All Entries Tagged With: "Lake City"

My Favorite Beach Towns in South America

Anybody can spend a boatload of cash and go to Rio. Another option is to fork out for a brochure secure, mono-cultural, claustrophobic cruise where passengers can rub elbows with same bedfellows in a sterilized atmosphere.

Sure Rio has great beaches…and exorbitant prices, crowds and lots of pickpockets. The violence is cordoned off from the favelas (slums) to the beaches but enough seeps through to create separation from the hunger dens. Before you go ask yourself: “Why would anyone with any sense go to Rio when there are so many other gorgeous, untamed and idyllic beaches within a bus or boat ride up and down this magnificent coastline.

Having spent a good deal of time beating feet in South America I have seen a lot of empanadas and a lot of sand. The following beach towns were chosen to review because they were beautiful and culturally enlightening. They are places that, due to access, overgrazing, sprawl, weather and pollution are disappearing in North America and many parts of Central America

In South America, where life moves a bit slower and a precarious adventure could be right around the next palm tree, the beaches represent a lifestyle that has not gone away. Whether you watch people drink mate in Uruguay or rum on the Colombian Caribbean a Neptune connection is clear. There are still seascapes seemingly untouched by man. There is undisturbed sand. There is warm, salty peace in the middle of the day.

 

 

Santa Cruz Cabralia, Brasil

Here is where Pedro Alvaras Cabral and his Portuguese thugs made the initial landing in the New World, although nobody seems to give a damn. There is little plaque, a 16^th Century church and a great little restaurant called Cabralia 1500. Otherwise it’s just a sleepy beach town of surprising dimension.

Only half an hour by bus from the airport at Porto Seguro, two large families, one white and one black, who take care of problems quickly and efficiently, effectively monitor Cabralia. As a result there is no noticeable crime (I never even saw a cop in three weeks) and an overall atmosphere of tranquility.

The beaches that run on empty for miles and miles are of fluffy sand, peppered with baraca bars, eateries and houses to rent for the season. The surf is pleasantly gentle after spending time on the Pacific. The fishing is good.

Besides the drama of the Atlantic at one’s feet, visitors will enjoy wide-eyed Rio Joao de Tiba. A primitive ferry connects Cabralia to the even more serene beaches of Santo Andre and Santo Antonio to the north.

Time for lunch? Bahian cuisine is wonderful if not varied. Yesterday I had fish with beans and rice and salad. Tomorrow I will enjoy fish with beans and rice and salad. Today? I’ll have the fish with beans and rice and salad. No need for a menu but nobody’s complaining. And if you want to sling a few compliments on the way out the door mention the beans. That is the pride. Anyone can make fish, rice and salad. It is the steaming frijoles that separate the mystic from the mortal in the kitchen.

Monkeys up river, lobster boats bobbing in the bay, smiling people, cold beer and samba…and the experts at Lonely Planet “don’t think it’s worth staying overnight”. In a sense they were right. I spent three weeks.

If you want to head further north to the amazing city of Salvador from here you can take a series of inland waterways and buses until you reach Olivenca and Itacare two more developed, yet incredible beach stops as well.

Tayrona, Colombia

Perhaps the most beautiful beaches on the continent can be found in the state of Magdalena at Tayrona National Park, which skirts the Caribbean and the Sierra Madre de Santa Marta. The lowland heat can be sweltering but the mountains (less than 35 miles from the Caribbean) reach 18,000 feet in elevation, Tayrona is made up of over 20 superb beaches such as Playa Cristal, Bahia Concha, and Palmarito. Along with the eye piercing landscape these locales also feature a healthy mosquito population in rainy season. The rest of the year (November through April) basic precautions should be taken at feeding time (except in the case of travelling, cold-blooded vampires).

The park, with its rainforests and classic tropical beaches can be reached by boat from Taganga, a questionable pseudo-hippie town where bad pot and petty theft reign. Go early in the morning before everyone’s awake.

On the other side of Santa Marta there is Rodadero, the up-market strip of sand with high-rise hotels and a reasonable beach scene. It’s a great place to get away from all this infringing nature that can certainly be overwhelming. Typical of most civilized beach scenes in South America, Rodadero beats the Santa Marta town beach/harbor, which, unless you enjoy trash in the sand and last night’s stale aromas, is best avoided.

