Mountain Mama

In the spirit of tenacious mountain folk living in the newcomer pioneer days of Telluride’s wild 1970s era, innovation was as essential as duct tape. Helen Forster was one of a handful whose vision and talent helped to create the Telluride Bluegrass Festival and shape the town’s embryonic radio station and community theatre. Today, she, along with her hubby Nick Forster, of Hot Rize fame, brings that can-do experience and attitude to eTown, an enviro- social awareness radio program broadcast to over one million listeners from downtown Boulder.

Helen arrived in the then-glitterati- less streets of Telluride in 1973, when the San Juan mountain hamlet’s steep-and-deep winter culture was becoming legendary and summers were still naptime revolving around July 4th. There wasn’t much in town, let alone in the way of arts, but there was a core group of dreamers who were naïve enough to ignore the complexities of creating the scene that quickly evolved into several of the T-ride’s more-famous cultural phenomena.

“You had to drive to Montrose just to get a spool of thread,” Helen mused about Telluride’s scant resources. “So you had to be conscientious, resourceful and creative when it came to supporting the arts.” The community radio station, KOTO-FM, had just cranked itself into the airwaves.

“There was a coalition that said ‘we need to make a radio station, so let’s make it happen.’ I came in at the tail end of the discussion and as one of the first deejays with my Down Valley Show,” Helen says of her eight-year stint of “soft rock and soft talk.”

In a collective moment to expand the breadth of the entertainment spectrum beyond beer, bars and local bands, Telluride’s thespians kicked it up a notch to form the SRO Theatre Troupe — Standing Room Only — which Helen co-founded, bringing her Minneapolis professional stage experience of musical and performance theater that started in her childhood and continued into adulthood. “It was like Second City. We wrote our own musical and comedy material. It was a raw slate, where you had an opportunity to come together to create original musical comedy theater.” To further broaden the town’s color palette, a more-formal theater company of upstart crows gathered under the L.A. director Paul Fagan to form the Plunge Players. Helen became one of its principal players as well. She also co-authored three children’s musicals with Martha Brady and worked on her skills as a professional vocalist.

But it’s probably the fact that she had a hand in creating one of Colorado’s best-loved annual party of festivarians that inspires raising a glass in admirable salute. Back in the mid-’70s, Helen was one of the original group who pioneered the nowcolossal Telluride Bluegrass Festival. The original concert stemmed innocuously from the town’s 4th of July celebration and evolved out of various people’s interest.

“You’re in your twenties, you get an idea, follow through and make things happen. You want to start a theater? Great, make that happen. Do a music fest? Great, let’s do it,” she says of the common ability for inventive mountain- dwellers to make things happen as though they could wish them into existence.

Looking to transition out of Telluride after 15 years, Helen considered moving to a large city in the real world; however, they all seemed daunting after living in a town with no stoplights. Boulder looked more promising as a community in which to continue a hardworking Bohemian life of theater, writing, performing and teaching. Although she had met Nick at one of the Bluegrass Festivals, they ran into each other in Boulder, where they eventually married in 1991, right after launching eTown.

As Nick’s Grammy-nominated bluegrass band, Hot Rize, was dissolving in 1990, he came up with the idea of eTown while on a State Department-sponsored overseas concert tour with a group that included Sam Bush, John Cowan and Laurie Lewis. He returned wondering how he could encourage people to make a difference in the world by working Helen Forster performs with Keb’ Mo’. Photo by Tim Reese. together, by using music as a focus to stimulate dialogue and awareness of social and environmental issues.

“We were both drawn to radio because it’s proactive,” Helen explains. “You have to use your brain and your mind. You don’t have an image in front of you. So Nick came back talking about creating a radio show, and I said to Nick, ‘let me help you.’”

