All Entries Tagged With: "San Juan Mountains"

High Country Tidbits

Vacant Lot to close doors

(Montrose) Vacant Lot Magazine, for years a leader among local publications, has announced it will publish its last issue in November. Good management blamed the failing and ultimate closure on bad management. The crisis was intensified by the poor distribution of vacant lots on the Western Slope, a chore that demands lots of drive time and makes travel quite expensive.

Citing public apathy toward the kinds of vacant lots featured in their meaningless stories the staff expressed shame at not doing a better job and anger at losing their high paying positions.

“All the public wants anymore are more stories about truckers driving backwards and mountain lions. It’s all very sick,” said an attractive, young photographer who plans to sell prints of her award-winning vacant lots shots, and engage in occasional prostitution, until something else comes along.

Some of us plan to kill ourselves but most have decided to look for a no-responsibility position locally,” said a former editor. Where’s a guy like me going to make $90,000 around here for writing a few architectural reviews or history crap? There are just too few vacant lots to make a go of it anymore,” he whined.

Another annoyance comes wrapped in political correctness. The gov’ment defines vacant lot as a small piece of property, generally within the confines of a city or town that was once developed but is now abandoned. In urban areas it is often blacktopped while in rural areas often goes to seed, weed or feed, unless it rains.

Just overnight Vacant Lot could no longer cover vacant lots that were not technically vacant lots.

“That just about did us in on its own,” said the editor, “but then when you consider the changes in the industry it’s a wonder we’re paying the light bill. * “Everything is four-color fluff these days…No real guts! No depth. The package is nice while our paper stands, stark naked, one grade above the kind you find in public rest rooms, and besides, vacant lots have always been a black and white kind of thing. They rarely result in slick textures and crisp color layouts.”

*In truth Vacant Lot owes San Miguel Power about $2011.98 from June and July.

Making Fun of Tourist’s Legs Could Net $50 Fine

(Silverton) People who laugh at or ridicule the legs of summer visitors here could face a steep fine and, in aggravated cases imprisonment according to Colorado Brie Country, an organ for the state tourist industry.

Already in July there have been over 20 tickets issued on Greene Street alone. On Blair Street/Empire the number is significantly less, at least after dark while there have been no recorded incidents elsewhere in the town.

“We had some bum hanging out near the courthouse for a few nights but, as it turned out, he didn’t care about tourists’ legs,” said a CBC source.

The tickets, which look like everyday parking tickets are quite popular as souvenirs and, in fact, are sold in many of the shops here. Money collected from the enforcement of this statewide edict will be handed over to charity.

Just what constitutes a punishable laugh, mockery or derision is still unclear and up to the discretion of the police department.

“We will make few exceptions when dealing with this kind of behavior,” said one officer.

“It’s about time the state officials did something about this kind of thing,” said a woman from Manitoba whose legs resembled twice-frozen broccoli spears.

“Sure is!” chirped a stork-like older gentlemen from the Black Forest.

“For years we’ve suffered through with our tormentors growing stronger by the day,” added another visitor, “I just wish the old folks were here to see this day.”

-Atila Diggins

 

The Pea Factory Dialogue:

“How are you doing, mister,” he says

“’Day,,” says the man, his share of thin hair as sere as the marram grass.

“Listen, tell us,” says Eneas, “do you know why there’s them peas all over the strand?”

“Eh?” says the man.

“The feckin’ ould beach is covered with peas, do you not see them?”

“Ah, yes,” says the man, “of course that’s the factory.”

“The what?”

“The pea factory up the river. Don’t the leavings of it come spilling down here? We’re so used to them we don’t see them.”

-from The Whereabouts of Eneas McNulty by Sebastian Barry

Man Shot From Cannon Lands in Hospital

(Wimpton-on-Uncompahgre) A 27-year-old man, shot from a cannon Thursday during the Annual Chicken Hawk Gun Show and Fireworks, is resting comfortably at St Roscoe’s Hospital here. He is expected to be cheated and released after the weekend.

The barely unidentifiable fodder of flesh and bones had volunteered to be propelled in this curious black powder manner. He was allegedly attempting to elude his girlfriend’s six brothers who had only recently pledged to beat him senseless due to non-committal romantic interludes and “promises to keep”.

Although the artillery exercise went smoothly the human cannonball landed hard in the reserved seats at the rodeo arena. He was rescued by EMTs and taken to St Roscoe’s. He is now quite a celebrity over on the Psychiatric Wing.

