All Entries in the "Hard News" Category
Should Organic Farmers Pay for Grazing on Public Land?
(Uncompahgre Plateau) Farmers grazing onions and potatoes on public lands here have petitioned for a general variance that excuses them from seasonal grazing fees. Saying that their vegetables don’t eat anything, are quiet and immobile, the growers, most of them organic tribesmen who migrated to this area from New Mexico in the 19th Century, catch water, add nutrients to the soil and clean up after themselves.
“It’s not like onions trample existing flora or that potatoes give off methane gas,” said Betty Sweetcorne from her sun-dried tomato camp near the Transfer Road. “And when the harvest comes we don’t haul our produce to lower elevations in cattle trucks leaving cow pies in their wake.”
Sweetcorne adds that most of the vegetables grown on the Plateau end up at local farmer’s markets and not sold to giant food conglomerates where they are dyed, wrapped in plastic and marked up to be sold hermetically.
Currently the Department of Inferior is considering a plan that would borrow funds from the newly enacted Horse Flesh Tax legislation to cover these grazing fees.
-Sterling Bidet
Colorow’s Ghost
Part I Act 2
(READER SYNOPSIS: In our last episode we met Salli Radar, a former nuclear physicist who walked off her job at a Nevada Test Site, dropped out of high society and moved back to Western Colorado to find herself. Spending an idyllic summer cultivating hybrid snapdragons and tending the family’s burgeoning marmot flock on her grandfather’s Dallas Divide ranchette, Salli knew bigger and better things were in store for her just down the next dirt road. The first act crash landed as Salli bursts forth with a Western rendition of “The Sound of Music”, waking the majority of marmots from a lengthy siesta and setting local heifers on a collision course with E minor. We pick up the action as Salli prepares to bed down for the night.)
Although a comfortable house beckoned, a rough and ready herdsman often took to sleeping on the ground. It was no less than a show of solidarity with the livestock. Salli was no different. As she tried to fall asleep gazing at Jupiter and the headlights from the tourists down on Highway 62 she thought long and hard about her recent work in the nuclear industry and back in Los Alamos, New Mexico where she had designed and assembled weapons capable of destroying Las Vegas or Grand Junction.
The wind kicked up sending an eerie message that winter would be making a house call in about October.
“This is already July,” whispered Salli to herself amid cricket chirps and coyote calls, “I’d better get my nuts in.”
As Salli lay in her goose down sleeping bag, purchased from from a designer outdoor boutique while she still had a fat check coming in, she thought of her fly boy, Mango, who had only last month run off with a bowl of wax fruit leaving her with little roughage and a broken heart.
“That bastard,” she thought, remembering feverish nights in the moonlight on Paiute Mesa and sizzling days with her security clearance and the man she loved in the radiant yet hazy Nevada sunshine. “I miss him so.”
As Salli drifted off to sleep to the rhythm of the vigilant whistle pigs and the swayback skunk cabbage she felt the strange sensation that her camp was being observed from above. Each time she popped her eyes open she saw nothing, but a heavy odor filled the air. It was then that she heard the chanting and the sound of distant tom-toms. The drums got louder as the moon came up for another rousing Charleston with a lingering wallflower star.
“What can this be?” she thought, now frightened by all the recalcitrant racket and the rancorous, pervasive musty smell in the air. “I must be losing my marbles. I shouldn’t be surprised. It happens to a lot of us retired atom splitters.”
Rolling over in an attempt to find a soft spot on the planet, Salli fell back to sleep. The random snoring that had driven poor Mango away now attracted something more wild than Paiute Mesa, something more intoxicating than league night at the Pahrump Bowl. What was out there hovering over the marmot herd anyway?
It was then that Salli awoke, sitting straight up in her sleeping bag. A dark, misty figure meandered its way toward her expired campfire. His glorious war bonnet and taut hunting bow seemed in conflict with his preposterous tie-dyed headband and a badly faded synthetic “Indian” blanket, the kind sold in every border town showroom from Tijuana to Ushuaia. He spoke in quiet, drifting tones as if not to needlessly alarm the snoozing snapdragons.
“I am the great chief Colorow, leader of the proud Utes!” said the spooky warrior. “I have returned to the land of my ancestors!”
“Whoa!” gulped Salli. “How did this guy get in here!”
“I am the great Chief Colorow!” the specter now bellowed. “I come for horses with which to hunt the buffalo!”
Salli sat anxiously as the warrior searched the horizon for the spoils of his intended coup. She had digested all the data on UFOs while working for the government but even the classified variety had never alluded to anything like this Colorow character. This was a completely new ball game.