Nick had also logged airtime as a member of Hot Rize, appearing on Garrison Keillor’s “A Prairie Home Companion,” “Austin City Limits” and The Grand Old Opry broadcasts. But it was Helen’s festival work and KOTO radio production experience that greased the nuts, bolts and show into life. eTown now broadcasts over 280 stations. Based on variety radio shows of the past, eTown is taped in front of a live audience and features candid conversations about environmental and community, plus a lengthy list of amazing visiting musical artists — from Buddy Guy, Lyle Lovett and Michele Shocked to regional/local favorites Chris Daniels, Big Head Todd and String Cheese. Both Nick and Helen play on the show with the eTones, eTown’s house band, which features Front Range musicians Chris Engleman on bass, Christian Teele on drums, Ron Jolly on piano, with Nick on guitar and mandolin and Helen on vocals.

The duo’s latest project involves converting a funky former church in downtown Boulder for reuse as eTown Hall, with the goal of “making it the greenest building in Boulder, if we can,” smiles Nick. Photovoltaic panels, solar hot-water panels, revamping the electrical systems … the space is getting a complete overhaul in order to generate most of its power locally. Lectures, workshops, master classes, films, community gatherings, a recording and video studio and of course more intimate eTown shows with 200-250 attendees. The Forsters are hoping to have the building finished in time for the show’s twentieth anniversary next year.

“We’re independent media, and there are precious few independents these days,” Helen says. “We look at our role as being a senior voice in sending the message out every week … get informed, get inspired and get involved.”

eTown is a non-profit organization. It is offered in numerous podcast editions available for download from the program website

Life on the Mountain Music Road

Drunken encounters of the psychedelic kind

It’s no newsfl ash that musicians put up with their share of drunken patrons. But it gets a little trippy when hallucinogens are involved.

Springdale Quartet, a band out of Boulder, overlays its upbeat funk with progressive rock. It’s no surprise the outfi t attracts people seeking God via acid as it plays the likes of Breckenridge’s three20south, Steamboat’s Old Town Pub and Avon’s Agave. Organ grinder Chase Terzian coined the term “Junkblock” to describe the band’s jazz, funk, blues and rock infusion, inspired by musicians ranging from Medeski, Martin & Wood and Jimi Hendrix to The New Mastersounds and Phish.

A few months ago, the band played at Mishawaka Amphitheatre, north of Fort Collins, and a gentleman who initially looked as though he may or may not have been of the psychedelic persuasion decided to crash the stage.

“He started meditating while we played, which in itself is cool, but it got a little scary,” vocalist Jordan Roos said.

What began as an eyes-closed, facetoward- the-sky, held-hands-in-prayer vertical stance turned into a horizontal nightmare for the spiritual stage-seeker.

“As security managed to make their way through and get him, all hell broke loose,” Roos recalls. “The next thing I remember was this kid on the ground with security on top of him, with Good Gravy’s mandolin (a very delicate instrument) below them. There was a signifi – cant struggle, and the kid was eventually handcuffed (just with zip ties) and passed from on stage down to the crowd below. I am pretty sure the people below who were being handed the kid did not have a good hold, and the kid went face fi rst into the ground with his hands tied behind his back. We later found out the kid had eaten a ton of acid.”

Will work for hookah

It’s happening everywhere: Writers are giving their prose away for dimes on Amazon, actors are busing more tables and musicians are turning into hookah whores.

Brittany Shane realizes we’re in a recession, which might explain why she performed at the Juggling Gypsy in North Carolina during her summer tour in exchange for something that just went up in smoke. That’s right: She actually agreed to sing for one hookah and three fl avors. (After all, how could she resist such tantalizing fl avors as Circus Madness, Body Massage and Sex with a Hippie?)