The evening in Santa Marta features a slew of great restaurants and plazas, impromptu music, venders, dancing and stray dogs sadly looking for a meal. Santa Marta is the oldest city in Colombia and the second oldest in South America.

One exhilarating side trip is the lovely village of Minca, which sits at about 2000 feet above sea level and offers some respite from the heat. The no-see-ums await your arrival with a baptism of fire but citronella keeps them off. Near Minca are several hikes to waterfalls, coffee farms, world-class bird watching and anthropological jaunts that further showcase the contrasts of nature and remarkable bio-diversity. Pico Simon Bolivar at 18,946 feet is part of the highest coastal range in the world but due to inversions, storm clouds, and tight proximity is almost never visible.

Back to the beaches (mountain people have to spend some time talking about the mountains too) the tide is in and it’s time for a swim.

The warm water waves at Playa Las Pocitas run 24 hours offering surfers and swimmers a paradise of sand and sun. Solitude (depending on the season) is just a ten-minute tuk-tuk ride from Mancora.

Mancora, Peru

On the Peruvian coast, near Ecuador, where the Humboldt Current finally turns out to sea, we find warm Pacific water and arguably the best   langostinas (prawns) in the world. The surfing is free and you can take home a kilo of these giant shrimp for $7 (if you get to know the local fishmonger). A distinctly young crowd is drawn to this spot where 4-meter waves are not uncommon but safe swimming is the norm.

What may not be so secure is a cab ride from Tumbes (closest airport) about 80 km north. My driver, a likeable fellow named Jesus, sped through town after town at 70 to 80 miles per hour on the way down the night time coast. He only slowed down to 50, so as to point out a few landmarks, when we passed though his village.

Upon arrival in Mancora it is apparent that the Pan-American Highway runs the show. One can actually sit at an outdoor locale and dangle his flip-flopped feet onto the highway – just watch out for the big rigs coming up from Lima!

But back to the beach: My bungalow is located in a serene spot on Playa Las Pocitas (with a pool just five feet from the sand), a 75-cent tuk-tuk ride into town. The beach here is excellent and there are no people in my dreamy post-Semana Santa destination. Just me and the fish (and a few fishermen who insist on selling me fresh lobster for $2.50 a pound).

One night I prepared shrimp scampi for two restaurant owners, a Miraflores cooking show host and a food critic for the Lima daily paper. Nobody had much too say after the plates hit the table. I’ve always been told that was a good sign. Note: Several of the diners are still alive today!

Near my digs is Donde Teresa Restaurant, which serves creative cuisine and has a nice pool, just steps from the bar. Diversions include tropical cocktails and maybe even a knife fight with the owner over his beautiful wife.

35 km down the coast at Lobitos the ocean water is colder than the beer. Turning east one enters a massive desert that doesn’t look as if it could support so much as a horny toad.

Inside info: The Kon Tiki, way up on the hill with views of the whole area is hands down the best lodging bet for the weary traveler.

 

 

Quintay, Chile

Only 25 km collectivo ride from Valparaiso, Quintay offers a complete escape from the hectic pace of Santiago and the coastal cities. The countryside is beyond belief with endless cliffs and pine forests feeding into surreal panoramas of the sea. The collectivo driver dropped me two miles north of town and told me I’d love the walk into the village which is one-street pleasant and sells everything from live chickens to tacky beach towels.

Most of the other tourists are Chilean with a few western Argentines thrown in. Long walks await the visitor in search of solitude while the ocean dictates tomorrow’s priorities. Although the beaches are wonderful the water is very cold.

Better to enjoy las frutas del mar than to wade into in her icy waters. The surfing is best south but be sure to wear two or three wet suits. Great restaurants (the best I found in Chile) await the hungry at with exceptional service and ultra-fresh yellow fin tuna and an assortment of local shellfish.

The black eel ceviche is beyond words, especially with a freshly baked baguette and a cold beer. Besides the fine eateries, and some little kids selling shells on the overlook, there is little commerce going on today.

Probably the least spoiled of all the beaches in the region, Quintay remains in the sphere of Valparaiso, which, due to the construction of the Panama Canal fell from favor in the shipping industry and has never fully recovered. In downtown Valparaiso be attentive as there are lots of people standing around wondering what you are carrying in your backpack or suitcase.

Up on the Ceros it is all quite cosmetic nouveau leaving very few barrios in the middle. You’re either rich or poor with little in the center. Valparaiso looks and feels a bit like San Francisco or Vancouver. Quintay offers its own salty reality.

