The time has arrived that I apologize for a casual reference that appeared in this column some time back. To paraphrase, I compared Vail Resorts to the Koch brothers. It was a thought that rolled through my head and it truly should have received more consideration prior to being applied to the page. David and Bill, I apologize!

With hearings and a subsequent decision on Bears Ears National Monument looming, I had been looking forward to the opportunity for yet another round of tearing down Utah Congressman Rob Bishop’s ludicrous Public Lands Initiative this week. But, alas, further Bishop bashing will just have to be put on hold.

Vail has elbowed its way back to the table with both a chunk-of-change campaign donation to the congressman-in-question, the Honorable Rob Bishop, and their ongoing legal maneuvering through an application with the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office to acquire control over business-related use of the name “Park City.”

Unless it comes to fruition, of course, it’s just all too delicious to pass up. Most of us with a proclivity to protest have long been priced out of the Park City market. What’s cool about the Vail trademark brouhaha is that it has become such a cause célèbre across the entire local demographic spectrum.

All manner of Park City folk are up in arms and, although acting out in a somewhat less radical fashion than, say, the revolutionary chorus of “Les Miz,” they do seem to be phoning ahead to reserve window seats at the barricades. Who’d a thunk it? A new tribal coalition may be forming.

Which brings us to the Wednesday, July 13, demonstration at the uphill parking lot of the Marsac Building. Scheduled for 2 p.m. to coincide with a closed-door session between Vail and City Hall over the trademark issue, the demonstration will feature longtime community activist and three-term mayor Dana Williams along with other local voices of concern.

The rally could be construed as an attempt by concerned citizens to demonstrate to the City Hall powers-that-be that an energetic portion of the electorate would indeed have its back if it were to decide to file a formal opposition to Vail’s aforementioned trademark application.

Although it was stated in a recent letter from PCMR/Vail to Park City officials that, “(a)fter purchasing the resort, we inherited Powdr Corp’s application for the word mark PARK CITY,” somehow that application never caused push-back to the degree this current one has generated.

It would seem that, for the most part, the long run of Powdr Corp left a taste somewhat less acrid in the collective mouth of locals than has the short tenure of the current operator. Not that, to some degree, each and every new resort operation going back to “Treasure Mountain Resort” hasn’t had detractors within the community.

In fact, when I hear the term “bully” used in reference to Vail (or any other large corporation), I have to chuckle. Corporations exert economic influence to get their way! That’s what they do! Why should Vail change its modus operandi at this stage of their industry takeover? Is their steamroller in the shop, or something?

Park City’s reaction to Vail’s trademark application has obviously acquired at least a modicum of attention back at their Colorado headquarters. Something seems to have nudged Rob Katz, chairman and CEO of Vail Resorts, into making the trip westward to join in Wednesday’s meeting at the Marsac Building.

Possible sidebars of note hinging on the outcome of the discussions include Park City’s future involvement as a partner with Vail in the Lower Park Avenue Redevelopment Area and assorted other collaborations that were seen by some to be a given prior to this latest rift in the fabric.

So where’s this all headed? Who knows? It’s in flux. No doubt spin-doctors will be well into overtime by week’s end. All I know is that people are talking. They seem to care. It’s an issue that has gained traction.

Meanwhile, back at the Bear’s Ears, U.S. Department of the Interior Sally Jewell will be holding a public hearing down in Bluff, Utah at 11 a.m. Saturday, July 16 on the possible ramifications of a National Monument in the area. It’ll be the perfect opportunity to drag your Rob Bishop mask out of the closet.

Jay Meehan is a culture junkie and has been an observer, participant, and chronicler of the Park City and Wasatch County social scenes for more than 40 years.

The post To the barricades appeared first on Park Record.

— Sherlock Holmes

It’s a recipe of sorts. You take that dissonance you get when a bone of contention rubs up against a territorial imperative and you bring it slowly to a boil.

You blend in a spoonful of conflict, a dash of animosity, and a pinch of discord. You then cover, reduce heat, and let it simmer for a few days say until Friday night. Then all that’s left is to remove the lid and begin to stir, to agitate, to disturb. And, voilà! The gumbo of rivalry is ready to serve.

Yes indeed! Another edition of the annual high-school gridiron ruckus between the Park City Miners and the Wasatch Wasps is at hand. To some of us, it’s a holy day of obligation. We of the Heber persuasion would just as soon snorkel in sheep dip as miss one of these brouhahas.

The competition, of course, encompasses much more than just football. There is the pestering, to be sure, and the top-shelf trash-talking not to mention the taunting and badgering and the ruffling of feathers.

