It’s 15 below zero and all the shops are closed this late.  Downtown Helena looks deserted, still as a picture and covered in snow.  Through a door on North Jackson, I step into the middle of a bright, colorful tornado.  Girls in leotards run past a rack of costumes towards what sounds like a track meet downstairs.  A spreadsheet hangs on the wall, showing all the elements that must come together for the big performance, and it looks about as complicated as a space shuttle launch.  It’s nutcracker time at Queen City Ballet and that’s as serious as a heart attack.

My editors at the paper, Sheila and Emily, have sent me here to find out why our town seems to be under some kind of Nutcracker invasion.

With performances looming, Queen City’s artistic director, Campbell Pryor, has agreed to show me a rehearsal and explain the Nutcracker.  We sit against the mirrored wall along with about a hundred young ballerinas and watch a Pas De Duex between the Sugar Plum Fairy and the Cavalier (Erika Vosbeck and Josh Deininger).

I’ve never seen ballet close up.  From a theater audience, ballet dancers seem graceful and precise, but that vantage doesn’t show how difficult ballet really is.  Watching from a few feet away, it suddenly occurs to me how hard it would be to lift another human over my head, give the impression that they weighed nothing, and move with grace around the room.  At one point, Erika spins alone at a rate that would be surprising even if she were on ice skates.   I begin to think these are the strongest two people I have ever seen.  As I start to wonder if they are actually human, I hear them breathing like a pair of bellows.

The younger ballerinas who line the wall are not fidgeting.   With their hair tucked into tight little buns, they are as perfect as dolls.  These are the girls who didn’t give up on the dream of becoming a princess when they learned the hereditary requirements for that occupation.  As they stare intently at the sugar plum fairy, it’s clear they can see they are on the path to their dreams.  That path sounds very hard.

After the Pas De Duex, Campbell asks anyone who has won “awards or scholarships” to come talk to me.  If the others are crushed at not getting to talk to a famous reporter, they don’t show it.  I ask the group which of them wants to be a professional ballerina and everyone raises a hand.  Almost no one says they play another sport.  A very young girl explains, “We only swim because it elongates our muscles”.

I ask if ballet is hard and they proudly list injuries I would expect to hear from a gathering of stunt men.  Josh says ballet is harder than any sport he has ever played, both in terms of strength and coordination.   He says you have to concentrate on lots of things at once such as “not letting your left shoulder move forward while you kick your right foot up next to your head”.   I tell Josh I have the same problem all the time.

Campbell explains that only 1 in about 5,000 ballerinas can actually become a professional dancer.  She left home as a young teenager for a special ballet boarding school in order to follow her dream.  Her training also took her to a school in Monaco based in (where else) a castle.   Campbell apparently knows how to teach what she’s learned as professional ballerina.  Queen city boasts 6 former students who are dancing with professional companies.

Whether or not they will ever get paid to dance, sticking with ballet requires a commitment and singularity of purpose anyone would recognize as “professional”.   From the look of things, that professional attitude shift occurs in Queen City dancers at about three years old.

With a word from Campbell, everyone takes positions for “the party scene”.  Just as all this professionalism is starting to freak me out, the music starts and the dancers grin as they follow each other through the intricate choreography.  From their expressions, they could be on a playground.  They are clearly having a blast and they aren’t even on stage yet.

My next stop in understanding Helena’s Nutcracker scene is the Creative Arts Dance Studio, home of the Premier Dance Company.  When I arrive, Charlene White is running dancers through routines.  Waiting dancers sit in casual groups talking.  Loose pony-tails are more common than ballet hair and the gathering has the easy camaraderie of a sports team.  Charlene talks the dancers through their steps in English and everyone applauds when the dance is finished.

I ask Riley Griffin, one of the few males in the room, how long he has been dancing ballet.  He says “thirteen days”.  He’s fifteen and seems happy to be in a room full of pretty young women.   He explains that he did take basic movement class with Charlene when he was about four and remembers playing a mouse.  A young woman across the room says “Did you have long hair?  I think I remember you!”  Another, says “I was a mouse too!”.