Punta del Diablo, Uruguay

There are no less than 9 magnificent beaches within an hour’s walk from the central grocery store here in this now discovered gem. Four and a half hours by bus from Montevideo and 45 km from the Brasilian frontier the town is called “poco rustico” by smiling natives. The catch runs from white corvina to shrimp and everyone serves overpriced pizza. Tip: Try the Milonesa and the empanadas at what was the Ruta del Sol old bus station. Relax and digest, then take a walk to the old lighthouse (one hour) or journey to the unspoiled Playa Esmeralda or Santa Teresa National Park, roughly two-hour hikes away.

Once a fishing town and artist colony, this fragile place gets mobbed in January and February by mindless youth from Argentina and Brasil. The best time to enjoy the place in a normal state is December and March when all the restaurants are open but the tourist impact is lightest. After Easter the place rolls up the sidewalks (which it has not yet built), boards up the windows and goes back to Montevideo to watch futbal and eat red meat for the winter.

Getting around is best by motorcycle but me feets be me only carriage and all the walking sure didn’t hurt my physique. Bikes work well as to large sticks to discourage aggressive dogs after dark.

Yes, the surfing is good. Rivero is safer. LaViuda (riptides) is a good way to end up in China before breakfast. Young, thin, female novice surfers in need of instruction should contact: Tom Thompson, Certified LSMFT, early in the day.

With a year-round community this might be nice place to live. Interestingly the pavement ends near town and the streets remain dirt at last report. If this place had trees near the beach it would be perfect. Don’t buy into the South part of South Atlantic, since the winter temperatures drop to 40 degrees and the influence of the constant sea “breeze” puts one to wishing for those balmy February days in Gunnison.

Budget lodging suggestion: Hostel de La Viuda. Great owners, pool, about 15 minute walk from two superior beaches.

Wyatt Earp in Gunnison

The bent mustache figure lurched at his small desk amid faro tables, frontier ash trays and clouded, empty glasses. He had been a lawman, better the law, from Dodge City to Tombstone for the past 30 years. Now he wore spectacles, they stabbed into the thin residue of his gray-haired temples. It all seemed a badge-less blur. The once quick-triggered stagecoach guard turned deputized gunslinger was now proprietor of a struggling gambling enterprise in Gunnison, Colorado.

Some days it all closed in. He had been a feared United States Marshal. Now it had come to this. His dreams of days as a buffalo hunter on the Kansas plains were interrupted by loud clopping on the back stairs.

The door opened and a shaky voice said: “Earp, I’m calling you out!”

Earp peered around the corner and focused on a tall lanky kid whose Colt revolver anchored him to the stairs like a skeleton whaler in a winter gale.

“Did you hear, Earp? I’m calling you out. Just you and me in the street…”

Not another one, Earp thought. This was getting old. It was up to more than two a week in the summer. Did these punks really expect  to gain instant fame by gunning down this grandfather gunfighter? It’s 1903. The classic gunfights were ages ago. Even though the kid probably couldn’t shoot cans off a tree stump, that formidable revolver, and the nervous stance made him a valid threat so early in the morning.

“Not so fast, kid,” grumbled Earp. “I haven’t even had coffee. Why don’t you go home and sleep it off. I’m sure your momma has chores for you to do.”

Earp felt the need to push the kid a little just to see how far he intended to take this challenge. No sense getting shot in his own faro parlor or worse making the trek down to the dusty street of the mining town just to fall prey to the twists of a desperate nipper.

The kid was fresh from momma’s kitchen by way of a full length bedroom mirror where he had carefully practiced his facetiously fatal lines.

“Go for your gun, Earp,” he had mouthed just moments before, his holster hung loosely off his hip, his white handles glowing in the first light. He had practiced his lines for weeks now, driven by a wish for that first notch in his gun barrel. After shooting Wyatt Earp his career as a terrible gunslinger would take off. He would be somebody, not some punk kid from the back alleys of Gunnison. People would show a new found respect for the man who had gunned down the infamous Wyatt Earp.

Despite fears that he would panic and back down or botch his well rehearsed lines if he didn’t take immediate action, the kid faltered. Earp stared.

