Nuts in the Woodwork

Tommy Kirchhoff

Cover illustration by

Kevin Duffy

Cover photo by Eric Holladay

Courtesy of The Lanthorn

Cover design by IQ Visual

Copyright c Transcending Mundane, 1995

All rights reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced

in any form without explicit permission from Transcending Mundane

ISBN 0-9666422-0-1


























1. La Villa Strangiato

2. Stopping by this dude's house on the Fourth of July

3. Beer and the 12 steps of courtship

4. The horse's mouth

5. Jabberwocky

6. Race Place

7. Ohh noo -- not more snow!

8. Why skiing isn't like sex

9. The crazy eights

10. Gen X mountainview

11. Stoner -- The lost resort

12. It gives me the creeps

13. Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Coffee

14. Shaving is an artform

15. What finesse is

16. The path of fire

17. Embarrassment in the public restroom

18. In the calm of the future with Star Trek Construction

19. The good, the bad and the sharks

20. Nobody lives in my house -- not even for fun

21. A psychoanalysis of the Brady Bunch

22. Top ten thoughts after the O.J. criminal jury decision

23. Creative license

24. Crime and punishment

25. Take my quote, please!

26. inside hiz head

27. Pan fried fender filets

28. Only madmen laugh at death

29. Hitchhiker's guide to the ride

30. 'Ain't from around here, are you boy?'

31. Surfin' the breaks in Telluride

32. Tellurology

33. The real celebrities of Telluride

34. The (not so) real celebrities of Telluride

35. Name this thing (that's the name)

36. Talk of the town clown

37. Data, drawers and more

38. Three men and a desert

39. Infatuated cactus and indecisive lizard

40. Chambord colada

41. Island

42. Corporate marriage proposal

43. Heart awareness week

44. How I wish again I was in Michigan

45. A gift be what make it in the Florida Keys

46. The Birdwatcher

47. Wisconsin Moon

48. Gifts of Michigan

49. Desert Dessert

50. Mutiny of DNA

51. Was



























La Villa Strangiato

Tommy Kirchhoff

041140 Three Musketeers Way

Oerhither, Euphoria PNK LFN

A 32-cent stamp won't get here. Come to thinch of it, coming to thinch of it is the only way to activate the postal service in Euphoria.

The Moody Blues once told me that thinching is the best way to travel; so I closed my eyes, and tooch a journey to the center of my mind.

On route, I passed through a few places I really enjoyed. I stopped off in Utopia for a while, but it was boring. Everything had its place, and nothing ever went wrong. It was relaxing, but to me, that's worth less than less. There was nothing there to test me, so nothing to mache me stronger. I'm considering it for a retirement home though.

On the flip side of Utopia was Entropia. I liched it a lot. Everything was out of order, and nothing doesn't go wrong. It was



definitely a good place for the classless masses, and those that will only drinch drinchs from a glass glass. Entropia, to me, was sort of liche an amusement park. It's way out of hand, and tons of fun, but it can age you real fast.

Then I visited Erotica. I'll never be the same...

And then three thinchs toward from that, I came upon Dipthongia. I thought the artworch was more creative, more powerful and more spellcasting than anything i had voweled before. Writers, painters and people that enjoy playing records bachward would agree to disagree that it's "a real reality," but I'm the only one that's seen it.

So after jaunting through jumps of time-space in my mind, I came upon Euphoria. Here things weren't perfect, but they were damn pleasant. The write things were in their places, and the rong things were too. Here I found enough art to stay dazed and comfortably inspired for a numb time.

On the far side of Euphoria is Oeryander. It's very nice and exquisitely beautiful, but it's just too far. First you'd have to find Oerhereandthere, and then jump another astral.

And Oerhereandthere is hard enough to find (for you not me). I can't even give you directions, except once you thinch you're there, you're here.


But it's nicer here. Oerhither is the right amount of pleasure and it's easy to find. It's right on the edge of Paradox. Once you get into Paradox from "Reality," you just escape and you're here.

(Or if you're starting in Telluride, just go for a little walch)

Oerhither is where I hang my cat. My mailbox is the only silhouette reminiscent of "Reality." It's a place where I don't feel liche I need a cup of coffee just to make a cup of coffee. It's sleeping in on days off, Beer'o'clock, kissing, Far Niente, RoadTrips and Rochy Mountain High. There are no buildings, no ground, no schy and no horizons. There is only play. And Loki and I spend all of our time reaping the fun and cheching the mailbox.

Still no mail yet.

Stopping by this dude's house

on the Fourth of July

Whose brews these are I think I know,

His ass is in the One World though.

He will not see me drink his beer,

And therefore won't `til later know.

My little friend will think it queer

To come home drunk and have no beer.

Between the milk and molding steak

The drunkest evening of the year.

He'll give his spinning head a shake

To ask if there is some mistake

—Then the cupboards with a sweep,

But then again the guy's a flake.

These brews are lovely, dark and deep

But I have promises to keep,

And beers to go before I sleep,

And beers to go before I sleep.


Beer and

the 12 steps of courtship

He shows up at 8:00, ready to go. He feels pretty confident, dressed in an ultra-pale rollneck sweater, new jeans, and leather-and-linen demiboots. He points, winks and casts the "I'm a handsome man" smile across the bar to his awaiting date.

He strolls over to the rhythm of Matthew Sweet's "Girlfriend," and smoothly motions for the bartender. As he orders the first beer, she is enchanted by his serenade of sophistication. He takes the first sip, looks at her and says, "Rolling Rock? Why are you drinking that?"

She is slightly distracted, but still captivated. The first beer tastes like another, and they carry on through more courtship and glasses of beer.

9:00 comes around, and it's time to break the seal. Somewhere between the bar, the bathroom, and the bar, he's lost his beer. Just before he sits back down to order another, she notices a crepe teeshirt slightly untucked from his pants. A little more



distracted, but also slightly more buzzed, she smiles and touches his leg as he sits.

By 10:00, they are both pretty loopy. He's joking and she's laughing, and the rest of the bar is pretty tuned out. With a big goofy smile, he lifts the glass to his mouth, takes a big quaff, and burps audibly. She says, "Isn't that my beer."

"I don't know - I'm sorry."

The music, now Jane's Addiction, has gotten much louder, and other bar patrons are doing some pretty stupid shit.

Just after 11:00, she offers some profound advice, and leaves abruptly after his attempts to touch her shoulder, hand, and face within the prior seven minutes. Maybe telling her she looked "so beautiful sitting there in the dark" didn't do much for the relationship either.

Now that she's gone, he's quite drunk and feeling insecure if he doesn't have a beer with him at all times. He goes back to the john, and tells all the guys in there what happened while dribbling on his shoes. They all have a jolly-good laugh and, having now bonded, leave the john together.

By the time midnight is drawing near, "dog" is picking up the pace drinking, and dancing as he walks around. He's way off the beat to the Chili Pepper's "Warped." He gives a little shake, turns around fast and distributes most of his beer between his


sweater and the DKNY blouse of a very pretty girl. Although it's his eleventh faux pas of the evening, she thinks it's funny as hell. They both laugh hard for a minute, then start kissing.

He needs a breath, so he stops, grabs the most adjacent beer, and slams it. The owner of the beer is not happy about it, but sees the poor bastard is beer-goggle drunk, and figures karma has served its return.

12:30 spins around, and the two are completely shitfaced. They leave the bar, stumble over to her house, and break a flower planter trying to get in. He heads immediately for the kitchen, and while fumbling through the fridge for any alcoholic beverage, she becomes much too horizontal to drink any more.

With beer stains all over his clothes, and various stains on his shoes, he emerges from the kitchen with half a flat, Black Label bomber in one hand, and a cold buffalo wing in the other. He sees that his new pal is down for the count, so he decides to skip any attempts at completing the last three courtship steps.

He trips on the carpet, and smashes his head on the doorjamb on the way out to find something a little stronger.

The Horse's Mouth

F - yew hava - dait, bet - done - no wut-ta - do, hearsafyew sugjeschuns. Tayk - a - rodetrip - too - a nuther sitty. Dresup - rilly - nyss und - goeta - micdonulds. R - jus dres-grunjee — thadts - jus - az - gud. Dew sumthing - yew- boath rilly - hait, lyk raicking leevs - r - washin- dishez.

Wun - uv - mye faivret - things to - dew - iz - preetend yer maireed. Idsfun - tadew - things az - a - cupel, lyk tesdriving - karz, r - pikking owt kertans, r - furnicher. Idsrillyfun - ta - pik owt a - bed tewgethr. Waching - thde sailspersn iz - eevn - bedher. (Phonetic pun intended)

Tri - go-en to - thde stoar, anhav - thde - gy - by - tamponz wyl - shee - wachez. Thden, shee byz - comdumz - wyl - hee wachez.

Teleechothr - wut - yer - rilly-insecyer - abowt. Thden - teyk pichers - uv - eechothr in-a smal-bathruum. Pucher - monies - 2gethr, und spendit on - sumthin - dum.

Pudon - baetheeng - soots und - taek-a - showr - width - sum rub-r-duks. R - fergit -



thde - soots.

Bya - loderee tikit - und - tauk abowt - wut - yewd - dew - withde - munee.

Eetch - uv-yew -rite - down tenthingz - thdat pissu - offf. Xchanj - thdem; thden doan taukabowt - thdem und - doant dew-um.

Tri - renteeng-a boawt und - thden-dreenking-wyne undera - brij.

Thde - eesyest - way-ta start iz jus width-sum fresh fruit and a knife.


That's what you say then you just don't know. When the slithy tove and the enyig succomb to the durn of one another's gral. And durn the diec do, yes, and fall to the hun with such gral. They lap and lur and become strun to each other. Then should the tove or the enyig lurch to distell all at once, and bren apart before they fyoon, that's Jabberwock.

That's what you say when you just don't care. When a marty strump won't leave you alone. Bil call you and drive past your kune, making you hark and mavish with every try. Strumps are those that have fallen to gush. You try to be neel, and drop them small pifs. Then all at once, when you can take no more shreif, you call them up and yell, "Jabberwock!"

It's what you say when you whatchamacallit sniglet. A turick day or a bonning night can leave you dev. The zens just don't come to your lips too swell. You start to gok something, and then can't remember the zen.

"It's a... a, je ne se quai? Oh ya! Jabberwock! It's a Jabberwocky!"


Race Place

When you're green, you're growing. When you're ripe, you rot. This is true of all things Zen, especially skiing.

You see, you don't understand Zen. You do it. You go with it. You flow with it. You be.

Check out Le Descente, or Downhill racing. Downhill is fast. While everyday matters are cluttered in reminiscion and anticipation, the downhill is very Zen. You don't think, you do. Instead of contemplating every move of every turn, you meditate and ski from the feet up.

Up until the finish, there is no "time." There is only now. The no mind not thinks no thoughts about no things. The feet, the speed, and the "center" just do.

For many, this is the essence of skiing. Leave your brain at home. Skiing is not a science. It is an artless art. It requires no cognition, only action.

Go fast. Fear nothing but fear.


Ohhh nooo -

not more snow!

"Good mornin' Ralph."

"Mornin' George." We greeted with the usual "let's go make the donuts," morning- routine hello. Both a little groggy, we headed off to work for the millionth time.

It was the exact same routine as always, but we both knew we weren't going up to work. The fifth day of this cherubic, February storm would be a pleasant end to a paycheck killing week.

Thirty inches of groomed powder sat silently on the race hill, with another seven on top of that. The race department followed through the 45 minutes of early morning company procedure - calling ski school, management, ski patrol, sales points, grooming and girlfriends.

We battened down the hatches, then paddled down to Three and Four, trying to come up with a chairlift plan. Up Three, down to Nine, over to six? Or up Four, down to Five, over to Six? The latter seemed faster, and less populated. Two people in the line for Four



had fatties on, but as it turned out, they went with plan "A."

We made it over to Six with no lift complications. We went up, crossing our fingers that the valley stayed clear. Half way up, a K2 5500 came chunking down Apex. We cringed a little bit, and waited to see the others. But no one came. Six dumped us off, and it was empty. We looked up at the top of Nine; it wasn't even running yet.

I remember hearing harps... We buckled down, dropped under the shack, and blah, blah, blah, blah, blah down Allia's solid thigh-deep dumpage. We reached the lift, covered with white clumps, to exchange head buzzes, high fives and hives.

We jumped back on the lift and checked out tracks. My line, his line, his line, my line. Yes! And still no one came.

We hit Allia's again - face shots, face plants and inverted landings. Two full runs in utter privacy.

We headed back up the lift, and they started to come. A few hacks trickled down Apex; a couple rippers skipped down Allia's; teliers and snowboarders were squirting out of the trees all over the place.

