Budweiser

(Just thinking while drinking)

In some parts of the Mid West
grits are considered a vegetable
more than an average sidedish
covered in cheese
even
to compliment the plate-sized steak
that
is slightly more pink
than the charcoal
on the grill
there are lines and lines of people with heavy platters of flesh hanging over the stools at the Chuck-a-Rama all-you-can-eat buffet in Little Rock, Arkansas
Mrs. Clinton stops by for a photo op with "America today" and talks at length
about universal health care
A man is choking on a bit of all-American meat and potatoes
or grits
he desparately reaches for the that red and white bottle
his wife pounds his back and screams
"Save my baby! Save my baby!"

The hospital won't get paid

A private jet lands in Aspen
the insurance executives hail a cab to find their accomodations
downtown
penthouse
$5,000 a night

Baby isn't going to make it

His woman (we just assumed she was his wife) wails in the emergency room
"Why? Why? Why?"

The ER doc shakes his weary head
simultainiously, in another more animated reality,
one with glitter and gold,
the executives
reach for their complementary bottle of Dom Perignon
summer sausage
and cheese



Living high on the hog


dying like dogs

choking on inequality
poor food choices

reaching for
the King of Beers
to wash it all down

drawn in half

Throw me a line
I'm still sinking

Thinking,
"Did I ever leave?"

Because I am a thousand miles away

still feeling
the water
whipping my face
from the back of that wave
as I watched you disappear

smaller and smaller

the sun on my skin
precious poison

tasting the salt
under another rainbow

still swimming
pretending to hold on
to this tiny piece of foam
to preserve
this life...

that one, actually

gazing out to the horizon
waiting
for one last wave

but it's never enough

Speaking in tongues

Speaking in tongues

I can't understand
I can't hear

I speak

instead

with my
tongue
in your mouth

Comprende?

Pulling in deep

Once again, I believe life
can be compared to a ride
on a gorgeous
breaking wave

a vertical face

THE DROP

the speed
the balance
the fear
the excitement
the thrill of it

Don't forget to breathe!

Open your eyes!

It's over so quick


It evaporates

Then it is rain

We live again

The stunning reality

What you believe you manifest:

I am able

I am rare and exquisite.

I am taller than you

I am a believer

Yes, you can, but will you?

Once all the confetti settles, the yard signs are recycled and the Conservatives are tucked snugly in their beds, Obama will be president.
Things will be the same as they were, or a little different, for most people.
Except for me, that is.
I will be sitting at a Carbondale Town Council meeting at 10:30 p.m. with a packet of papers in front of me as thick as the New York Times on Sunday and a self-proclaimed do-good developer with a vein popping out of his forehead pushing for just four more feet and five more units wondering why I am not playing hockey and drinking beer.
You see, I almost got swept up in election madness and thought I should get involved in politics. It was so exciting; I was giddy. I was part of the process last week at the Carbondale Democratic Caucuses.
I got to vote.
And it felt good for once.
"Yes we can," I was thinking as I raised my hand for Obama,
"Yes We Can!"
And then, at that vulnerable moment, just guess who (I’m not going to out her) said to me and every young, impressionable person with a pulse around, "We need some younger people to run for the town council. It is up to you! There are four seats open!"
Well, young impressionable number one just had a kid and has two jobs and just can’t do it. Number two had a similar story relating that "Scott Chaplin was right. No young person around here can afford to take on what is equivalent to a part time job with little compensation. I can’t even afford to live here as it is," he said.
Then me, (I was number three), "I’d love to... but, I’m really, really busy on Tuesdays. Usually playing hockey and drinking beer."
I said that kind of as a joke, but not really. It has actually been suggested to me on more than one occasion that I consider running for town council because, one, there are four seats up, and two, it seems like a bunch of people think it’s important for the board to somewhat represent the Carbondale community. And, while I am tan, I am not Hispanic, so I can’t help there, but, what I am, still (thank God), is young.
What I have proven, through my stint as a Valley Journal reporter, is that I can (Yes, I CAN!) sit through hours and hours of town council meetings, stay awake, take notes and write a summary of the important parts. And I live in town. So, voila! I am a qualified candidate.
Why is it that I, or the many other way-more-qualified-than-me young people of Carbondale, am not running right over to town hall to get the petition and gather the 25 qualified signature to run?
The answer is simple, time.
It takes more than one job and more than one income to afford to live in Carbondale. So, Scott was right when he said affordable housing in some form or another has got to be a high priority for Carbondale and any town like it.
I work (or ski) all the time (yes, teaching yoga is ‘work’). My husband Spencer works (or skis) all the time. We neglect our pets. If we had kids, we would likely neglect them, too. And we neglect each other, rarely spending our "free" time together because we have so much other stuff to do, like clean the house or install a new front door. Woo-hoo! And then, at the end of the season, when we do have time, guess what? Were not going to just hang out in Carbondale (as decidedly hip as it is.) We’re going south, far south, where the politics and mud of small town living and springtime is nothing but a whisper on the wind as we drink ourselves silly, surf, sun, and make up for lost sex.
So, while it is tempting to get involved, especially after a contagious caucus, the reality is, most of the young set wants to be young. We want to party and play when were not working to pay the bills for all these thrills.

