All Entries in the "Hard News" Category
TROUT GEARING UP FOR OPENING DAY
(Gunnison) The cold-blooded residents of Blue Mesa Reservoir are bracing for high water and an increase in anglers as opening day nears. Necessary preparations include familiarity with bait, lures and line. Trolling procedures and hook removal must be addressed. Eluding the fisherman while eating well, diversionary tactics and a variety of aquatic calisthenics must be covered to sustain schools throughout the heavy seasons.
Piscatorial leaders confirm that spring training has been tougher than usual since water levels have fluctuated from low to low in a late runoff.
Meanwhile according to a blurred press release received this afternoon, President Obama , in town pitching an economic stimulus bill will supposedly throw out the first line on Thursday. Either that or Hillary will simply pitch out the first fish on Friday in an attempt to give voters another line of fin jargon to get them.
NBA TO EMPLOY KAZOOS
(Phoenix) Referees employed by the National Basketball Association will substitute kazoos for whistles during the play-offs in 2014. The move comes in response to the ungodly length of the season and due to complaints by players that the shrill whistles hurt their ears. Many refs report that their whistles “peter out by about May anyway and are worthless by June”. In the past the zebra-clad judges have taken to simulating the sounds by whatever method is necessary.
“It’s really tough on the referees that never learned to whistle as a boy,” said one worn out official. “The kazoos break the monotony of the bouncing ball, the grunts and the squeaky sneakers on the wood floor.”
Several players, who were young men when the most recent season began in October seem to like the idea while management is fully supporting the changes due to fiscal considerations in that now they no longer have to hire a band for the evening.
HORSESHOE PEDDLES MOVIE RIGHTS TO TAX RETURN
(Montrose) The San Juan Horseshoe has agreed to sell all movie rights to its 2012 Federal Tax Return according to unreliable sources in the executive darkroom. No fiscal figures were released as of this morning but insiders say the amount was substantial.
“We were attracted to the return strictly because of an incredibly creative plot which, although preposterous at times, held the interest of our staff,” said Omar Gantry, of Saccharine Brothers Pictures. “The potential for a big hit was evident from page one even though the characters don’t seem real like the people here in Hollywood.”
A spokesman for the Internal Revenue Service explained the developments in that the agency would probably grab at least half the projected profits from the venture and was motivated as well as excited by the kinky possibility of sucking blood from a turnip.
CORN POWDER ANGLER with Uncle Pahgre
A lot of folks ask me if I actually do all the things that I write about in my monthly columns. Well, yes and no. There. Now we can get on with the subject at hand — fishin’.
As the old scenario sneaks up on us — if you don’t need a license to be a fish why do you need a license to fish? I recall an expedition a few years back to a special spot called Rainbow Lake. I know some of you pancakes would call it a pond but it’s a full throttle lake to the people around here. At one time it could have been the size of Lake Ontario, prior to all the water thefts, diversions and dams.
Me and my little fishin buddy Jimmy headed up the dusty road to Rainbow, which is located on the fringe of the West Elk Wilderness in Gunnison County. Gunnison is the largest county in Colorado and holds the distinction of having the highest per capita rate of college grads and bank thermometers in the Rockies.
As we chug up the washboard artery I think about the cold beer shakin around in the back of the pickup. I drift off to snoozerville dreaming of the Andalusian girls frolicking on the white sands of Zanzibar — I recently picked up a James Joyce novel hearing that it was deemed obscene by some religious zealot — I have to read every page three times just to keep the literary lid in place.
Jimmy doesn’t read too well. He’s a classic example of why first cousins shouldn’t date, even if they like each other a lot. But Jimmy is one hell of a fisherman. He’ll stay out in a ponga boat for the better part of the day chasin’ down one Mackinaw. He also likes to cheat and break an occasional law in the process. He says it’s fun. We call him The Trout Whistler but I don’t know why.