“You’re the one come a callin’, pushed the old lawman. “Now maybe we can settle this whole matter easily. Why don’t you run down to Sally’s and fetch me a cup of coffee, black, and two or three of those cheroots…”

“I said I’m gonna shoot you! Dammit, didn’t you hear me? Now get up off your ass and meet me down in the street before…”

“Before you lose your nerve? Just go quietly and we’ll forget anything happened. And watch your language. This is a family faro parlor. Go home.”

Just then another stumbler hit the door. This time it was Doc Holiday, already well pressed and oiled from the night before. He stumbled then stuttered his words into a burped sentence that resembled Good morning gentlemen. Whether his presence was any advantage to Earp was unclear since he did not pick up on the scene at first. Then he saw the kid’s revolver.

“Who’s your buddy, Wyatt?” said Holiday putting his arm around the kid’s shoulder. Hey, kid, you wanna cut the cards for fifty bucks? How about a little black jack?”

Holiday’s breath was enough to herd sheep and the kid backed up.

Educated in the profession of dentistry, Holiday had long ago opted for the more lucrative career as gunman. It was easy to see that he would have more customers at 40 paces than he might crouched over some miserable creature, his whiskey breath reeking.

Eyeballing the pistol, Holiday continued his affront, his arm affectionately slung across the kid’s shoulder. He was now hanging on him and effectively blowing the kid’s intricate presentation. Suddenly the kid took a deep breath and bolted from the room and down the stairs. Wyatt pulled his six-gun from his lap under the desk and looked at Holiday.

“Just how drunk are you, Doc? he asked.

“Not that drunk,” said Holiday.

The two shared an induced laugh, reassuring each other that surely the kid would not be back.

“I’m getting tired of these interruptions,” said Earp recounting the number of challenges he tolerated since arriving in Gunnison some months before. He had come north from Pima County to retire, not to baby sit belligerent shavelings. Although his draw was still more than enough to drop the kid in his boots, he sought peace. Along with Holiday and the dapper Bat Masterson he had opened the faro parlor near the booming mining districts of the Elks and the eastern San Juans.

“Maybe I need something a little less conspicuous, out of the mainstream, Doc,” said Earp.

“Running this joint up here in the sagebrush is about as invisible as Wyatt Earp can get,” said Holiday. “Don’t let the kid rattle your nerves. You’ve been through a whole lot worse.”

 

Meanwhile on the other side of town the rawboned gladiator fingered his Colt. He had been embarrassed and would seek revenge, this time, on both Earp and Holiday. He could corner the two on the street that night and fire off six deadly rounds while they were caught off-guard, digesting their dinner. In one evening’s surprise he would shed his baby face for the life of an icy, callous gunslinger. No sun to contend with if he approached from the west on Tomichi. He plotted things out in his swirling head. Then he methodically planned out his moves once more, for good measure.

He had to let them go for their guns, though, or he’d be spending his time in the territorial prison or, more likely, at the end of some improvised noose, a poker-faced mob watching him dangle from the town’s landmark oak. But why the preoccupation with failure? He had accomplished nothing since his less that remarkable birth in 1886, five years after the Earp Brothers murdered/dispatched the Clanton Gang at Tombstone. Now he stood at the threshold of fame, and maybe even fortune. All he had to do is shoot Holiday and Earp.

That evening moments before the sun slid behind the Antelope Hills he called out.

“I’m gunning for you, both of you. Now let’s make it simple. Go for your guns.”

That sounded pretty good plus there were a few local toughs in earshot since the kid had chosen a communal spot in front of the pool hall for his performance. They dropped their faces and their cues and backed up into the doorway.

“Not you again,” muttered Earp under his breath spreading his coat back to access his revolver. Holiday too was tense. The kid was now facing them in the street and may pull his pistol at any provocation. It looked like someone would find himself face down in the dust.

“Go for your gun!” prodded the kid, showing his good teeth, glaring at the two from the lightly shaded street. “I’m gonna…”

“You’re gonna come home and finish your chores before dark,” said a female voice to Earp’s right flank. “You’re as worthless as your father. I should let these men shoot you down but then I’d have to hire a man to build fence next spring.”

The heavy-set the woman walked fearlessly between the shooters and lunged at the kid, grabbing his neck via his ear and dragging him off onto a side street.

Earp and Holiday could only laugh, shaken by the knowledge that this recent affront had come dangerously close to a deadbolt gunfight.

“As long as he’s packing, we ain’t safe,” said Holiday moments later. Masterson still has a badge. He’s still a sheriff’s deputy up in Leadville. Maybe we could have the kid arrested before somebody gets hurt.”