“At first we figured him as a goner,” said one medical technician on the scene. “Then we thought he’d have to be flown over to the Mao Clinic but he is sitting up eating breakfast this morning, shaken but alive.”

He is currently experiencing a slight hearing loss but doctors assure us that condition will either improve or could get worse as treatment continues.

The episode marks the first time since the battle of Glorieta Pass that a human being has been launched by field gun or mortar. Back them it was often a necessity, in lieu of tanks or air power, to advance hesitant troops in an orderly fashion.

“When the assembled troops saw what happened to one malingerer they all went over the top and charged the enemy position without further delay,” said a local history source from the gun show. “Armies shot scouts and forward observation soldiers out of cannons until the perfection of the polyester parachute and invention of the hot air balloon and later the helicopter.

Authorities have still not released the name of the victim until family members can be identified while the persons responsible for lighting the fuse have been apprehended, although lawyers insist the evidence is smoky at best.

“No one forced this lunatic into the cannon,” they said “Let them try to prove intent or criminal action. Lots of stranger things have occurred during the heat of the battle.”

Hospital officials confirmed that wearing a helmet probably saved the man’s life. A book deal is already in the works.

-Fred Zeppelin

THE GREAT CITIBANK PLASTIC CONSPIRACY

Observing a shaggy creature along the side of Highway 50, Red slowed down to have a look. He wasn’t even to Grand Junction yet and he was bored. It’s a skinny young punk with a seedy duffel bag. Nobody’s gonna stop for him and it’s already getting dark. What the hell…

“Where you going, son?” asked Red as he swerved to miss a gaping mud hole.

“Montana, eastern Montana,” was the response.

“Get in. You’re in luck. I’m headed to North Dakota. That’s somewhere in the ballpark. Then I’m aiming this old Ford at Manitoba, someplace up on Lake Winnipeg.”

“Never been there,” said the kid.

“No feds up there,” said Red, “at least not the Yankee version. No suburbs, no malls, no chains, no credit cards…Paradise.”

“Yeah, paradise,” smiled Sam, bracing himself for yet another hitchhiking monologue, the price of a free ride.

“How far is it to Dakota, or Manitoba…or wherever you’re headed?” he asked, fanning the conversation.

“Why you wanna know, son? You ain’t one of them undercover federal agents are you?”

“No, sir. I ain’t ever even been to Washington, or nothin’,” said Sam. “All my family are from these mountains. We only pay taxes to keep the government from taking our land. Honest.”

“I believe you, boy. You don’t look like no fed. What takes you to Montana?” asked Red

“My sister’s up there and I thought I might find work.”

“I hear there’s lots of work but survival on the pay may be something else,” frowned Red.

“Course it’s the same around Western Colorado. There’s never been much work but it’s even worse since the blood-suckers moved in. Did you know that at least we had family-owned businesses in these parts and people could actually exist on their weekly pay. That’s before the corporate scalawags showed up. Now even the banks are from out of town.”

“I sure hope Montana is still backwards, or at least behind those kind of times. I’d like to find a job on a ranch,” shrugged the passenger.

“Watch out for them too!” stressed Red. “Lots of them have gone big city too with hormones in the cows and computers in the barn, buying calves on their Mastercards and reporting to some New York guy in a suit.”

Red pulled the pickup off the highway at Whitewater and said he needed to buy a map of Wyoming and points beyond. He went into a small store and came out with three boxes of shells, some bottled water and an assortment of sun bleached maps.

“Take a look at these maps,” he said. “I can’t read them without my bi-focals and I lost them back in September. Haven’t had the money to get a new pair,” he smiled unveiling a set of stained, staggered teeth, hanging onto puffy gums for dear life. “Wyoming’s at the top, then Montana. Over to the east is North Dakota.”

“We got a long way to go. I’d be happy to do some of the driving if you like.”

“Don’t think so, son. I don’t want them to nail you as an accomplice,” answered Red, still locked in a windshield gaze. “You want a swig of water? It’s mostly for the radiator. That clown back at the store didn’t have a hose. Said his water froze up last night. Don’t seem possible with this warm weather and all. This old pickup may get real thirsty climbing Douglas Pass. We gotta keep to the back roads and the higher ground so we ain’t detected by the authorities.”

“Excuse me, sir, but are you wanted for something, not that I mind, but are you?” asked Sam

“Not yet, kid,” sparked Red, smiling away. “But with any luck every cop between here and Nogales will soon know my name. Wait…what am I’m telling you for? I don’t even know you. Where you from anyway?” asked Red, getting serious for a moment.

“But with any luck every cop between here and Nogales will soon know my name. Wait…what am I’m telling you for? I don’t even know you. Where you from anyway?”