When we arrive at the shore of Rainbow it becomes apparent that others have been here this morning. They’ve run off the fish and left cigarette butts along the rocky beach. We pick them all up expressing the sincere wish that the perpetrators all burn in hell for their indiscretion. They ought to have their fishing licenses pulled.
I ask Jimmy if he brought his license. He shows me an old elk tag from 1984. I tell him “Good.” I still have my license from last year. We put the boat in the water taking care to include three hunting rifles and some water-logged grenades I snuck out of the Dominican Republic while down there saving the population from Communism in the Sixties.
I also carry a beer cooler, two slickers, some Safeway chicken, my pipe, the Joyce novel, a filet knife, and a copy of the new Horseshoe for wrapping our catch. I also bring along two fistfuls of sweet corn and three sticks of dynamite. Jimmy’s got the oars and a coffee can full of worms he’s been raisin’ in his bedroom since Christmas.
Our first move is to be quiet. We’re already dealing with some mighty uptight trout. Jimmy starts chummin with the chicken and I prepare the dynamite for its virgin voyage. Fish are jumpin and the cotton is high!
We save the corn in case the fish stick their noses up at the poultry, which is often too greasy for their sensitive systems. Almost immediately we get some action on the chicken as several brookies emerge then dive off with their treasure. We drop four lines loaded with worms and throw out one fist of sweet corn. They hit it hard but still no bites.
The experienced angler knows that timing is everything when it comes to fillin’ the fryin pan. I toss one stick of dynamite and it goes off with a boom. Three trout are floating. I throw the other stick to the starboard side and harvest about six more. We in tall cotton now.
Jimmy starts netting the fish and wrapping them up in the newspaper as I open my first beer of the afternoon. As I suck down that inaugural Labatts perusing a fascinating story about the perils of tofu kareoke, I notice a cloud of dust comin up the trail. It’s the ranger!
We’ve only minutes till he arrives on shore. We think: What is the most illegal activity going on in the boat? The rifles? The grenades? My pipe? At least the dynamite and chicken are long gone. He waves at us to come in to the shore where he is now joined by an assortment of nosy college kid greenies ripe for a bust. I reassure Jimmy who fingers my filet knife nervously. We’re legal in a sort of homey/frontier sense. We’ve got licenses but the boat is registered in Utah.
The warden asks us if we heard a loud blast. We say “Nope.” He asks about the rifles. We say we heard there were a lot of bear around. He asks about the fish. We tell him they attacked out fried chicken and we had to fight them off with our oars. He calls on his radio, handcuffs us (right there in front of those goodie two-shoe greenie bastards) and hauls us to Gunnison jail. Communists.
The authorities charge Jimmy and I with a whole barrel of offenses (federal, state and local) and confiscate most of our gear. We spent that night in jail and the food wasn’t bad. The cops seemed disappointed that we weren’t hardened criminals but were nice to us anyway.
And at the present we’re still waiting for a court date. There’s no sense to go out and look for work what with out legal entanglements and all. I guess we’ll just go fishing again. Maybe this time without the boat. I wonder if they sell silencers for dynamite down at the hardware store.
The Uninvited Wedding Guests
The day started as most summer days high in the Elk Mountains. The early hours featured blazing sun, then sparse clouds arrived for lunch. Today was the day that Rudy Triglavic would marry Irene Sulek. Relatives from Baldwin, Pittsburgh, Elkton and parents from Croatia and Slovenia were in town. The night before was filled with merry making and the following morning everyone was moving slow.
At 1 pm the families met at Queen of All Saints for the ceremony, the I dos and the you dos and then the rice…and another party. The reception was held at the home of Hugo Prespa, superintendent at the Daisy Mine. Guests included miners and their families from the Keystone, the Standard, Jokerville and Smith Hill Mines. Although competitive underground and in the taverns (with names like the Bucket of Blood Saloon and Kochevar’s) most were having a great time listening to polkas, to tunes on the gusle. They stopped mid-sentence to watch as the bride and groom engaged in the traditional wedding dance. There was prase roasting on hot ash, cevapcici and culbastija and lots of wine. Thoughts of the Sava ran through the heads of the more recent immigrants to North America.
