Journal

Apparently, I have a doppelganger. And no, it’s not my sister. Years ago, before my younger sister moved back to town, I would get random questions like, “Why didn’t you wave back at me?!” Or “Hey, when did you start working at NAPA?” And recently, a friend told me she was calling my name across the street, but I wouldn’t respond. When she approached, she realized it wasn’t the real me. My friend said this woman is shorter, but otherwise a dead ringer.

I am curious, and I hope to meet the other me someday, but I have to admit I don’t really believe she looks exactly like me. I mean, we all want to feel recognized for our individuality, singled out in a crowd and really seen, valued. A funny paradox of human existence is that we each want to be unique, yet our herd mentality is what keeps us alive.

This is Trump’s specialty. Although I believe him to be a charlatan savant, he makes a lot of people feel important, as though he will protect them: protect them from the immigrants, protect them from the gays, protect them from all the single ladies… But the problem is, he says he’ll protect them from the majority of us, and the majority of us are Dunkin; we keep this country running.

California’s gdp is the fourth largest in the world. Not the country, the world. So, without California (and New York, Illinois, etc., i.e., all the democratically minded states) this country will not function, much less be great. The southeast, while beautiful and delicious with mad grace in hospitality, cannot afford to pay the bills. And without income tax from the “blue states” our federal government quickly becomes impotent. It won’t matter how many proud boys want to mask up and kidnap their fellow Americans, if We, The People of these United States decide to stand together. The power of our country lies in our constitution and our unity.

Allowing ourselves to be splintered is how we are defeated. -Naomi Klein

But if we have to separate, then I vote for an Irish democracy; all the states decide for themselves which federal laws to follow and which to ignore. Just like marijuana is illegal on a national level, yet completely legal in progressive states— you know, states that like to use tax revenue to pay for healthcare and education.

It’s simply a choice between having the American dream and sharing it with people who don’t look/sound/act like you or living in a restricted Stepford state with nothing but the peanuts your climate can produce. Look, I understand the need to feel safe and secure in our own country but turning on the people who pick all the lettuce every day instead of going after these billionaire cronies who avoid paying their taxes is self-sabotage. And the fact that this is why we are ready to end the democratic experiment, formerly known as the United States of America, is pathetic.

At least an Irish democracy will be more peaceful than a civil war involving A.I. Sure, there will still be pain and suffering, and I feel for the children born in “red states” through no fault of their own. Don’t kid yourself, if these United States do splinter and fracture, it’ll be much harder on the children born to people who don’t believe in background check requirements for gun sales. Especially if the progressive states stop subsidizing them. The southeastern states will feel more like a developing country: good food and crazy weather with an unpredictable political climate and piss-poor medical care.

It’ll be a horrid doppelganger situation— which is a great read by the way! In Doppelganger: A Trip into the Mirror World, Naomi Klein does a good job of explaining what has happened to US. Two worlds in one country, fighting each other over what, exactly? Whether or not the children can share a bathroom while they hide from the school shooter…

If you consider yourself a Republican, and a good, upstanding citizen at that, then I am begging you to think of the next generation and take a stand against Trump’s fascist regime. We’ve had enough.

This life is crazy: full of beauty and wonder, but with a dark and dirty underside. The enaction of Project 2025 has us sliding down a hill as steep as any slope on Aspen Mountain, right towards fascism. Before the Heritage Foundation took hold of our government by the short hairs, the old rats-in-a-cage analogy could explain many of our major crises. (Speaking of rats, did you know there are more humans than rats on the planet today? Yep, due to a lack of pirates, I suppose, and lack of access to birth control, we outnumber the little guys by about a billion. Gross, I know.)

I honestly don’t know if there’s a grand plan for resolution to all the obstacles we face, or if life is just random violence and procreation by mammals floating around in space. And I know I don’t want to know how far and wide the sexual predator quagmire goes… Some of us plucked all the eyelashes out of our dolls in the bathtub, and some of them fucked children. Whether or not Trump is a pedophile is moot at this point. He was aware of what was happening at Epstein’s parties, and he did nothing to stop it.

The Republican party has, in a rather short time, jumped off the cliff of moral high ground, sliding fast and furious into a deep crevice of child abuse. They are now the party prosecuting children in court without legal representation, and starving children to death in Gaza. Obviously, their top donors comprise Epstein’s list of clients, otherwise they would release the files. When Congress went on vacation early to avoid the whole fiasco, I also toyed with the idea of taking a month off. I could’ve just re-released my own Epstein file from eight years ago.

