Summit Up 12-30-10: loving reycycled old stuff edition |

Summit Up 12-30-10: loving reycycled old stuff edition

by Summit Up
On Dec. 30, 1950, Nancy and Bob Follett, long-time Keystone residents, cut the wedding cake. Today, they mark their 60th wedding anniversary. More than 20 of those anniversaries have been celebrated in the high country and they expect to be celebrating many more in the mountains.

Good morning and welcome to Summit Up, the world’s only daily column that’s winding down the year with a “Best of” compilation of columns from the previous year. We’re not being lazy – it’s actually kind of a pain to go through and dig this up so you’re welcome very much – and we know we had a few good ones over the past year so … see if you can piece it all together.

Good morning and welcome to Summit Up, the world’s only daily column that’s all about Earth Day as we’re sitting here typing in our hemp underwear, using a computer powered by solar gerbils and sipping on a carbon-free latte tofu kinda thing. We’ve got our manure-powered organic light bulbs overhead, a car that runs on bat guano and a tattoo of Al Gore on our left cheek (and we won’t say which one).

Yep, it’s a super earthy low-carbon recyclable kinda day, isn’t it? We’re celebrating by having ultra low-emission orangutans tow us around Frisco in a rickshaw made of old beer cans and cereal packets, and we make stops every now and then to recite various haiku about vermiforming we’ve written for the occasion.


Um, we’re being told now the bottle of rye is still in our desk drawer. Funny, we thought it was linseed oil or something. What does one do with rye whiskey anyway? Why did it go out of fashion? What the hell is linseed oil?

These and other questions will be written in crayon on an old vacuum cleaner bag and stuffed in a decaying pine log up on North Tenmile. If you’re that curious about it, you know where to look. Sort of.


Halloween was originally celebrated by the ancient Etruscans, who dressed up as dead guys to scare wolves away from their risotto and parmigiana bushes back in the day. Over the years, the ancient Phoenicians picked up on the practice, dressing as astronauts, celebrities and NFL players whilst they plied the seas on search of olive oil, gold coins and other ancient stuff. When other sailors would ask them why there were dressed up like Lady Gaga or Brett Favre, the ancient Phoenicians (who didn’t realize at the time they were “ancient” – they thought of themselves as a thoroughly modern, sea-going people) would just shrug and steal all the other sailors’ food. Thus the genesis of the whole “trick or treat” thing.


Angry rhetoric amalgamation: Scientists in Uzbekistan are testing a special hat that goes on the heads of people on the extreme ends of various political spectrums. When they’re typing on their blogs or leaving nasty online comments on newspaper websites, the power of their ire has been found to be capable of lifting helicopters off the ground.


Man No. 1: I hate putting on sunscreen because of the oily feeling it gives me. And then it’s on your hands and what, do you wipe it on your pants or on your hair or what?

Woman No. 3: I forget it’s on my finger and when I rub my eyes, then I have sunscreen in my eyes and that sucks.

Child No. 47: I’d rather do homework all summer vacation long than have sunscreen applied to me at any time. Even if I was traveling to the sun, I would not want it.

Old Man No. 2: Sunscreen! I fought Rommel in the desert, and none of us had sunscreen. All’s we had was cigarettes an’ a few sticks of Wrigley’s gum. Sunscreen! Phooey!


… the world’s only daily column that feels obliged to point out the numerical creepiness of this day: 9-10-11. Poring through the dusty tomes of mystical lore crowding our bookshelves, we’ve learned the ancient Croutonians predicted that, on this day, all world supplies of croutons will suddenly disappear, leaving chef, Caesar and other types of salads bereft of dried little chunks of bread on top. Too, the Lotus Eaters of ancient Whateveristan had a calendar that mysteriously ended on this day, which some “experts” have said means one of two things: 1. It was impossible for them to imagine something so far in the future, or 2. They simply ran out of the gazelle-blood ink they used and wandered off to drink the fermented mare’s milk that kept them in a state of scurrilous inebriation most of the time.

More tomorrow. We out.

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