Breck Rescue Blue Monkey 22

Haffiz had been turned completely loose in Colorado.

Traveling solo had always been fun and even therapeutic. Out here there was no one to blame. It’s low-hanging fruit when one is in a close relationship but going about the trail alone, when things go south, there’s only the mirror. And the t.v. screen.

He was in Breckenridge visiting Spud, a close friend of more than fifteen years and an admitted sexual predator. While living an entirely thugish lifestyle in the same South Florida grotto, sewing their sick seeds not one calendar mile, as the crow flies, from Michael Lazlitamos (the jew killer), they endured fresh lessons like unavoidable chaos and sickening trauma.

Spud had just finished the last of the Sierra Nevadas and as a result of his small frame and girlish drinking habits his judgement was now seriously in question. Maybe it was the altitude. Here in the shadow of the Tenmile Range, less blood makes it to the capillaries of the brain, causing it to prune and blacken. “Let’s take the wagon up the mountain and shoot guns,” he muttered while slipping in the mud of the washout. “Don’t worry about a thing. You are in safe hands. This is Breck Rescue Blue Monkey 22.”

“You have ceased to make sense,” Hafiz said, lighting the nectar collector from his chair near the campfire. “What the hell are we shooting at? Old televisions and Heineken bottles?”
Spud threw up a little Tropical IPA and cackled, “Immigrants you sorry Muslem. You’re lucky I don’t start with you. Lest you forget this is Colorado. Liberals have been trying to wrestle this country away from the cowboys since they took it from the Mexicans and Indians but I’d venture to bet they would all likely give me some kind of civilian service medal if I left you in a shallow hole halfway up Methodist Mountain.”
“I dare you. Don’t mistake me for a damned Quinault Indian.” Hafiz cautioned, fingering his sandal for the switchblade.
“Yeehaw.” shrieked Spud. “Tied up with rusted barbed-wire. All tangled to an aspen trunk just below the treeline and left for the elk. They were rutting and hungry. Damned-near picked his bones clean like buffalo shrimp before we bagged a few for sausage gravy. Life is really good.”

Haffiz decided that rather than gut him like a fat mullet, it was time for the morning devotional. A long scratch now ran through the middle of his Out of the Blue by ELO, so that was out. He’d been dabbling in poetry for years and learned that it also, was known to mellow situations that had begun the downward spiral.
He softly read from his notebook;

WHY NOT BE POLITE

Everyone
Is God speaking
Why not be polite and
Listen to
Him?

Spud looked up from the burning lawn chair he’s just slung into the fire.
“Shut your mouth or resend your filthy godless ambitions,” he stuttered as he was clearly beginning to walk with a pronounced limp. His jeans were still stained with blood from last night’s events and his face, which had been utterly pale, was now beginning to turn a shade of bland vanilla.
“Blasphemer! You are a heretic and an idolator and this will not be permitted on my watch,” Hafiz hissed. “I’m not kidding. You can just forget it Hoss. If it were up to me, I’d drag you back to Florida.”

Spud closed one eye so he could clearly see the brown man in front of him. “Never! That place is worse than Attleboro. Here in the womb of the Colorado mountains, I am a king. You’ll have to drag my frozen corpse away from this place.”
He was right, of course. Even the homeless women in Denver were gorgeous. Especially the young birds who lived in the tunnels near Coors Field. The whole of the Centennial State was a hotbed of legal drugs, snow bunnies and ski slopes and Spud was right in its spiraling vortex. He’d been in the pocket for years and his station was only improving. Long into the fireman/rescue/ski-patrol teams, he’d lived like royalty in the vacation hamlet of Breckenridge. Now, he wanted to own property in Salida and learn to play acoustic guitar. Like he wasn’t do well enough for himself. Just plain greedy.

 

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Lessons in bad skiing. Breck. 2017

A post shared by Jason Nail (@nailtravels) on Mar 23, 2017 at 5:18am PDT

Thanks goes out to Breckenridge Ski Resort for the lift tickets and equipment. Visit their website for all your equipment rental needs and check out their social media sites on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and Youtube. Welcome to Breck.
It’s time to carve the pow.