But, if I was running for council my campaign would be "Keep Carbondale weird." I would want a slate of candidates so the four of us could ensure the weirdness for the future generations. I already asked my husband if he would run with me, thinking that if we both got elected it would eliminate one of the problems I would face on getting elected on my own and taken away from him on yet another night. But, he declined. "I’m waaaaay too busy," he said. Figures.

If I were to run for town council, which I’m not, I would also make it an absolute priority to finish what we have started. Yeah, yeah, yeah, every candidate says that, I know. It’s almost like Obama getting all this milage out of "change".
Are people really buying that? I sure hope so.
My goal (not that I would come in with an agenda or anything) would be to somehow fix the entrance to Carbondale. When I was working at the Valley Journal, I came across an article from 1982 that was all about how the town had plans to buy the property at the Highway 133/Highway 82 intersection to make an inviting entrance to town. That was 26 years ago and as far as I can tell, the entrance is still pretty uninviting. Then, a few years ago, a citizen group got all excited about building a river park out there including some kayaking features. The town spent almost $100,000 on studying the feasibility of the whitewater features, and even went so far as to draw all these amazing connecting trails and picnic tables and the like, but they forgot one small detail. The town doesn’t own the land. Duh.
So, whoever gets elected to the town council, whether you’re weird or not, rich, white, old or young, please, please, please, do something about the entrance to town. And do something about Highway 133 through town. I want to turn left out of Dos Gringos without my life flashing in front of me. Do it before 2040 when I am rich and retired and thinking it just might be my time to sit on the board. I’m sure by then there will be much bigger issues to deal with, like where are all of us old geezers supposed to live, and who is going to take care of us now that we have no social security.
I guess I better get back to work.

