Posts Tagged ‘Basalt’

Editors Note: This letter was initially sent to the two local papers here in the Aspen area, though neither paper chose to publish. The issue in question is whether our small community should or should not vote to approve the taxes to fund a killer new rec center, which I believe is sorely needed in our “mid-valley” area. 

Don’t Believe the Greedy: Working Class Residents of the Mid-Valley Need the Crown Mountain Recreation Center

Bro’s and dudettes,
It is with fierce urgencyness that I write to the editors of this steamed journalistic endeavor in high hopes that my personal evacuations can be spiked into the public record.

Rockers, I urge you all to get your reps in like big dogs and vote often to pass Measurables 4C and 4D and let the mid-valley finally have the sweat factory it needs and deserves. It’s time to stop the bitching and start the lifting you Sally’s!

That wet, white stuff is falling again, and with it I find myself seeking an indoor place to push some iron, shoot some hoops, and make some waves. The prob is, to do so, we working-class mid-valleyerianites have to travel from here to Muscle Beach and back just to use the sweet facilities that our bro-munities have built for themselves. That’s a lot of time on the roads, bros!  We loc’s need the Crown Mountain Recreation Center to get our groove on here in our own burly neck of the woods without wasting all of that fuel and GTL time getting to the rack and back.

Call me kooky, but it seems to me that the greedy yup’s writing to the paper to complain about having to pay $2000 per year extra on their property taxes either made that number up, did the math wrong (what with the published $60 per year per $100,000 of appraised home value proposed as funding for the killer new gym) or, if I did their math right, have houses worth millions and maybe not oughta complain about not being able to pay for their kids’ schoolitation. Like, maybe have the kid get a job at the Rec, yo? That should help get their college fund AND their bod’s pumped up!

We regular Joe Old Snowmastadons, Basaltines, Emmaites, and El Jebelinarians have suffered enough from the migratory greed that has flowed DV ever since The Crippler got 86’ed. Give us and our kids a spot and let’s pass these Measurements and build this prime slice of radness so that we can reach our maxes here at home in the MV!


C. Madison Anderson

Emma, CO



“Leave all the afternoon for exercise and recreation, which are as necessary as reading. I will rather say more necessary because health is worth more than learning.” – Thomas Jefferson


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Stoveside, Emmacabina

I’ve gone native, given into the wild nature of the surrounding mountains. My hair grows in strange shoots and uneven chunks. A course beard stands defiantly away from my jaw. A brushy mustache has outgrown its banks and now curls east and west towards my ears, respectively (or not). Every passing day sees my visage grow woolier and more feral than the previous one.

Glory be and hall-e-lu-ya! It is the first positive grown that my person has seen in a rack of moons. And why not? There is no suit that can fit my form of spartan employment these days. This is the face of Offseason, Colorado.

I am, for all intents and porpoises, cabin bound. The ancient pine timbers that frame my dreams draw out my formerly recessed follicles and harrow my shorn cheeks like wooden magnets in the chilly November nights. Every morning I awake to find that my head has sprouted anew, seemingly in every direction at once.

This new wool is my winter coat – a self-defense mechanism triggered by the plunging temperatures and stout winds that sweep down from the Arctic. To NOT humor my Neanderthallian instincts would be to invite frostbite, mange, and other forms of cellular petulance. This new, old look has done wonders for me in ways other than just serving to preserve my threatened pores: Babies and other young children people run from me upon first sight, saving my weekends for more important things than baby-sitting duty, for which we seem to have been tabbed for increasing increments.

Bill collectors flee as well. They must sense my humorously “fierce” appearance over the phone, for it seems that the bastards have resorted to using robots programmed to call me at all hours rather than risk a human agents’ professional sensibilities by allowing their ear to be accosted by someone who would allow a mug as handsome as mine to moss over so incongruously,

It’s OK, though. As of tomorrow, they’ll shut my phone off for non-payment. That’ll teach the greedy dicks to call me for their money….

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1195437989469106298liftarn_Police_brutality.svg.hi*Note, this letter is in response to a recent story about a tussle between a drinker and a cop at a bar in Basalt, Colorado. The story, by Scott Condon, can be found here:


(all references to AK-47, Sev, and Bruno come from a story several years ago, when a customer took offense to the 7-11 clerks Border Patrol cap and fired into the store later on. Luckily, no one was hit.)


Regarding recent Bistro belligerence, it seems to me that we have a situation that further shows the town of Basalt to actually be a fairly calm, mellow place, give or take an occasional AK-47 attack on the Sev.

For example, here in the Central Valley of California, where I have somehow washed up as some tide-spat economic detritus, the 5-0 (cops, in Colorado-speak) would never come into a bar without a prison riot squad leading the way, and for good reason.

The Sureno’s and Norteno’s have displaced the Crips and Bloods as the Gang de Jour out here, and they’ve set up shop at every dingy speak easy from Gilroy to Paso Robles. The other night I went to play bingo at my neighborhood pub, Mortimer’s, and witnessed no less than twenty felony acts of hooliganism, including the unfortunate rape of an innocent artichoke.

Here, the heat knows that the concept of community policing went out the door the minute that teenager’s started turning up shot through with more holes than the Bronco’s D-line. The gangs here are sadists, unreasonable killers of man who would just as soon wave to a cop walking through his bar as he would shoot him, and everyone else in it.

So be glad, Basalt. Be glad that your cops ride bikes and wear slacks and not tactical battle armor to do their mellow rounds. Old Lou down at the Colorado gate can tackle the highway trash with his tanks and artillery platoons. But beware the creep of these southern gangs. They make the fool who took offense to Bruno’s truck stop Border Patrol hat look like the Gang Who Couldn’t Shoot Straight.

And for you, Guy Who Sat at the Bar Howling at the Cops About Some Rancid Old Beef: Bravo! It is a free country yet, and there is no better box from which to lather your deepest protestations than a barstool… Especially one with hot trout nearby. (Which, by the way, as this gent proved, also serves as your last anchor in times of real trouble. Never give up your stool freely – even if the brutes are smacking hell out of your weary armpits)

Corby Anderson
Marina, California

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