“My name is Sam and I’m from Norwood, Colorado,” said Sam. “I grew up raising cattle but dad got tired of living in debt, sold the ranch to some Hollywood celebrity talk show host, and moved to Denver. They figured the money would take care of retirement…”

“Which talk show host?” asked Red.

“O-Fire Pear-Tree, I think was her name,” said Sam.

“Oh, yeah, I watched her some days when I was out of work. Tries to make a big mess then clean it up in a half hour. Like’s silly controversy. Is that the one?”

“May be,” said Sam. “Now she’s got the ranch and I got nothin’. Guess that’s just the way it goes. You can’t fight city hall,” he sighed.

“City hall? What’s that got to do with anything? It’s the county what let things go to hell. All those tax assessors drooling over another Wal-Mart coming in. Commissioners far too impressed with all that money to stand up for their own–The end of commerce as we knew it. The newcomers and plenty of the young people don’t seem to notice the difference.”

“White shirts going to lunch, taking up space while our Real Western lifestyle goes to hell on a credit card machine. Used to be that America was for Americans….you know the founding fathers and such. Before you know it everyone will be on welfare with rolls of worthless paper money in their pockets. We’ll be speaking Chinese, eating rice and beans, dressed by the Salvation Army, wandering around in semi-circles with bones in our noses.”

“Everyone will be on welfare — rolls of worthless paper money in their pockets. We’ll be speaking Chinese, eating brown rice and black beans, dressed by the Salvation Army, wandering around in semi-circles with bones in our noses.”

“Ya think?” quipped Sam. “I figure we’re just gonna run out of everything, water fuel, food, land, air. The rich folks will control what’s left and the rest of us will just fade away…maybe to Lake Winnipeg or Lake Eire…who knows?

“Sounds like you’re ready to quit, boy. That’s no good. How do you think we beat the British? How do you think we whipped the Indians? You think Andy Jackson felt like that when he fought the Battle of New Orleans? What about San Juan Hill and the Kaiser? What about our great victories in Grenada and Panama? It takes balls to be free, son. Balls.”

“You’re right, but what can two beat up hay seeds in a broken down Ford pickup do about it?”

Red pulled over to the shoulder just outside Green River.     

“I’ll show you,” he smiled, motioning Sam to follow him around to the bed of the rusted-out truck. He gave the sagebrush landscape the once over then threw a small tarp off to the side of the bed, exposing what appeared to be enough dynamite to blow Rock Springs into the 21st century.

“Wow!” gulped an almost speechless Sam. “Where’d you get it?”

 Red again peered at the younger man suspiciously, then relaxed, realizing that, due to his indiscretion, his companion was already privy to the contraband.

 “Guess there’s no secret between us now, kid,” he said, slapping Sam on the back. “I swiped most of this powder from the Camp Bird back in the 70s. The fuses I brought from Lake City. I tested everything and it’s all as fresh as cow pies in the morning dew! The rifles are mine. I bought them from a fellow in Dolores. Those baby land mines are from my brother. How he smuggled them back from Southeast Asia is anybody’s guess. Half the army was sending dope back in stereo speakers but not Carl. He was busy shipping high explosives, care of the U.S. mail.”

Both men stood at the rear of the pickup, one admiring the cargo, the other wondering what he had gotten himself into on such a chilly winter evening.

“There’s a liquor store in Rock Springs,” said Red. “Let’s grab a six-pack and I’ll fill you in on the rest of this caper.”

The two wandered into Oil Shale Liquors, bought a six-pack and two cigars. The headline on the local paper whined about the economy and the arrival of another mega discount outlet to Sweetwater County. The clerk looked bored. She was watching an O-Fire Pear-Tree re-run on a tiny television. The picture was cloudy.

“Not much for reception, huh?” offered Red.

“The boss won’t get cable…says he can’t afford it,” said the clerk. “I’ve got a dish at home. Got it for Christmas. Just put it on my Visa card. Gets 300 channels, I think…”

“That’s a lot of television,” quipped Sam in forced response. “How do you have time for anything else?” he teased.

“What else is there,” said the clerk as deadpan as the Bridger Basin landscape.

The engine limped to a start and two beers were cracked as the Ford paced its way toward Riverton.

“I know a great cafe in Riverton, good coffee, cute waitresses, decent food,” said Red. “It’s up the road the other side of Lander.  You gettin’ hungry?”