When Riley runs through his Pas De Deux with K’Lynn House (15) it’s clear he has worked hard in the last 13 days.  He does a workmanlike job of supporting her but it is probably best that any serious ballet fans will be focusing on her in the role of Clara.   She is amazing.  She’s been dancing for nine years and wants to dance professionally.

After their routine is over, Charlene asks three dancers to talk to me in the other room about the company.  They explain that most dancers at Premier don’t plan to dance ballet for a living, but do take dancing very seriously.  The fifteen dancers who are “in the company” all sign contracts in which they agree to train year round at least four times a week.  They also promise to maintain a minimum grade point average, and to dance in fundraising events for the company.

In return, the company board awards scholarships to dancers to attend summer programs around the country.   Becca Harper, 14, was given a scholarship last summer to attend an aerial dancing school where, if I understand correctly, she learned to dance high in the air like the kung fu people in Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon.   She plays piano, soccer, and volleyball, and has danced ballet for seven years.

Dancers in the Premier Company pride themselves on being well rounded and fun. They speak fondly of looking up to the older dancers when they were small and are excited to be in those older roles now.

With the Nutcracker just around the corner, Charlene seems very calm.  She is quick to laugh and shows no sign of panic even though the role of the Sugar Plum Fairy may be up in the air due to an injury.  “It always seems to work out in the end,” she says.   “You can’t worry them to much, they’re kids”.

When I arrive at the Allegro School of Dance, the director Beth Barry is waiting for two groups of her younger dancers.  She explains that Allegro is hosting the prestigious Moscow Ballet Company and about 50 local dancers will be joining them on stage for a performance of the Nutcracker.   The little girls come in while we are talking and start to practice on their own without music.

Beth tells me that auditioning for the Moscow Ballet Nutcracker was a new experience for her dancers.  She says that normally she fosters a non-competitive atmosphere and this was the first time any of them had had to audition for any performance.   The girls will have a total of six rehearsals with her before they practice once with the Moscow Ballet and then take the stage.

The group yells to Beth that they have practiced all their routines and Beth asks how it went. “We forgot stuff”, one replies from across the studio.   “Did you work it out?”  Beth asks, and they reply “yeah!”

They clearly idolize Beth, she’s athletic (she climbs Mt. Helena every day), self-confident, and has pretty red clogs.  Beth turns on the stereo and has them make four counts of twelve in time with the music to know when they are supposed to rush onto the stage to join the Russian dancers.

After one count of twelve, the little girl in front of me is holding up a finger.  Across the imaginary stage, another girl is holding up three fingers with a look of intense concentration.  A third girl is examining the hidden mechanism of the room divider.  A fourth, dressed in a wildly colorful dance costume with a tail, is doing fancy spinning jazzy jumps.

Beth is smiling patiently.  She looks like a wedding planner directing a ceremony entirely made up of flower girls.  A flower girl is cute, totally unpredictable, and capable of stealing the show from any bride.  I can’t help wondering who will be the center of attention when this group takes the stage with the Moscow Ballet.

Beth gathers her dancers together and asks, “If you forget to count, is it super bad?”  They reply “No”.  Beth asks, “What else can you do?” and they answer in a tiny sing-song chorus “listen to the music!”  “What else can you do?”  Beth asks.  “Watch each-other!” they reply.

Beth explains that her goal is to get her dancers working together and having fun.  Beth is happiest when they mentor each other and is proud that her dancers come in all shapes and sizes.  Several have those cute little girl bellies and are the spitting image of the lead in Little Miss Sunshine.  All of them know they are pretty.

In her own dancing career, Beth won a Montana Dance and Arts Association scholarship to a summer program with a professional ballet company, but had the scholarship taken away when she didn’t lose ten pounds in a week.  She decided later that if she had her own studio, she could foster strong dancers with healthy body images.

In the lobby, a parent almost cries telling me how happy she is to have Beth teaching her daughters.  She says Beth is more exacting with older dancers but just as nice.  She can’t wait to see the Nutcracker.

