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Summit Up

Good morning and welcome to Summit Up, the world’s only daily column that wonders how Native Americans communicated through wildfires.

Must have been kind of like before we invented call waiting.

That’s a “smoke signal” joke, by the way. We realize it’s kind of out there, but it’s hard to form cogent thoughts when your brain is coated with ash and soot. Just ask Santa Claus, Tevya (that’s the guy from “Fiddler on the Roof”; yeah, we know, another reference from left field) as well as your neighborhood Bob Marley fan.

The smoke probably is giving you trouble, making your eyes water even as you read this. The doctors are telling us to run inside and hide until it’s gone. The giant tobacco companies are thanking Heaven, since now they’ll have a comeback if anyone from Summit Up Land tries to accuse them of causing cancer. “Oh, but you live in wildfire country,” they’ll say. “It’s not the Centennial State, it’s the Second-Hand Smoke State.”

Well, since we here at the Corporate Suites are concerned about your mental health, in addition to your physical health (stay tuned for the announcement of our newest children’s toy, the Mercury Pacifier), we’ve compiled some ideas for how to while away the hours while you stay inside hiding from the smoke:

n Turn your foyer or front room into a rock concert stage. Put on your favorite wig (we know you have one), wait outside on the porch while your fans inside light their lighters and wave their flashlights around, and you can make a grand entrance on stage that looks like you have the best smoke machine in the business.

n Prepare for the Barbecue Challenge. Who needs to buy one of those fancy, professional smokers, huh? Just spread your rib racks on the porch and watch from inside as the savory flavor sinks in.

n Imagination games. Remember lying on your back as a child, watching clouds change shapes? It’s more fun than watching the grass grow.

n Sing smoky songs: Who remembers all the words to “Smoke on the Water”? “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes”? “Smokin’ in the Boys Room”? Oh, the list goes on (we’re working on a collection with K-tel and Time-Life).

We could give you more ideas, but we’re sure you’re already off doing something already.


Peggy wants to know what happened to chivalry. She wanted us to write this as a Scum Alert!, but we find that hard to do since even Peggy herself admitted it’s all the fault of women and their struggle for equal rights and opportunities.

See, Peggy pulled into the gas station Friday morning and realized she needed to fill up her tires with air. Unfortunately, she was all spiffed up in a skirt and heels for work – not exactly the attire recommended for auto repair (unless, of course, you take your car to Bruce and Serge’s Drag Auto Shop, where the “drag” has nothing to do with racing, if you get our drift).

Anyway, Peggy was disappointed that not a single gentleman (“All those construction guys were already in their greasy clothes,” she said) offered to help her out. Her sons would have done it, she said. We would have done it, she told us. But, ah, where have all the knights in shining armor gone?

Sorry to say, Peggy, chivalry died the day the birth control pill was born and the only Southern gentleman-types left in this country are the ones hocking fried chicken.


It’s Saturday, and here’s to hoping the wind shifts. Tell us which way your wind is blowing at, fax at (970) 668-0755 or just howl on the voicemail at (970) 668-3998 ext. 237.

We’re out throwing our jacket over puddles for the ladies …

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