“I’ll be hungry by then, but I’m a little short of money,” replied Sam, hanging his head. “You go ahead I’ll just…”

“Can it, kid,” said Red. “I’ve got a wad of cash and besides, maybe you can make a little phone call for me before I turn east at Billings. Don’t worry about it.”

“You were going to tell me what the dynamite and the rest of your arsenal is for,” started Sam.

“Oh, yeah,” said Red, checking out his passenger once again. For starters, do you happen to remember the conspiracy to blow up Disney World back in 1994?”

“Not really,” answered Sam warily.

“That was my deal. It created quite a stir at the federal level. We had the FBI and CIA and ATF and the cops running around in circles. Sadly enough my partner flaked out on me and security got wind of us before we could get close enough to do business. Later that year we completed the blueprint for sending mortars into the local IRS office but that fell apart when our funds ran out. We didn’t want to hurt anyone just scare ’em. You must remember the Janet Reno kidnapping scheme. It was in all the papers!”

Sam lied saying he’d heard something about Reno and a boggled kidnapping attempt.

“That was my deal too,” bragged Red. “It was right after the Ruby Ridge hearings. We would have pulled it off too but we could never figure out who would pay much ransom. Who in their right mind would pay to get her back?” he laughed. “We had our chance since she was in Idaho for over a week.”

“So you planning to blow up North Dakota?” asked Sam wangling his way back to the subject at hand.

“Just part of it,” answered Red coolly, meeting the gaze of his rider. “Just one part of it. Just Citibank Visa. Just a block or so of downtown Bismarck.”

TO BE CONTINUED    

Border Squabble on Pot Provokes Dry Response

A legal row over what may or may not constitute pot smuggling continues to plague border relations with four neighboring states says the Colorado State Accounting Office.

In a joint response to old antagonisms, bad knees and new jealousies state fiscal sources chided Kansas and Nebraska regarding claims that small amounts of Colorado marijuana has been seized within state borders. Pot is illegal in these and many other states that are clearly engulfed in a meth epidemic.

“We puff legally and it doesn’t appear to be hurting anyone,” said a spokesman for the well-healed revenue department in Denver. “Here in the Treasurer’s Office we tend to see things through a more monetary framework but there’s more going on here than tax collection.”

The spokesperson acknowledged that Colorado too has problems with hard drug use but that the situation has been tempered by taking marijuana off the illicit drug list.

“Our legal system seems to be working with minimal issues. Maybe these folks should get on board,” said the source.

“Squabble over our pot industry and we’ll cut off your water,” smiled Colorado State Treasurer pro tem, Pamela Puff. “Further legal action on the part of neighboring states may provoke a sanctions against Utah and Wyoming, she threatened.”

Experts agree that levying sanctions on an inter-state basis has no precedence in the Rockies and that it is probably not a binding or even legitimate approach to the current feuds.

“Tariffs and dry ditches will get the attention of these blue noses, long before these petty lawsuits grace the courtroom.” added Puff.

– Atila Diggins

FREE LIBRARY CARDS.

All US and Canadian counties. No breathalyzer test. No background check. Card qualifies holder as legitimate partner in quest for literacy in the 21st Century. No spelling qualifier. Photo ID and hygiene screening needed for Confront Range locations. Send $15 to Literacy International. 34 Knowledge Is Power Avenue, Snowflake, CO. No Irish.

Russian Robots Laying Mag Chloride

Teams of Russian robots, dressed like county highway workers are coating local roads with magnesium chloride in a vain attempt to thwart US elections in November of 2020.

Ballot box officials confirmed that the Bots are in country and busily building networks and cells aimed at derailing the shadows of democracy still left in the country.

“These are not your run-of-the-mill Russian robots,” said Clarabelle Ptarmigan, a grizzled uranium cork-and- grinder who lives along Highway 90 near the divide Road on the Uncompahgre Plateau.

“These are zombies. They have been lobotomized in Russian and sent here to disrupt our national infrastructure. They stare at passing motorists with a blank look, deprived of any real human contact,” she stressed. “They stare at trees. They stare at rocks for hours on end.”

Also called Make America Great Chloride, the chemical is used to keep dust levels down to the detriment of roadside trees and automotive vehicles that suffer almost immediate rust-like damage when caked with the it.

“The mag-chloride is only a diversion to keep us distracted while the vile business of computer hacking and social division goes on,” said Ptarmigan.

Will He Hack Elections in November?

Photos secretly shot through a telex-burger lens show aliens like the one above dressed as highway workers along remote desert highways and shady lanes on the wrong side of the Tar Baby. Unsuspecting motorists are often swallowed up by the goo, sucked into the landscape and never heard from again.