Had this Pale Horse chief returned to his previous haunt to communicate an eternal message to humanity? Would she share the agonizing particulars of the demise of his people? Why did he choose Salli when there were millions of other more suitable humans crammed onto the planet? Would the Dodgers win the pennant?
George Radar, Salli’s grandfather had mentioned a sacred Indian burial ground somewhere to the west of the family dump on Cottonwood Creek. Had someone left the gate open or had this chubby apparition wrapped in a blanket returned from the ages set on some callous revenge? Had he really chosen her as his medium to communicate sacred and primitive thought to the 21st Century? This was almost Biblical!
“I’ve always had a warm place in my heart for the Utes even though my ancestors stole their land, drove them out of the country and used them for target practice,” mewled Salli. “I just love Hopi pottery and trips to Mesa Verde.”
Salli quickly determined that if this Colorow had intended her harm he would have already drawn his tomahawk and taken her hair. She further surmised that he was here on a holy mission and would communicate his feelings to her when the time was right. In the interim, she would just sit tight and wait for his astounding revelation. What an impact this would have on the humanity! Would humankind rethink his calamitous rendezvous with ultimate destruction? What new philosophies would emerge? Could this elusive chief snatch 21st Century Homo Sapiens from the jaws of ecological extinction?
Of course, her newfound celebrity status would not emerge without some sacrifices. There would be the loss of privacy, as government heads all over the world would place incredible demands on her time. There would be the endless interviews by reporters and of course the abrasive talk show circuit. She would need a new wardrobe. Would Mango see her on TV? Salli whirled out of her trance as Colorow cleared his throat as if to speak.
“Here it is,” ducked Salli expecting the infinite truth from the happy hunting ground to fill the nearby canyons. “I am all ears, oh great warrior!”
“What’s for dinner, toots?” asked Colorow.
TO BE CONTINUED
Pax Tourista declared by Polis
(Denver) Pledging continuity in positive tourist growth in Colorado, today Governor Jared Polis declared 2005 as Pax Tourista. This tribute only comes along once every 50 years and the recognition goes far beyond state borders. Exhorting all Coloradans to embrace the esteemed honor, he was overtly candid when speaking to merchants and service groups employed in the hospitality industry.
“Merchants in Colorado must be prepared to juggle the silly questions without looking down their noses at flatlanders and other visitors to our state,” he began. “Sure they seem like people from outer space sometimes but deep down they are just like we are and need a little reassurance, especially when out of their element. Be nice,” he stressed.
“A smile can disarm even the most demanding visitor,” he continued. “These people are our guests and not walking dollar bills.”
Polis suggested that merchants keep windows clean and shower regularly so as not to offend. He reminded business people that sticky doors, mean dogs and naked children running around did not send the right message to tourists looking for the high country experience.
“Third World charm should stay there. Our visitors want a little creature comfort after they come back from hiking, eating and fishing. It’s up to us to provide it. A little sincerity goes a long way,” he reminded. “And try to limit the number of restrictions on the entry way. Nobody likes to read No this and No that on the way in to buy a rock or a postcard to send back home. Keep the rap music down and avoid cooking high-intensity ethnic delicacies in the halls too,” he said.
Adhering to some of these simple considerations should result in a healthy, prosperous year for most Coloradans.
“We just want to make sure you pay your sales tax,” the governor joked.
– Uncle Pahgre
American Tune
I don’t know a soul who’s not been battered
I don’t have a friend who feels at ease
I don’t know a dream that’s not been shattered
Or driven to its knees
Oh, but it’s all right, it’s all right
For lived so well so long
Still, when I think of the road
We’re traveling on
I wonder what went wrong
I can’t help it, I wonder what’s gone wrong
-Paul Simon, 1973
LAWN THERAPY SAVES THE DAY
A lot of my friends think I’m a moron because I spend countless hours working in my yard. Some say I’m anal-retentive because I like a nice lawn and flourishing trees. I say it’s the best therapy around when it comes to relieving stress. Imagine spending four to six hours quietly watering one Russian Olive bush or hauling leaves and branches to the dump in plastic garbage bags! It certainly gives one a feeling of insignificance in comparison to nature and the cosmos.
The trick is to get an early start. Usually I have my riding mower revving by 6 a.m. (5 a.m. on the weekends). If there’s pesky weeds or crabgrass to deal with, I get up before dark. Always attack at dawn. I forget who said that, but it’s darn good advice for the lawn enthusiast. While some guys are out playing golf or sleeping off a good drunk, I’m up to my butt in grass clippings. What a feeling. By mid-morning it’s time to move the sprinklers if I’m up to it, then a light lunch.
After lunch we move into the more technical aspect of healthy lawns maintenance although a wee nap might help promote
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