Among the athletes it’s about the X’s and O’s and reading the defense and filling the gaps. We of the tailgate tribe, however, need not be bothered by such trivialities. Our responsibilities involve man-to-man coverage upon quite dissimilar turf. Defense in this realm relates more to resisting your opponent’s efforts to stiff you for the last round of beverages than stopping a running back prior to the first-down marker.

Historically, at least, honor upon the field of battle has played a role in these exercises of the sporting life. Take, for example, the following paragraphs from The Park Record edition that hit the newsstands on November 11, 1933:

"The football team that represented the red and white of our school this year has been classified as the best team ever assembled from students of the Park City High School. With the splendid spirit and cooperation of the faculty and the students, the team has been spurred on to victory.

"Mr. Birkbeck met with the fellows who were interested in football about two weeks before school started. He read the rules of the game and, with his ability to do so, he taught the boys sportsmanship and other facts necessary to play a good clean game of ball."

Now, if this white-bread wholesomeness gets much deeper, they’re going to have to swap cleats for hip boots. Speaking of which, the article continues:

"After the commencement of school, suits were issued and the boys began working on what had been read to them and also different mechanical plays for the purpose of making yardage in a game. The complete group of boys were urged to keep good training and most of them did so.

"The players on this team developed among themselves a sort of friendship that is hard to break and also the essentials of sportsmanship and good health."

Well, no wonder they enjoyed a winning season. They had a reservoir of "different mechanical plays" from which to draw. And they practiced them, over and over, with nothing more altruistic than to further their "purpose of making yardage in a game." Blatant narcissistic skullduggery, if you ask me.

the way, if Mr. Birkbeck’s book is still in print, perhaps someone could overnight a copy to my USC Trojans. And if there’s any residual "splendid spirit and cooperation" lying about, drop that in the box also.

That 1933 Miner ballclub operated under the best of intentions as in they "intended" to triumph. Check this out, from an earlier edition of The Park Record:

"The football players are still anxious that you keep in mind the afternoon and evening of October 13. In the afternoon of that day we intend to defeat the Wasatch High School football team and in the evening there will be the big football dance. The dance is given to raise funds for the athletics department."

Well, alas, by actually demonstrating an agenda out there where hash marks and yard lines hold forth, the Miners did indeed emerge victorious over the Wasps that autumn afternoon in 1933. They scored two touchdowns to Wasatch’s one. It wasn’t mentioned how they made out at the dance.

So once again, the redcoats are coming. Miner faithful will trek to Hebertown Friday evening for what should, by all accounts, prove to be a barnburner. Both squads have been on a rollercoaster of sorts this season and both are coming off huge wins this past weekend.

Park City made the most of their trip out to Vernal by putting a 64 to 21 thumping on Uintah. Call it a rout, a cakewalk, or a shellacking, whatever, the Miners flat out took it to them. The impressive win ended a two-game skid and bumped them up to Number 6 in the state 3-A rankings.

During a similar timeframe in a quite soggy landscape far, far away, the Wasps were, should I say, improbably dismantling the previously undefeated Judge Bulldogs 27 to 14. Not only that, but it was Judge’s first home loss since they opened their brand-spanking-new gazillion-dollar football stadium last year. Mother Teresa may well have been sending them a message.

Be that as it may, as ugly as their triumph proved to be, Wasatch woke to a Number-3 ranking in 3-A. And that, as they say, portends for some grand eloquence upon the grassy sidelines at Booster Field in Hebertown come Friday evening.

Hard tellin’ which team will emerge victorious. Or as my man Sherlock might offer: "Chance has put in our way a most singular and whimsical problem, Watson, and its solution is its own reward." But, when the game’s afoot and there’s trashtalkin’ to be done, all that becomes instant sidebar.

Jay Meehan is a culture junkie and a free-lance writer with a background in commercial and community radio. He has been a columnist and feature writer for various Park City publications going back to 1973.

The post Core Samples appeared first on Park Record.

To be sure, we humans are a prejudiced lot and this includes both fans of dogs and of the Atlanta Falcons quarterback. And columnists, for that matter. We also are predisposed by race. Let me count the ways! One event in particular, however, set the stage for the many prejudgments that were to follow.

The memory of what transpired in Birmingham, Alabama, during the first week of May, 1963, had a lot to do with a specific form of narrow-mindedness that would soon consume my heart and soul. the end of the week, I had become a bigot.

There was something about helmeted cops bringing to bear fire hoses and German shepherds upon sidewalks full of kids quietly marching and singing to the beat of a different drummer that not even brick-throwing mobs could top.

A soon-to-be unemployed commissioner of Public Safety by the name of Theophilus Eugene "Bull" Connor orchestrated the festivities and, in doing so, left an imprint so indelible that I would never be able to trust white people again.