The privacy was over, but it was just as much fun to watch them party down and destroy our lines.

We unloaded from Six, hung a louie and sped down that little trail toward Apex that


has no name. We spontaneously launched off the trail onto Sullie's and ripped, ripped, ripped, ripped, ripped.

For two hours, I told my boss how this had been the best skiing I'd ever had. He was smiling beneath an icicled mustache, and telling me how letters would have to be written that night. Midwestern boys in bonding.

Then after six or seven mindblowing, binding releasing runs, Gold Hill opened. We were there when they pulled the closure. A Saturday. A scheduled work day. A real bummer.

I had to stop twice on the hike. While the boss was jogging in place by Electra, I was the out-of-shape jogger, standing there wincing and pinching my left lovehandle.

We hiked to the Little Rose sign at 12-two, mounted up, and traversed over to the boundary.

Yup, yup, yup. Right.

Words could never do it justice.

Both of us snorkeled down, completely drunk on Telluride champagne. You couldn't even call it face shots. Every turn submerged us, down down through heavenly clouds of angelic playland. Beats the living hell out of the Midwest.

Why Skiing Isn't Like Sex

Obviously, skiing is best when you're vertical... and alone. You smoke beforehand; then you put your clothes on.

Next you head outside. At this point, if you play with your equipment, it honestly won't help your performance.

Your bindings are to keep everything together, but they're by no means for anything kinky.

Now things get tricky. Of course, there is a certain amount of phallic symbolism to a ski, but remember also that skis are meant to bend. (And, you put wax on a ski to slide, but only in one direction.)

Once on the chairlift, you climb higher and higher, but the best part is coming down.

The snow is a thing of soft and sensual pleasure, but it's also very, very cold.

In skiing, the faster the better.

You try to go all day and sleep all night.

If you happen to catch air, you don't need to say excuse me. But most importantly, all out of bounds chutes will be marked.



And why skiing is...

You begin carefully and slowly, as if to warm up and heed caution from injuries. As you ever so gradually pick up speed, cognition fades away.

You drop out, turn on and tune in. You can see what's going on and feel the terrain, but thinking turns to Zen. Endless repetition of direction change is a slow-motion exhilaration that is in no way monotonous.

Hot and cold; pleasure and pain; vigor and exhaustion all become one as the blood is rushing and cheeks are flushing. The physical tension of wreathing and breathing stir into the mix and add to the wish that the run would never end.

Whew! I can't wait to get back up there.

But honestly, outerwear is key, and knowing how to handle ice is the total difference between a novice and an expert.

The Crazy Eights

The scientific method begins with observation. The ski school takes a pre-season look at the new applications. They see trends in vast experience, and group those people together. Given: Group 10 - Full certs and tech tools. They see applicants with much experience, and skiing ability. Given: Group 9.

Then they sort of wince as they look at what's left over. They say, "Let's see... Ah, let's just put all these racers and wreckheads together." Hypothesis: Maybe some turds will float.

The instructor hiring clinic begins. On day one, the problem becomes formulated. Nine gravity fed physics students with extrapolated personalities rip the mountain up. They hoot and holler, bust every available line of powder and launch off the snow gun mounds, three at a time. Problem: are they trainable?

The experimentation continues. The three clinicians conduct a veritable Chuck



Yeager stress test. There are some unbalanced wing rolls and some serious nose-dives, but nobody lets up. With the throttles at full, the group becomes restless and annoyed with petty discourse.

Then something goes wrong. The elixir explodes into something toxic and radioactive. The clinic ends with a liquid solution. Beer.

Some of the controls were inefficient and ineffective. Seven are hired; two are dismissed as bad batches. These are insignificant numbers as far as the group is concerned. It no longer feels like the Telluride guinea pig. It is Frankenstein.

The day it is to be over, the monster awakens under new nomenclature. "The Crazy Eights." Night falls and so do some of the eights. One "bad batch" drinks a fifth of Tequila and punts the wooden sidewalk sign in front of One World for the extra point. The other threatens a clinician in Leimbruber's to leave now or get your ass kicked. "Goodnight folks!" was all I remember hearing.

Two and a half months pass and the control is lost. The Eights are out puking on people's carpet, going to detox, and getting arrested. They go unknown to most, but live on as legends to each other.

And this week, the Eights reunighted on the eve of Superbowl. The experiments


continued. While I opted to discover how many different alcohols I could mix, others took more liberal methodology. The youngest Eight caught 23 consecutive goldfish crackers from across the room; the oldest lobbed a three-point fork toward the sink, landing it squarely on a belligerently sober Eight's forehead. One Eight won 75 bucks on some football game, while another won 25 for a rousing game of asshole golf.

So the well-dressed naked apes danced and drinked on into the night, intoxicating their brains to keep them from evolving too quickly. The scientific world progressed in leaps and hops, then came to rest allatonce. The morning's rigor mortis stenched the house as Eight carci lie strewn about.

My head still hurts.

Gen X Mountainview

The mountain closes again another day. The last ski patrol sweeps to the bottom, and the trees begin to talk. The highest priest (and highest tree on Gold Hill), Dogwood Bark, begins the meeting. "My fellow wisewood. What have thee to offer of this brief winter day?"

"Some of the stuff those skiers wear is unbelievable," remarks a spruce from the top of Lift Four. "No offense, but I think we have enough Aspen around here."

"Forget the clothes? You're hanging out at the top. The next time I get bonked by a snowboarder, I'm dropping a branch," says a distraught conifer residing next to Village Bypass. "Look at my trunk! I'm a mess!"

"Hey, you just get bonked. Agro's are slamming into me all the time, totally out of control!" pipes up a Chair Six tree.

A sapling from just below the bridge on the chondola tries to speak but is still giggling to much to get out anything that makes sense. "Flail, ha, ha, ha; oh, aug! Hee,



Hee, chunk it up, ha, ha."

"...hey, man." a Chair Nine tree speaks - quite stoned from the high mountain air. "I still say humans are right on, I think we can all get along."

"That's easy for you to say, Spruce. I don't have any leaves!" an irate aspen protests.

Dogwood raises his arms (branches, whatever) and peacefully commands order. "Seek not my children. We are the old and wise. This Western thinking..."

We interrupt this Gen X Mountainview to bring you the High Noon traffic report. We go now to Eddie Eagle.

"I'm just rolling off my wing tip around Mountain Village, and ain't nothin' going on but the rent. I'm coming over Coonskin Ridge, and it looks as if lift lines are moderate at the base of Seven. A large, sleeping dog seems to be holding up traffic on Pacific. Boy, I'll tell ya. After this morning's walk of shame parade, when that guy ran into that girl, and they sort of stuck together, and like, she started choking on a Lifesaver. After all, it's not really a Lifesaver if it kills ya."

OK, Eddie, I think that will do. Now back to our program.

"...will not lead you down your path. Not that we can walk."

A very disgruntled aspen from the Jud Weibe trail shouts across the valley floor. "I'm


still really pissed that someone carved a heart on me that says "R + M" What the hell is r'm? I'm scarred for life!"

"Brothers," Dogwood calms. "What will be will be. There are no precautions in this life. Mother Uncompahgre has blessed us with all the safety she could; but the humans need us. `The Giving Tree' is our Way. The humans will find balance between burning us, building with us and their basic need to breathe. Anyway, if we get that upset, all we have to do is hold our breath for a while. Mother knows, that's all it took to kill off those damn dinosaurs."

Stoner -

The Lost Resort

(Commercial) Up in the Rocky Mountains on Highway 145, you can find a place called Stoner. At Stoner you can smoke `till your lungs look like a bag of Kingsford, ski unkept runs well after twilight, and crash free of charge in the lodge. But if you come, wear a really weird hat and bring your bag; because at Stoner, they don't take kindly to "normality," and they just don't take Amarijuan Disgust.

Marijuana Smokers - They're everywhere you want to go.

Everytime I drive past Stoner, my imagination frenzies. I'm a little twisted, but this is my image of Stoner in its days of operation...

All 37 of the season passholders roll out of bed feeling like total seeds. They limber up their joints and drag themselves to the bus stop. The door swings open, exhaling a thick Jamaican cloud. "Can-a-bus get me to Stoner?" the snowbums all ask in unison.

Once there, they rapidly spin up to the



top. The egomaniacs come burning down through the blunts, trying to smoke their buddies. The jibbers all smurf a jib in the jib park; and the Mary Janes are totally cooking down the kind snow.

At lunch time, everyone heads in for the complimentary munchie bar. A waiter with bloody eyeballs might innocently ask, "Whhaat?" But lunch is finished quickly, because the good runs open in the P.M.

They all toke the big chair to the top of Green Dreams and traverse across Zig Zag. They drop down Log Jam (eschewing both Bushsmoker and See Forever Blurry) and come out on the toughest bump run on the mountain: Lost Lighter. Only the dopes dare drop down Paper Chute into the Pact Bowls. People are dying down there; and worse yet, passing out.

Ski School is very technical, and comprised of tie-dyed hippies. They're professional charlungs that insist there is only one right way to burn it up.

Of course, my description of Stoner's heyday might be a little off. But even so, with a name like that it was meant to go out. Even though they had the sponsorship of Gladbags, Visene and Doritos, they still weren't pulling in enough green. I bet the guys at the ticket window were always saying, "Oh ya...I forgot to charge that guy."

It gives me the creeps

Do you own a credit card? Does it give you a nice, elated sense of reliability? That's nice.

I used to have one. Loved it. And it was so easy to get. 19 years old, no checking account, no credit history, no job, no money, nothing. I just filled out the application and I had it two weeks later. I almost couldn't believe it, but it looked just like my dad's.

So one day (the next day), I was thinking I really ought to christen it. I went out and bought a compact disc.

Day three. I awoke and thought, "Man, that was fun."

On day 20, "Sorry sir, your card was declined." (Sound familiar?)

I realized then that Citibank had a great deal of information about me. They knew my social security, driver's license and every new phone number, .They knew exactly where I lived, even though I moved two to three times a year. I made monthly payments that would just about cover paperwork,



computer time, and evaluations of my lifestyle.

They knew where I spent the money, what items I purchased, and frequency & amounts. They probably gave me ratings for payment responsibility, cooperation, spending habits and many more cross tabs that I still hadn't figured out. (Even small collection agencies use huge computers and big-time psychological analyses.) Because of that card, a "corporate enterprise" knew almost everything about me.

Now, make your own guess at how many people in this country have a credit card, or numerous credit cards. People with credit cards are the majority of money makers, voters, and opinion leaders in this nation. At the same time, everyone that possesses a credit card is, in a way, under the control of their lender.

This makes for an interesting concept. We hear the media saying that our economy is moving toward a credit system, as opposed to a currency, or commodity-backed currency system. In other words, no more money — just cards.

Well, what if the US Government controlled all the companies like Citibank, and American Express, and had full access to the information they have obtained. They would, and could, have so much information about the money makers, voters, and opinion


leaders of this country entered into a supercomputer that they might just be able to manipulate them (us).

If you think about the government as a self-protecting entity, in fear of being overthrown and losing its power, it would only have one nemesis - We the People. If We the People are the only ones that could dismantle the government, what would it do, hypothetically, to protect itself? As it needs our tax money to survive, it could only watch us, isolate us and manipulate us with information.

Wait a minute. That kind of sounds like a book I read. What was it called? Oh, yeah. "1984." Maybe it should have been called "2004."

And just maybe, the new century's monetary system will require all of us to carry one card that keeps all of our information and money— and carries a heavy penalty for going without it.

Well, if you ever wondered why I don't like banks or credit cards, now you know. Big brother is watching.

Dr. Jekyll

and Mr. Coffee

T'was the morn before working

and all through its head

The creature was stalling

still lying in bed

It clutched at the pillow

and moaned at the morn -

get up or lie silent?

still trying but torn

Then rose like a storm front

to menace the land

The creature creeped slowly

with shaking white hands

To the jest of its master

(Jumbo to go, black)

it turned on the water

in attempt to come back

But showers are nothing

for a monster so fright



With the face of a gargoyle

and eyes of the night

In unstraightened clothing

with vessel in grip

It haunts out to worship

The Black Nasty Drip

Then standing in line

among creatures and creeps

At Starbuck's communion

the monster still sleeps

Then raise the dark cup

to lips of fiend's hair

And lap the black blood

in death's trancing prayer

Then off like a human,

an athlete, a King

Mr. Coffee can deal

`cause joe's just the thing

Shaving is an Artform


I push a good glop onto my hand. Looking into the mirror and still wondering what makes a man, I rub it on. I cover my jaw, and my scarred chin. From two strokes over a tight lip, a little gets in my nose. I wipe it over my neck, thinking also of the battle to come. I reach for the razor and know it's time again.