In 2017 I wrote a column about Epstein’s parties, where underage girls and boys were brought in as entertainment, alongside top-notch drugs and top-shelf liquors. Trump’s association with Epstein was in the news even back then, as was Leslie Wexner’s and a whole bunch of other old men trying to fuck themselves young again. Is it the innocence of youth they are chasing, or the act of taking another being’s innocence away that excites them? Sick puppies, either way, and a fair chance that Jeffrey Epstein was abused as a child.

My own childhood was a little more Little House on the Prairie. There was a Jill Epstein who lived on Twining Flats Road, the same road where I lived during my doll-torture phase. She was arrested and hung herself with an extension cord in Pitkin County Jail. The same year Epstein ‘hung himself’ in jail in New York, but I think her death actually was a suicide. Even though they were both from New York, Chat gpt says: no relation. Just a coincidence? Yes, that’s what it’s called.

However, the world (especially the Roaring Fork valley?) seems to be full of them. Big and small, dark and light: coincidence plays a part in all our connections. Just like the flip of a coin: fate, luck, or a headhunter in the afterlife determines where we’re born, our access to life’s necessities and privileges, and ultimately, whether or not we feel worthy of all the love.

I recently attended the celebration of life for a fellow native of the Roaring Fork valley who led a life of prosperity and joy. This was the first time I read The Optimist Creed, and this! is the world I want for all of us:

Promise Yourself… To be so strong that nothing can disturb your peace of mind.

To talk health, happiness, and prosperity to every person you meet.

To make all your friends feel that there is something in them.

To look at the sunny side of everything and make your optimism come true.

To think only of the best, to work only for the best, and to expect only the best.

To be just as enthusiastic about the success of others as you are about your own.

To forget the mistakes of the past and press on to the greater achievements of the future.

To wear a cheerful countenance at all times and give every living creature you meet a smile.

To give so much time to the improvement of yourself that you have no time to criticize others.

To be too large for worry, too noble for anger, too strong for fear, and too happy to permit the presence of trouble.

To think well of yourself and to proclaim this fact to the world, not in loud words, but in great deeds.

To live in the faith that the whole world is on your side, so long as you are true to the best that is in you.” ― Christian D. Larson

2005 – Editor’s note: New columnist debuts in VJ

The Valley Journal debuts a new columnist this week, adding to our slate of local voices and divergent viewpoints.

Roaring Fork Valley native Jeannie Perry’s “Ps & Qs” will appear monthly in the VJ.

Jeannie was born in Aspen and grew up in the valley— part of the Perry ranching family— before moving to the Front Range… She returned after a spell a few years ago and now calls Carbondale home.

She brings a unique, slightly left of center perspective, coupled with an amusing sense of humor, not only on life in the Valley, but on life and politics outside the Valley as well.

We hope you enjoy Jeannie’s observations, and don’t forget to mind your “Ps & Qs.”

That was twenty years ago this month! My, how time flies when we’re having fun. And we are, right?! Still having fun, that is. I am so grateful for my community and all that it offers— to old locals and new bonedalers alike. Carbondale is a great place to call home.

I’m especially appreciative of all my editors over the last twenty years (and two newspapers): John Stroud, Trina Ortega, Terray Sylvester, Lynn Burton, Will Grandbois, Raleigh Burleigh, James Steindler. Sincerely, thank you all for proofing my myriad rants without stifling my voice. It must’ve felt a bit like being a bronc rider, just trying to stay on for 8 seconds.

My grandfather loved to rope and ride. Bob and Ditty lived just south of town on the Mt Sopris Ranch and when I started writing Ps & Qs, they would read it each month with anticipation (apprehension?) I’d go over to the ranch to hear what they both thought of my latest musings, and Ditty always had yellow highlights all over the page— several points she wanted to discuss. Once, I walked in and she had a black eye from a recent fall.

“Oh, my gods! What happened?!” I exclaimed.

Bob was quick to reply, “Same thing that’s gonna happen to you, you keep writing those articles.” He had a kidding sense of humor with a dry delivery.

Bob and Ditty lived and ranched here for over sixty years. Back in the good ole days you could stop your truck in the middle of Main Street to roll down the window and catch up… The Nugget was full of miners and RVR was empty land. A lot has changed in twenty years in Carbondale, but not the suicide lane on Hwy 133.