After watching all these rehearsals, I will definitely go see at least one performance of the Nutcracker.  I would recommend it to anyone, especially to those with children.  Much of the story takes place under the Christmas tree amongst the presents and that, for many children, is the most important place of all this time of year

Choosing Sides When You Slide.
Many people are interested in trying a snow sport but aren’t sure which one is for them. With so many choices these days, it’s not an easy decision. Telemark skiing, snowboarding, alpine skiing - each offers a different perspective and represents a different style of winter fun. This quick guide will help you decide which is right for you.

You are Telemark Skier if …

You arrived at the hill: In a Subaru wagon.
For lunch you had: Trail mix.
Your theme song is by: Doc Watson or Phish.
You believe: Your graceful turns are healing the mountain.
After skiing you will be at: The Blackfoot Brewery.
You are annoyed: by everyone else’s plastic boots, the Real Food Store’s refusal to sell beer.
When you aren’t skiing you: recycle, eat that awful peanut butter you have to stir, practice Yoga.
Your Motto is: “Free your heel, free your mind.” and, “Hemp for victory!”
You are an Alpine Skier if …

You arrived at the hill: In a 1978 Trans Am.
For lunch you had: A Bloody Mary and cheese fries.
Your theme song is by: Van Halen (Roth not Hagar) or Jimmy Buffett.
You believe: Chicks dig your feathered hair.
After skiing, you will be at: The Windbag.
You are annoyed by: Snowboarders, three-beer limit for night-skiing, scarcity of Lowenbrau.
When you aren’t skiing you: Play backgammon, look for foxy ladies at the singles bar.
Your motto is: “Astronauts get more Tang.”
You are a Snowboarder if …

You arrived at the hill: by being dropped off by your juvenile probation officer.
For lunch you had: Twizzlers, Red Bull, cigarettes.
Your theme song is by: My Chemical Romance.
You believe: The lift line is a great place to sit down and do your bindings.
After boarding, you will be: At Anchor Park.
You are annoyed by: Your home arrest ankle bracelet fitting badly under your boots.
When you aren’t boarding you: “pwn” everyone at Gears of War on the Xbox 360.
Your Motto is: “Whoa, sorry dude!”

I realize these characterizations may offend some people,
and in one or two cases, they may not actually be true.
For that I ask your indulgence.
Whatever you’re on, THINK SNOW! I’ll see you out there.

I almost felt bad for Conrad Burns when he got in trouble for yelling at those firefighters. I also did something really stupid with fire once.

I had been teaching English for a year in the often rainy and sometimes gloomy city of Bogotá, Colombia. Before going home to the States, I decided to treat myself with a weeklong hang-gliding trip to a town called Roldannillo near Cali in the Valle del Cauca. This was the garden spot of a country that looked like one beautiful lush green garden.

It wasn’t just a beautiful spot. Cali was described as the home of Colombia’s beautiful people. It seemed true. Compared to the brooding hawkish Bogotá pilots whom I had often seen fly in the rain and launch from inside boiling storm clouds, the Cali pilots seemed like laid-back surfers. They had sunny dispositions and sunny flying sites. Lively music blared constantly from their colorful rigs.

In the group of Cali pilots was a young woman who had been flying for about as long as I had. We started hanging around together, and pretty quickly, I had a huge crush on her. I tried to put that out of my mind as we all rigged our gliders to fly. The weather on the first day seemed good and most of the group circled right up in the “house thermal” that rose from a ridge out in front of launch.

I launched and got to the thermal a little after everyone else and found myself hugging the ridge waiting for another one to come through.

Soon, I realized nothing was coming. I noticed the plume of smoke from a burning harvest of a sugar cane field out in the valley was drifting away from me and away from the mountains. This meant the wind was going down-slope and I would be on the ground soon no matter how hard I tried to stay in the air. As I saw the group happily gliding up the valley, I was so frustrated my arms were shaking. The crush I had on the young woman disappearing from view along with them didn’t help.