Shane, who introduces herself as a singer-songwriter like she’s in an old Western — squinting her eyes from the bright sun and looking as though she’s about to jump back onto her dusty horse after a long day of fi ghting cowboy crime — began playing her catchy rock, pop and alt-country tunes throughout the nation last year. Her storytelling and strong vocals smack of Stevie Nicks and Sheryl Crow. Though she’s played the big cities, from Chicago to Austin and Memphis, she’s seen her fair share of that treasured form of barter our mountain towns are so famous for (you know, help a buddy move, get a bag of weed; trade a quartz crystal (or a couple Percocet) for a sandwich). But in her mountainous journeys for gigs in Coeur d’Alene and Sandpoint, Idaho, to Whitefi sh, Mont.; Breckenridge and Carbondale, Colo.; and Santa Fe, N.M., she never encountered such a smokin’ deal.

The hookah bar owner, who happens to look like Ron Jeremy, was completely stoned, so the band members only saw him once before they took the stage.

“He went into his office, which was filled with smoke, and never came back out. It looked like he stepped into another dimension, or into the doorway that Kelly LeBrock stepped out of in the ’80s movie ‘Weird Science,’” Shane said.

After the set, the band gathered ’round for its free hookah to celebrate with a few flavored puffs.

“We couldn’t decide if this was cool and different or just plain dumb,” Shane said. “I just wanted the owner to open his door and walk out as Kelly LeBrock.”

Life on the Mountain Music Road continues in future issues with unbeckoned nudity, middle-aged hip-hop moms doling out unbidden sex advice, stupid mountain ascents and more.

Australis: An Antarctic Ski Odyssey

You have to respect Chris Davenport’s ingenuity and creativity, as a skier and a businessman. He went from downhill skiing, to extreme skiing championships, to being a ski fi lm star, to skiing all of Colorado’s 14ers in a single year, and somehow along the way, has not had to hang it up and get a “real” job to feed his kids. With “Australis,” he’s made it clear that the job of being Chris Davenport is maybe just keeping us excited about whatever he dreams up next. In late 2009, Davenport gathered up a couple friends (pro skier couple Stian Hagen and Andrea Binning) and a fi lm crew, got on a boat named “Australis” and headed to the Antarctic Peninsula for some ski mountaineering. I’ll tell you, I enjoyed the crap out of this movie, with the disclaimer that I’m a sucker for any ski movie not involving dudes getting dropped off via helicopter. The footage of Davenport, Hagen and Binning carving turns on slopes that end in the deep blue Antarctic Ocean will probably make you want to shut your TV off and get out there yourself, even if you’re used to seeing a lodge at the bottom of your ski hills, as most of us are. The fi lm will be touring a few locations in the Mountain West in December and January. $24.95.

Desert Towers: Fat Cat Summits and Kitty Litter Rock

I know it’s ski season, not climbing season, but this is my favorite book to come across my desk ever since I started doing this column. And climbers need something to read in the off-season. Boulder climbing legend and desert tower connoisseur Steve “Crusher” Bartlett has put together a masterpiece: The history of tower climbing on the Colorado Plateau, with archival photos and essays collected in one 352-page volume. Beginning with John Otto’s 1911 ascent of Colorado National Monument and continuing through present day, Crusher captures the adventure of the early days of desert exploration, and the balls it took to go for it in pre-guidebook days. Photos and essays from the fi rst ascensionists bring to life the tales of Spider Rock, the Totem Pole and Cleopatra’s Needle, the “Three Best” towers, all now illegal to climb because of their location on Navajo Nation land. Legendary climbers like Layton Kor, Fred Beckey, Eric Bjornstad, Harvey Carter, Lou Dawson, Huntley Ingalls, Steve Roper, John Sherman, Ed Webster and others share the tales of battle on other sandstone icons: Castleton Tower, Standing Rock, The Titan — maybe you get the point. This book is Crusher’s labor of love and gift to climbing geeks, and if you’re not a climbing geek, this book might make you one. $49.95.