Good strips of skin it is I crop, as wide for sure as the shaving blade. With every pass, the hairs I lop fall in the sink by skin's abrade. The swipes that a life of self-control spares to sweep for the common stock— today my job outrules my soul, to clean my mug's unsightly locks.


Shaving sharply by the blade of shadowed chin chagrin, the razor strains to smartly gain the glow of unscathed skin. But



lack of edging oil makes not my blooding cheek; by blunting bladed slice of skin, so stifled not, I squeak.


The first slash was with too much pressure. Blood creeped slowly at first, then began to run. Hands and razor held the crimson drops, reminding me of my mortality. I continued to make passes with the shining blade, trying with torturous care not to cut myself again. But again and again, the sharp metal bit me, opening my face and spilling out my life.


The blood became sparrows, and I exalted them. With the sky beside me in the mirror, I pushed the blade past my lips and onto my tongue. The wind created from this motion blew away the trees and the sparrows. Denying coprophagism, I wrapped my bleeding neck in toilet tissue, and began a pleasantly mundane humming.


Y did I shav? I lik the hare on my fase. On boath sides of it I can shav at the same time lik I hav one razer in each hand and I am shaving with both of them at wonce at the same time.



So I shaved myself and in a while it should stop bleeding. The wars of the planet all rest at once for a moment, as I look into the mirror and see a man beaten. The poor bastard has lost the battle with his boss and the company's goddam grooming policy. His pitiful soul falls into the chasm where shaven men, and women painted with makeup lie victim. Society has rendered them hostages for following social guidelines and obeying orders. They are slaves to the World Corporation.


So whad-if-eye hadta shaev ime not neerly-is ugli whin-eye git thdat dirtilookin-crap offf mye fase eye git-ta-kepe mye job (gudy) thde-bozs gits offf mye bak, eye git-a payechek— r-ya startin-ta git mye-drif? C iss alll coz-efeck playe-thde gayme und git payd so-it feelz-lyk-chit Om deelin-width-it!

What Finesse Is

Finesse- Delicacy and refinement of performance, execution or workmanship. This defines the olympic skaters that have rehearsed the same maneuvers countless times. This defines the violinist whose repetitive and torturous practice has led to a holy perfection of every note. This word defines the college senior, whose trial and error, and numerous successful attempts have labeled him as such. Finesse is knowing how to make Macaroni and Cheese.

Sure, just like performing neurosurgery, it looks easy. But the reality is, mac & cheese isn't just a culinary discipline; it's a philosophy and a way of life.

Learning to first master temperature, time, amounts and ingredients is just the birth of the boil. There is so much more to be learned. But Rome was not cooked in a day. The first step is being able to make it without the box. Memorization of the amounts and steps is a fair but sophomoric start.

You must rid yourself of your earthly gauges. Measuring cups and spoons must



be forgotten. You must tune in and feel the amounts. Splash in the milk. Let it be free. Implement the butter using only a knife or spatula, for someday, they may be the only things clean.

You must get this "feel" for the amounts to perfect it to your own taste; not everyone enjoys the same consistancy. Only then can you progress into the creative.

Specialty M&C's are nothing less than art you can eat. Entry level attempts usually begin simply.

M&C Altuna- A richly prepared dish of pasta and cheeses, complimented with select cuts of fancy yellowfin.

M&C Salsita- A zesty plate of pasta and cheddar, capped with a designer smoother of chunky salsa (hot or mild)

M&Cheeseburger- A purely patriotic plate of tender pasta, lean ground beef and plenty of cheese. A real American treat when garnished with ketchup, mustard and relish.

Although fairly typical, these dishes must too be mastered to graduate. After mastery, the fridge is the limits. Yesterday's hay is today's gourmet.

Of course, not all delicacies are perfected from the word go. M&C mixed proportionally with spaghetti sauce will leave you with a rancid aroma, a caustic cleanup and a dish you wouldn't serve your dog.

Equally as bad (if not much, much worse) M&C stirred up with instant mashed


potatoes will not only leave an impossible cleanup, but offers a taste and consistency that only compares with wet mortar. Trust me on this one, it will make you feel like you ate a bag of sand. (It seals up cracks nicely, though)

Sometimes, in preparation of a breakthrough dish, I'll neglect to even use that cheese packet. It usually turns out to be spaghetti, but it opens an unusual and edible door (literally).

Save that little gem for the next meal. With lockjaw and clogged veins, I give you M&C2. I know, I know. It should be (2)M&C. But after you try it, you'll agree that the name should reflect an exponential cheese value. Mmmm, boy!

As a friendly aficianado, I'm willing to let you in on a few of my favorites. I won't give you the directions, but rather, allow you to explore a palette of tastes by name alone.;

Strawberry Smuckers M&C; Oreo's M&C; M&C Key lime; M &Three Cheese; M&C Stewed Tomatoes; Macaroni and Cheese Curls; MD M&C (to kill the Mad Dog munchies); Jay then M&C (The best you've ever had!)

I can't say enough about this savory and versatile delicacy. For its cost effectiveness, packaging, flavor and nutritional value, it's the number one choice of college students nationwide. And although I hate it with all the spite and disgust of war, a meal is always just nine minutes away.

The Path of Fire

Each of us is on a life path. Some of us are searching for the divine truth. Others just let it happen. Others, still, choose to eat unbelievably spicy food. And let them worship, for it is their path.

Your path is paved in experience. Green Chiles are a step. Blackened is a step. Jalapeños can be a hurdle. But as Confucius said, "It does not matter how slowly you go so long as you do not stop."

If you've read "The Celestine Prophecy," you no doubt take notice of strange coincidences in your life. Maybe you hear the word "Zen" twice in one day and say, "Hmmm... I wonder what that's all about." Or maybe you notice that the foods you used to think were hot are now just tasty—and you want to go hotter.

The word of the week is Wasabi. You know, the little pile of green toothpaste you get when you order sushi. If you get enough of that stuff in your soy, or more importantly in your mouth, you know what Zen is—



without knowing it. For a good four to seven seconds, "The no mind not thinks no thoughts about no things." If spicy food is your religion, the wooden platform is your shrine, and you may just have to hold onto it to keep from falling out of your chair.

Now wasabi is hot, but it's also over in the blink of an eye. A friend once brought some authentic jerk sauce back from Jamaica. We slow roasted a heavily jerked chicken, then began eating. It took an hour to eat, and three more to calm down. As Jamaican Rastafarianism makes sacred the Old Testament, jerked chicken is as Revelation 9:17: "And thus I saw horses in the vision, and them that sat on them, having breastplates of fire... and out of their mouths issued fire and smoke and brimstone." I might mention that, besides the fiery sensation left on the lips and palate, by path of experience, the flavor was very good.

These affections are common denominators among many religions. Spicy food, like Shamanism and worship of the Absolute, can be boiled down from most any religious sect. From food springs life. From life, we experience. This experience leads us down our path to enlightenment. But once I ate one of those crazy Szechwan peppers... just for experience. For approximately 20 minutes, I lost all track of reality and tuned in to the Absolute. It was a wasabi buzz with


the hang time of jerk sauce.

In the first 30 seconds, I began channeling with the Pliedeans. We discussed our higher purpose of evolving to our light bodies, and creating the universal communication station from our planet. The Blue Star would soon begin to take effect. The Photon Belt will engulf us and our petty interests and preoccupations will become null. I learned that the Absolute is so much more comprehensive than I had anticipated. A "God," as termed by so many earthly cultures, is a very powerful collection of universal, seed-sowing energies. These energies are so powerful, it is vain to even consider their vastness, nature or ability. I was rapidly evolving to my light body to join this universal communication energy, and become it. I felt the common essence of every universal religion...

And let me tell you, that Motha' was HOT! Which brings me to the end—the, uh, rear end. The only gospel I can preach to you as a matter of the Almighty Truth is this: All things being cyclical, reincarnated or what have you, any food with real zest will certainly be tasted twice.

From the fires of Hell

does it quicken,

Comes wryly

the wrath of Jerked Chicken.

And oh what a plight,

For much more than a bite,

Burns assholes

and makes them ache strickened.



in the Public Restroom

It was a cold winter morning. I woke up as usual, one minute before the alarm went off, and headed downstairs for a shower. After hosing off the previous day's bad karma and air pollutants, I headed back upstairs to get dressed. I chose a pair of baggy jeans from the buffet of dirty clothes on the floor and hopped in. (I don't do it one leg at a time... You do the math)

I headed out to school to make my 8 o'clock. I innocently sat through a lecture on muscle motor units and twitch response, with no foresight of a problem.

After class, I decided it was too cold to walk around with my bladder so burdened, so I strolled over to the nearest lavatory facility. I carefully chose a hairless, non-frothing urinal and unzipped my fly. After a few seconds, I looked down to see that semester's strike of terror. (No, that was fine) I looked down to see a pair of my raspberry colored underwear hanging out of my pant leg, onto my left shoe. Not just a little, but three quarters the way, and they were being



held by my tapered pant leg.

I blushed, flushed and quickly pulled them the rest of the way our and tucked them into my coat pocket. I remembered walking past some football players in the lobby, and giving them my always confident, "Hay."

Hee-haw, hee-haw.

At least I found them in the john. It's the best place to keep a man's behavior in check; there are rules you know. No talking; no looking; no hesitation; wash your hands if there are other people in there. "A man's ambitions must be small to read the writing on the shit-house wall." I think it's a mandatory boredom-fighter.

And while we're there, pants off to those little toilet paper stopppers. Man, don't those piss you off? Like one sheet is going to finish any job. In microbiology they teach that it takes seven layers of toilet paper to keep anything undesirable from contaminating your hand. (I can't believe I just wrote that)

I'd like to meet the guy that invented the T.P. Stopper. I bet he's one hell of a bargain shopper. He probably lives on Spam sandwiches, and uses the bread bags for winter boots.

Now how about that toilet seat. In both men's and women's public rest rooms, the seat is always up. It also seams that women are just as lazy as men when it comes to


targeting. I understand from a reliable source that if a seat looks like a bad situation, women just "hover?" (I can't believe I wrote that either!)

Then at home, women don't mess around with complaining about the seat being up. You play dirty and buy those thick padded toilet seat covers. You know that those things won't just lean against the reservoir. We have to stand there and hold them up. Or the other option is to sit down.

Well, real men don't eat quiche; and real men don't pee sitting down.

In the Calm of the Future

with Star Trek Construction

Space. The Final Frontier. These are the voyages of the contractor enterprise. Its yearly mission, to construct strange new homes, to bill out new life and new civilizations. To boldly go where no man has peed before.

They said it was inevitable. Development would come. Homes would be built. Overpopulation would drive people CRAZY. And now look. Twenty-thousand homes right here on the Moon.

Builder contracting has taken quite a turn since the birth of the Post Modern Age. Some contractors held on like a puppy to a root; but without strong code knowledge and communication channels, they didn't have a pot to pee in.

Star Trek Construction has revolutionized the building industry. From the get-go, they put on their bib and tucker and erected moon housing in the fine traditions of etiquette and Frank Zappa.

"You'll love it. It's a way of life," they



would say to owners, entertaining them until they peed their pants. A full service, full entertainment, full wet bar contracting crew.

Star Trek Construction believed if you spare the rod, you'll spoil the child. Hence came the "Three-strike change order rule." They offered owners three changes during the construction of a home, then locked them behind two-inch moon glass until C.O.

Because STC knew which side its bread was buttered on, the "Shut up and draw" rule was offered to architects. An egotistical architect would be cutting his own nose to spite his face if he became unruly. STC would then put him into orbit around the moon in a small Faxstation. "Just FAX, OK?"

When preliminary moon development began, the nuts really started coming out of the woodwork. Every Tom, Dick and Harry wanted to work up here. Because sometimes the cure is worse than the disease, STC commissioned the Phunny Pharmaceuticals Company to produce a nonaddictive "work-happy" stimulant to increase production levels. The drug, "Catholic Girls," was a duke's mix of Prozac, caffeine and a few other goodies that you could just add water and it would make its own sauce.

With sub-contractors happily working at madmen's pace, hold-ups due to weather at a minimum, and material delivery smoothed out with anti-gravity freight, the


only thing left to keep STC on pins and needles was bureaucracy. The epitome of this was a dark man called The Derlanor. Because he wouldn't say boo, bye or shit to contractors and common folk, many Moonurideans wouldn't spit on the best part of him. STC believed he who dances must pay the fiddler, so they played his game. Anyway, calling him a capitalist pig would be like the pot calling the kettle black. (You can stay home and not make any money.)