An rattled Earp thought the idea a bit cowardly. Years before he would have simply dispatched the weedy warrior, flicking him away like a flea, leaving him crying for his mother in the blood and the dust. But things were more civilized now and if he wanted to enjoy the his later years he had better listen to Holiday. Masterson was consulted.

* * *

“That badge is from Cripple Creek,” quacked Masterson, but I’ll talk to the kid if you want. You say he’s carrying a Colt like the one we took off Les Dalton in Dodge? Can he shoot straight?”

Masterson would confront the kid on the main street with his dog, Jubal, at his side. He had named the dog after the Confederate general, Jubal Early, for no apparent reason, saying that the dog needed a name and Jubal was as good as any other.

“I’ll be staying in clear view of witnesses for our little conference to be sure,” quipped Masterson, “and I’ll bring Jubal for backup. He’s got more sense than most men and the natural instinct to see a problem coming down.”

After about an hour of searching Masterson found the kid near the livery stable saddling his mare.

“Going someplace, kid?” sassed Masterson. “Maybe that’s best considering…”

“Considering what? said the kid fingering his holster. From the looks of it he had been crying.

“Did the old men make a monkey out of you?” asked Masterson, pushing just a little more. “It could’ve been a whole lot worse. I know those two and you’re lucky to be breathing.”

Masterson then asked the kid to explain his behavior and instead was met with threats of the same kind that had plagued Earp and Holiday. At one point Masterson thought seriously about pulling his gun and ending the standoff for good, but he held back.

“You’re nuts, kid,” said Masterson. “And unless you get some sense real quick you’re gonna be dead.”

“I’ll shoot all three of you in a row at sundown!” fumed the kid. “You just be there!”

Then, as he turned toward his horse Jubal bit him hard in the butt, tearing through his jeans and drawing blood.

“Jubal!” cried Masterson. “Down boy! There’s no call for violence!”

The green gunman scurried off cursing Masterson and Jubal. Masterson set off to report to Earp, but turning the corner near the pool hall he saw the kid sneaking up the same back steps to Earp’s office, his pistol drawn.

“You go one step further and I’ll shoot you, bushwhacker,” cried Masterson. “Drop it or I’ll drop you.” The kid complied, dropping his weapon just as all the commotion brought Earp and Holiday out onto the landing.

“Are you one of those shirttail Tombstone relatives?” a frustrated Earp asked, shoving the cornered kid, “or have you just tired of living? This is your final chance. Now come in here and let’s have a drink and forget this whole matter. I’m warning you, Doc here has reached the end of his patience and even I’m getting in a foul mood!”

“I don’t drink,” said the kid. “My mother says it’s sinful. If she saw me take a drink she’d…”

Now let me get this straight,” smiled Earp. “You’re more than willing to shoot down a man you don’t even know, but drinking’s a sin? That makes no sense. You think your momma’s gonna welcome you back home with blood on your hands? Your gonna shoot Doc and I, and for all I know Bat Masterson too, but a go-round with demon rum is out of the question?

“I think we’ll just flip a coin to see who shoots you,” said Holiday. “It’s getting on to opening time and we can’t have all these distractions. The day miners are about to get off shift and we don’t seem to have a bartender for the evening.”

“We’re trying to run a business here,” said Holiday, “and you, my friend, are becoming a major annoyance. But unfortunately you’re not the only one. Just in the past week I’ve had three baby gunmen challenging me to a fight. When push comes to shove somebody’s going to be dead.”

“Has that dog had his shots?” quizzed Earp on the way back up the stairs. “I don’t know about the dog but I could sure use one,” he laughed.

“Heh, kid,” Holiday chuckled, “Are you old enough to tend bar? We’re a little shorthanded here and the pay ain’t bad.”

“Yeah, you can just sit around and watch us on our way to the whiskey grave,” he added, “without firing a shot from that cannon you’re hauling around.

“I won’t shoot you,” said the kid, “but I’m sure not gonna work for you either.”

“But you don’t know the job,” entered Masterson. “Wyatt here doesn’t need a bartender. He needs an executive secretary. You could fit the bill.”

“What do you mean…”

“I mean a sort of body guard,” continued Masterson, someone to ride shotgun when punks to thinking about shooting the famous Wyatt Earp.”

The kid, along with Earp and Holiday sat stunned at the suggestion.