Actually, Bull and his thugs shouldn’t get all the credit. There were to follow a long litany of white-men-in-power who, if Connor hadn’t already beaten them to the punch, could have achieved similar results.

L.A. County Sheriff Pete Pitchess certainly did his part during the late 1960s and, once again, political demonstrators were most often the target of choice. It was a time when tear gas and epithet lay upon the land.

It would be on August 29, 1970, during the Chicano Moratorium march that, some distance away from the heart of the main activities, a Pitchess deputy would launch a tear-gas canister into the Silver Spur Café on Whittier Boulevard. Like a truth-seeking missile, it would strike L.A. Times columnist Ruben Salazar in the head, leaving him dead. Quite comfortable in my bigotry, I’ve never even tried to forgive them.

If the racially motivated antics of Bull Connor had first put me into white-boy denial, no doubt it was Sheriff Pete Pitchess and his Nixonian bunch that caused me to "come out" as a Mexican. I’d probably been in the closet since my first chili relleno, but, with this latest shame to my gringo heritage, there was no use hiding it any longer. Raza Si! Guerra No!

We Irish are quite malleable when it comes to cultural orientation. I know my brother McGee became black not long after hearing Lightning Hopkins for the first time. Later, a scratchy album by Robert Johnson would seal the deal. In recent years he has added Hawaiian to the gumbo. He’s slowly morphing into Jellyroll Kahanamoku.

An even stranger example of cross-pollination would have to be O. J. Simpson. I’m not actually sure of the precise moment he became white — epiphanies aren’t always accompanied with a "born on" date like a Budweiser can — but it must have been sometime around his first three-touchdown game for USC.

The true miracle of it all is that he was able to pull it off without changing the color of his skin. For quite a while, especially after catching an interview or two, I was convinced that the whole thing was a hoax — that it was really Troy Donahue doing trauma-rehab following a Coppertone malfunction. To this day, I remain secure in that assessment.

How he’s been able to carry on this particular charade for so long is beyond me. He’d be much more at peace with himself if he just followed my example and "came out." We know you’re in there, O. J., and we know you’re white — and much, much more. To borrow a phrase from Emile Zola, "J’accuse!"

The Michael Vick saga is somewhat more complex. I find it almost impossible to distinguish between the dog-fighting mentality and that of Bull Connor and his lynch mob. Within their hearts of hearts, they are brothers in arms. They both believe they are doing nothing more than having sport with those lower on the evolutionary ladder than themselves.

Don’t you see, Michael? Dog fighting is a white mentality — just ask Sitting Bull or Manuelito or Robert Marshall, the black coal miner they lynched down in Price back in 1925 for having been seen near the scene where a white man was murdered.

One thousand people watched but — and this should impress your friends, Michael — no one snitched. It was the "Man Rule." They had credibility among their own — or "street cred," as they now call it. They think it may have been the last lynching of a black man in the American west. But, whether it was or not, they strung him up like a dog, Michael! Ya dig?

According to his statement to the press anyway, Michael Vick has set about becoming "redeemed" and we can only wish him well. Maybe I ought to take a drink from that very same well and possibly get a better handle on my ever burgeoning (I like that word) racial bias against white folks.

They’re just like me, I know. At least that’s what everyone tells me. And, to be honest, some of my best friends are white. It’s not their fault they dance funny. There I go again! Another stereotype! Maybe I should stop allowing Bull Connor and Pete Pitchess to color my perceptions and begin seeing whites as individuals. Nah! I’d lose my street cred.

The post Core Samples appeared first on Park Record.

Boyer, of course, has won over the current government and support structure with promises that increased tax revenues will bring raises and new offices to those already on the city payroll and, by default, to those who would be added once the big-box bucks start flowing.

Whodda thunkit? In a county that has bought into the George Bush agenda — hook, line and sinker — the powers that be have lined up on the side of "big government." Go figure!

The aforementioned grassroots bunch is called "Put Heber Valley First" and actually has their ducks in line to the point where they have an up-and-running Web site (puthebervalleyfirst.org) and an outreach educational program ranging from chewing the fat with neighbors to informational meetings open to those on both sides of the issue.

They figure a debate is always much more informative than just preaching to the choir. Ain’t that the truth! As of yet, however, neither representatives of the mayor’s office nor City Council have seen fit to show up and explain their positions. As they say in response to phone calls from their constituents, "These issues are just too complex for the average citizen to understand."

Heber City’s radio outlet, KTMP-AM 1340, is having similar problems convincing Boyer fellow-travelers to drop by the studio during their Monday through Thursday morning public affairs show and lay out the big-box vision for the future of the valley. Lord knows they’re missing out on some quite well informed and impassioned radio.