Recently my neighbor was pulled over by a Carbondale police officer for using the middle lane to make a left turn from Dolores Way. If they’re going to suddenly start enforcing the ordinance, then we’re going to need another entrance/exit to Satank. Here are a few viable options:

1) Install a roundabout at Hwy 133/Dolores/Chester’s Chicken Shack (or whatever the nickname of that new restaurant ends up being…)

2) Move a boulder at RFTA’s park & ride and let us use the Village Road light.

3) Install a gate at the pink bridge on Satank’s Lower West Side— although it could be even more dangerous trying to access Hwy 82 from Satank Road than it is trying to turn left from Dolores Way.

Anyway, the powers that be (CDOT, Town of Carbondale, Garfield County, RFTA) should probably get up to some good bureaucratic trouble and reopen this box of Pandora’s. Especially because the traffic and parking on Dolores is ridiculous. Back when the P&Z decided this would be a good place for multiplex residential mixed with “light industrial” behind a RFTA park & ride, I wish they had considered the fact that everyone in Carbondale has a car, and with all the roadway parking, there is not enough room for semi-trucks to unload or turn around. Traffic frequently backs up on our only access road: Dolores Way.

As I sit in my car waiting for the road to clear, I stare at Mount Sopris and remember my grandparents sitting at their dining table reading the paper— Ditty’s yellow highlighter on the Lazy Susan, all ready to go.

Thank you for reading! And don’t forget to mind your Ps & Qs.

When I was a kid, you could buy a house in Aspen for about $300k and I remember when my parents sold our house on Twining Flats Road in 1979 for $179,000. Fast forward twenty years to Carbondale in 2000, when the first house on your right as you entered Satank was for sale for about $300k. Today, both of those properties are worth millions of dollars and $300k is the real estate value of a lot in the Mountain Valley Mobile Home Park.

In case you haven’t heard, the Mountain Valley Mobile Home Park (behind the diner on Hwy 133) is for sale. There is already an offer for 15+ million dollars, but the residents have started the process of becoming a Resident Owned Community (ROC.) Thistle Community Housing is involved, and I was thinking Habitat for Humanity should chip in— if nothing else, to save themselves the time and expense of building 64 new homes for all the working families who could be displaced.

People who don’t work from home are continuously being run down the valley, forced into longer and longer commutes. As we all learned during the pandemic, without the people who transport and stock our groceries, cook and serve our favorite foods out, or respond early to our emergencies, we won’t have a community. And without affordable housing for the people who work in the insatiable tourism industry upvalley, Carbondale could become the Simone to Aspen’s Kiki (the scary monster-boss in Sirens.) In fact, the endless traffic on Hwy 133 makes me wonder if we are already past the point of no return.

I am grateful it took so long for Carbondale’s real estate market to flare up like the Crepes Suzette it is today. When I was younger, dessert was the Barmuda Triangle: the Pour House, the old Ship of Fools, and the Nugget; perched on our barstools, we ate peanuts and threw the shells on the floor while watching full-moon bike riders go right through the bar.

Nowadays we have fancy shops and restaurants downtown, but with fewer and fewer of us who work there. And we have the added stress of watching out for ICE agents who are kidnapping people and hauling them off to a detention center— or worse: out of the country without constitutional due process. Has anyone looked into who is profiting from building all these detention centers? If we follow the money, I bet we’ll find the true villain behind dear old yam tits’ deportations.

Ah, Trump: the man, the myth, the legend… Of all the used country salesmen in the world, we got the one who can’t even string a coherent sentence together. The man who thinks habeas corpus is Spanish for, “I do what I want.” The deception that his administration is trying to pull on the American people is horrific, and it’s affecting Main Street, America. Taking from the working class to give bigger tax breaks to billionaire corporations? That’s the plan to make this a great place to live?! It’s like a dark and dystopian (redundant, I know) alternate reality Robin Hood. What is the opposite of philanthropy? Oh yeah, good old-fashioned greed.

Don’t they realize that without the rest of us, they’ll just be sitting around waiting for someone to get them a glass of water? There won’t be anyone to clean their house, maintain their property, or keep it from burning to the ground during the next wildfire. It feels like we are all watching Trump light the fuse on a national catastrophe. Honestly, some nights all I can do is make a drink and watch the movie Protocol with Goldie Hawn again— scarily relevant 41 years later!

What do they say? The more things change, the more they stay the same. And if I had a dollar for every time someone in this valley said “affordable housing” while demolishing a trailer park… Well, I could buy the Mountain Valley Park myself. Honestly, I can’t imagine a better way to spend my retirement than keeping the feeling of community in Carbondale by preserving 64 affordable homes at the entrance of our town.