But Start Trek Construction worked a full day - that is until a young boy discovered the secret of time travel and rifted history. Existence was eradicated and STC was not even a legend. Like they say, a stitch in time saves nine.

What the hell do they mean by that?

The Good,

the Bad, and the Sharks

Welcome to the Business School of Fish. Life under the sea is tough- but we're going to show you how to survive.

Like your grandpa always said, "Ya gotta eat." At the Business School of Fish, we will show you what to eat, what not to eat, and how to keep from being eaten. The food chain is your only business. (But we also have one of the best swim teams around.)

A sample curriculum could include:

Feeding 101 - A fish is killed by its open mouth. Don't ever forget that.

Run and Hide 122 - A vital key to surviving. The syllabus will include finer points of sprinting, camouflage, and hiding behind rocks. An "A" earned for every day you survive.

Invertebrates 260 - They look inviting - but watch out. Sea urchins seem like a good eating, but you'll find out they can be REAL PRICKS.

Lawyers 312 - An advanced class. After completing prerequisites Mean 280, Don't



Move 299 and Watch Your Ass 300, you'll learn all about Sharks. It's not to say they're bad. Sometimes when the sharks feed, everybody eats well (except you-know-who). Lots of kibbles and bits for everyone! Some meat even settles to the bottom for the eels and crabs, and Realtors and stuff.

Food Chain Theory 400 - Philosophical debates on "Only dead fish swim with the current," and "Fish heads from the paper cutter." Syllabus is mostly comprised of theoretical guts that wouldn't make a difference with a sea lion chasing you.

All business students are required to do extensive field work around large predators. You'll get a real feel for teeth on your ass with daily attacks by little Red Snappers and even the benevolent dolphin.

After all, it may not matter how big or fast you are. Everything out there is hungry, mean and plays dirty. Barracuda may stare silently, maybe even ignore you. But they turn fast.

The food chain can change directions at any time. Even little appetizers can turn around and decide they're tired of being picked on. Little fish hire sharks to beat somebody up; Hard Knock schools of piranha gang up and rip things apart. Life feeds on life - but it's just business.

This holiday season, Merry Christmas from "All the Fish in the Sea."

Nobody lives in my house-not even for fun

I tugged down last Friday. It was a descent schwag at best that had been drying since the earth cooled. Although the quality wasn't there, it was still a good one because I hadn't seen Rob in a few months. Reunited, and it feels so good.

As I glanced around, I said to myself, "Ripper... Move the furniture, loud music, BYO. Tomorrow would be good." I planned everything into an unoccupied bedroom and started working on a guest list. Ya, maybe this one's gonna need a keg.

The view out the front window spellbound me as I pictured wall-to-wall people and beer spilling everywhere. The image of Bear Creek and San Jaquin overlapped with visions of half-naked pagans bouncing around my living room. Well, thinking led to thinking and thinking and thinking. In other words, I didn't get much done.

Saturday came and I started moving furniture. The coffee table still held an



unfinished crossword puzzle from a month old paper.

The house was messy and the plants had been suffering because no one really lived here. Since the landlord decided to kick us out, the fun kind of went out with the trash. My roommates were either moved out, or on their way out. Every time I came home, I was alone.

This party would be a tribute to the house I fell in love with all spring. I lined up a keg and kept making calls - all the while thinking of sweet Ali napping on the couch, or Tom cooking tortillas on the open gas range. With any luck, something would break. Maybe a drunk Telluridian would fall into the wall and leave a dent. I just wanted to landlord to know I was disturbed by the whole thing.

Evening came, and no one showed. Eight, nine, ten... by 10:30, five "buddies" had come. We skipped the keg and bought a twelve.

Well I guess it's not the size of the party, but the caliber of the people. It was still a good time. And the jokes about having a monster bash with people packing in kept getting funnier for the entire hour they were here.

So once again, another brilliant idea induced by praying to the almighty Cannibus. So what if it didn't happen.

When it does happen, you're invited.

A Psychoanalysis

of the Brady Bunch

Case #1 - Due to the stress of his impotence and his architectural career, Mike alleviates his melancholic state with alcoholism and a cocaine addiction. I have given him a prescription for Prozac and suggested that he does something physical a few times a week, like big game poaching or jai-a-lai.

Case #2 - Carol spoke of a dream of mangling baby ducks with a rock rake. From this I have discovered a repression neurosis of reaction formation. She holds an unconscious hostility expressed in the form of exaggerated tenderness. I have hypnotically labeled that response to dislike sharp and bladed objects, and told her to allow the maid to carryout most of the child disciplining.

Case #3 - In Greg's exaggerated attempts to seem "cool" with his peers, he displays obsessive compulsive behavior marked by chauvinism, smoking and alcohol abuse. When he claimed a girl couldn't drive



a car as well as a man, I just smacked him around a little. It sure made me feel better.

Case #4 - I have been trying to get Marsha to cut her hair, take off the rose-colored glasses and come down a little. She's a glamour seeker. Her belief that her beauty and interpersonal skills will carry her to stardom are possible, but pompous behavior like that can only lead to rollercoaster affairs and manic depression. I want her though.

Case #5 - At 13, Peter's phallic name and his pubescence have put him squarely into a disturbing Freudian Oedipus complex. His frequent "handling" of his... well... he has personal problems secondary to his will to "kill father," and bed his mother. I think it's humorous, but I told him he'd soon go blind. Ha, ha, ha.

Case #6 - Jan is a freak. Neurosis Ultimas. I'm concentrating primarily on her ugly duckling complex with false compliments and "hope for the future." When Jan and I have session, I just want to pull out the .357 and do one of us! (Save the other!)

Case #7 - Bobby's a "little man." He's uncoordinated, sort of goofy, and always the last to get picked for basketball. Hence, a solid Adlerian Napoleonic complex. Bobby's teen years will be difficult, but I reassure him that success is his destiny. I bought him a Playboy and told him to read it cover to cover, and ignore the pictures. That should be a


good start.

Case #8 - Cindy is a clear case of Plavlovian classic conditioning. She lisps in unconscious attempt to receive attention. What can you tell an eight-year-old girl about her neurosis? "Stop it, dammit!"

Case #9 - Alice is a vamptress, sex addict, sadomasochist. Her delusion of male, sexual prowess is materialized in a "meat guy." The dreams she spoke of were disturbing as well as exciting. I couldn't help myself but jump her on the clinic couch. Wow.

Case #10 - Sam. He's pretty dumb.

Top ten thoughts after the

O.J. criminal jury decision

10. O.J. - "I wonder what Ted Kennedy's doing for dinner."

9. The Mafia - "A little sloppy, but I think we can use him."

8. Steven King - "Now that's entertainment!"

7. Ross Perot - "You see, that's the American economy at work."

6. Lou Holtz - "That's why that scumbag played for USC and not here."

5. The Pope - "He'll be calling here tomorrow. We'll transfer it to Holtz."

4. Leslie Neilson - "Shirley you must be joking."

3. Marcia Clark - "I need a drink."

2. Charlie Manson - "Come on man, have some pride!"

1. The Killer - "I wonder what Ted Kennedy's doing for dinner."

From the immortal works of O.J. Simpson, "Thinking is what gets you caught from behind."


Creative License









9. URN82P

10. 17NOWL






16. NTRSR8





21. WITT

22. 4TON5OO

23. NTRSR824.

24. 5LSDED

25. CLVRK9

26. 14ONO41

27. XLER8

28. N4MER



31. A4DUBL









40. MSTRB8

41. I4NIC8

42. M8NCAL

43. NEBRE8


45. DFIC8

46. DIL8DI

47. L84D8

48. 12D8ME




Crime and punishment

It started in Kindergarten. I went into the bathroom, took my time, and came out into a dark classroom. Everyone had gotten in trouble during the interim, and were now lying down on the floor. I somehow felt the punishment didn't pertain to me because I was out of the room. I started playing there by myself, in the dark. In heightened whispers, friends were saying, "Lay down(!)" Within two minutes, the teacher came over and told me to hold out my hand. Sounded OK, so I did. She then cracked a wooden ruler over my palm.

I carried on that "say no to no" premise for some time. I questioned authority, played mean tricks, and was a really rotten kid. Actually, I made Bart Simpson look like an alter boy.

At eight years old, I found a great love in gullibility. I'd say things like, "Hey Grandpa - does your pie smell funny?" When he would bend over to smell it, I'd mash his face in it.

On the Fourth of July, I asked this guy



to check out an ash-snake in the palm of my hand. When he bent over, I mashed it in his eye.

At 10, I was a veritable baby-sitter destroyer. I ate `em alive. One time I said, "Check this out," and pointed into the closet. It was dark, but she walked right in. I locked her in there until my parents got home. Needless to say...

I liked fire. One time, between getting one going, and s'mores, I lit this flower shop into a raging blaze. Another time, I was suspended from school for lighting magnesium-dust fires on a table. (5000 degrees will go through just about anything!) Flame was just so neat.

One sunny day, with his back to me, I lit my cousin's ass on fire with a magnifying glass.

But fire was certainly not the extent of my malevolent use of science. Once I broke a neighbor's sink by filling it half full of water, then congealing it with freon.

From science, I began to find a power in language. I called my science teacher, Mr. Bowman, a fat dink under my breath. I must breathe loud. I had to write, "I will talk less and be more respectful in science class" 250 times. Now it hurts just writing it once.

When Mom caught me swearing, it was the old soap treatment. I always tried to be cool and eat it. That never worked.


Now that corporal punishment is such a faux pas, it seems bad looking back. But as you can tell, I was bad. Mom tried to notch me with a belt once. She didn't want to hit me too hard though, so it was painful enough trying not to laugh.

But the Wooden Spoon was no laughing matter. Mom was a culinary samurai with that thing, and she feared not to whip up a baker's dozen smacks on the ass before you could protect your buns.

The Wooden Spoon became my childhood nemesis. Beating up my little sister always provoked the Wooden Spoon into religious calling. "Eye for an eye - tooth for a tooth - beating for a beating."

I tried to hide it. I tried to destroy it in the blender. I lived in fear of the Wooden Spoon for many years. It never kept me from wrongdoing; it just made me realize how much I screwed up.

Although my ass was always sore, who could turn down a kid asking for ice cream. I remember so many afternoons, holding my freshly spooned and stinging butt, with tears in my eyes, and hearing the chimes on the ice-cream truck.

That truck was the ultimate test for speed and resourcefulness for a kid. I could go from Bart Simpson to Wally Cleaver in one roll of the ice-cream truck wheel, and start sweetly begging for 50 cents. No sooner than


Mom could tell me to get some for everybody, I became the dear, sweet boy they always hoped for. A delicious, sweet-bearing young lad that graciously brought back treats for everybody.

Then I would be cute and smiley, not unlike the Cheshire cat, and haply lick the frozen reward. Then I would say, "Thanks Mom... Hey Laurel, does your ice cream smell funny?"

Take my quote, please!

When I was a child (?), my parents used to tell me to think before I spoke. Psychologically, we do that. Semantically, all of us end up regurgitating information that doesn't a sense always make.

Communication context can help piece together the verbal jigsaws that you and me and your uncle blurt out in stream of conscience; but people will often say things that alone just don't fit.

Let's take for instance a phone conversation I had with someone last week. He said, "The letter my doctor wrote was wonderful. It makes me sound like I'm an invalid." What the?.. Well the letter was for an insurance claim, but you didn't know that.

A work associate's words were cut in stone when he said, "I won the bet." It should suffice to say he committed certain acts after hours in our workplace, and with photographic proof, he certainly did win the bet. It's all in the context.

"D.I.A. didn't smell like waffles the way



Stapleton used to." That was in a letter from a pal on vacation. That makes me think of a phonetic interpretation of a Led Zepplin song. "I wanna say—she's my writer. I wanna tell you—she's my writer. Blow your mind—she's my writer. She ain't but sixteen—but she's my writer." Then again, "I'm gonna go be pompous," also comes to mind for that individual.

"You're cruising toward Yuppiedom. You're gonna wake up, not feel like going to work and say, `Maybe I'll go buy some shoes.'" "I don't need to work out—I drink beer!" "OK, we gave what's-his-name the thingamabob—what else do we have to do?" All from one guy. Confusion...

And in total innocence, this sweet girl of 18 asked, "What do deers eat?" Not one of us in a party of eight could answer.

"You know the greatest thing about parties? It's batteries in your kitchen sink. You know? It's like, what were you thinking?" Good point.

"The problem we seem to be running into here is that there are no women here." Preach on party brother.