The problem for the City Council is that they didn’t have to spend hours upon hours learning to speak to the issues. Boyer’s people provided the cram course and the loophole-rich vocabulary that would be used in the zoning resolutions brought-up for vote. It probably is best that they stay clear of those who actually have answers to the trademark catchphrases they have so arduously committed to memory.

What this is all leading up to — and why passions remain aroused even after the City Council sellout — is that, through some quirk in the democratic referendum process, the matter will be on the ballot come November. The citizenry will be allowed to vote up or down on a zoning change that would allow Wal-Mart and its big-box brethren to further clog up the community.

The folks on the side of maintaining at least a semblance of the quality of life that first caused them to set down roots in the Heber Valley know they have their work cut out for them, however. Boyer Corporation has been in these battles before and they know just where and when to apply the pressure that accompanies the creative transfer of propaganda and funds.

Actually, as the Big-Boxers would have you believe, those involved with "Put Heber Valley First" are not anti-growth by any stretch. They, too, understand that the limited retail options currently available locally are unacceptable. It’s a situation that needs to be addressed.

But when your elected representatives would rather take the lazy way out and put all their tax-dollar revenue eggs in only the Boyer basket, you have a problem. Rather than expend energy searching out smaller businesses that would fill the retail voids and, at the same time, embrace the community culture, they have provided those they represent with a big box-or-nothing, take-it-or-leave-it, scenario.

And don’t think for a minute that Wal-Mart is only interested in harvesting the short-term dollar crop by selling "cheaper" products from China that only exacerbate America’s trade deficit. No, they indeed have vision. It doesn’t end once they "convince" local governments to condemn entire neighborhoods and re-route traffic.

What they’re really after, once their foot is in the door, is to "control" the community as a whole. Heber locals, who now grieve over the replacement of their open spaces with cookie-cutter development and exclusionary, gated, upscale ranchettes, ain’t seen nothing yet.

Unbeknownst to the uninitiated, especially once the promised tax revenue windfall comes up short, the concept that more housing will beget more shoppers who will beget more bucks for city coffers will be whispered into influential ears. Once the city has bought in, it will be painful to opt out. As drug dealers are wont to say, "the first one’s free."

In that scenario, it wouldn’t be long before Heber would have morphed into little more than "Orem-in-the-mountains." Sure, there would be more options for the consumer, but at what cost? In stumbling upon a city council as blind to the long-term as the one currently entrenched in Heber City, those pedaling the Wal-Mart model must be ecstatic.

One shouldn’t think that the diatribe contained herein is the official line of "Put Heber Valley First." They are actually much more civilized in manner and much more informed than the oftentimes-vulgar typist who assembles this column. For the most part, they work in their gardens and go to church and participate in their community.

The last part is what has them all riled up. They attended town meetings, where their duly elected councilors sat respectfully, as one citizen after another decried the invasion of the big box. Much to their joy, a zoning ordinance was passed that would preclude the square-footage requirements of Wal-Mart. They thought!

They didn’t know what their lap-dog council knew — that loopholes existed in the verbiage that didn’t quite close the door. It would be the mayor’s and the council’s and Boyer’s secret until the time was right. And then it all came crashing down upon the true believers.

Boyer’s boys chose to let the cat out of the bag when they didn’t think there was enough time left for the local "peasants" to collect enough signatures to get a referendum on the ballot. And once democracy was allowed entrée to the process, just to show where they were coming from, the Heber City Council unanimously passed Boyer’s carefully scripted zoning change anyway.

Whatever happened to, "the cream always rises to the top?" This bunch needs an "intervention," and come Election Day, they just might get one.

The post Core Samples appeared first on Park Record.

Especially when you’re a Laker fan and you’re oh-so-tired of Kobe Bryant and all he represents. A lot of it probably has to do with the rampant immaturity you’ve come to associate with the professional side of a sport you once held in high regard. When you lose respect, it becomes much easier to lose interest.

Not that the game itself hasn’t become a lot less interesting on its own. How many untold light-years has it moved away from the aura of when Magic and Bird honored its essence with every dribble and no-look pass? Now, that being said, it was little wonder that you paid only passing attention to what annually transpired in the world of pro-hoops.

It’s not like you cut it off completely, however. You’re a sports fan and your options are few. Over the years you’ve become hard-wired to the mindset. Deflecting the incessant stream of data bombarding you from all sides would require a heat shield of NASA proportions. But, you can do your best to ignore it.

You can install a filter and crank up the sensitivity knob to where the NBA and all of its attendant hubbub can’t be heard above the background clutter of the galactic neighborhood. You can get to the point to where your emotional investment is only measurable within the discipline of quantum mechanics the uncertainty principle notwithstanding. In the void, caring less and bliss are one.