Then it occurred to me, one thing in the area was definitely going up — the smoke! I left the ridge and glided straight for the plume. I had a tail wind and the giant plume was leaning out ahead of me as I arrived low over the edge of the flaming sugar cane. For a second I worried that I would end up in the burning field but then I entered the smoke.

Normally, in a thermal, we try to fly consistent circles that describe a corkscrew-like path upward in the manner of a hawk. Once inside this plume of smoke though, I found a new way to go up. After the first strong jolt, the glider rocked every way possible as I watched burning grass like embers drifting up, around, and past the presumably flammable nylon sail over my head.

My glider and I had more in common with a leaf than anything with feathers and a brain, but I was going up. My ears popped several times. I held on tight to the control bar and decided that as long as I was going up, things would be OK.

A few times, I drifted out of the smoke and the view down the leaning plume gave me an intense feeling of vertigo. Each time, I turned back into the smoke that smelled like the mix of a campfire and hot pancake syrup.

I came out the top of the plume high over the Valle de Cauca. The sun was getting low and I landed long after anyone else. When I finally made it back to the group, I was a little embarrassed at the desperate move I had made to stay in the air.  I didn’t tell anyone what I had done.

A friend from Bogotá said he had thought all the lift near launch had died and was surprised I hadn’t been forced to land right away. I said I had found one last thermal (leaving out any mention of the burning sugar cane field and the giant plume).

After that, I couldn’t change my story. I ended up describing a fictional elusive last thermal to pilot after pilot at dinner and at the salsa dancing club after. Even pilot’s wives listened politely as their husbands had me describe my flight to them. No one seemed to tire of “the gringo’s last thermal” story, and after a while I was telling it with amusing (though fictional) details and getting laughs.

My crush thought it was especially funny when I tried to describe the flight in halting Spanish. Like a gentleman though, I tried to downplay the fact that I had landed long after her.

Later, when I went to brush my teeth back in the hostel, I looked in the mirror and saw that my face was completely covered in black soot from the plume of smoke. I looked like Al Jolson in the “Jazz Singer,” and I had the whole night. It was obvious I had flown through smoke to stay in the air, and I still cringe when I think of myself that night trying to do cool Salsa dancing moves, or telling about my flight between suave, Steve McQueen like sips of aguardiente.

Oh well, at least I didn’t yell at any firefighters.

Won’t you believe it it’s just my luck, no recess! — Kurt Cobain

I first noticed something terrible was going on when they cut us down from two recesses a day to one. I didn’t know at the time they would eventually do away with recess altogether. If I had known that, if I had known they would soon start ruining MY time with homework and even someday end summer vacation, I probably would have gone on a hunger strike.

I remember asking a friend who went to junior high a year before me if anyone used the short breaks between these “classes” to play tag or kickball. I was trying to convince myself that lots of little recesses might be as good as one long one. He said it would be possible but that no one did. Even stranger, apparently the only thing people did at lunch was eat. It sounded pretty bad, and I hadn’t even heard of algebra yet.

I still miss recess, that short time in the middle of the day to run completely amok. (Never mind those miraculous occasions when we would come back inside, expecting to find nothing but grim rows of desks waiting for us, and see the projector standing in the middle of the room!)

The first time I ever heard a judge say, “Let’s take a 20 minute recess,” I couldn’t help but think how great it would be if we all ran outside screaming, and started a big game of kickball.

The judge could (as could we all) imperiously demand “a slow bouncy” pitch (or a “smooth fasty” if he preferred). On the other hand, while running between the bases, the prosecutor, judge and defendant alike would face the possibility of getting blasted with the red ball that sounded with a rubbery whine when it hit.

Remember, in kickball, you throw the base runner out by hitting him or her with the ball.

There are probably times when you feel like throwing a red rubber ball at your fleeing boss.  Guess what.  Some days he or she would probably like to throw one at you.

Obviously, nailing someone right in the face would lead straight to violence but headshots have always been illegal everywhere kickball is played except certain eastern block military boarding schools.

It’s easy to long for the carefree days of grade school. If you think about it though, none of us would make it one day in the third grade.