Please support the MVMHP gofundme.

Watching this administration barge their way through the days, weeks, months! is taking a toll on my nervous system. I strive for equanimity, but it’s like someone brought their toddler into the air traffic control tower and then went out for a pack of smokes. For those of you born after the seventies, that is code for never came back. And smokes are the things we all used to inhale before vaping came along. I feel like Lloyd Bridges’ character in Airplane, “Looks like I picked the wrong week to quit sniffing glue.”
But instead of taking up smoking or huffing, I’ve been calling my senators and representatives regularly concerning the state of our union. Boy, there sure are a lot of cowards for a Congress this size. I mean, we are going to try to remain the United States of America, right? Because if not, I’ll stop wasting my time and just go about my merry way on the obvious path to tyranny and empty grocery store shelves.
I really hope that somewhere, in a closed-door room with no social media, (wink, wink, nudge, nudge, Pete Hegseth) there are some brave Congress members sitting around a table with some high-ranking military officers who take their oath seriously to protect this country from terrorists both foreign and domestic, all plotting the course for survival of these united states. And I really hope they will feel the need to act before Trump marches us into a world war.
I know that Big War is our #1 industry— smirking at Big Oil & Gas and Big Pharma as it slowly tank-rolls its ginormous girth towards the finish line, but if Big War wins, won’t we all lose? And forgive my ignorance, but do we really want a draft dodger leading the charge? Which begs another question, why wasn’t Trump on the Signal chat to start bombing Yemen? Is it because he has dementia?
He’s like a Chatty Cathy doll with a low battery, just standing where they tell him and spewing fraudulent nonsense. I’ll admit, it is interesting to watch the nuances of dementia play out on a malignant narcissist. Someone should study Trump’s brain as the ultimate example of a Glamour Don’t for living your best life. But it does make me wonder, who is actually running this shitshow?
Let’s take a peek at the top three contenders: Steven Miller, Peter Thiel, and Pete Hegseth— Ha! Totally kidding. That guy’s having the ride of his life.
“When Pete Hegseth sobers up he’ll be surprised to learn he was defense secretary.” -jasonselvig
Stephen Miller is such an American same-old-story that it’s hard to find anything significant. Descended from emigrating ancestors, who were fleeing persecution and striving for a better life, he grew up to be a person who takes that opportunity away from countless others. The kind of boring bigoted arrogance that usually stems from self-loathing— and not the zany Hunter S. Thompson kind.
Peter Thiel, an immigrant himself, is an innovative thinker with a mathematical brain and a Dungeons and Dragons childhood (I know, say no more) who has apparently embraced the Dark Side, emulating a Sith Lord by hiding in the shadows to accomplish his goals. He is less known by the public, but with a corporal punishment upbringing and friends like Ann Coulter, we can assume an ominous lack of self-love there.
These guys are like gingerbread men if the gingerbread was made of prejudice and hate. The world can be a harsh place, and these boys grew up to treat others as they were treated, instead of breaking the cycle to treat everyone equally. Self-awareness often leads to a very good place of acceptance and forgiveness, but some get lost and end up stuck in a mirrored funhouse of distrust and retribution.
It’s entirely possible someone in that diabolical chat group caught a glimpse of their inner-Jedi and added a journalist to the thread so that the world would know what these chuckleheads are up to. Either that, or they just really are incompetent. Either way, it’s time to call their parents because these emotional toddlers are running amok in the control tower of our country.

