong friend “Windy” Mr. Johannsen who rarely said anything, just smiled and sipped eyes glued to the door, as if waiting for someone special to come in.

“There’s talk that the Dodgers will leave for California, the bastards.” inserted Johannsen much to the amazement of the others who were not accustomed to his comments.

“Never!”, said Tom.

”California here they come,” whined crabby old Mr. Reynolds amid his tired attempts to mooch a pint.

Then the old civil war vet Dennis McCarthy,  still enthusiastic about his daily beauty juice at 95 years, comes in with his grandson, also named Dennis McCarthy. The namesake Dennis’ son worked the beat as a cop until he retired last year with a much deserved albeit small pension.

He’ll be in in a moment,” smiled the elder McCarthy. We’ll have three Dennis McCarthys.  Then you’ll have hell to pay!”

“When I open the doors in the morning I never know  who or what is going to walk in,” said Tom sighing.

“What’s all the noise? I can’t hear myself think, said Reynolds.”

“They’re knocking a wall down next door. Jewish fella is opening a delicatessen. It’s a perfect compliment to O’Sullivans. We serve the pints and Myron serves the pastrami.” 

Jazuz what’s all the racket?” frowned the middle McCarthy just arriving

“Divil a wink of sleep here!” growled the older McCarthy, a veteran of Fredericksburg at 14. “Where’s my fookin’ teeth?”

At that very moment in time a devastating crash from next door shook the windows and rattled the glassware, knocked beers onto the floor and broke a bar stool that was already wobbly and only rookies used.

“Mother of God!” whispered O’Brien.

“It’s nuclear war!” cried Reynolds. “The Russians have attacked Brooklyn like Khrushchev said they would! And they’ve got the Chinese with them!”

The wall that held the tavern together was disintegrating before their eyes. It crumbled from the top then bowed in the middle and came to a rest before doing any more than cosmetic damage on the O’Sullivan side. 

“What are they doing trying to kill us?” asked one of the assembled McCarthys

“Them’s the ones,” said a young lad from the corner.  “I was gettin a jug a porter for me da and I seen it all.  they’re afraid to show their noses with himself.”

“Och aye!”

Moments later the new deli owner and a carpenter walked through the place to survey the damages caused by his hapless crew.  The columns and posts were pronouced solid and ship shape by the carpenter who had built aircraft carriers during the war.

“He should know,” thought Tom.

“Rest assured I’ll pay for damages, Mr O’Sullivan,” said the new neighbor, now introduced as Thaddeus Golden. 

“Only a few vintage Waterford crystal beer glasses and a heirloom stool my grandfather received from Queen Victoria in during her Silver Jubilee ,” winked Tom. “Clearly collector’s pieces all.”  

Gold quickly got the joke but continued to apologize, insisting he must pay for the clean up at least.

The kindly Mr. Markey offered to pick up the tab for “all the lads” but since he has had no money since the war everyone thanked him for his kindness and ignored him once again.

“The looks on their faces when it crashed was worth every minute,” smiled O’Sullivan. “With regard to the damages suffered I’m certain we can work something out – I love matzo ball soup and Jewish rye bread.”

The close-call crashing of the old bar room wall in Bay Ridge went down in the annals of borough excitement finishing a close second to the completion of the Brooklyn Bridge and just ahead of the day someone let all the animals out of the Bronx Zoo.

More to come

Designated Barbecue Zones Explained

(Montrose) In an attempt to reduce charcoal emissions in the Uncompahgre and Gunnison Valleys a strict design for designated barbecue days has been formulated for the good of us all. The system has been implemented  so as to check smoke pollution and encourage general safety around the grill this spring.

     This is how it works:

     Residents and visitors whose named begin with letters A – L will be permitted to legally barbecue on Mondays, Wednesdays and Saturdays, while persons whose named begin with the letters M – Z will be restricted to cooking out on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays. Sundays are open dates when everyone can barbecue since there is diminished pollution from commercial vehicles and industry in this fragile valley that day. The sponsors of this legislation acknowledged that the program limits the culinary enjoyment of the great outdoors but feel that cleaner air will result.

     “We suggest that the citizenry construct a simple chart that clearly defines legal days to cook outside,” said Evelyn White-Fumo, of the Colorado Clean Air Consortium in Boulder. “If the dates are marked in red there should be no reason for confusion. We even have little red pens to give away complete with our logo and an emergency number in case of problems.”

     The plan, called innovative by proponents and stupid by detractors is being enacted despite the failure of other similar programs. The pilot zone concept has worked well in the flatlands but never really took off at higher altitudes. 

     Fumo reminded armed backyard chefs to avoid cooking in the wind and to keep all firearms away from open flames.

     “It’s a cultural thing,” continued White-Fumo, “since the season up here is shorter and people feel the need to take advantage of the expanded light.” – Sergio Tinkleholland

GOP EXHUMES IKE

(Gettysburg, PA) The Republican National Committee, searching for ways to defeat those Democrats in November,  has confirmed rumors that it will exhume the remains of Dwight D Eisenhower prior to its, next national convention. In what was described as a drastic step by political watch dogs, the Republicans will then place Eisenhower on the autumn ticket with George Santos as the likely Vice Presidential candidate. 

     Although revolutionary, the move is expected to increase the chances for a Republican victory in November. Behind closed doors GOP frontmen are uncomfortable with the term revolutionary since it frightens and irritates their corporate bosses. Most expressed no faith in the electability of anyone at this juncture..

     “Even if we nominate another TV personality the ticket would still lack credibility,” explained Melvin O’Toole, head carpenter of the 2012 platform. With Ike we have a proven winner who is respected and liked by everyone. I expect a lot of cross-over votes, especially in the senior citizen segment.

     Toole went on to say that just because Ike had been gone for many years didn’t mean he couldn’t effectively run the country.

     “Just look at Ronald Reagan,” suggested Toole, hammer in hand. “He ran the entire Washington circus for years with no visible life signs. He did a bang-up job unless you happened to be on the poor end of the economic scale. Wasn’t it Reagan that outspent the Russians, then exhumed the memories of Joseph Stalin and brought down the Soviet State!”

     Meanwhile the ghost of Richard Nixon (Ike’s VP from 1952 – 1960) has petitioned his old party to consider him for the top spot, saying that he was still in touch with Spiro Agnew, Henry Kissinger and all the boys from Watergate.

     “People forget,” said a spokesman for Nixon who demanded anonymity. Dick is here with us, at least in spirit.”

     A man matching the description of Nixon has been seen loitering around outside GOP headquarters here since early November.

     “If our plan works we can then run Calvin Coolidge in 2016. Now there was a man who could dazzle the voters,” he smiled.

– Warren Wanderlust