I recently returned from a trip to Africa. When you return from Africa people often ask, “So, how was Africa?” Most do so out of courtesy, and realizing this, my answers were typically short.
“Africa was amazing,” I’d say.
“Really?” they'd say.
“Yeah.”
“Oh, I bet.”
They would then move on to whatever else it was they were doing, confirming that they really weren’t all that interested. However, yesterday I was talking to a friend who was in fact interested in Africa and wanted to know what I had taken from the experience. His questions prompted me to really analyze what I had seen and felt while traveling through South Africa, Botswana and Zambia.
Aspen is unique in that everyone is exceedingly wealthy, or is about to become so.
For example, the guy who makes balloon animals on the weekends is about to become the richest man in New Zealand. It’s true. He told me so himself. First, he needs to save up enough money to buy a plane ticket to Auckland, but that’s a minor detail. Once he gets himself there, he’s going to present a plan to the government that will not only make him a billionaire many times over, but also flood the country’s vaults with more money than they could possibly spend. (The government of New Zealand is apparently very open to meetings with anyone, even vagrant, balloon artists.)
A recent study conducted by New Millennium Research, Inc., reported that 53 percent of U.S. high school students believe that Jesus Christ was an American.
“Quite honestly I was shocked,” said John Waterhouse, Chief of the Juvenile Research Division.
“Most multiple choice questions include what we call a ‘give me,’” Waterhouse explained, referring to the answer that is very obviously incorrect. “American was the give me. ”
This weekend, the Aspen Institute welcomed the Dalai Lama as its keynote speaker for a symposium on Tibetan culture, art, science, and spiritualism. Keith Hemstreet caught up with His Holiness for a brief interview at the J-Bar.
I recently stepped into church, knelt down, and began to pray. You can imagine my surprise when someone responded. The one-act play below is a transcription of the conversation that followed. I must inform the reader, my memory is infallibly photographic. Therefore, the dialogue’s authenticity is guaranteed. Not a single word has been changed.
When I was in sixth grade we took a field trip to the Lake Worth Community Pool. I had just purchased a new bathing suit for the occasion. A Quicksilver, checkerboard number that matched very nicely with my checkerboard shoes. I believe I even wore a checkerboard hat, which would have been logical.
Every sixth grade class in the district was at the pool that day, so it was important that I make a statement. And I did. I was the dumb ass checkerboarded from head to toe.
Last week it was reported that a gang of beavers flooded Highway 82. Most probably wrote this off as an unfortunate accident, but I’ve been told by a credible source that it was no accident at all. The beavers flooded our highway on purpose.
I tried, with great effort, not to look directly at Hunter, as he was seated to my right, and to look at him required a ninety-degree turn of the head, not subtle enough to go unnoticed. The last thing I wanted was to be perceived as meddlesome. The lure, however, was too much. He was doing something at the counter, and I wanted to know what, so on occasion I would take a glance, acting as though I was adjusting the recliner, or scratching my ankle, just to see what was going on.
I met Hunter S. Thompson on a cold April night in 2004. The moon was full, though muted, shining as a flashlight would through dense fog as we drove the long winding road, navigating ice and an occasional elk on our way to Thompson’s home in Woody Creek, Colorado, a fortified compound infamously known as the Owl Farm.