With all the talk about gangs of criminals at the southern U.S. border, I wanted to see for myself what was going on. Trumpublicans claim to be securing the border, but what they’ve actually done is beef-up border patrol and cancel all appointments for legal asylum seekers. As a middle-aged woman, I already know we can’t believe a word these chuckleheads say, but the older I get the more I realize why women my age choose to stay home and knit.
Luckily, becoming invisible has its advantages— like moving more freely through this youth-obsessed culture. I recently met my future self, wearing a fashionable muumuu like Parker Posey’s character in White Lotus (season three), going into Walgreen’s to pick up some more sunscreen and vodka. Nobody asks or cares where we’re going or why at this age and frankly, it’s kind of freeing to be so underestimated. I think this is where bobble-heads run into trouble; they’re afraid to embrace their natural anonymity. Instead, they go chasing after an illusion of eternal youth through plastic surgery and end up looking like a muppet. Most unfortunate.
One day, in the middle of laugh/cry/screaming at their scary surprised faces on social media, I came across Humane Borders: a non-profit with the mission to create a just and humane environment in the borderlands. I immediately signed up to volunteer, excited to meet these do-gooders who simply go into the desert to check on water stations. Water stations are 55-gallon barrels of potable water secured in remote areas of southern Arizona, each with a blue flag flying thirty feet in the air. Water for all.
Since the militarized closure of urban immigration portals like Tijuana and El Paso in the 1990s, more humans fleeing impoverished and corrupt countries, seeking the opportunity to live a safe and productive life, have been funneled into crossing the Sonoran Desert on foot. This journey is dangerous and deadly, especially because it is impossible to carry enough water to make it through. Humane Borders maintains and replaces water barrels in places so dry and desolate they can literally mean the difference between life and death.
For my first water run, I set my alarm to meet up at Humane Borders on Saturday morning before sunrise. Loading up our gear, snacks, and water bottles, everyone looked bright-eyed and crisp as we headed out in large 4wheel drive trucks with water tanks on the back. Our first stop was on a pecan farm with the sun rising through the perfectly aligned rows of trees. A family of deer ran diagonally through the farm, followed a minute later by a coyote, casually trotting along. We poured some of the water into a cup for testing and tasting, checked the water level and barrel for damage or leaks, looked around the area for signs of use and then got back in the truck.
The day warmed up quickly, each stop hotter than the last, as we peeled off our extra layers of clothing and rolled down the truck windows for a breeze. By mid-morning we were pulling out apples and granola bars. I drained the last drops from my water bottle before reaching into my bag for extra water. As I looked out my window at the indifference of the desert and the heat mirages that looked like pools of water in the distance, but weren’t, I felt invisible in a whole new way. And lonely, even though I was in a truck with three other people.
We came over the top of a steep hill and suddenly there were R.O.U.S.s (Rodents Of Unusual Size) in all sizes running across the road. Javelinas!
After countless gates with rancher-style wire closures and deep bounces through hardened mud ruts in the dirt backroads, we were back on the highway with the windows rolled up and the air conditioning turned on. Everyone was quiet, in their own thoughts. I looked out my window at the vast expanse of empty land where thousands of people have each lost their life, just for trying to make it better. I felt sad, tired, lucky, and a little burnt.
Trump hasn’t secured the U.S. border, but he has increased the odds of death from dehydration and exposure.

First, I want to say thank you to Donald Trump. No, seriously, I want to thank him for taking the time to come back and kill our pretense of a democracy. While we were all limping around, our bleeding hearts liberally coloring the snow red, Trump came back with an old rusty hammer and sickle to finish the job. Oh, and he brought his oddball sidekick: an amateur assassin with a ketamine addiction and another fragile ego.
By the time the DOGE dust settles, and congress gets around to orders of impeachment, there may not be enough government even left for triage… Entire departments are starting to look like a Valentine’s day box of chocolates this time of year, mostly empty with a few odd nutty ones left in the bottom second layer.
But the good news is that we can— and we will— rebuild this country. America will not be destroyed and sold for parts. We are a melting pot of brutal work ethics, extensive opportunity, and an earnest joie de vivre; a country full of myriad talents: farmers, mechanics, scientists, and paramedics, to name a few. We’re like one of those museum paintings that look so good from a distance you wish you could teleport there, to actually be in the picture, but when you get up close you see we’re just millions of different colored dots.
So, if it’s going to be a straight-up barnfire and we’re willing to torch everything so we can rebuild from scratch, then we’ll be the ones to pour the gasoline and light the match, thank you very much. Not some wacked-out wannabe who brings a chainsaw to a blowtorch fight. The lunacy of the first six weeks of this administration was apparently just what Dr Pepper ordered: a familiar flavor with enough caffeine to wake us from our slumber.
The last time I had a Dr. Pepper was probably 1987, while sitting on the bleachers watching the American Legion softball team play the VJ/VS* All-Stars. Those innocent memories are what all the politicians are trying to sell: a sunny summer day, good clean fun in the grass and dirt, a little healthy competition between friends. America at its best. In the 1980s you could easily find Republicans and Democrats playing on the same team, but nowadays? Not likely.
We are a nation divided, and not by the important issues, if you ask me. For the most part, we all want the same things out of life: healthy family, good food and shelter, a ball game of some kind to cheer for. Is it maddening to watch our neighbors come home from work with groceries for their kids? No, it’s the little things that really get under our skin and make us hate each other. Things like whether or not a transgender athlete can compete in women’s sports. Seriously? This is why we’re going to burn it all down?
Okay, but I think I have a solution. What if we just add a category to sports, complete with its own separate restroom? For instance, we’ll have a medal for men’s curling, one for women’s curling, and one for any/everyone who wants to curl against any/everyone else. We could even name it for Andy Kaufman, don’t ya think? Anyone who wants to compete is welcome, and the winner will be the Inter-Gender Wrestling Champion of the World. I don’t mean to sound patronizing about this— okay, maybe a little bit I do, but c’mon! Enough is enough with pointing out our differences to each other as we all starve out in the cold. The richest guys in the world have taken our beer and hot dogs into their clubhouse and completely locked us out. It’s time to light it up and warm our hands on the flames.
If we all call Congressional members out and protest the actions of this administration, we can come back from the brink. And this time, while building our barn of democracy, we will have the experience to make the government actually work for us, instead of billionaires and their pet CEOs.