So there you were, finally at peace — your passions directed elsewhere. At last, you had reached the point where only casual consideration was paid. You were still able to talk-the-talk, of course. It’s your history and it can’t be denied. Feigning interest among your peer group is the least you could do.

It’s not like you have to stay up late and cram in order to adequately return serve when approached by a pro-basketball junkie in the produce section. All that is usually required is to post them up near the cumquats and, using the grapefruit rack as a screen, hit the ol’ back door off the pick and roll. And, unless their transition defense picks up the switch, they won’t even notice when the talk turns to baseball.

Now where were we? Oh, yeah – at peace. Not emotionally invested. Caring less. Blissing out. Dispassionate where hoops were concerned. Rhapsodizing on the elegance of the "hit-and-run" and the "suicide-squeeze," the patient strategies of the 800-meter run in track and field, and the pure delight of "selling the dummy" in rugby.

And what about the glistening thoroughbred finding a hole off the rail and ever-so-smoothly shifting gears at the top of the stretch. Or the racing yacht intuitively tacking toward a wind shift no one else senses. Or a radar lob wedge to within inches of the cup by a rookie shooting a round for the ages. Blessed are the euphoric, for they shall walk on air.

And then it happened. It all came tumbling down. There came a knock-knock-knocking at the chamber door. You froze. It wasn’t like you were looking for company. Who or what could it possibly be? You tiptoed over and took a peek. Oh, say it ain’t so! It must be a bad dream. Not your old nemesis — the Utah Jazz.

What could they possibly want? They must know your feelings on the matter — that you’ve recently gone through rehab and that, once and for all, you’re clean and have no intention of backsliding. It should be obvious that the last thing you need is a reintroduction to the over-the-top arrogance of the in-your-face, slam-dunk set.

But there they are with their dimply grins and that little-engine-that-could air about them and old friends Jerry Sloan and "D-Fish" leading the way. You know what they’re up to. They’re trying to destroy your "guilt-by-association" defense. "We are not one of them," they seem to say.

They try to wear you down with their Boozer and their Williams and their Okur and their Kirilenko and their "our-tattoos-are-cuter-than-theirs" attitude. Well, they are the underdogs and they don’t have home-court advantage, so maybe you could promise to pay at least slight heed to their ongoing, post-season fortunes. Anything to get them off the porch.

Big deal. It’s not like you’re investing emotions or anything. Or time, for that matter. Those days are long gone. And anyway, they’ll never get by Houston. Could you imagine the Jazz summoning up enough grit to actually win a playoff game on the road? A game seven? Against Yao and T-Mac? Right!

Well, whoda thunkit? Oh drat! That means there will be another series. Ok, but only slight heed will be paid, remember. They must know that there’s no way you’re going to allow their inconsequential shoot arounds to get in the way of already-scheduled concerts and readings and films and museum shows. You don’t think they’ve forgotten that you have a life, do you?

Alright, who is it this time? What? It’s not the Mavericks? Ah, it’s that rambunctious Warrior bunch from out in the Bay Area. Well, if they can beat Dirk’s boys, they certainly should quickly dispatch the Jazz. Have you seen the highlights? They are way too wild and athletic for our lads to handle.

You’re kidding! In five games? Now who? Well, it really doesn’t matter now does it? Admit it! You’re actually growing rather fond of this current Jazz bunch, aren’t you? Not that you’ve jumped on any bandwagons, or anything. But that was quite a thumping they put on the Spurs Saturday, wasn’t it?

And even though San Antonio returned the favor Monday night, you may as well stick around a bit longer. Not that you’ve reacquired an NBA "jones" or anything. It’s really not the same thing. It’s apples and oranges. It’s just that if the Jazz keep suiting-up, you may as well give them a sidelong glance. It’s not like it’s an emotional investment or anything.

The post Core Samples appeared first on Park Record.

It was right after the players had returned to the ice from their locker-room break following the first period. The two Zamboni machines had finished laying down that thin layer of fresh glaze in their now-familiar tango and, rinkside, the fans were a-buzz in the manner only a three-goal lead can provide.

The pre-schooler, perched on the ledge, had his team jersey and nose smashed-up against the glass that separated the home team s bench from oftentimes-overzealous fans. In his own way, through open-handed smacking of the partition, incessant bellowing and sheer attitude, the kid informed his heroes that now was not the time to let down.

Wipe those smirks off your mugs! he seemed to say. Something in his behavior caught the goalie s attention — through the pads and all. Not unlike Mean Joe Green in the old Super Bowl Coke commercial, the eyes of the goalkeeper and the kid met in frozen space. Time stopped.

Not that he felt necessarily intimidated, but reacting immediately, the net-minder, with nothing more than a whisper to the ear, caused an equipment manager to scurry back down the tunnel and, as it turned out, dutifully fetch a single aluminum can, which was deposited, somewhat unobtrusively, within the bench area.