How do you think you would do, for example, if three or four of your co-workers walked up to your desk, stood in a jaunty pose with their hands on their hips, said loudly “You stink bootface and we hate you,” and strode away laughing?

How about going to work afraid an older colleague was going to put you in a headlock and steal your coffee money?

Are you just dying to stand with everyone against the wall of the office, try to spell “hermeneutic,” and slump down alone at your desk like a doofus if you get it wrong? Neither am I.

I would, though. I would go back and face it all, just to feel again what it was like to walk out of that dusty smelling building on the last day of school with a whole summer stretched out in front of me.

Montana is the only place I’ve lived where adults still seem to have a little of that feeling in summer. Right now, I’m writing this in the passenger seat in my car heading to Paradise Valley for the Fourth.

Almost all the cars I see are being driven by people with that same summery expression. Puffy white clouds are drawing hawks up from green fields and I can almost smell the gunpowder of the fireworks.

School’s out for summer.

I would totally hate to get eaten by a shark. I think about it a lot. I just know it would be horrible.

I hang glide and that has some real risks, but none of those risks involve being attacked by another creature and ending up in its poo. Sharks poop, right? Or do they just seep rage into the ocean as they swim? I need to watch more Discovery Channel. I should really know that.

Anyway, I have occasionally glided near thunderstorms (which is as stupid as taunting a shark with a stick) but I don’t think I would ever hang glide if there were giant raptors or pterodactyls that occasionally swooped out of clouds to tear pilots limb from limb. My Montana hang gliding friends would though. Their first concern would be drawing a pterodactyl tag so they could bow hunt them from their gliders. Their only other concern would be finding a good pterodactyl jerky recipe.

I’ve always wanted to learn to surf, except for the sharks. I think I would be a good surfer. I would at least be very distinctive in my shiny chain mail and bright orange water wings for buoyancy.

To be honest, I am even a little afraid of sharks in lakes or swimming pools (especially a really creepy swimming pool at night). Not only did I see “Jaws” when I was about 5 years old, but I also watched a lot of the “Twilight Zone” growing up. One thing I learned from the Twilight Zone is that weird things can happen to you when you are by yourself and there are no witnesses.

That’s why I don’t like being alone in scary places like the woods or my basement. It’s not like my basement is a dungeon or anything. It’s pretty standard- water heater, washer and drier, five pairs of skis (and the pair my wife owns). I can keep my cool coming up the stairs from my dark basement at night — until those last few steps when I completely unravel. I definitely have some zip on those last few stairs as I sprint out of there suppressing a “yyyyyyyyye” sound. If someone saw me they would probably think I had run the entire staircase that way and start running too.

I know empirically that monsters don’t exist, but I also don’t sleep with my ankle hanging over the edge of the bed. Nor do I back around corners and trees at night and turn around suddenly. I think the people in horror movies who do deserve the machete sandwich they always get. I mean, what does it take? When you hear the screechy plinky violin music, don’t walk around backwards. What is difficult about that?

I may have learned this stuff early when my babysitter explained to me that Alfred on Batman could take the shape of any visible object liked to eat children. That really helped me develop my monster-proof nighttime walking style. If you see me doing it, I don’t care if you laugh, as long as you don’t laugh in a creepy Vincent Price way.

Anyway, I’m looking forward to another shark-free summer here in Helena. My gliding friend in Great Falls has a new tow rig with a payout winch and about 6,000 feet of line. Behind his truck, we can tow up in our gliders to about 2,000 feet where the good thermals are. My wife thinks its scary but I keep telling her she’s just being silly

‘The National Security Agency has been secretly collecting the phone call records of tens of millions of Americans, using data provided by AT&T, Verizon and BellSouth, people with direct knowledge of the arrangement told USA TODAY. . . According to multiple sources, Qwest declined to participate because it was uneasy about the legal implications of handing over customer information to the government without warrants.” — USA TODAY

Qwest: Hello, welcome to Qwest customer service, for quality assurance purposes this call may be monitored, your call is important to us. Please hold for the next available customer service representative.