Barn’s burnt down–
now
I can see the moon. -Mizuta Masahide

*Valley Journal/Village Smithy

Did you read Roger Marolt’s column in the Aspen Daily News last month about his breakup with Aspen? It’s very good, and relatable for anyone who has lived and loved in our favorite local ski town. I can understand how hard it is to watch the place you love invaded by day trippers; America was just hijacked by billionaires, and we all watched it happen.
We watched Trump and Musk dance around to the Village People while Melania (disguised as The Hamburglar) covered her eyes. It was like watching a six-skier pile-up, and most of us couldn’t look away. Now it’s time to clean it up: someone signal the Ski Patrol to get a few toboggans out here, and kick some snow over those blood stains… The longer we wait, the harder it’ll be to contain this crash site of an administration.
Government isn’t supposed to be glamorous. It’s like skiers in the rain— bureaucrats in polyester making sure we have access to schools and hospitals on roads that are safe to drive. (BTW, Tesla trucks weigh too much to be stopped by a typical guard rail. So, slow your roll, Little E.) Government that looks like the TJ Maxx of Russian royalty is not gonna work for average Americans. Sure, we love a good drama with outrageous characters in ridiculous costumes, who doesn’t? But at the end of the day, Americans care about equality and fair working conditions. We’d rather have safety standards and a little overtime than watch our 4+trillion in tax dollars go to building some spoiled brat’s Barbie dreamhouse in space.
Speaking of governmental waste, whenever I see the acronym DOGE I think of how the Kens stole their houses from the Barbies and renamed them Mojo Dojo Casa Houses. That is exactly where we are right now: watching the Kens’ song and dance sequence, hoping they come to their senses soon and feel shame.
“…the shameless couldn’t care less. And their audacious behaviour pays dividends in our modern mediacracies, because the news spotlights the abnormal and the absurd.
In this type of world, it’s not the friendliest and most empathic leaders who rise to the top, but their opposites. In this world, it’s survival of the shameless.” -Rutger Bregman
What are we supposed to do with a shameless president, wait around in the cold until he gets up to speed?
That must be how my ski-school instructors felt. When I was learning to ski in Aspen in the 1970s it was about as glamorous as a kid in a hand-me-down down parka eating carrot sticks on the tailgate can be. My dad was ski patrol, so that meant catching a ride with him: leaving the house in the dark; all bundled up to no avail because the cold always found its way in; skiing from one patrol shack to another, breaking only to eat pb & j and carrots while sitting on a cold metal picnic table or the back of the pickup.
My dad took it seriously, rescuing locals and visitors alike. All the fancy-pants (literally) who like to hit the slopes to show off their moves would just be standing around in the cold like the rest of us without the patrollers (and lifties!) It taught me that money doesn’t make you anything but rich. The people who make this country great are the ones who work hard, not the one sitting on a golden throne of broken promises and bankruptcies, and definitely not the one dancing around like a tween buzzed on wine coolers apres-ski.
You know what’s classy? Truth and justice and looking out for those who are less fortunate. Aspen —and America— may be sidetracked by the granny in leopard-print leggings and sports bra, dancing on the table, but we can still bring it back to homemade casseroles and wool socks. We’ll be fine as long as we look out for all skiers— natives and those who are new to the sport.
After all, America’s just a bunch of immigrants sliding down a groomed run because someone else got up early. So, eat your carrots, and in the words of the ADN: ‘If you don’t want it printed, don’t let it happen.’