Good morning and welcome to Summit Up, the world’s only daily column feeling slighted for our lack of artistic ability.
We spent yesterday morning with quite a creative fellow over in Alma. Not only was he spinning tales about antiquated mythology that we might have read once in school but would never be able to drum up in conversation (not to mention at a relevant point), but he was showing us some of the best carving art we’d seen in a long time. To be able to take a piece of wood and inscribe enough detail that even Helen Keller would recognize it as a face – well, that’s out of our league.
Then we get back to the office where we’re confronted with yet another reminder of our inartability (give us a break, we can’t draw, so we make up words). A staffer has created a picture of Mt. Buffalo, surrounded by clouds, overlooking the lake, with a fish jumping out of it – all on an Etch-A-Sketch. She obviously had no idea how small it would make the rest of us feel to see such a Louvre-worthy thing created on a child’s toy (although it did give us the idea to have an Etch-A-Sketch contest when we get around to putting on the First Annual Summit Up Fest, which would, of course, also involve a silent auction, a race through the maze in Breck, stupid human and pet tricks, and many vendors selling bacon on sticks, funnel cakes and milkshakes).
“Oh, but,” our readers say. “Isn’t what you do creative? Isn’t a daily column the essence of creativity?”
No, it’s not. We believe artistic creativity involves the synergy of perception, talent and revolutionary ideas. On that account, we do not qualify. However, if being artist means starving, then we might make the cut.
Speaking of which, did somebody just say something about a milkshake?
Scum Alert!! Scum Alert!! An “irritated golfer” e-mailed us and said a “worthless parasite” took his or her putter on July 14 at the Breck golf course.
“Every golfer has left a club somewhere on a golf course,” our victim wrote. “Balls are lost, equipment is misplaced and should be returned to the player or to the clubhouse.”
This person left the putter on the putting green and discovered this once the group got to the green on the first hole. Only 10 minutes or so had passed, but it was enough time to steal a putter.
“May the curse of the golf gods never let you less than 10-putt, never get a score below 200, and when you misplace a piece of equipment, may it never be returned,” was the karmic recommendation here.
Ouch. Actually, if we stole somebody’s putter, it might improve our game based on that punishment.
Rufus T., our favorite man of the woods and mountains who moved to Florida, must have been in town. We can tell from the Florida newspapers he left for us. Oh, and we can tell from the note he left us. He said this of the news on a Florida island:
“One will show you don’t always get what you pay for, and the other gives a rough idea of what happens when you have 80 to 100 cops on an island two-by-four miles. Glad to see not a great deal has changed.”
The mountains never change, Rufus, it’s just us.
We wrote about the rain the other day and how it was going to make us start singing Eddie Rabbit songs. We also wondered what other rain songs people like. If we hadn’t remembered that the following transcription of a voicemail message we got would have been really weird:
“Riders on the storm, do-do-do-do-do. Riders on the storm, do-do-do-do-do. That’s Jimmy Morrison.”
Did anybody happen to tape “The Daily Show with John Stewart” this week, specifically the segment they did on Breck’s toad condos? We missed it and would love to see it (our VCR hasn’t worked since we used it as a disc golf basket for our indoor tournament). Let us know at
email@example.com, fax at (970) 668-0755 or just say “I got your toad condo right here, pal” on the voicemail at (970) 668-3998, ext. 237.
Oh, the Saturdays we have seen. Will this be the one to make all the Saturdays seem like Sundays? We don’t know. We don’t know what that means in the first place.
We’re out practicing our watercolor technique with Snoopy paint-by-numbers …
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