Kiss My Aspen Goodbye

I was going to write a sketch about the White House resurrecting the ghost of Ray Kroc as a consultant for the U.S. president, explaining the reason why Obama was reaching out to children via video broadcast ("...and kids, if your parents support the health care initiative, you'll get a lifetime supply of freedom fries and Happy Meal toys...but hurry, supplies are limited!"). Then, last night I watched Inglourious Basterds again with an old friend and a new one (I was raised to believe the only good Nazi was a dead Nazi and the only good Mitsubishi was a Zero at the bottom of the sea, but now I'm liking the vision of marking a scarlet letter in the forehead of followers of despotic leaders; Squeaky Fromme and her kind aren't the only ones who get that LOSER shine).

Now, after reading about the decline of the aspen tree in the Colorado mountains, I'm thinking about something ("something," "some," "thing" - these words, they possess me!).

Cruel shoes. You know, the ones invented by that former wild and crazy guy who walked around with a fake arrow through his head while pretending to be able to replace Spencer Tracy as father of the bride. Then again, maybe you don't. That's okay. I've already cooked the fish wrapped in yesterday's news myself - the newspaper's soaking up the cat litter and will go out with the weekly trash pickup. Recycle! See, I'm environmentally conscious - I may hear the wind whistle and call it tinnitus because I just cleared the cobwebs out of my head but I'm not brain dead.

My brother in-law once spent a long time in the outback, staying in Alice Springs (it was for a day, but in that place a day feels like a very lo-n-n-n-n-g time, let me tell you). He was working with some other astrophysicists who wanted to get gamma ray data on a starburst (no, you idiot, not the candy). They'd race camels to the launch site, dodging the wannabe wallabee koalasee Crocodile Dundees doing their four-wheel acts for nascent TV shows (Hulk's not the only aged one Hogan the spotlight). He taught the locals a phrase. Let me see if I get it right. Holy mackerel? Jumping pickerels? In any case, if you're trying to use a helicopter to hook a science experiment and drag its carcass up off a rock's face, two-way radio being the "I'm NOT a Borg - this is a Bluetooth headset" cool toy du jour, you let the one on the ground say what he wants. Worry about the blade tips carving your epitaph on cliffs later on.

It's a funny world, what you and I share. We let ones on the other side of the fence fight the raging bull, cheering them on, safe in our bird's nest of stadium seats. The next moment, when the bull's stood up, raging up the aisles, we run for cover and blame the lorry drivers passing by who were minding their own business while delivering our snack food to the corner store.

I was a small boy, eating with my parents at a restaurant called the Golden Dragon (yes, I can mention that one because it's no longer in business). A skinny waiter, who had worked hard to get to our part of the world, convinced that our country was truly free from the tyranny of his, a fellow named Fred (a name shared with my deceased brother in-law who flew balloons in an Australian oasis) taught me a word that reaches out and bonds two cultures, a word that bonds two people - he taught me to say "shiya shiya." Since then, I've come to the conclusion that "See-ya see-ya!" is more to my tongue's taste (謝謝!, if I said it right), although like all subcultural takes, both are acceptable, giving you placement in your choice of twang (no, not Tang, you astronaut tykes).

Your property deed is yours to keep. I don't want to take it away. But I share this place with you, both of us required to pay for the privilege. Do I like what my government's doing? Rarely. But then again, do I like what you're doing? Probably not. I don't care what you're doing. But I care about you, because you and the people around you are raising the children who will decide what tomorrow will bring. If you want to tear up the landscape in your ATV, go for it. If you want to pave over paradise...darn, you beat me to it. But when I want to go back and reclaim that open land for us quiet hikers, you better get your sorry ass out of my way or...well, I'm not the one who will take care of you. My brothers and sisters have you covered. You see, Nazi hunters don't forget. Native Americans don't forget. Indians don't forget. The Irish don't forget. Russians have long memories. Ethnic groups don't forget other ethnic groups. It's not revenge we want. It's free membership in the Mutual Admiration Society that we're all after.

You want exclusivity? Ask a jail bird. It's an exclusive world behind bars and barbed wire. So don't give me your mouthful of white teeth and expect me to listen to your bad breath. Close your mouth and listen and then I'll listen to you. As far as I can see, we put the schoolyard behind us. Our days of teenage fight clubs are gone. No more brass knuckles or socks full of rocks. And quit with the conspiracy theories! One more accusation of who's rigging whose electronic voting machines and I'll show you that all parties have hidden trigger switches that toggle their ticklish parts. If you want in, host your own party. A word of advice: file for tax-free status before you spike your guests' punch, a small detail that Jim Jones missed so he took his sinking Guyanan shipmates down with him. And you thought what Madoff did was bad!