We were jammin' at the Race Shack, and Ron Alred, owner of Telluride Ski resort, busts through the door, pinning me between it and the ski rack, and yells, "Turn it down! And I don't ever want to hear it that loud again!" Sorry there Ronnyboy!


A few more excerpts taken from the Race Shack... "I'm such a dork; I just got my frog shirt all muddy."

"I'll show ya how to ski slalom."

"I can handle Tommy." (Yeah, right Puck!)

"Don't ski away from Me!" I think the boss was stoned.

The old Race Shack is best summed up with Frits saying, "He's a real joker." The boss, that is.

I remember a girl yelling across campus, "My prof is in the hospital with a bleeding ulcer, so I don't have anything to do!"

Out of context...

"You guys should get bone spurs; then you don't have to worry about shoes. You only have one pair."

"This is Beverly Hills stuff!"

"I like to get stoned, watch Northern Exposure, lay here and giggle."

"I ski perfect." (Yeah, right Rob)

"The important thing is not how it looks, but how it tastes."

"I don't want to sound bitter, but I am!"

"My girlfriend Nadine, she can rip'em loud."

"Of course he can't get along with anyone; he smokes to much pot!" Speaking of the same boss guy.

"Don't move unless you want a little daylight in your liver!"


"We sure as heckfire aren't in Kansas anymore, Toto!"

"I'm bigger than the whole world. People live on me."

"No friends on a powder day!"

One statement pertains to all things. It even precedes, "Anything worth doing is worth doing in excess." It's the quote to live by, especially for partying: "Go big or go home!"

The group was heading to "The House - a tavern". I was too drunk. I had to get up early in the morning. I was whining. When I turned around and headed South I heard,

"Michigan's goin' home."

inside hiz head

One day, there waz a little bee. "Fly, fly, fly, fly," thought the bee and he flew a very long way.

The bee flew along until he saw a pretty flower. He thought, "land, land, land, land," and gently set hiz tiger-striped body on a sticky yellow stamen. "Walk, walk, walk, walk," thought the bee az he marched in place with all six legz, and let the yummy pollen stick to hiz feet.

He stomped and marched until hiz feet became very heavy so he could barely lift them. The little bee started to get tired; so with all of hiz strength, he jumped from the flower and thought, "home, home, home, home."

The little bee flew a very long way, and smelled something sweet near hiz hive. He followed the smell to find a sweetsmelling thing that he wanted to taste.

The bee thought, "land, land, land, land," but just then, a large stinky animal swiped at him. The little bee became fiercely



angry. He forgot about the sweet thing, turned toward the stinky animal, and thought, "attack, attack, attack, attack!"

The animal swung again and the bee thought, "retreat, retreat, retreat, retreat." But the animal wuz very big, and very slow, so the bee charged again. "Attack, attack; retreat, retreat; attack; retreat," and with that, the little bee unsheathed hiz vorpal blade and thrust it deep into the terrible animal.

Panting hard, the little bee recited to himself the litany of war az he pumped venom into the animal. "Take that, animal; take that, animal; take that, animal," were hiz final thoughts az the stinky animal came crushing down on the little bee'z thorax.

The little tiger-striped body fell away, leaving just the blade buried to the hilt, and a broken circle of sweet pollen around it. This marks the grave of the fallen bee soldier.

Pan Fried Fender Filets

Picture this. You're driving down the highway, humming with the music, and your mind's just wandering. Then, up ahead on the shoulder of the road, you notice a dark mass just kind of slumped there. As you quickly approach, all of your distinguishing capabilities go to work.

"Is that a coon? No, I think it's a German shepherd."

Then, as you drive by, you see it's just a retreaded tire that broke free. You're a little disappointed.

You are sick! When you expect to see a specific type of dead animal, quite possibly with exposed gastrointestinal subassemblies, and it turns out to be just a tire, you get bummed!

I mean, it's almost fun to see the rotting remains of an animal, and figure out what it used to be. It's a little bit like closure. You have about one second to reconstruct and define an animal by its rigormortisized parts. A posthumous puzzle, if you will.



I just love to hear all the animal rights activists bleeding to "save the animals." Ya? Well, when was the last time you saw a wild animal? And what condition was it in? Was it prancing through the forest, or delicately chewing leaves from a young sapling, damp with morning dew? No! It was probably lying on its back with one leg sticking up and the other three walking like an E-gyp-tian!

As if you couldn't tell, I'm not an animal rights activist. But let us stress the word "activist." I'm more likely to plow into an oak tree trying to avoid an animal than many of you. As soon as I see those eyes catching light, I just put myself in its shoes.

"Hum, dee dum dum. Well.., I can't get to sleep. Maybe I'll just cross the road here and get some chow. Dum dee dum, AHHHH!"

I wonder what it looks like to a possum when his life flashes before his eyes.

(sobbing) "And then there was that time that I was just sleeping, and my parents thought I was dead, and they started laughing...(sob, sniff). And then that one time I was playing dead and my brother started throwing rocks at me, saying that if I was dead, I shouldn't care (sniff)."

It's all a horrid experience, running over possums or squirrels or skunks. It really wrecks my day when I mash up a little vermin.

And those little rascals only make you feel bad. Anything bigger than a cocker


spaniel can cost money. And some of you out there have hit a German shepherd or two, or even a deer. As far as I'm concerned, those are blessings compared to grillpacking a bear or an elk. Now that costs big dollars!

But not everyone lives that way. It just so happens that someone I know drives (or aims, as it were) a thirty-ot Toyota named, "The Elkbeater." To the very best of my knowledge, when I sat down to the dinner table for a venison feast, the beast was slain purely by accident. And maybe it was the room's ambience of an all-male guest list including Jack Daniel's and Ted Nugent that provoked my friend into saying, "Now that I've got that truck, we won't go hungry."

Hard to say. I only try to hit cats.

Only Madmen

Laugh at Death

On "The Price is Right" you have to guess how much the gifts cost. At Christmas, you're not allowed to guess. I guess that puts the "Gift of Life" somewhere in between. You can say what you think it's worth, but not to the people that gave it to you. (My parents are nowhere close, so...)

McDonalds or Burger King? If you choose McDonalds, you win death by arteriosis. The fried psuedo-meat collects in your veins, silently squeezing off the blood supply to your brain. Burger King is the king of carcinogenics. Their flame-broiled burgers are the catalyst for a network of cystic cells that rot you from the inside. Fun? Absolutely!

When you go to the store, the clerk innocently asks, "paper or plastic?" I always let them decide. It's kinda neat to see if they care less about killing the trees or our ozone layer. (Last time the guy said plastic was closer)

Death is actually pretty funny. You wonder about it your whole life, and then it



comes—unexpectedly! It just jumps out and goes, "Gotcha!" Luckily for small vermin crossing the road, they're too dumb to wonder about it. They become tread-fill in an instant, and never know the difference.

Then there's pecuslaughter. It's an accident; an honest mistake. People go away on vacation, and pet caretakers kill their fish—or their bird. After a friend recently killed this family's bird, they asked him to name the new one. When he told me this, my best suggestions were: Stiffy, Elvis or Morty (as in Rigor mortis). Hey, it happens.

I love how the U.S. government has these billion dollar signal dishes inviting alternate life forms in space to come to Earth. "Hi we're Earth. Come for dinner. It's on us."

Then when they get here, we BLAST'em out of the sky!

They don't even get a decent burial. The government cleans their little bodies out of the desert and cleaves them up into space pate'.

And we all know how important burials are. When a dog dies, the only proper burial is in the backyard. Fish get the proper burial when alms are said and the priest gives the ceremonial flush. (Proper burial for a cat is the grill of a highspeed Landcruiser)

People get a different treatment. First of all, the hearse gets to run red lights on the way to the graveyard—because when you're


dead, it's important that you make good time. (DM)

After the service is done, and you're six feet under, it sounds like a party. Tons of people you don't know, and everybody's stoned. You have plenty of time to relax and reminisce. I think this is the point when you figure out that college was just intensive training for Jeopardy, and that you took Mr. Rogers way too seriously when you were young.

Now you're just hangin' out, watching TV shows like Mortrose Place and Tim Allen's "Box Improvement." You think "Tales from the Crypt" is dumb, and "Golden Girls" is a hilarious retrospect. Your favorite gameshow is the "Hollywood Stiffs."

"I'll take Elvis for the block."

"All right Elvis, which of these is not a proper way for a rock star to die: a plane crash, choking on vomit, or prostate cancer?"

"Well babe, Elvis sez it's-that prostate thing."

"I agree."

"That's correct and circle gets the stiff."

Hitchhiker's Guide to the Ride

Like the hooked worm that a fish can't resist, so be the thumb like hitchhiking bait.

Before I moved out West, a girl told me she had just gone for a vacation. She said, "Everybody hitchhikes." I was in shock. That's just not what you do in Michigan.

Then on my fourth day out here, I needed to get somewhere, but I didn't have a car. It was like being four years old, sitting on the end of the dock for the first time. A little bait- a lot of ignorance.

Like fishing, a thousand philosophies ebb through your mind. "Do I wiggle it? Maybe I should keep it moving around... Hope I get a good one."

It's relaxing. You're by yourself, dealing with nature, having to pee... And then my first bite. A LandRoverfish. Two ultra-nice ladies with an appetite to powershop were on their way to Durango, and the red-rover pulled over to pick me up.

They weren't even going my way. They dropped me right at the front door. On the



ride, we had lots of laughs (pre-shopping endorphine rush) and then the driver offered me a place to live! That's like Davy Crockett fishing in a stream, and catching the golden three-wish fish.

Well, because the West is wide open and full of fish, I never saw her again— and hence went hungry (so to speak).

Three months of living a without a car taught me some things about hitchhiking.

1. Fishing holes - transit is most easily come by at intersections. At rush hours, they're a bustling feeding frenzy of execufish in spacious vehicles.

2. Carp - If you're hungry enough, you'll take the bus. It'll get you there in twice the time, and getting dropped off at inconvenient spots can leave a bad taste in your mouth. But! Riding the bus is a sure thing. Hitchhiking is not a sure thing. Therefore,

3. Going hungry - Sometimes when you catch a ride, the fish you hook may just throw you back. Get dropped off in a deserted area, and the rivers may run dry. I've stood out there so long even the carp weren't biting.

But fishing and hitchhiking experience isn't enough. There are unforetold philosophies and oracles that accompany both. These lifestyles are saturated with dualistic thoughts and anticipated climaxes that lead to whatever the antonym of "enlightenment" is. Absolute Vertigo?


To simplify - something that's worked before - that doesn't always work. On some days, no matter what you do, you won't catch one.

You can have fish-finders, briefcases, bait scent or a six-pack; you can match the hatch, lay in the road, troll for miles, or smile like Gene Kelly, and still not catch a damned thing.

It all boils down to two basic elements: persistence - and you need to know how to hold your mouth right.

`Ain't from around here,

are you boy?'

I arrived in Telluride after two days on a bus and a 40-dollar ride from Ouray. I keep thinking to myself, "You ain't from around here, are you boy." Well, I guess not.

It may take me a few days to adjust to a town where the supermarket sells High Times at the point of purchase. It may take a few weeks to get used to having discussions about treasures exhumed from a "free box." I'm very unlikely to get comfortable with so many people on the mountain being able to outski me; and I'm in shock that half of this town can party me right under the table.

But I like it. And I'm adjusting. I'm skiing and it's not even Christmas. I'm drinking and it's not even noon. I'm spending big money and I don't even have a place to live. Ah, Telluride.

"Ya, everything's great, Mom. Couldn't be better." I'm rolling my toothpaste, the small chunk of deodorant falls out every time I take off the cap, and it seems financially impossible to make it another week to my



next check; but hey! No time for pessimism— that's a real buzzkiller.

I've gotta be strong and go get another six-pack. I'll look Starvation right in the eye and crack a beer. I'll headbutt Hypothermia and belch in its face. I'll take that second and third job with pride so I can live in a place where everyone's happy as sin (!) and they all respect each other.

Boarders and skiers accept each other in full embrace. Shacks and mansions sit quietly together and enjoy the view. Deciduous and conifers hold hands in peaceful marches around the mountain.

"Everything's fine, Mom. I could use a little beer money, though."


the Breaks in Telluride

Hey, couch surfin' ain't really about the couch. It's the shower that counts. Couches are just the whitecap on the wave. To ride the surf in Telluride, you need only to get shower privileges; after that, a warm, horizontal place to crash is a customary off-shore break that should just come in with the rolls.

When looking for a place to surf, consider a hostel not just by the host, but turn the shower knob to see what the real waves look like. Let the tide be your guide in Telluride.