The guys at Powderwhore are defi nitely not taking themselves too seriously with their sixth telemark fi lm, “TeleVision.” In the fi rst 10 minutes, a scraggly skier asks during a parody commercial for, “Does your wardrobe consist of plaid, tiedye and corduroy? Are you sick of going to fancy restaurants and granola’s not even on the menu? Do you have a job? Nice. I hate working. Do parallel turns turn you off? If you answered ‘yes’ to any of these questions, come meet guys like me at” Later, an ad for “Brogaine” promises: “It gives you the hair and attitude you need to shred the gnar.” Skier Megan Michelson is spliced into an episode of “America’s Next Top Model,” and gets grilled by the judges. Skier Jake Sakson gives us a tour of his ambulance-turned-ski-bum-van-slash-apartment in an episode of “Powderwhore Cribs.” And in between all the laughs, there is some great footage of tele skiers ripping in the mountains of Haines, Alaska, the Chugach Range and the Wasatch Mountains (sometimes next to their bootpacking tracks) and in the terrain park. There’s even a segment of crashes, some epic, some just awkward, human moments, which keep the fi lm down to earth — although you still won’t walk away from this movie thinking you can ski the same lines the cast members do. $27.

Hot Air

My buddy Pedro winked in my direction, smirked a mierda-eating grin and nodded his noggin Bobblehead-on-speed-style when I en- tered the Burro Borracho Cantina and Lucha Libre Emporium. “Well, I did it,” he said almost smugly as I approached. Despite every pre-purchase protestation I could muster, Pedro had just spent 242 hard-earned dollars for what he considered the ultimate Christmas present for his latest l’amour: a romantic two-person, early-morning champagne hot-air balloon ride outside Albuquerque. I shook my head so vigorously, I lost several gold crowns. I had forewarned Pedro about the psychic, to say nothing of physical, perils of ballooning. It mattered not one whit to him that I spoke from intense personal ex- perience on this subject. Pedro’s mind was made up. His current lady-friend, Darlene, had commented almost abstractly (and certainly drunkenly) the week before about how it would be nice for once to do something that did not involve sitting hour after hour on the exact same barstools they always sat on in the Burro Borracho. Not one to miss something as obvious as an impending case of significant-other-based boredom, Pedro immediately suggested that they embark then and there upon what must have seemed to him at that Happy Hour juncture like a National-Geographic-documentary-level journey to the unexplored hinterlands: “We could go sit over in the booth,” he said, expectantly. I’m not sure whether his sweetie’s exasperated groan was based more upon the fact that the Burro’s lone booth — upholstered in the finest of beer-stained, sticky (don’t ask, don’t tell), tattered naugahyde, was located next to the doorless entrance to the single most unsavory men’s room in the entire history of skanky watering holes, or whether it was more general in nature. I suspect the latter. Either way, at the exact moment the final air molecules of a theatrical sigh that lasted well over 15 minutes passed the final molecules of Darlene’s globbed-on bright- red lipstick, the local news came on the Burro’s 1957 scratchy black-and-white, aluminum-foil-antennaed, yard-sale-procured TV that sometimes gets one channel and sometimes gets no channels. And that one channel was running a happy-go-lucky feature segment on the annual Albuquerque International Balloon Fiesta, which is so famous in New Mexico that many of the state’s license plates boast an image that looks like a flimsy air-filled cloth sack falling like a rock out of the sky. “Look,” Darlene said, pointing toward the flickering screen. “Maybe we could do something like that!” At first, Pedro thought Darlene was pointing toward the famous old Corona beer poster with the three provoca- tive, bathing-suit-attired nubile young ladies. “Sure,” he said, “but where are we gonna get two other women?” he asked. “Maybe your nieces!” “No, asshole,” Darlene snarled. “On the TV.” By the time Pedro managed to focus his one good eye on the TV, the local news had cut away to coverage of a high-speed chase in Tucson involving about 40 cop cars, three helicopters, a SWAT team and, eventually, a pair of mean-looking homies being handcuffed and hauled away. This really confused the livin’ shit out of Pedro. “You want to engage in a high-speed chase with police and get arrested in front of a TV camera crew?” he slurred toward