“Wyatt, what do you think?” asked Masterson.

Earp sat pondering the situation. He did not answer.

“What about you, Doc?” he continued. “You could use a little organization in your life. A secretary might be just the thing.”

“Ain’t secretaries girls?” prodded the kid. “I ain’t no secretary…”

“Hang on, kid. Nobody’s saying you gotta take dictation. If you can shoot straight you can be the secretary/body guard/ hired gun in the employment of this faro parlor. Your clients are sitting right here in front of you. If you can keep these punks off our back we can pay you a healthy salary. Now you think about it. Would you rather be in long wooden box or working for Wyatt Earp?”

The kid shook his head.

“You wanted fame,” said Holiday. “You wanted to kill Wyatt Earp and be a famous fellow over at the pool hall. Well now you have the chance to be just as famous without all the blood.”

Holiday was clearly onto something. The kid thought about his friends in town and how they might see him as a hired gunman in the service of such a cast of characters.

“What would I have to do?” he asked.

“Quit asking questions for starters,” picked up Earp. “The job is simple. I don’t want to deal with every young pistolero that hits town. I don’t want nobody sneaking up my stairs. I don’t want to have to shoot anyone anymore. I don’t want no more trouble.”

“So I’d be the go-between? The peace keeper of the faro tables? I’d be paid to watch the backs of you three?” he asked. “I have to admit I could use the work. Would I get a badge?”

“You could use this badge,” gestured Masterson exposing his Cripple Creek star, “but you had better keep it under your shirt for the time being.”

And that’s how it happened. The kid took the job and quit sneaking up stairs, gunning for the infamous. Earp and Holiday went back to the business of separating ore from miners “bucking the tiger” at the high stakes faro tables. Masterson, with Jubal by his side, wandered back to Dodge City where he established a successful photo studio, specializing in portraits of recently shot but still warm desperadoes. Some of his cold clients included Cold Cut Johnny, Three Fingered Pete, Ned Christie and Cole Estes.

Years passed with Holiday passing on from consumption and Masterson following closely behind, a victim of pneumonia. Earp lived until 1929 dying in his bed at 81. The kid left Gunnison after a few years working for the faro enterprise, moving to Denver where he was elected state senator in 1916. He died in 1950.

– Kashmir Horseshoe

 

Hiking Trails Widened For Growing Population

(Denver) The U.S. Department of Posterior has announced plans to widen existing hiking trails by next summer. The move is in compliance with current statistics as to alarming obesity in this country.

With over 40% of the population classified as obese and another 30% deemed overweight, the forest service says it is only responding to the needs of the majority. The agency has decided that if fat people want to hike they should be given the opportunity.

Common sense might indicate that if people took a weekly hike they might loose weight.

“We are not about to be bogged down by logic,” said a USFS official. “We don’t need people getting stuck on narrow trails or destroying the natural landscape. Wider trails don’t hurt the thinner mountaineer.”

The trails will be expanded to about the size of a sport utility vehicle and groomed so as to play down vertical relief.

“We realize that some of our constituents are larger than your average SUV but we can’t tear up the entire forest,” said one source who requested anonymity. One problem is that federal agencies are uncomfortable using the F word, preferring to describe this portly clientele as corpulent, beefy or well-upholstered.”

Fortunately, according to local sources people who live in the Rockies are in better physical shape than their fellow citizens in, say, the Midwest where the potbelly rules.

“It’s a lot like the millions of unused handicapped spaces and the federally imposed alcohol levels for motorists,” said the source. “The feds respond to whatever special interest screams the loudest.”

In developing countries, where people spend their days trying to get enough to eat, hiking trails are ample at present. Nutritionists, however, fear a drastic change in that status as fast food concerns begin popping up in African and Latin American capitals. Trails in many of these locales are often groomed and maintained by government military vehicles chasing guerrillas through the jungle. In other nations, where fat is a virtue, the wealthy wander well manicured gardens or spacious avenues, insulated from the peasantry.

Many of these pleasant redoubts were constructed with foreign aid funds earmarked for the great unwashed.

“The first order of business is to study general usage of the trails by the group in question then start removing snow,” said the USFS spokesman, “but right now it’s time for lunch.”    – Suzie Compost

 

SNOWBOARDERS MUST WEAR HAIR NETS

(Crested Butte) Snowboarders on the slopes here will be instructed to wear hair nets while snowboarding as of February 20. The action comes on the heels of numerous complaints as to the behavior and activities engaged in by this developing minority group.