The call and response did not go unnoticed, however. Both the kid and the disheveled oldster sitting third-row-aisle behind him recognized the logo and the promise it tendered. On the current national beverage scene, the can s contents constituted nothing less than the preferred quick-energy option of choice for millions of non-organic consumers.

That is not to say that a concoction composed of carbonated water, sucrose, glucose, sodium citrate, taurine, glucuronolactone, caffeine, inositol, niacin, D-pantothenol, pyridoxine HCL, vitamin B12, artificial flavors, and an assemblage of colorings not normally found in nature, is a performance-enhancing drug, per se.

In fact, in keeping with the spirit of full disclosure and all, it should be noted that, not long thereafter, the visiting club scored twice within a minute or so — the second goal being rung-up on a short-handed breakaway with the puck easily navigating the space between the goalie s pads before finding the back of the net.

Obviously, although the aluminum can was no longer in situ, performance enhancement did not come into play. There may have been, however, sufficient circumstantial evidence pointing toward performance impairment of some sort — at least for the timeframe in question.

It should be noted here, though, that the symptoms vanished as quickly as they appeared. From the perspective of the net-minder, following the breakaway goal, the puck ceased resembling an aspirin tablet traveling at the speed of light and quietly morphed into a skillet-sized object that moved forward only when granted permission.

Quicker than you could say glove save and a beaut! the goal-keeper began deflecting everything coming his way. He became a sofa with arms, swatting away all comers. Time and again, he had the crowd on its feet as the puck-slinging bad guys peppered the goalmouth to no avail.

Theories attempting to explain such a quantum turnaround in defensive proficiency began to surface. A couple of forensic types even took their deductive insights for a spin around the arena during the next break between periods. Clearly, changes to brain chemistry were at the center of the mystery and isolating the intervening variables involved would probably require more than rounding up the usual suspects. How do you explain the virtual disappearance and sudden reappearance of an acquired skill set — especially one practiced at the level of professional hockey?

Attempting to identify the chemical modifier in question while maintaining cover actually required nothing more than a high degree of nonchalance masking as composure. They were out there, no doubt about that, but now they had two crack agents on their trail.

Recognizing a need to maintain an energy level equal to that of the opposition, they went hunting some performance enhancers of their own. It wasn t long before they were holding their chemical concoction of choice — something that could keep them focused for weeks on end.

The special blend of vegetable oil, water, butter, salt, all-purpose flour, eggs, sugar, and ground cinnamon had always served them well. Once it s been stirred and beaten and squeezed through a tube, all you got to do is dunk it in the deep fryer and you were set. Nothing enhances one s outlook like a good ol two-foot churro stick.

Shots-on-goal kept mounting throughout the third period but with brilliant save followed by brilliant save, our goalie kept us in the game. As long as we could hold up our end and keep glucuronolactone and its cohorts out of his net, when crunch time came, we should still be in the game.

At the end of regulation it remained a wash, all tied-up and nowhere to go — except into overtime, which, in this context, constituted a five minute extra period featuring four players per side. More ice area per skater provided a somewhat different take on the proceedings, kind of cool actually.

Immediately, roughing penalties were handed out to each team, a grand circumstance that reduced it to a three-on-three contest. This was way neat! But, alas, they never allowed the player ratio to keep diminishing. Just imagine two-on-two, then one-on-one.

In fact, taking it the other way with 10-on-10 or even 20-on-20 would make for an interesting game. It might even evolve into a kind of lacrosse on skates. Imagine the six nations of the Iroquois playing upon Lake Cayuga with 2,000 on a side. Drat, we just might be losing our focus here. Possibly one more churro stick might help keep things on topic.

As luck would have it, the game remained tied after the overtime period. In that it forced a shootout to decide the winner, that was a good thing! Especially for the home team and its hero goalie, who was nearly perfect once the chemicals were balanced. The same could be said for a couple of the fans.

High-fives and bald-faced lies, hoots and hollers and Canadian dollars, being brash, talkin trash, bettin cash everything else is just figure skating!

The post Core Samples appeared first on Park Record.

Located on the outskirts of town, their new spread would become famous in the lore of literature as La Finca Vigia, the lookout farm. The main house itself sat on a hill with an unobstructed prospect of Havana and the coastal plain to the north. From this setting, over the 20 years Hemingway would call it home, would emerge some of his most honored work.

Here, in the quiet hamlet of San Francisco de Paula, he wrote For Whom the Bell Tolls and A Moveable Feast and, although not come upon until after his death, the mostly completed manuscript of Islands in the Stream. The Finca also gave birth to that most acclaimed of his Caribbean tales, The Old Man and the Sea.