Hafiz had gotten hold of some WiFi slather in Salida and had already gone through a gram of it by the time he reached the ski rental place. His Daytona Dash (Rum and orange juice with a splash of tonic and a lime) was camouflaged in a large coffee cup with an ill fitting lid. The lift ticket and equipment rental was all pro bono in exchange for a little internet publicity so no expenses were going to be spared. The attendant asked if he would like a lesson before hitting the slopes.

“No thanks,” he smugly responded. Being naturally graceful and athletic, we’re going to do this the old fashioned way. The James Bond way. Simple crushage from the get-go”
He found his way into the equipment rental area, surrounded by all manner of what appeared to be, space exploration accoutrements. “What type of skis would you prefer? What kind of rider are you?” the young attendant inquired. She looked very healthy. People on this side of the Mississippi really go a long way in making one feel out of shape. Their hairless, brown legs ripple with calve muscles born from skiing in the winter and bicycling down the same trails in the summer.

Naturally, Hafiz had never stepped a foot in skis, but still his answer came sudden and loud. “Greased and fast is the game today. Gimme the slick skis. Just barely missed the bronze in Sarajevo, but my fastest times are still ahead of me.”
This was, of course, an abomination of the truth and he would likely end up smashed at the base of a fir, waiting on some kind of ski basket to haul him to the nearest trauma center. Blue Monkey 22. Back in the day, Colorado skiers would simply throw themselves into trees just so they could get their red card. Now anyone over the age of twelve could saunter into a weed shop like it was a corner Woolworth’s. Pot was legal and it was en vougue to be a Dead fan. It looked like the hippies were trying to take over yet again.

THE SUBURBS OF GOD

Complaint
Is only possible
While living in the suburbs
Of God.

Spud was already at the brink of unseasoned madness and Haffiiz’s hippy poetry had gently pushed him over the ledge. He went to fetch to his 10 mm pistol out of the wagon, but as he opened the rear door, the immense bottle of Paisano fell out and exploded in the parking lot with a dull pop. He screamed and fell to his knees in the middle of the mat of broken glass and begin lapping up the cheap red wine from the pavement. It looked like a river of blood as the Carlo Rossi streamed down the street and into the rain gutter. His sunken eyes darted back and forth, in search of possible hazards and he licked wine from his beard, which was stained dark red like some kind of deranged cannibal.

Hafiz found Walker, an old kayaking friend from the redneck days on the Gulf of Mexico, at the Nines’ ski lodge and ordered several Banquets before launching toward the slopes. After the incident with the snowboard on this very same mountain, it was fair to say that this was a time for adult caution. His hypothesis regarding the ease or lack thereof of picking up the nuances of snowboarding had been ultimately flawed. This time, he sputtered around for the cameras, tripping and sliding in all manner of uncomfortable directions. There just weren’t enough drugs around to get him back on a ski lift anytime soon.

They left the rented skis outside on the rack and joined a wedding party of drunk Hoosiers at the ski-lodge bar. The rest of the afternoon was spent drinking shots of Snakebite and debating the root of the civil unrest in modern-day Nicaragua. Only millennials in tight jeans would have the naivety to bring up Ronald Regan. Unlikely they’d know about Herbert Hoover or even the Beatles.Tempers began to flare as one of the Hoosiers throttled the bartender for not having a back-up bottle of Yukon Jack and Walker and Haffiz decided they’d enjoyed enough of the slopes. As the afternoon sun drifted behind the mountains to the west, they started back for downtown Breckenridge, with its blinking gift shops and expensive margaritas.

Check out Lessons in Bad Snowboarding, Salida Green Chile Sauce and Free Camping in Buena Vista for more Colorado gibberish. Visit the Kamp Happiness website for more festival fun from the Roanoke Mafioso. Stay tuned to nailtravels as we head north to Purple Hatter’s Ball, the Northwest String Summit Kids and Family Tent and hillbilly fun at LOCKN’.

And I know, it’s my own damn fault.

THE VINTAGE MAN

The
Difference
Between a good artist
And a great one
Is:
The novice
Will often lay down his tool
Or brush
Then pick up the invisible club
On the mind’s table
And helplessly smash the easels and
Jade.
Whereas the vintage man
No longer hurts himself or anyone
And keeps on
Sculpting
Light.