(10 minutes later)

Hello this is Cindi, how can I help you?

NSA: This is agent Bob Freeber of the NSA, I’m going to need records of all your customers’ calls in the United States.

Qwest: I can’t get you that, Bob. Would you like to sign up for call forwarding, call waiting or our new broadband Internet package?

NSA: No Cindi, I don’t want any of those services. I hate call waiting, I think it’s pretty rude to tell someone you have a more important call and put them on hold. I’m happy with my present package. What I need are records of all your customers’ phone calls. I’d like to talk to your supervisor please.

Qwest: My supervisor isn’t available.

NSA: What do you mean your supervisor isn’t available? What’s your last name Cindi?

Qwest: It’s not our policy to give out last names.

NSA: Well that’s ridiculous. You’re telling me there’s no one there I can talk to about your service, and you won’t give me your name? I don’t mind telling you Cindi I don’t much like your tone or attitude.

Qwest: Well, Bob, if you don’t like our service you can always go with another telephone provider.

NSA: YOUNG LADY, YOU WILL CONNECT ME WITH SOMEONE IN CHARGE OVER THERE RIGHT NOW OR YOU WILL SEE THE INSIDE OF CAMP X-RAY BEFORE YOU CAN SAY STRESS POSITION!

Qwest: One moment please.

(20 minutes later)

“Hello this is Aamir, how can I help you?”

NSA: Aamir this is Bob Freeber at the NSA. I’m going to need records of all your customers’ phone calls.

Qwest: Where?

NSA: In the Unites States.

Qwest: Bob, I can’t get you that. I’m in New Delhi. Would you like to sign up for Internet access? We have a special on dialup connection but we would have to disable your call waiting. The other option is to go DSL.

NSA: I don’t have call waiting.

Qwest: Yes, you do, you signed up for it on May 18, 2006.

NSA: NO I DIDN’T! I NEVER SIGNED UP FOR CALL WAITING! TAKE ME OFF CALL WAITING RIGHT NOW! MAY 18! THAT’S TODAY! TAKE ME OFF CALL WAITING!

Qwest: Yes of course, we can take you off call waiting in exactly one month for a small deactivation fee of $49.95.

NSA: WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?! HOW CAN YOU CHARGE ME TO DEACTIVATE A SERVICE I NEVER ORDERED!?

Qwest: For you Bob, I will waive the deactivation fee. I will make sure it is shown on your next statement. I am writing myself a note right here on a sticky. Thank you so much for using Qwest thank you —

NSA: Wait, Aamir! What about the customer records? I need records of all your customers’ calls!

Qwest: Certainly, I will transfer you to someone to help you.

(20 minutes later)

Qwest: Tec support, this is Kurt. How can I help you?

NSA: This is Bob Freeber from the NSA, and I need records of all your customers’ phone calls.

Qwest: For how long?

NSA: For as long as we are at war with terror.

Qwest: Well, Bob, terror is more of a vile “tactic” than a discernable homogeneous group one could classify as an enemy. That is sort of like making war on flanking movements, or sneak attacks. As such, what you are describing is a war without end, correct?

NSA: Yes.

Qwest: So you will be wanting these records forever then?

NSA: I guess so.

Qwest: Hmm, Bob that’s tough … Have you tried rebooting your phone?

NSA: What are you talking about?

Qwest: Bob, how can you expect me to help you if you won’t listen to me! Find the flat grey cord sticking out the back of your phone.

NSA: OK, I see the cord you’re talking about.

Qwest: Right, now pull that out.

NSA: OK, I’m —

click …

My friend Brian is a comedy writer (TV and movies). I’m pretty sure everyone who knows him considers him the funniest person they know. It’s been that way since we were little kids and I’ve never seen anyone get the better of him.

Once, when we were in about fourth grade, my friends and I were walking down the pedestrian overpass to my elementary school. We were being silly and rowdy and an elderly couple was walking towards us up the overpass. The old woman was stooped but solid. I remember her quite well because as we moved to the side to pass, she darted out and sternly grabbed Brian by the arm yelling: “WHAT’S YOUR NAME?! WHAT ROOM ARE YOU IN?! WHO’S YOUR TEACHER?!”