Darlene. “Cool.” At that point, Darlene egressed the premises in a snit. “What just happened?” Pedro asked. “She wants you to take her ballooning,” I yelled over the din. I have lived more than half a century, and never once I have seen a visage so befuddled. It took me almost two hours to de-intertwine the Corona-poster/police-chase/bal- loon fiesta cognitive dissonance transpiring between Pedro’s pointy ears. I finally, exasperatedly, made him understand that Darlene had casually mentioned some- thing about wanting to go floating up into the sky like the Wizard leaving Oz. “Damn! I’ve been wondering what to get her for Christmas!” Pedro said, his face brightening in the dingy light of the Burro Borracho. This is what I then laid on Pedro vis-à-vis my color- ful, though modest ballooning resume: I have been up in a hot-air balloon twice, which is exactly two times too many, as far as I am concerned. Both times, I stressed to Pedro, took place shortly before Christmas, a cosmic coincidence worth his studied consideration. The first time, I was on assignment for a justifiably long-defunct alternative alternative weekly in Denver. The publisher, a drunken reprobate of monstrous proportions, had found himself (not exactly for the first or last time) downtown at Soapy Smith’s, trolling for some hapless soul to buy him a beverage. His victim that night ended up being, of all the people on the planet, the owner of a local commercial hot-air ballooning outfit, and the publisher said he knew just the person to go up with him into what ended up being the stratosphere, the idea be- ing 1) that we would run a lengthy blowjob story about the his operation in our paper (which, truth be told (something we rarely did) was read by all of about two people) and 2) that in and of itself was reason enough to expect the balloon guy to buy the publisher a slew of drinks that night at Soapy Smith’s. “Good news,” the bleary-eyed publisher told me the next morning. “I signed you up for a balloon trip,” which, at the time, I hoped against hope didn’t mean what I though it meant, that, rather, it might have something to do with dropping acid and being the live entertain- ment at a children’s birthday soirée. No such luck. I do not exactly suffer from aviophobia, the same way I do not exactly suffer from claustrophobia. Still, the same way I have always been mighty, mighty happy when I emerge from a small, windowless jail cell, I have always been mighty, mighty happy when the plane safe- ly touches down. Never once in my life have I gone up into any sort of aircraft unless there was palpable good reason — usually getting to a place otherwise not easily accessible via non-aerial modes of transport. The notion of voluntarily going up in a hot-air balloon for no other purpose save going up in a hot-air balloon flat-out did not, and still does not, compute. But, being a professional and all, I showed up at the appointed time, which was literally just as a stunningly beauteous dawn broke upon the Great Plains southeast of Denver. Since it was mid-December, it was a bit on the nippy side, which apparently is optimum for ascension, as cold air is more dense than hot air, and, for reasons that escape me, that physical reality helps the balloon get off the ground and make its way heavenward, until it’s just this little dot that lucky people sitting in their living rooms, sipping hot coffee, can barely see. I would be joining a young (paying) couple that had just tied the knot and were looking upon this journey into the here- after, er, sky, as some sort of marital consummation. The ballooning outfitter my publisher had met at Soapy Smith’s was also the pilot. He was affable enough and evoked a sense of confidence, and, truth be told, once we passed the moon and started making our way toward the outer Solar System, I calmed down a bit and started enjoying the expansive, albeit frigid, view of the Front Range. “Where we headed?” I, being on the journalistic clock and all, queried. “Don’t know,” the pilot responded. “What do you mean?” I squeaked. “I can use the burners to make us go up and down,” he said, “and I have a pretty good eye for where the wind is, but, for the most part, I have absolutely no control over the balloon. We go where Mother Nature takes us.” Ain’t that interesting? After seeming decades aloft, it was finally and thank-godfully time to descend. The just-married couple was cuddling and cooing, the pilot was pointing out various mountains and I was sur- prisingly casually leaning against one of the basket up- rights. Suddenly, the pilot went frantic. He yelled at the