And there were a couple of short stories featuring my favorite Hemingway character, Harry Morgan, which would later be incorporated into the novel To Have and Have Not. It has been said he spent his mornings wrestling with his typewriter and his afternoons wrestling with marlins in the Gulf Stream.

The move served to allow him a working environment more suited to his persuasions while, at the same time, not transplanting him too far afield from his favorite haunts in the city. Papadoble daiquiris at the Floradita Bar and mojitos at La Bodeguita del Medio continued to refuel his muse. At times, friends would stop by and interrupt his work but, for the most part, he was able to maintain focus — not the easiest of disciplines when one is occupied with Ava Gardner or Errol Flynn. In 1954 he was also interrupted by a missive from the Swedish Academy in Stockholm, alerting him to the fact that he had been awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature. How tedious the writing life.

Visitors of the time described the Finca, not surprisingly, as decidedly masculine — cluttered with books (some 9,000 volumes), animal trophies, jazz and classical records, and bullfight posters. A Picasso sculpture held forth along with a bar that embraced rum and Cinzano and various other succulents with similar mission statements.

It was a setting in which one could indulge passions. And, one could look out to sea if further indulgence was required. Hemingway exuded a deep attachment for open water and spent a great deal of time consummating the relationship aboard his beloved Pilar.

Nearly 40 feet in length and skippered by his dear compadre Gregario Fuentes, the Pilar entered the logbook of maritime history as perhaps the first sportfishing boat ever.

In that it could be argued that Hemingway single-handedly invented the sport, designed and retrofitted the first flying bridge, and installed a fighting chair in the cockpit, the Pilar has become, quite possibly, the most prominent and celebrated privately owned recreational vessel in history.

He knew things that fish do, so he could catch them, bragged Gregorio of his friend. "We left every day to go fishing at 7 in the morning, and then after we went fishing, he’d write on the boat at night." These were evenings Papa spent channeling an old man in a small boat with a big fish on an eternal sea.

They kept the Pilar near Fuentes home in the coastal village of Cojímar, not far from the Finca. And if those now-worn-smooth planks of American black oak could only speak, what tales they could tell. A biographer once described it as a floating bordello and rum factory as well as a fishing boat. How tedious the writing life.

Papa and Gregorio became inseparable during their marlin fishing expeditions and when out on patrol for German U-Boats during the war. Loaded with provisions, the Pilar would set out with machine gun mounted on bridge and poke around the Cuban and Bahamian keys, banks and channels in search of illusive emeny submarines.

Time passed and the Pilar sailed and it became about the love of two men for their boat and the rolling of the swells as they crossed blue water. According to scholars, the two created a pact whereby, following the death of either, the Pilar would never sail again.

Whether it was Papa deeming it so in his will prior to leaving Cuba in 1960 or his fourth wife Mary presenting it as a gift, within six weeks of Hemingway s subsequent death, the Pilar became the property of Gregorio Fuentes. Adhering to his pact, he donated it to the Finca, which had been converted into a museum in 1962.

The Finca Vigia and the Pilar have become instruments in the chronicles of the world literary landscape. They are icons and relics within the religion of modern literature. They are part of the man and the myth and, over the years, the target of preservationists wishing to restore their past glory.

Sadly, they have also become instruments in the political strategy of the United States as part of its never ending and always tightening embargo with Fidel Castro s Cuba. Dealing with issues more complex than the fractal coastlines involved, attempts on both sides of the channel to both cleanse and cure the material and spiritual aspects of the proposed renovations have been slowed by ideology.

Over the years, nature has been unkind to both house and craft, what with chubasco hurricanes and general jungle rot having their insideous ways. The Cubans, who consider Hemingway as one of theirs, have cared for the house with affection, and are recently completing work sufficient to return furniture from storage.

The Cubans mistake, however, was turning the museum that is the Finca into a tourist attraction. In the eyes of the Bush Administration, this accomplishes little more than putting money into Castro s hands — which reportedly are currently having difficulty holding up his pants — and further postponing the arrival upon his shores of the inevitable democracy.

No U.S. currency is being allowed to assist in either endeavor. Technical advice, however, has seeped through and has proved invaluable in the preservation of documents. What a gift it would be for future generations of American youth if only their country could see the larger picture, the Finca Vigia and the Pilar as metaphor to art as life. Pride, as usual, seems to be holding up the healing.

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You better feel that boogie beat,

And get the lead out of your feet&

Etta James "Roll With Me Henry"

Jamesetta Hawkins’ brand of sass featured a sublime in-your-face dignity long before she became Etta James and, as a teenager, penned a reply to Hank Ballard and the Midnighters’ sexually suggestive hit "Work With Me, Annie." Johnny Otis picked up on it immediately at an impromptu audition by James and her vocal trio out back of the Fillmore Auditorium in San Francisco. The young Etta was soon on her way.