It was quite the scene that July day in 1899, just months before 1900 would come calling. Rudy Triglavic had arrived in Crested Butte three years before. He was a quiet man who worked hard. His family ties to the old country had been tarnished by political conflict. In a country divided into distinct regions ruled by the Byzantines, the Austrians, then by the Ottoman Turks it was not hard to make enemies. The Triglavic family had been staunch supporters of Francis Joseph in the hopes that the Austrians would create a Slavic nation like the Magyars of Hungary had won some years before.
Josip Triglavic, Rudy’s father, had even talked of leaving Slovenia. Things were not so good there for the supporters of the Hapsburgs in the dawn of nationalism. The anarchists were busy, the climate was ripe for what would be World War I. Josip had been mocked by fellow villagers because he insisted that the Austrian monarchy should be recognized as legitimate rulers of his country. There were threats on his life and on the life of his son, Rudy, who had served in Italy with the army and had even attended the university at Innsbruck. When Rudy left Europe, rumors were the residue. Had he informed on a Croatian nationalist in Zagreb? Someone had. Rudy was gone. He was a monarchist. Conclusions were drawn.
A contingent of nationalists, comprised of Serbs, Croats and Slovenes had sought to throw off the Hapsburg yoke and create a new country. They were led by a man named Draza Petrinja, a charismatic Croat from Dalmatia. Seeking to take advantage of the weaknesses of the Austrians, who had recently been defeated by the Prussians, the French and the Sardinians, the movement flourished. Along the Adriatic, especially in cities like Trieste, nationalists were openly hostile to anything Austrian. With promises of aid from Italy, they plotted a full scale revolt in the fall of 1896. Suddenly, in August, without further provocation, Austrian troops swarmed along the coastline forcing all of Dalmatia to heel. Petrinja and others were arrested and imprisoned in Carinthia. The revolt was crushed.
The entire Triglavic family, along with other supporters of the Hapsburgs, was suspect. People had looked for a scapegoat. But that was years ago. Surely the family could find reprieve from old world struggles in the Rockies.
Two cold men stood at the fringe of the reception. Each had a glass of wine in his hand. They smiled cordially although nobody knew them. Each family thought the two were guests of the other. Maybe they were friends of the bride from Ljubljana, where many Suleks still lived. Maybe they worked in the mines. Were they cousins from Pueblo? Maybe they were the caterers. At any rate, they spoke the right language and were welcomed graciously by both families.
“Which one is he?” whispered the taller of the two men.
“I can’t tell from this photograph,” was the answer. “We’ll have to wait him out. Someone will drop his name, then we’ll do our business and be gone.”
“Watch the wine,” smiled the first. “We don’t want to miss. Let’s just take it slow and strike when the party is in full swing. Surprise is our best weapon. It shouldn’t be long before most of the men are well on their way to a good drunk.”
The party went on all afternoon with much dancing and drinking. Then, at about 4:30 there was a toast from the father of the bride, Amill Sulek. The cake was cut. The band played on. It was at that moment that the two intruders first realized which guest was Rudy Triglavic.
“He’s the groom!” gulped the first. “He’s the damn groom. They didn’t say anything about shooting a groom…”
“Just relax,” whispered the second man, biting down on his lower lip then swallowing a healthy slug of wine. “We haven’t made ourselves known and there’s still time to finish our business. It’s not like we’re going to shoot the traitor at the altar.”
Both men stood silently, confused as to what action to take. This turnabout had taken the wind out of their assassin sails. They had no way to consult with the people who had sent them all this way to kill Rudy Triglavic. The powers in Dalmatia had no way to know they had sent two executioners to dust off a bridegroom.
“We can’t just leave,” offered the second gunman. “If we go back without completing our mission we could end up dead too. You know how much they want this Triglavic. We have no choice. We have to give them their pound of flesh, satisfy the vengeance.”