top of his lungs for all hands to hold on tight. We were apparently going through some sort of high-speed me- teorological anomaly taking place like 50 feet above the very ground I oh-so-much wanted to be standing safely upon. “I’M NOT KIDDING!!!! HOLD ON TIGHT!!!! AAAAHHHH!!!!” the now-frenzied pilot screamed. I wrapped both arms around the support, very much like Tom Hanks did in ”Cast Away” when his plane was going down (I don’t know about you, but I started paying a lot more attention to those pre-flight safety briefings after watching that movie), and I instantly became a convert to at least seven religions. Seconds later, we crashed into Planet Earth at both a 45-degree angle and at a very uncomfortable rate of speed, and we spent the next almost 400 feet (I paced it off later) getting dragged by the still-partially-inflated balloon, which was now acting like a fully unfurled spinnaker, the muddy turf zooming by just below my contorted face (yes, of course, it was my side of the basket that was closest to the ground). A couple times, just for grins, the balloon pulled the basket back up into the air, just so we could smack down hard and get dragged toward Castle Rock yet again. By the time we finally stopped, the new wife was crying, and the new husband, whose visions of a nookie-laden night were dissipating before his very eyes, was trying mightily, but unsuccessfully, to console her. That marriage was destined for doom. After I wrote the blowjob story for the justifiably long-defunct Denver alternative alternative weekly, I vowed to never ever even ponder the notion of setting foot in a hot-air balloon, which, you would think, would be a fairly easy oath to uphold. Well … The very next year, the editor of a big, glossy outdoor magazine calls me up and asks if I would like to go to the southernmost Appalachians to pen a piece about this outfitter who offers what he advertises as “Adventure Orgies,” wherein clients are taken on a different type of NON-AERIAL recreational pursuit every day for a week (whitewater rafting, climbing, horseback-riding, hiking and, I shit you not, wild-boar hunting and mako-shark fishing). Being the starving writer I was, I said sure. It was once again the very week before Christmas when I landed at Atlanta’s Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport. The plan was for the outfitter, a splendid hom- bre I’ll call Bill Smith, to pick me up, take me to the closest bar, where I would conduct a formal interview over many pitchers of suds, and then drive me to his mountain cabin for the night. The next morning, we were set to go rafting on the famed Chattooga, the very river where some of the whitewater scenes from “Deliverance” were filmed. Verily, one of my raft mates ended up being none other than Billy Redden, who por- trayed the banjo-picking boy in “Deliverance,” though, I learned later, he had not really played the banjo in that region/culture-defining movie; rather, the national eight-year-old banjo champion had slipped his hands through Billy Redden’s coat sleeves and picked the notes that film made famous while Billy Redden stood there with his arms tied to his sides.) “I’ve got great news,” Bill Smith told me as we were driving out of the airport. “I’ve managed to squeeze in one more adventure for you! A buddy of mine has a hot-air balloon, and he’s free this afternoon!” Yey! The first thing I noticed about the man who was go- ing to take me up into the muggy Georgia air was that he seemed crazy as batshit from the get- go. Something about the way he cackled like a crow at his own bad jokes and the way he kept furtively rubbing his hands together, like he was trying to get some- thing nasty off. Because Georgia was ex- periencing an unseasonably warm late fall, there was not enough in the way of vertical-lift-inducing death molecules in the air for Bill Smith, the crazy-as-batshit pilot and yours truly to all go up together. Just as I was about to volunteer to drive the chase car, Bill Smith patted me on the back and, with a bemused gleam in his eye, wished me not bon voyage, but, rather good luck. So, it was just me and the crazy-as-batshit pilot, and, before I could calculate a plan for changing professions, I was airborne, with noth- ing between me and the ground save a wicker basket, some thin balloon mate- rial and one crazy-as-batshit pilot, who, it turned out, thought the best way to amuse his guest was to buzz as many gi- ant Southern hardwood trees as possible while saying things like, “Bet we can take some branches off the next one.” And here I am, holding on for dear life, feeling