Oak Street Inn - Begin your stay with the mandatory hyperventilation that complements your spiral staircase ascent. Then, be fully charmed with the quaint simplicity as you open your (closet) door.

The shower is just a few towelwraps down the hall. An hour shower, two toilets, and lots of paranoia will throttle your sensations as you'll wonder after you've left whether or not the bathroom was co-ed.



Check-out time is three dollars to broke. Two stars.

Bobby's Bungalow - Welcome all who wish to eat, drink, fest or watch. (Or is that watch fester?) The kitchen is usually clean, but leftovers have been known to wink at the women. The Bungalow always smells good, as long as you like dinner heavily spiced with skiego. Apres skiing is a real delight with the $50,000 selection of (stolen?) alcohol.

The shower is dark, but the water pressure is tenacious and will all but shred the flesh from your vertebrae. Check-out time is One Blonde. Four stars.

KenBob's Chicken Coop - It ain't fancy, but ol' Kenbob got himself a good, plump wife that has the grub on the table with all the fixin's; and after a hard day on the plow, Ken'll tell-ya to kick back and have a beer— as long as it's not his last. Caution: KenBob's dog will kill a man on the attack word "cookie." Definitely don't sleep on the couch.

The bathroom's chilly, and prit-near colder than a miner's ass. The water just trickles out, but it's hot and ol' Ken don't mind if ya stand in there a coon's age. Check-out time: Two new kin comin' in. Five stars.

LV's Olive - If seclusion and privacy are your intentions, the Olive is your stay of choice. Run of house; a short stagger from Telluride; nightly entertainment by a trio of ballerina poodles. (Caution: One may try to


seduce you.)

The shower is a squeeze to the right, and 12 minutes of sheer joy. It's a unique experience marked by an instantaneous switch to brisk Colorado runoff. Check-out time is a surprise early-morning underwear scramble. Four stars.

Doogie's Den - Stay a day and be on yer way; the shower works. Check-out time: One rectal Tecnica.

Matt's Mat - Plain Jane, no frills, key if you're lucky. If soft, warm and horizontal is what you're looking for, you'll find two out of three isn't bad; and warm is sort of a compromise. The floor is hard, but it's cold, too. Matt will gladly give you the shirt off his back, but he always wants it back. The place is still under construction, so you sure won't make buds without any friends. (Or something...)

The shower is tight, but the hot water will come for hours— as long as the construction guys feel the need to have it turned on. Check-out time: I don't know, but when the surf goes flat, this dude's seaweed.


Chunga! - (March 21 to April 2-)

Fear not to be the leader. If something gets in your way, pick it out of the treads later. Run it over and don't look back.

Coffee - (April 21 to May 22)

Yes, yes, YES! The best legal buzz in the world! Those poor people at the Bean that have to put up with our stupid questions, fumbling with change, lack of attention, and stupid questions. Friday, they had circus music playing. They should play it every day!

The Moon - (May 23 to June 21)

Party on Wayne... There are two Moons - the party that pays at the door, and the one that parties for pay. Now that's what I call a bar. When you are in position with the Moon, it's a stellar good time.

Freebox - (June 22 to July 21)

Give me you bored and your lonely. And a blender, a pair of ski boots and a 1976 beehive turtleneck with no sleeves. One go-go kneesock, a bag of replacement parts for a wok and a buffet of new friends. "The



freebox is hoppin'!"

Daily Planet - (July 22 to Aug. 22)

Extra, extra! Read about the flip side of Reality. If it seems weird, don't move here. If you think you've got what it takes, bring your dog and your attitude, and stay out of my line on Bushwacker.

Powder Day - (Aug. 23 to Sept. 22)

(cough, cough) "Uh, boss, I'm uh, (cough, rasp) just too sick to make it in. I'm gonna have to - oh! We're gonna close? All right, I'll meet ya at the bottom of Six."

Development - (Sept. 23 to Oct 23)

Where's the balance? We don't want more people, but they're our vitality, but the valley is only so big, but the parties could get better, but well, just stay out of my line! Yuk, yuk.

Dating - (Oct. 24 to Nov. 22)

Back away slowly. Do not look the creature right in the eyes, for it can charm you to its poison. Ahhh! Scary "L" word! Run away! Mommy, I don't want to go to school today...

Alas, the suffering does on. There is no antidote.

Gossip - (Nov. 23 to Dec. 21)

It's all crap! "Did you hear about Bueford's affection for cows? Oh, it's awful. He's out by the Texaco every night. He says he loves one. I saw her. Um, let's just say she's a little big."


Reality? - (Dec. 22 to Jan. 21)

Stumped him... It seemed like I should write something about it, but nothing "really" comes to mind. Doesn't it like, have stoplights and stuff? My folks always said, "Wait `til you're out of college, and out in the real world." O.K. Now what?

Weird - (Jan. 22 to Feb. 20)

I don't find anything strange about paragliders dropping into softball games, concerts in the street, rastafarians, alcoholism, hearing Pearl Jam in the market, snaking somebody's pink bike, town representation of marijuana legalization, listening to the Dead on the town-bus, climbing the side of a building if it's good, town council coup d' etat, tree massacres and living in a green, purple, red and mauve house. It happens every day!

Water - (Feb. 21 to March 20)

True splendor in all of its forms. A short sprinkle of rain on a hot day, or seven feet of powder in seven days. Rivers that fly like birds from the mountaintop and roll endlessly into the sea. A saddening tear, or a refund from beer.

Surf it, ski it, float it, boat it, be it.

The Real

Celebrities of Telluride

I've heard a few different numbers on the approximate population of this town, but I'm going to estimate it at 2,000. That's 2,000 important people — the dogs.

Dogs are really what this town is about. They're at all the parties; they're actually friendly to tourists; and you'll never hear a dog say, "Oh ya? How long have you lived here?"

I find myself greeting people's dogs by name on the streets; I hear people gossiping about dog's romances and crimes; I see dogs as the important people.

8:00 a.m. — Xeno secures the perimeter with 100 lbs. of black intimidation. Ironically, the doggie police just happen to show up, but he evades them and prances back into the house.

9:00 a.m. — Kia gets caught sorting through a large Rubbermaid trash can, and quickly weasles away with something in her mouth.

10:00 a.m. — Pica trots down the



boardwalk with bunny-like ears to the swoons of female primates. He owns the store.

11:40 a.m. — Jesse takes a bullet from a trigger-happy primate (porcine).

1:00 p.m. — Blitz bullies around the town, scaring primates catatonic and fornicating at his leisure. The apes all think he's the toughguy. I think he's the luckier of the two Rots.

2:00 p.m. — Charliegh ambles down Colorado Avenue with a beautiful primate behind her. She looks like the happiest dog on the planet.

3:00 p.m. — Tonka gets deflowered right out in front of O'Bannon's. That's true romance for a canine.

4:00 p.m. — Mabel's petals fell a while ago, but she publicly enjoys another romp inside the store. Maybe it was Wilson.

5:00 p.m. — Beast takes a blonde primate for a walk in the Mountain Village. It seems that dog has been aptly named.

6:00 p.m. — Buck hangs out next to a primate on a bench. He has eyes like Elvis, and attracts three times as many women. As far as Babemagnets, He is the King.

7:00 p.m. — Blade's howls echo off the trees and the peaks and the waterfalls. He's a towncryer that sparsely knows his own name. Man those Malamutes are cool.

8:00 p.m. — Zutnik lies there, still gloating over his scenes with Warren Miller.


We're gonna excuse that ego for obvious reasons.

9:00 p.m. — Choco pretends to be tougher than he really is, and impresses a party of primates with a joust. He takes a shot to the eye, and the facade is over.

10:00 p.m. — Kenai drops the lovey-dovey bit and sneaks off into a field. Sweet wolf by day, Jack the Ripper by night. Some of the livestock didn't quite have the speed.

Dogs don't lie. Dogs don't cheat. Dogs don't charge the "Telluride Nice-Price." Sure, they crap at inconvenient locations, but dogs are pretty cool.

The (not so) Real

Celebrities of Telluride

In the splendor of this mystical place we call Telluride, a few go unnoticed. These forgotten and overlooked unpleasantries are the pixies of our existence. They are the car door dings and pungent scents that jar our recollections back to the reality of our presence. The key is to realize that there is a beauty in everything; you just have to find it.

- Just outside the Dollar, a healthy patch of vomit winks and tips its hat `good-day' to some passers by. Knowing its breath couldn't be pleasant, it resists speaking.

- After eating in small classy bites, Howie's dumpster attempts to stifle a deep, guttural belch, and pardons itself. The smell is neither pleasant nor appetizing, but it doesn't seem to discourage a fanfare of canine celebrities and insects.

- A radioactive nugget sits quietly outside the mine. It finds great content in views of the waterfalls after thousands of years of claustrophobia in the mountain. A kitten walks by with 27 toes.



- At the stroke of midnight, four million nails wiggle in place beneath the town. This excites some rusty mining tools and other forgotten debris, and they all begin to dance. They laugh and remember being above ground in the days of old, and all at once, toast to the beauty of the mountains.

- After the shopping market closes, the marginal meat products gather for a B movie marathon. The bologna chuckles in delight during "Silence of the Spams;" the potted beef is intrigued with the documentary, "A Film on Beef;" and all become semi-gelatinous during a late run of "Babe."

- She loves the snow and it loves her. She asks for it with dances and love-charms, and so it comes. First a little kiss. Then an embrace. Then more and more until it seems the snow has found a fatal attraction. It follows her around town, stalks her in her sleep, and smothers her with affection. Back off, Creepo!

So this is paradise ... I wonder what sort of little nasties there are in Antigua.

Name This Thing

(that's the name)

It is winter. Miles lives in Aspen. He's a ski bum, although he could give at least two or three euphemisms in lieu of that title.

Man (that's his real name) lives in Telluride. He's a ski bum, and he's happy to admit it.

Miles is driving his "friend's" BMW around Aspen, making random phone calls on the cellular. Man is leaning against a pay phone in Telluride, just watching the world go by.

Because neither of them have anything better to do, the pay phone rings; although it seems they are communicating, they're not. It goes something like this...

MAN: Hello?

MILES: Hi there. How's your bidet?

MAN: Warm and sunny. How's your's?

MILES: Misty - I think the pressure's dropping.

MAN: Watcha doin'?

MILES: Going for a pedicure. It's awful.

MAN: My dog hates the vet, too.



MILES: (confused) Oh. What are you doing?

MAN: I just got out of the bumps.

MILES: Me too. My nose won't stop bleeding.

MAN: Did you land on your face?

MILES: No. I couldn't get to sleep for days. I did a double-gram.

MAN: Is that like a daffy?

MILES: No. It's like that when you see stars.

MAN: Tell me about it. Last summer I fell off a 5-10.

MILES: Was she good?

MAN: Pretty flat. Trying to hang on was like couch surfing.

MILES: Is that dangerous?

MAN: If when you fall, you miss the couch and land on the floor.

MILES: Sports are rough. My back is still killing me from standing through an entire polo game. I'm going for a colonic tomorrow. Have you had one?

MAN: No. What do they taste like?

MILES: Ha! That's good.

MAN: Huh. I'll have to try one.

MILES: Have you taken any nice trips lately?

MAN: Whoa! Golden Sunshine!

MILES: Moab, huh?

MAN: No - I couldn't even leave the apartment.


MILES: (tragically confused) Really...

MAN: You like mushrooms?

MILES: Oh yeah. We make this Shitake Saute that's just scrumptious.

MAN: Really? Is that like tea? ( now really relating, and thinking his new friend is in Telluride) Had any good Free Box finds?

MILES: Well, you always end up buying dinner and paying for a movie.

MAN: Huh?

MILES: Nothing's really free.

MAN: Oh, you mean you have to give a little to take a little.

MILES: No, you have to spend a lot, and then usually you get none.

MAN: You're really weird - click (hangs up)

MILES: What a snob.

Talk of the town clown

Well, the ski season really seems to be winding down to the end. Soon it will be time for mud, time for early-season dog feces to thaw, and the annual flux of Telluride residents. Two young women living at Big Billy's, Sharon Aroom and Cheryl Yershit claim, "We hate each other, and now we just want to go home." And who could blame them. With next door neighbors like Ralph Hard and Heath Rewup, who needs to live where steam cleaners dare not to go?

Meanwhile up at the Peaks, the uniquely vague couple, Herm Afrodite and Ann Droginous have announced they are to be married in September. We would suggest that they name their first child Pat, but that would be assuming gender.

Some ladies were laughed out of a certain bar for wearing furs; not only was Luke Adat heckling, but Ida Dunnit too. What a shame.

We look forward to the upcoming Telluride Olympics to take place this summer.