Mayonnaise, oil, lotion, sweat: Life, lubricated

BY: Gina "Greasy-o" Guarascio

Mayonnaise.
It was a creamy white concoction I knew I should stay away from, but the fries glistened with grease and called out for more, so I dipped. Mayonnaise mixed with roasted garlic, rosemary and then some ketchup, it was just about the best thing I’ve ever tasted. Accompanying this marvelous mayo, was a masterpiece of meat (local meat), a yummy soft bun, (no doubt organic), and some kind of fried mushrooms and onions crispy and caramelized on top. Dipped in mayo, this mound of meat was just about the best thing this mouth has ever tasted, compliments of the local kitchen, Restaurant Six89. Talking about "the local kitchen" it has been said that the new restaurant downtown, ella, which calls itself "the local kitchen", has the best burger in town. Now, I have had a chance to sample both (I called it a work assignment, seeing as I decided to write about mayonnaise. Next, I will assign myself the breaking story, "who has the best dessert"), and both are praiseworthy for sure. They are made with locally raised beef, and puffy, fluffy white buns. And, similar to any handsome man with the same qualities (local beef and fluffy buns), they both leave you immensely satisfied, but eventually heavy hearted.
(When one writes about Mayonnaise, it must be noted, that when traveling south of the border, Mayonnaise is the ultimate "go with everything" condiment. Latinos love the mayo so that there is even a song about it, aptly called "La Mayonaisa". When thinking about cultural integration in Carbondale, perhaps we need to look no further than the Miracle Whip.)
Oil.
Acting bitchier than my anxious border collie on the now-anxious mailman, I thought to myself, "I gotta eat!" It had been at least eight hours and four massages (given, not received) since I had ingested calories and I felt I was beginning to cannibalize myself. And I know from past experiences, when you starve yourself, your body doesn’t start by eating up the excess fat in the thighs and tummy, it goes right for the boobs. And that’s something I just can’t afford to lose. So I’m at the Snowmass Mall, about to drive home in a snowstorm, again (Epic!), and my boobs are shrinking. I look left, I look right... Behold! Taste of Philly, Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory and The Daly Bottle Shop (liquor) all within about ten steps. Eureka! Warm-looking foreign people looked at my shallow eyes, my sinking chest, and offer to help me. "I’ll take a Philly cheese steak please... Yes, I want the foot-and-a-half long one," I say. The senor in the back throws some peppers, onions, garlic and meat on the extra long skillet and then pours about a quart of oil out of a pitcher onto the vegetables and meat I will momentarily ingest. OIL, Mmmm. Then off I was to the chocolate factory for a caramel apple imbedded with peanuts like a Bagdad reporter in a tank or the trenches, (going for at least a B-cup in the chest here), and then for a bit of grog to wash it all down just one more short shop away. What a gastrointestinal goldmine up there! I felt like I was on vacation for just a second, smiling at all the tourists with apples stuck in their mouths like pigs ready to roast, browsing the 50% off $50 faux fleece frumpy wear, thinking I might look cool in a "Snowmass Rules, Vail Drools" T-shirt... but then, wistfully, driving away from all that mall magic with only a foot-and-a-half hot steak to keep me warm on that long lonely highway home.
Lotion.
Naked bodies are my business. I’m always ready to spread the love. So far I’ve gone through almost a gallon jug of massage lotion this season. That’s a lot of lubrication. It slides and glides so easily over those worn and torn bodies. They come from all over the world, they absorb my cream as if in a dream, letting go of stress and steam. If only they could add some mayonnaise to their days... there could be nothing better than a rub and some grub. A little motion and some lotion (maybe some mayo) is all it takes to make the world a better place, I’ve found. Food for thought, you don’t have to be a certified massage therapist to give someone a rub. It’s a nice thing to do, just set you intentions straight (what I mean here is, don’t do it just to get laid, guys), get some kind of lotion and give someone you like some love.
Sweat.
It’s a 90 minute beginning Hatha yoga class that I teach or take every day in a room heated to about 105 degrees, humidity lingering around 40%. Everyday, I am surrounded by sweat. It drips on the floor and makes my yoga mat go "squish". If it’s a really good hot class, people fling it on the mirror, inadvertently, as they stretch, equal and simultaneously, in the Triangle or Bow Pulling Pose. Some people say, "Ewww, that’s so gross." I say, "Yes! I love sweat dripping down my nose, into my clothes, and onto the floor all of my days. Hey looky there, I think I see some mayonnaise."

Sometimes words don’t always slide right in to place. Sometimes you eat too much, drive too fast and drip oil on your favorite coat. Sometimes you sweat when you don’t want to. Life is funny that way, but you just keep on sliding by, whether it’s on the road, on the snow, in the classroom, the office or right at home. When life is lubricated, you’ve just got to go with the flow.