like Sigourney Weaver in “Aliens,” like, all I had to do was stay back on Earth, and I wouldn’t be here getting chased by deadly, drooling carnivorous creatures yet again. And, of course, just like my fi rst time up in a hot-air balloon, we came down hard — hard enough that I bit my tongue almost clean in two. Then we tipped over so violently that my nose literally hit the dirt. Then, the wind caught the balloon and we got dragged through a field for a couple hundred feet. And that was the best part. Matter of fact, some hours later, just after we were released by several local Southern redneck police offi cers straight out of bubba central casting, I looked back with fondness upon the those relatively pleas- ant moments when we hit the ground with a back-breaking thud and my nose was smacked into the dirt so hard, I had to breathe through my mouth, which was fi lled-to-brimming with spit-laced tongue-wound blood. What happened was this: The fi eld that we thudded down in was home to endless vistas of waist-high dry grass. When we tipped over, the fl amethrow- ers that are part and parcel of every hot- air balloon caught the grass on fi re and that fi re spread fast, far and wide, right before my very eyes. The crazy-as-batshit pilot started freaking and yelling for me to exit the basket and stomp the fi re out. I tried mightily to do just that, but the only thing I managed to do was gouge a seven-inch-long wound into my shin, which dragged on one of the wing nuts holding the basket to the balloon frame. Finally, through no fault of my own, I found myself ejected and lying dazed on my back in a north Georgia fi eld that was pretty much by this point totally ablaze. There would be no stomping this fi re out. The only option was to get up and run, except for the fact that we had a big balloon to deal with. Thing is, it damned sure wasn’t my balloon. Screw the bal- loon, and defi nitely screw the crazy-as- batshit balloon pilot. Just as I was get- ting ready to high-tail it into the woods, a pick-up truck came careening toward us, and, before it came to a complete stop, two very agitated, overall-wearing, large African-American men jumped out and pointed, yes, their double-barrel shot- guns directly at the crazy-as-batshit bal- loon pilot and, more importantly, poor, innocent me. “Y’all ain’t goin’ nowhere,” I was told in no uncertain terms by my per- sonal grammar-challenged gun-bearer as I started eyeballing a potential escape route toward the closest clump of trees, and as those famous banjo notes from “Deliverance” started playing in my head. “We done already called the poe-leece.” I began mentally rehearsing squealing like a pig. So, we stood there, hands up, like we were bring robbed by banditos in an old Western movie, until the poe-leece and the fi re dee-partment arrived about 20 minutes later, sirens blaring. It took more than an hour to douse the fl ames, during which time the two shotgun- bearing African-American men, the poe-leece, several fi refi ghters and the crazy-as-batshit balloon pilot realized that they all knew someone who knew someone else somewhere sometime. If memory serves, there were several more “y’alls,” a few “all y’alls” and maybe even a reference to hominy grits with red-eye gravy. Basically, a meandering, drawl- laden verbal journey through Southern social inbreeding that resulted in the crazy-as-batshit balloon pilot eating a modest-sized bucket of shit and prom- ising to make a sizeable donation to the local poe-leece retirement/drinking fund. We were let go and I, bloody bit tongue, gashed shin and smelling like smoke clear down to my skivvies, was left with Bill Smith to continue upon my adven- ture orgy. Despite the fact that I had related all this to Pedro, he felt more compelled than ever to go forth and procure that $242 romantic two-person, early-morn- ing champagne hot-air balloon ride out- side Albuquerque. It dawned on me later that all of the mishaps I had described, Pedro considered to be plusses. I real- ized that, once he fi nally took Darlene up into the stratosphere, he would be dis- appointed if he did not get to experience a crash landing, setting a fi eld on fi re and having shotguns leveled at him. I wished him all the best. A few days later, Pedro called. Darlene had left him, and he asked, “You want to go ballooning with me, bro? I already got the tickets. After all, this was your idea. Merry Christmas, amigo!” To read the entire unabridged versions of various “Smoke Signals,” as well as a whole lot of other inane bullshit, go to

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