“It has nothing to do with personal hygiene or long hair,” said a spokesman for Crested Butte Mountain Resort. “It’s…it’s a health department code thing, or something. We couldn’t ignore all the complaints. We almost lost a pizza and coke group from Moline this morning,” he gasped. “Hey, running a major ski area ain’t no stroll in the park.”

Critics of the new regulation say that the kids are all right.

“The snowboarders could be out robbing convenience stores or stealing cars,” said Moms Maplethorpe, 97, the oldest semi-living telemark ski instructor. “These are nice kids out to have a good time. If they threaten the flatlanders by their lifestyles, that’s just tough guano, baby.”

As of yesterday a lengthy compromise has been proposed which calls for separate but equal slopes for both the snowboarders and the skiers at peak times such as Christmas and Spring Break. Contact at Paradise Warming House would be limited and potential lift partners would be thoroughly screened by the lift-operators upon boarding lifts.

“Something has to be done before the situation deteriorates even further,” said the spokesman. “Our status in the real estate world is in jeopardy.”

Other ski areas have undressed the problem simply by building bigger and better lifts, as in the case of Vail and Aspen, which have built support facilities such as Beavercreek and Buttermilk to handle the overflow caused by the separation of the two opposing concerns.

According to lawyers for the snowboarders, who refuse to take the matter lying down, this is a clear case of harassment. A class action suit is pending, dude.                                                               -Uncle Pahgre

 

Bathrobe Day at Monarch Slated for February

(Garfield) The fifth annual bathrobe ski races and snowshoe rally will be held at Monarch Ski Area February 2 – 5 according to unreliable sources here. Any skier arriving in a bathrobe can compete for prizes with the top ten qualifying for the grand prize of a night — a $400 bar tab in Salida.

Interested participants should report to the bunny hill no later than 8 am on the designated ski days. Skiers should bring all necessary athletic gear, including eye protection and sun screen. Approved accessories including gloves, face masks and hats will be provided.

Otherwise it’s just bathrobes!

All entries will be reviewed at race time by judges encased in wool, goose down and Goretex. Herbal stimulants, open containers, dogs, body paint, suggestive tattoos, and leg coverings are prohibited as are knee pads, lip balm, tarnished political slogans and New Age underwear.

Monarch shocked the ski industry in 2009 with the introduction of bathrobe skiing in Colorado. Although popular at first, people quickly lost interest in light of nude skiing and other questionable diversions common to the winter sun. The actual sport, which requires both taste and dexterity, has been saddled on the back burner since the Winter Olympic Committee banned the event in 2010.

“It just proves that skiing is part athletics and part fashion show,” said an organizer of bathrobe skiing here. “Was the Olympic Committee afraid of its image or just a little skin? Maybe both.”

For more information contact any member of the pajama patrol.

– Marlena Diaspora

JUST A LITTLE OFF THE TOP AND WATCH THE EARS

by Uncle Pahgre

“Omnibus notum tonsoribus.”

(Every barber knows that) – Horace

“This is a man’s world.”  – James Brown

      Did you ever wonder where the late James Brown got his hair cut? Was it in some fastidious beauty salon in Atlanta or New York, or some dusty, corner barber shop along the roaring Salkehatchie in his home state of South Carolina?

We presume he went to the barber shop — a place where those of his gender can let relax and converse in one of the few male havens not under siege by the righteous forces of political correctness.

Most of the people who pay attention to the comings and goings in this country have expressed concern over the direction it is headed. They have used terms like breakdown of traditions, social decay, moral collapse and detachment in a futile attempt to categorize just why we can’t all get along. History tells us that the ancients had similar concerns. One of the first references to barbers (barbe translates as beard in Latin) was in Rome, where barber shop was hallowed as a place of gossip and discussion.

The surviving social icons become even more important when we consider the homogenization of life and they mass-hype that is becoming inherent to our culture. We need something to hold onto. We need something constant, something real and consistent, like the corner barber shop.

Hey, we know there are plenty of these hideouts left all over the country but we also know that most of these redoubts are squarely in the path of progress. Someday all the scissors in the world will be wielded by some McDonaldlike hair cutting corporation in New York or Chicago. Straight razors will come with warnings and disclaimers. That barber that boys knew as a kid will be gone, his son selling paint at Wal-Mart. Stop.