Being way too risqué for the cultural sensibilities in 1954, the ribald ditty wouldn’t escape the R & B charts and cross over to mainstream America until it had been re-titled "The Wallflower" and the "hook" changed to "Dance With Me Henry." It would be as a ballad singer, however, that, over the years, she would nuzzle her way into our hearts.

Through five decades of extreme highs and lows and trials and tribulations — including drugs, weight issues, and godawful men — her warrior spirit has pulled her through. Her legend, both historical and contemporary, has transcended both "blues" and "R & B" to embrace genres of every emotional truth. To this day, her voice flat-out stuns! It arrests! It captures and captivates.

A survivor of the highest order, Etta James possesses a "rage to survive" – not ironically, the title of her autobiography. A member of both the Rock and Roll and Blues Halls of Fame, the 68-year-old icon continues to spread the vibe. She left the audience awash in sultry soul last year at the Capitol Theater in Salt Lake, and, no doubt, will repeat the cleansing ceremony this Friday night at Deer Valley.

Her voice bares her life for all to see& and, most especially, feel. There are huge components of pain and strength and they emerge so pure into the collective consciousness that her struggles become ours. Outside the art, however, there is little dwelling upon her dark side of life.

She has passed through and emerged on the other side of heartache, if not unscathed, at least unbroken. And, with the help of a gastric bypass intervention, she has reportedly dropped 200-pounds and is now once again able, as she implored her "Henry" in song those many years ago& to "feel that boogie beat, and get the lead out of (her) feet."

Now, when her band breaks into "Come to Mama," mama swings like she hasn’t been able to in years. In fact, body language and movements have returned as a big part of her shtick. Be forewarned! Etta is no shrinking violet! She flat-out gets down — the lead in her feet long gone. She’s still sassy and she gets her point across.

Last time through Utah, she showcased the explosive, powerful, and, then, recently released, "Blues to the Bone." This time around, she’s more than ready to strut her stuff to her latest effort, one entitled "All the Way." Chock full of highly interesting covers of Simply Red, John Lennon, James Brown, Prince and Marvin Gaye, this one has "Peaches," a longtime nickname, jumping for joy.

"For the first time in my 54 years of recording, I really had control over an entire album, start to finish," she celebrates from her Web site. "And that feels really good. I got to make an album that I can listen to and say, ‘I really like this record.’ This is an album of songs that I’ve always loved, tunes that I heard and thought, ‘Wish I could have been the one to do that one first.’"

It will be interesting to see what type of musical backing she is traveling with on this tour. If it’s her normal spare combo featuring her sons Donto and Sametto, the inherent leanness of the arrangements should allow for the classical Etta James voice to soar over the evening.

That most special voice, now deepened and coarsened with time, brings to mind the more complex, textured nuances of Billy Holiday late in her career. Whatever is missing vocally due to the tolls exacted by years of hard living, is more than made up for by the more seasoned interpretations of vocal artists who have been there and done that.

These renderings oftentimes include a more poignant weariness and understanding than those brought to the table by ingenues with similar material — not that innocence and naiveté, by themselves, do less of a job getting inside the throes of passion and pain. And there is no better proof of this thesis than the awe-inspiring adolescent recordings of both Etta and Billie.

From a gospel prodigy and radio performer at the age of five to the most recent recipient of the Ella Fitzgerald Award for "jazz singers with improvisational skills, originality and uniqueness of voice," Etta James is truly, to borrow a lick from Duke Ellington, "beyond category."

One of her many recordings resonated above all others, however, and that would be her quite astonishing cover of the love ballad "At Last." When those two syllables are produced by the virtuoso vocal instrument that is Etta James and, out of nowhere, splash upon the blue void, it’s "chicken skin" time. Goosebumps have their way.

Etta’s influence upon the historical vocal landscape is pervasive. From Janis Joplin and Diana Ross to Bonnie Raitt (who will also perform at Deer Valley with Keb Mo on Aug. 30) and Susan Tedeschi, she has been a model at keeping the faith and surviving the rigors of an artistic life in that oftentimes unforgiving neighborhood called "the blues."

She is a piece of work, this Etta James lady. Or as Ms. Raitt put it a year or so back in a Rolling Stone article, "Etta James is simply one of the best singers I’ve ever heard. She’s ferocious — sassy and incredibly sexy. Not sexy in a conventional, dolled-up way like, say, the Supremes. Etta is earthy and gritty, ribald and out there in a way that few performers have the guts to be." Just feel that boogie beat and get the lead out — Friday evening at Deer Valley.

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