It's gonna be a knock-down, drag-out competition between the Telluride Canines and the Mountain Village Hound Pounders. Mountain Village seems like it won't have a chance in the FBTSTLT—the Freebox Tennis Shoe Telephone Line Toss; not with fierce competitors like Amanda Merthanme, Buddy Diddit. Then again, the Hound Pounders have the corporate tug all wrapped up with Irene Eggoshiate and Helen Wheels. Good luck to all.

Now did ya'll check out who was together at the highschool spaghetti dinner? Minnie Skert and Les Izmore were clinging like beginners downloading chair seven. The kids were great, but have we ever heard of Noxema? The word zits doesn't even describe kids like Ward Ovchicks and Frank Lee Ugly. And I'd say Wanda Howmutch was wearing just a tad too much makeup.

The gossip is flying after the scandal between Hugh G. Rection and Connie Lingus. Skip Foreplay would not comment after counseling from his lawyer, Jack Mahogoff; but Barry Dabone let it fly to Mike Hunt, our inside source. Further information to be disclosed tomorrow by Mark Mywerds.

We would like to salute the Telluride Fraternity Choppa Choppa Gramma for their ongoing efforts. May the windows of


fortune blow back your way.

And to the other phat frat, Gotta Bagta Sel: we congratulate Cecil O'Cybin and R. Yewhi on their recent finish of the Boston Marathon. Nice work boys.

We were sorry to see jaywalking tickets issued to Norm Alday and Sam Alchit, but you know guys, you have to play by the rules.

Data, Drawers and More

Fact of the week: While Telluride has only one run open, Boyne Mountain in Michigan had a 60" powder packed base, with 18" expected accumulation and 17 runs open.

Quote: "There's a subway in Montrose?!" Kat Wood inquiring of underground public transportation after a really good night at the EMT Ball.

Item that can't be purchased in Telluride: Good underware for less than $19.86. Item that can't be purchased in Montrose: Underwear made after 1986.

What does a promise ring actually say? "I love you, but, well... I need you and want to be with you, but forever's a long time and I'm not sure, but pretty sure, well... I don't know."

Average number of stupid toasts daily at Leimgruber's: 27.

Strength of Telluride coffee on a 1 to 10 exponential scale: Conoco: 1.8; Texaco: 2.3; Baked in Telluride: 4.1; Steaming Bean: 4.8; Maggie's: "Our amplifiers go up to eleven."

Item that can't be purchased in



Telluride: Dress shoes. Item that can't be purchased in Montrose: Anything but nude hose.

Average number of really terrible pool shots made daily at Garfinkel's: 9.

Hierarchy of Underwear: The order in which an individual wears his or her drawers, starting with the favorite pair, and downgrading to the really old, nasty ripped ones.

Average number of items weekly mistaken as "good purchases" from the Freebox because they were sitting there: 5; number of former owners that run after them to get the item back: 1. "Wow, someone left a brand new bike..."

Best way for a guy to buy condoms for the first time: Act cool, pick out three other manly items like carburetor cleaner, a gallon of vitamin D milk, and spark plugs; slip in "the little sombreros" unnoticed, and say, "Oh, how did those get in there? Well, I'll-a, take'm anyway."

Number of faxes received daily on the Ajax-Fax Gush Line: 18. Number sent by me: 1.

Number of pieces of bacon eaten daily at the TART Pancake Breakfast by T.D. Smith: 11. Yogi Kirst: 10.

What Montrose thinks of Telluride: "Bank account."

What Telluride thinks of Montrose: "Taste account."

Three men and a desert

Masculinity is no small job. It's not even a big job. It's a game; child's play; kid's stuff.

In truth, masculinity has no yard stick (and the ruler thing has gotten way out of hand). There are guidelines, though. A "man" should be polite, as well as crude. He should be tough, as well as tender. He should be able to build and destroy, drink and pee, tip and spit — all things better than not. (And better than his friends) Competitive nature is his call of the wild.

On this trip, three men that know how to dress well, shake another man's hand and work silverware from the outside-in, went to the desert. Never have I experienced the competitive nature of man so illustrated. We took off our clothes, shook unmentionable parts and ate like cavemen.

The roadtrip began as usual — with cocktails. We drove fast to Moab, checking out just exactly what velocity the vehicle could attain. So began the Testosterone Fest.



Once there, on Jeep Jamboree weekend no less, the men shamelessly disrobed in the street and donned the lycra. Being that it was my first biking experience, I shamed a little, until I saw parts of a woman across the street that aren't "normally" seen in public.

A man be known by his tools. I mean his bike. Mine was borrowed, and the two others' looked like they were built by a collaborating team of NASA and Tonka. So we rode.

I'm just guessing, but for by first time, Pritchitt Canyon seemed, shall we say, technical? My new nickname quickly became "Starfish," not for keeping the bike moving linearly.

Hunter's Canyon wasn't even biking. It was rock climbing with a bike on your shoulder. The ego monsters kept trying to outdo; I just tried to stay alive.

The biking was good, because it was over (for the day). We headed out into no-man's land, and the real Testosterone Fest commenced.

It seemed malicious comments were a staple of masculinity. The three of us exchanged blows while determining who knew shit about building a fire (essential manhood stuff).

We drank heavily, leafed through pornographic literature, and threw potshots at everything each other stood for. It almost


came down to a pissing match. Lucky for those guys, it didn't.

Thus, the measure of a man becomes relative. A real man is only so if he can meet another man's standards. Some men say it's what you can bench press. Others, the size of certain appendages; and others still, to what extent a man can descend into the depths of barbarism.

Well, my desert male-bonds got too drunk to offer standards, and as night fell, so did anything similar to class. The jokes got unbelievably vulgar and offensive, the insults got unbelievably nasty, and the stories got just unbelievable.

I think in retrospect, the standard for the trip became bullshit. And why not? It's really the benchmark of masculinity. I can't say I'm that proud. From the Testosterone Fest, I was in pain. I crashed on the bike. I was mentally abused. I froze under the desert sky with dreams of mudtrolls trying to kill me; and my stomach hurt for days after seeing who could stand the most hot sauce on his food.

I came back bandaged, bruised and abused. I came back hungover and seriously doubting the intentions of those guys. But they're definitely "guys," and our friendship after the trip has been as sweet as lemon meringue pie.

Infatuated Cactus

& Indescisive Lizard

Cactus was happy. He stood tall and beautiful among the beautiful desert things. Cactus loved all the land and all of its creatures. He wished for a friend, nightly on the stars, and hugged the wind and sunsets to keep him feeling loved.

Scurrying across the sand one day was an extraordinary lizard in search of water. Before it could pass, Cactus called out to the parched creature.

"Are you thirsty? I will help you," offered Cactus.

Intrigued at the height and greatness of Cactus, the lizard asked, "What can you see up there? Do you see the sun in its last seconds of light?"

"Yes," replied Cactus, quite surprised at the lizard's priority.

"Do you see eagles diving on creatures to their death?" asked the lizard.

"Sadly, yes," consoled Cactus.

"Do you know why we are here, and why I am just a lizard?" snapped the reptile in confusion.



"Regretfully, I do not. But come and drink. I find pleasure in speaking with you, as you are quite a remarkable lizard," said Cactus.

"How will I drink?" said the lizard, shaking its head.

"Climb up to the crotch of my limbs and you will be able to drink from my core," offered Cactus.

"I would just as soon jump from a cliff. Your tines will surely kill me," said the lizard bitterly.

"Dear lizard, I am of the same green color as yourself. We are brethren. I would never harm you. My barbs are soft and are more likely to tickle you than impale your green scales," Cactus said gently.

"And what if I fall, or there is no water?" complained the lizard. And Cactus tried to reassure the lizard, but the lizard remained skeptical.

For two nights and two days, Cactus offered and explained, growing more fond of his companion all the while. And the lizard questioned and debated, doubting the intentions of Cactus.

"...and you can live here. Food and water are abundant," said Cactus.

"It couldn't work," said the lizard.

"It could work, and you can watch the sunset, and eagles would not bother you among my barbs..." pleaded Cactus.


"I don't know," said the lizard, and with that, Cactus bent down and picked the lizard up, setting it into the crotch.

The lizard could not speak for some time. It ate, and drank, and watched the sun go down.

In the last few seconds of sunlight, the lizard nestled in, watching the large birds off in the distance and said, "Thank you, Cactus."

Chambord Colada

So everything was spinning, except the bar, so I held on to that. She flirted with me from the other side of the island. I'd smile and make small gestures with my lips. I always felt they had a certain charm all their own. She'd giggle and lurch forward the way girls do. I had other girls sitting on my lap, or kissing my cheek, but I'd still look over to her to smile.

I had a lot to drink and my buzz was picking up momentum. She kept looking over and smiling sweetly, even while some cute blonde I had just met was nibbling on my ear. Vedad was beside me, madly sucking the saliva from an unexpected friend of ours. Neither of us really understood why.

They stopped mashing, and Vedad looked at me in complete bewilderment. I grinned and nodded as if I knew what the hell just happened. Our "friend" was drinking some pink slush from a margarita glass. She offered Vedad and me a taste. It''s great. The drink became my new focus. Everything



else was blurry anyway. I looked over. She smiled again. "Bartender, mix up another one of those things. They're fantastic!"

I asked him at least six times the name of this pinkish party in a margiarita glass. It never sunk in. He was pouring, and mixing, and concocting, and doing what bartenders do. He picked up some great looking bottle, looking somewhat like a crown. I looked over at her and she''s nodding her head and mouthing, "it's good stuff."

I was intrigued. There''s this brilliant bartender that makes this amazing drink, my best friend was trashed and I hadn't seem him in five months, this beautiful girl was smiling, definitely gesturing and here''s my drink!

Oh my god! It''s so good. The barman winked—I think he''s quite proud of this drink, too.

Vedad and I sipped this lovely thing, this pink and perfect alcoholic orgasm that I still couldn't remember the name of. I asked the bartender again, and he''s happy to tell me. I looked over at her and she''s practically moist between the legs. She''s gotta have one of these fuckin' things!

The bartender decided he liked me too, and introduced himself. His name was Woody. No shit. I supposed someone gave him that nickname for his resemblance to, ya I guess he did look like Woody. And a bartender. Well,


there ya' go.

"Woody," I said. "Mix up another one of those, what are they calleds?" He smiled and told me again. Now I knew things were going to start happening. I looked over at her and winked. Not exaggerated, just a quick, cute little wink. I motioned to the pink drink Woody''s making and mouthed that it''s her's. She giggled and lurched and I''s getting excited. Things were going really well.

Before Woody could set it down I said, "Take that over to the far corner to that cute girl for me, would ya' Woody?" He stopped, slightly confused, and said, "Which one?"

There were two pretty girls sitting there, but only one was smiling right at me, gonna make my night. I said, "the one in white."

So everything was spinning and Woody says, "that's my girlfriend." Be quick, be smooth shithead. I say, "Well Woody, take your girlfriend that drink."

Everything went down and everybody knew everything. The alcoholic menange de trois came full circle and the three of us looked at each other and had a good laugh.

Vedad had a great laugh.


Three years at sea have weathered me

and worn my cordage thin,

My Venery has caried me

and kept my madness in.

Until this morn sight island we—

an isolated land.

The bearing set for island lee

by breakwind wooded band.

And as the emerald leafy lot

draws close a vivid clear,

my palate waters of a spot

where winds can cause no fear.

To moor my boat and make a bed

upon her tranquil shore;

to shake the rolling from my head

and slackened sails ignore.

I'll stroke a slow and savored swim

then relish on my knees;

and listen to the lilac hymn—

a sweetened island breeze.



Marriage Proposal

Ms. Write

1 Lady, Sweet 2B

Somewhere, On Earth 77777

Dear Ms. Write,

Transcending Mundane offers its respects of your fine personal traits. We feel at this juncture, that both entities would benefit greatly and prosper following a merger. We propose monogamous services as follows: Transcending Mundane will provide financial, emotional and intellectual support over an indefinite period, terminated by mortality, for reciprocation of the same.

Hereafter is a breakdown of support services:

-Financial — Each party will logically dole monies to the other in times of need (or strong desire), with argument and interruption at a minimum.

-Emotional — Each party will empathetically offer confidement and console to the other in times of need.



Intellectual — Each party will offer sound and logical advice, without egotistical and omniscient adamance, to the other as guidance from wrongdoing.

Services included in this proposal are complete fidelity, monogamy, piety and devotion, having and holding through both ailment and soundfulness, and occasional shoulder rubs. Also included are kisses at stoplights, impromptu lovemaking, compliments, laughter and quality time.