Most males that have evolved past rudimentary stone age thinking are aware that this is not a man’s world. Why would men want it? James Brown is simply taking poetic license, isn’t he, or did he lose that too in another scrimmage with the cops?

Our only contention is that barber shops are healthy, nostalgic escapes for males. Since men make up roughly 47% of the current population, it stands to reason that what’s good for the goose is good for the gander.

Most men would rather get a good follicle chop at the hands of a tobacco chewing ex-Marine than go under the scissors of some bimbo who doesn’t even know the Dodgers left Brooklyn. Sorry, but sometimes the truth takes no prisoners.

I remember the first time my father brought me to the barber shop on a Saturday morning and I was accepted into the inner sanctum. It was my bristly coming out party, a babe in the barber chair, my one-and-only whiskered debutante ball. No women were allowed, not even a nurse who might bandage up a sliced ear or heaven help us, an botched Adam’s Apple.

Speaking of nurses, did you know that the barber pole represents the bandages wrapped around a barber chaired patient prior to bloodletting? Barbers were surgeons before King Henry IIIV prohibited such procedures. He also forbade surgeons from barbering. For centuries barbers had to make ends meet by cutting hair and pulling teeth. Finally the law was rescinded during the reign of George II. 17th century barber, Jacques Jasmine, supplemented his income by singing to patrons. A Provencal poet, he is known as the last of the Troubadours. He is also known as the Father of Barber Shop Quartets, or at least we think so.

Saturday morning was never like this. Imagine a little kid, primed for a buzz cut, swimming in that giant revolving chair. The barber wraps tissue paper (also known as barber paper) around his neck, followed by a draping in a semi-immaculate, often pin-striped sheet. Then he looked at the dad for instructions anxiously waiting for the word buzz.  Then the scissors flew. (Editor’s note: If the child in question had the devastating fortune of going to the barber shop with his mother this subtle exchange never happened and the language was sterile. The unfortunate experience was known to have led to serious psychological problems down the road.)

But in this man’s world, customers spoke freely, spit tobacco and passed wind, making no attempt to edit their colorful language. I’m sure 90% of the boys who grew up in the Fifties learned to curse in barber shops. A clandestine pile of dirty books was stored under the Popular Mechanics and the Sports Illustrated, the latter still years away from its heralded swim suit issue. Etiquette, if you weren’t shaving age, was to keep your trap shut unless someone asked you something.

Witch Hazel was in the air. Personalized shaving mugs hung from above the mirror. We even had an altruistic trimmer who would make lots of scissor noise above the heads of bald customers, whack the curly locks off wailing babies and marvel at the manly sideburns thriving in the pre-pubescent peanut gallery.

The Cincinnati Reds were on the radio and everyone smoked at least three cigars at the same time. Sure, some of the ball games were on TV but barbers hated TV since they couldn’t watch a double play unfold and administer a symmetrical flat-top at the same time without a one act taking the backseat.

The conversation between barber and customer was sacred, like the lawyer-client or priest-confessor privilege. It ran from politics to romance to cars to sports. One always knew he had made conversational strides when the barber kept talking, after the sheet was removed and the Brylcream applied.

One sullen barber, who has probably been six feet under for some time, was famous as a roustabout. He had been carrying on a romance with the bottle since his twenties. The inside joke in our barber shop was to yield to a newcomer when that barber’s chair opened up, especially if he needed a shave. Soon that straight razor looked like a  wobbly guillotine, the prestigious and effective hair loss apparatus employed during the  later stages of the French Revolution. Lord only help the customer who wanted his nose and ear hairs trimmed too.

In the Italian barber shops young barbers were instructed to shave everyone around the ears and neck. It was believed that this service insured the growth or healthy hair there and invited repeat business when the customer got older. That, according to our reliable source, is why so many older Italian men have tufts of hair on their necks. Ask the shoe shine boy.

From ducktails to dreadlocks barber shops have been a part of our culture since the Sumerians first invented scissors. Remember Figaro, the Barber of Seville. What about Floyd Larson, Mayberry’s main male gossip? These guys knew how to celebrate life’s small treasures. The King of Kansas City knew all about it too when he sang: …I got credit down at the grocery store and my barber tells me jokes. Try that tune the next time you check out at City Market or visit the hairstylist, the only rooster in the hen house.

– Kashmir Horseshoe