Make it a reality

Whenever I hear the words ‘fiscal cliff’ I get annoyed. Congressmen claiming to be worried about the looming financial disaster while voting to give themselves a pay raise, how politypical (new word: political + typical. As in, we’ve come to expect being screwed by these clowns.) It feels like paragliding with a bunch of old white guys in suits who are slowly lowering themselves to the ground with their golden parachutes, and all the while we have to listen to them shout out in alarm that the ground is getting closer.

F.y.i. Congress, most of us already went over the cliff a few years ago and we are now living down here at the bottom… Don’t worry; life isn’t so bad at the bottom of the cliff. I mean, we still have cleanish air and water, when we have water, and we still have television. More reality shows than reality, i.e., real news, but it’s all good. Well, except when the news is even about the reality shows, then it starts to feel like we’re living in an Orwellian mini-series.

I have to admit it, I love me some Honey Boo Boo Child. Normally I would never recommend a reality show; I still think it’s worth it to pay writers, actors and directors to entertain us. And if I have to choose between watching Honey Boo Boo or re-runs of Cheers there’s no contest. But there is something about Honey (and her sisters, Punkin and Chubs) that keeps me watching, usually with my eyebrows slightly raised and my mouth open. I swear she is a film star from the 1940s reincarnated. Or maybe it’s that whole Scottish-clan-to-Appalachian-hillbilly connection, I don’t know. Deep down, let’s face it, Americans love an outlaw.

Speaking of hillbilly connections, our local county election played out like an old western where the inner ring of gambling & drinking salooners turns out to be the local law enforcement. We re-elected these guys even after that secret, seedy rendezvous in Utah? I’ve been meaning to call up Mr. Martin and Mr. Samson to ask them when they will officially go on the record as standing with the Thompson Divide Coalition and against fracking up our water supply. Well, that and I also want to know if the Holiday Inn in Vernal has mini friges in the rooms… But I’ve been busy with the “silly season” –Mojo Nixon, and so I haven’t had time to spend my two cents.

I’m pretty sure the commissioners already know that their constituents do not want to see fracking trucks driving along our locals highways while we watch from the windows of our brand new cancer center. And I’m sure they know that we don’t want to trade our grass-fed beef and clean water for contaminated soil and water that catches on fire. Or maybe they don’t… In that case, we’ll just have to secede from Garfield County and start our own. Fender County has a nice ring to it, or Cerise County— I like the sound of that, especially the false-positive alliteration, or whatever it’s called.

It’ll be Carbondale and Redstone, including the Crystal valley up to Marble, Missouri Heights, Aspen Glen, and of course, Satank— or ‘The Tank’ as it is affectionately known to its revolutionary residents. (Basalt can come too if they want to leave that whole Garfield-Eagle-Pitkin mess behind them.) With a clean slate we’ll protect the Thompson Divide, keep our air and water quality intact, and our law enforcement, headed up by sheriff Mustang Molly, will not use any gas-powered vehicles: only horses, bicycles or segways— with county issued helmets and goggles, of course.

We’ll be the bee’s knees; an oasis in the midst of oil and gas pads. Our M.O. will be clean energy and independence, as evidenced by our hybrid Subarus with gun and ski racks, and we’ll make our money on the backs of tourists and potheads— both gullible and amiable targets, I might point out. We’ll do what we want and have a good time doing it, just like Honey Boo Boo. After all, better to make our own reality than to watch someone else’s played out right in front of our eyes.