Quality time, being defined as time spent as a couple in the absence of strain, shall be allocated in a minimum mandatory frame as follows:

-Daily — Shared shower; late evening hours

-Weekly — One lunch during business hours; one night out for dinner and entertainment

-Monthly — Two erroneous drives for scenery change; one shopping trip

-Annually — One over-budget vacation; one breakfast spent accepting apologies for a big "oops;" one bout of mindless intoxication with included self-embarrassment; one miraculous recovery from a hyper-blowout disagreement; one big change for the better.

Services yet to be negotiated are cooking, dishes, laundry, landscaping, grunt work, general repair and toilet seat position.


All of the terms in this agreement shall be bound in love and an earnest attempt at understanding. If the afore mentioned terms are acceptable and of high probability for followthrough, please return a copy to us with a lip approval.

Largely interrogative,

Transcending Mundane

Heart Awareness Week

Ah, Love... The most beautiful, enriching, enticing, mindboggling, terrifying, overused, misunderstood experience of all time. Listen to the song lyrics... "How will I know when it's love? I can't tell you but it lasts forever." See? Even Sammy doesn't have a clue, except for his using it as a time-frame.

"Honey, it's almost love. We gotta go!"

Here again, love can't be described as a feeling. How can you put love on the same level as happy, or hungry or distraught? It's more of a mix of every possible feeling. And it's true, you can't tell when it's love. You don't know until you see the vivid signs of reality obliteration.

With the coming of Spring, loving will abound. The animals awake from their winter slumber, and begin an unconscious search for mates. We are not excluded from this phenomenon. Hereafter is a small checklist to help you know whether or not you're



wearing the rose-colored glasses. So if any of these sound familiar, "You gotta go!" (We'll use `Chris' as the non-specific-gendered and anatomically vague loved one.)

-If you find yourself desperately trying to keep your mind off Chris...You gotta go!

-If you find yourself staring at a picture of Chris for some time... you gotta go!

-If you find yourself writing Chris's name or the word "love" on anything... get outta here.

-If you write a bad check for any reason to do with Chris... lock the door.

-If you have time set aside in your day-planner for Chris... see ya!

-If you take up nude rock climbing because it's Chris's favorite... Git!

-If you can't remember you best friend's name... pack your bags!

-If you think Chris is the best-looking person around... You're sadly mistaken. (And it wouldn't be right for me to say who is)

-If you listen closely to the lyrics of songs and say, "No way! That's exactly how I feel!.." sorry.

-If you call Chris, instead of your parents, when you're sick or feeling blue... the only cure is death.

After endless aggravation and pain from his girlfriend, my old roommate told me he was going to write a thesis on how love is


just a psychosis solicited by society's norms. He claimed people just trick themselves into thinking they're in love. I thought it was a neat idea.

After minimal exploration, he found that many people have written many books with the same premise.

Think about it for a minute. You can't really tell if you're in love. You do and say dumb things. You'll even pay for it with money you don't have. Sounds to me like drugs. Want me to go on?

Denial- "No man. I'm not in love."

Lack of attention- "I wonder what Chris is doing?"

Depression- "I haven't seen him in a week" (Which also ties into withdrawal).

And a few others, like weight loss, shakiness, tardiness and hallucinations.

So take my advice and pull yourself together. Be independent. Be a winner. Show the world you think for yourself and... SAY NO TO LOVE!

How I wish again

I was in Michigan

Forgive me if I ramble lovingly of Michigan for awhile. This will be my strongest embrace before I let her go. Unless you're from Michigan, you wouldn't understand just how beautiful she is.

Let me advise you to try something silly. Set the palm of your left hand just into a pan of cool water. (If you're from Michigan, just relax.) What you've just created is a fairly accurate topographical map (well, the thumb's not flat enough).

Your map is of a very magical place (poof, it's raining). In the winter, your fingers offer a snowy wonderland with good to excellent skiing (marginal at best). In the Spring, the base of your thumb could be the best shopping you'll ever know (compared to Indiana).

Following into Summer, the lower left has beefcake beaches and sandy bikinis to check out (behind mirrored glasses). And the tip of your pinky in Autumn opens into a golden harvest day that's as sweet as a bowl



of cherries (and a pie, a fruit salad, a glaze, a flambeaux and two pounds of dried). Trust me, it's a nice state (it's rad as hell!).

We'll begin the journey just off the tip of your middle finger, on beautiful Mackinac Island (tasty party place. Working on Mackitraz certifies any zipperhead as a total alkie. You go crazy from ragin' every night and getting crushed out of your gourd. Money spentus - brain cells wasted).

The next stop will cascade you down the tops of your ring finger and pinky to one of the top 10-rated places to live in the U.S. - Traverse City.

(The windsurfing, volleyball, boating and nightlife are choice. Play tough during the day - full throttle at night. Most chicks are hip and groovy, but there are a bucketfull of dirty ones, too.

The Cherry Festival is gnarly, but that town just isn't built for so many people. The traffic gets pretty bogus, and Fudgies aren't too sweet to deal with on an ass-hot day.)

Falling further down your pinky, the next Michigan gem is at the knuckle. Here, Silver Lake is an amazing combination of beauty and ruggedness. (Stellar four-wheelin'! Wicked dunes and sand pits, killer bogs and the most kick-ass off-road vehicles on the planet! Totally monster grins from doin' thick wheelies uphill at 50 mph. It's a no-fail good time.


The drawback - hick heaven. You get there and you're like, "What's the jig? Inbreed much?" You'll dig it once you get past the billies.)

On to the highlight of the trip. The greastest place in Michigan is none other than Grand Haven. (Rad! The buffest beach in the Midwest. There's nothing like soakin' up rays on the hot sand with totally sweet Scarabs racing offshore. Except maybe startin' off at Tip-a-few, bouncin' over to Laguna to get out and wiggle, and then watching your friends honk on the sidewalk during Coast Guard Festival. That's fun!

Grand Haven has its fair share of tools and zip-perheads, and sometimes you can get beat so bad at volleyball, you'll go completely sketch; but overall, it's Ping!)

A half-inch in from Grand Haven, you should have a good vein running up your hand. That's U.S. 131. It's a great highway that will take you right through Grand Rapids - an all-American city. (The only city that's more conservative is Salt Lake. Blue eyes and best buys, we're the Grand Rapids Dutch - thank you very much. It's sort of a hose, but the cool... are very cool. Purple East Plus on Division St. is the WalMart of head shops. A very noble selection of paraphernalia. Then there's Reptile House - a bar a few blocks down from Purple East. This place is Random! My favorite game to play at Reptile is "Guess


its sexual preference." Woah! Bail now or get hit on by the wrong gender (whatever that my be).)

And then the last place to see is in the middle of your hand, below your knuckles. It's East Lansing. You may not know the city, but the school is called Michigan State University. (Bash central! Circus tents with 10,000 people and hundreds of kegs that go for days. The parties are swell, but the girls... golden. 60,000 students, and you'd swear 59,000 of them are gorgeous females with a big ol' wad of sass on their shoe. This place is the bomb!)

Of course, I left about 26,000 good places out of this tour. Those are mine; but you can visit them. All you have to do is look at your hand. More than likely, you're looking at something good.

A gift be what

make it in the Florida Keys

Awoke to the sound of a hungry stray cat, Nick rubbed at his eyes, and his beard, and his fat. Seemed tough for this tan island man to believe that a year quickly passed—was again Christmas Eve.

Hungover a little, he smiled at the day, and the charm of this season that keeps work at bay. Nick chuckled a little at his job and perhaps a guff for the boss and the clogging grease traps. He gave a "Ho Ho," not for lack of words— the sea air was warm, and the tourists in herds. "Forsooth a fine day, without gust or gale," said Nick as he set up his weekly yard sale.

"There is none so clever a merchant as I," though Nick had no cash, as for change he was dry. Nick sat back, a king, in a torn captain's chair, his driveway a kingdom of common and rare... His conscience, as hangovers often do reap, did dwindle and tire, and Nick fell asleep.

Thus entered a story (within what I tell) beginning with frames of a cold Christmas Hell. With diving so dark, and



coral quite dead, then visions of sugar cane burned in this head. Next ringing this dream, this dream ringed a bell— was work that was calling, that ring he could tell. A fine gift was wrapped, and that couldn't suck; but opened Nick found a Hess Emergency truck.

Then darkness was lifted and out came the sun; the stolen outboard returned, and the damn thing did run! T'was Christmas and marked by a keg full of beer. Hey, there's Martha Stewart! How'd she get in here? The phone was still ringing, Nick scared of its bid; the boss said, "Good day lad, I'll raise you two quid." And under the mistletoe sprig, caught in angst, Martha Stewart puckered up, offered Nick, "Um no thanks."

At the sound of a car, Nick awoke from his wish. Wide eyed and intrigued, he cried out loud, "Odds fish!" At the sight of a man, he gained poise with a shake. "What interests thee, patron, yes what will thee take?"

"I'll give you three pence, smile I at that number, for you swooned Martha Stewart while lying in slumber."

"I'll take it," said Nick without showing the pain; "returneth manana, I'll do it again."

The Birdwatcher

Birds he watches with few words.

He walks the country side

in silent stride, looking up in teaks,

in the grasses, glades and palms he peeks,

wishing to touch the gull that's fishing

or slender albatross that glides

and effortlessly rides the rough gales;

to kiss a swift's shoulder as it dives in the dales.

Love the birdwatcher to stroke a dove

on her nape or nose; to rest

his head on robin's breast and find

perverse pleasure in hearing a swan whine.

Flush his ruddy cheeks by thrush's

merry song and excite him without fail

the curlew's feathered tail; he'll lick his lips

rise and quake at sight of swallow's hips

and shake and touch himself by hand

and right away wriggle and sway

when wrens may call he'll like

to grab them all and peppershrike.


Wisconsin Moon

Since I was a boy,

on clear nights I

would lie out and I

would watch the Michigan moon, I.

And sure, `cause they lied still,

and friendly stars winking, they

would watch back, they

would admire me too, the moons.

Every year, I would lie less,

and be less of a boy,

and so too, the moons would not bother,

not care to see me either.

Until Wisconsin, when I saw a moon new.

And winking first, we, that moon knew,

would love, and wonder of my dough

and I of her cheese, and when we would be.

Though thinking of me boy,

to see one in new light,

am still a Michigan boy

so I the moon we will be someday knew.


Gifts of Michigan

I thank you for

your sifting blonde dunes of sand.

I am greatful for

your sacred waters of the bluest eyes.

I applaud the

inviting and playful colors of Autumn's disposition.

Nothing feels as euphorically warm

as an unexpected Indian summer.

I offer my respects of

your curved and tempting scapes.

I fondly appreciate your

white and lacy smiles of winter.

Your alluring Spring sweetness

proves true by blossom, bloom and fruit.

And your vast quiver of weathers

allows for your swift and infamous change of mood.

Of these gifts,

I thank you for her.


Desert Dessert

Pulling himself across the sand

through blissless heat and swealterland.

Mirages mold by sun's downbeat;

not dine, nor drink, but dinnersweets.

The first to tease his pallate's taste—

mixed mounds of mousse by chocolatehaste;

so drawn to lips of cherrywhile

the sweet tooth lures the childsmile.

But young and sprite and childish seem

desserts by dish of desertdream;

`til champagne and the berrytips

taste succulent to sandedlips.

And licks upon a sugared nape

make drunk the beached like vinyardgrape;

and soothe the craving for afeast

like a sugar grain would (in theleast).

Then next the heat mirage would make

as moist a wetness of finecake



to tease the haggard's hungryeye

with chocolate shaves atop freshpie.

Then longly limbered pastry fresh

like sweet perfumed a femaleflesh.

Soft and sweet by tenderstroke—

a hot croissant or cigarettesmoke.

Then blink and shake his dirty head

for he's not been filled and sweetlyfed.

So squints and trudges desertmore

to taste windsand and sweetsignore.

Mutiny Of DNA

fathers mind twists

while mine retroes

such love is battle

our tears of might

fall like brimstone or bombs

the struggle is mad scream

his proof of power

my proof of manhood

proof shattered glass

when does a boy

become a man?

when father says

and HE won't allow that

oedopus killed

it was no mistake


to pass kill father

if even in a dream

cut the lanyard that binds our hands

and makes us hate

cut his throat

and become a man



For now,

the earth is the only good.

I know how it feels

to be golden.

Glowing precieous gold

with the vibrance of the sun.

Gold is food for

the mind's pallate.

For all it reflects

is then precious, too.

To see your face

reflected in gold

is something sensual.

It blandly tastes sweet.

It is delicious.

And the sound gold makes

is so pure

Gently humming

without touch.