The assassins took a seat, smiled sweetly to someone’s grandmother and were presented with a piece of wedding cake. They ate quietly until the band struck up another polka.
“The powers back home want revenge,” started the first man. “They order us to retaliate for what was a betrayal. They give us steamship passage and pistols. They give us a picture…It doesn’t even look like this Triglavic. They tell us to shoot him. They didn’t say it would be on his wedding day.”
The second gunman smiled, “They wouldn’t know the bridegroom from Archduke Ferdinand. They just want vindication. All we have to do is provide them with a body. I’m not about to shoot the groom. What do you think?”
After pushing the last piece of cake into his mouth the first man sighed, “Then let’s give them one.”
After further consultation the two decided that they would pick out an acceptable victim, one different from the groom. They scanned the reception looking for the proper target. After several circles the taller man nudged the other and gestured toward an irascible crank of a man who was disrupting his corner of the festivities by arguing with his wife.
“He’s just about the same size,” quipped one of the gunmen.
“Cantankerous looking fellow,” winked the other. “Who’s gonna miss him.”
The two plotted the attack and their escape as the wedding party grew more merry. They wanted to wait until they had a clear shot, for the right time. When several of the ladies herded the children into a nearby pasture for games, they drew their pistols and fired. At first the party was not interrupted. The guests turned and thought the noise was part of the celebration. When the victim fell to the ground it became apparent that something was very wrong.
The assailants calmly holstered their pistols and disappeared as the crowd gathered around the mark, who was propped up on one elbow, talking to himself. A doctor was summoned and the victim was pronounced quite healthy with the exception of a bullet wound in the forearm and a bump on the head, suffered in the fall.
“Did we get him?” said the first man to the second as they rode furiously up Kebler.
“I aimed low, you aimed high. He must be dead,” said the second.
* * * * *
Weeks later the two gunmen returned to Dalmatia and announced that they had concluded the business at hand. Everyone seemed satisfied that a score had been settled. There would be more revolts, more trouble in the Balkans, a World War to distract them. The matter was considered settled.
Five months later as winter began its occupation of the East River Valley the Triglavic family received a small card. Josip, who had stayed in the United States to avoid the troubles in his country and to see his grandchildren born, opened the letter. He didn’t recognize the handwriting or the first names on the card.
“It says these people here are sorry for interrupting the wedding reception,” he frowned. “Do you really think it’s from the same men who shot your cousin in the arm? Why would they send a sympathy card? They never even brought a gift.”
– Rex Montaleone
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
CREATIVE SNEEZING SYMPOSIUM UPDATED
For those of you who wrote regarding our Advanced Creative Sneezing Exercises: Please be patient. We suggest a continued routine of daily practice with friends or pets but never with house plants at risk. Amplification devices, while often satisfying at the start, can lead to nasal blockage and artificial expression of biologically natural bodily functions.
For the present, novices should be experimenting with VOWEL SOUNDS ONLY. Suggested and often safe points of departure include the aa sound and the eee sound along with ou, oy (y is a vowel sometimes), the iii and the overtly sensual uu.
As we have painfully spelled out, simply combine these guttural vowel sounds smoothly to attain the final explosion. The average spasmodic and involuntary action can then be embodied to suit and integrated with other random manifestations resulting the in adaption of personal eloquence. Now you try it!
CLOUD SEEDING CATALOGUES ARRIVING FRIDAY
(PITKIN) The 1998 Cloud Seed Catalogues are expected to be delivered to businesses and residences at the end of the week according to crop dusters on lift ten. The catalogues, a bi-product of alleged United Nations meddling in the internal affairs of Los Estados Unidos and her clones, will be whisked into town via black helicopter. Others will be displayed on the winternet. Cooperative citizens who can show they have no opinion in matters of state can exchange the paltry imprints for thimbles of herb tea through the season. Warning: Dogs caught riding the gondola will be prosecuted, their owner’s mountain bikes sold for scrap. You try writing news stories with a head cold and a mouse that sticks.