This might have been confusing to Brian.  He didn’t go to my school. He went to one of those schools where kids get to do whatever they want all day. I brought home lists of spelling words to study. He brought home plywood replica KISS guitars he had made for rockin’. He didn’t have a “room” or a “teacher.” From the sound of things, he did have a hell of a lot of fun.

If the mean old woman’s shrill questions confused Brian, he didn’t show it. The moment she grabbed his arm, he started a slow, graceful, but gangly pirouette away from her while screaming back in mock terror: “PUULLEEEAAASSEE DON’T USE YOUR KARATE ON ME!” Not only did we find this “pee your pants funny,” the woman’s husband had to turn away so she wouldn’t see him laughing. His shoulders were shaking as he tried to stifle it. I’m glad for him that she was too busy chasing us to notice.

Brian could be frighteningly funny. To this day, I cannot bring myself to buy swimming shorts that lack a drawstring to keep them securely around my waist. As I wade out into Canyon Ferry Lake on a bright summer day, I know he is thousands of miles away in Los Angeles, but I tie my shorts with a double knot just in case. I wouldn’t be surprised if other guys from my neighborhood were taking the same precautions today to prevent a public pantsing by Brian.

One time, after we had graduated from college, Brian and I were in Los Angeles at an outdoor walking mall in Santa Monica.  It was like a very upscale Last Chance Gulch but we saw an old man playing guitar and singing while suspended upside down by his shoulders between two chairs. He wore a tattered sport coat and his guitar was missing two strings. A few white wispy hairs dangled from his red forehead and his nose was running. There was yodeling.

While we stood there, I wondered how this man got up every day and got ready to do this. I thought about the conversations he would have with high school classmates that recognized him — how he would say to them “not much” or “pretty good, how about you?” or “same old, same old” from his upside down perch.

While I was wondering this, a drunken group of tall, tan, gold-chain-and-suede-jacket-wearing men wandered up the walking mall and started making fun of the street musician. One man who had a generous helping of “product” glistening in his receding curly hair walked over to the old upside down man to pose for a photograph. He rested his elbow on the old man’s foot and clowned for the camera.

The old man was confused and a little scared. He didn’t know whether to continue his song or stop. I mumbled that the curly haired man was a jerk, but Brian said very loudly “NO, THAT GUY’S FAMOUS, I’VE SEEN HIM ON TELEVISION!”  I didn’t know where Brian was going with this but guessed he had something funny, so I said loudly “REALLY?” This being Los Angeles, people started to gather and stare at the possibly famous curly haired man as Brian shouted in time with his frantically pointed finger “THAT’S THE HAIR CLUB PRESIDENT!”

May Brian use his power only for good.

Here is a short clip of hang gliding over Butte Montana. It’s a great place to fly and visit. There’s a house thermal right in front of the statue of Mary to the south of the launch. Warm air cooks off the scree in front of the statue and is channeled up the slope by sharp ridges. It is eerie to fly past the statue with your vario/altimiter screaming and an invisible hand lifting you skyward.

Short flight off the east ridge over Butte Montana.   / Peter Bovingdon / 2 min 3 sec

The neighborhood where I grew up had steep hills. The only hills I have ever seen that were anywhere near as steep are in San Francisco.

Walking down the hills in my neighborhood, people would, without noticing, lean back. Cars stalled often at the stop signs at the tops of the hills. The only way to ride a bike up them was to use a strange serpentine looping path I’ve haven’t seen anyone use on a bike since I lived there.

I don’t think the executives at Empire Industries ever would have produced the Big Wheel if they had seen the hills where I grew up. They certainly would not have allowed them to be sold there. They did sell them, though, to all our parents. So as soon as my friends and I got our hands on the sturdy low riding three wheeled plastic toys, we took them to the top of 42nd Street and rode them to the bottom.

Because it ended in a long flat straight-away which gave you just enough time to stop before reaching the busy arterial that crossed it, 42nd Street was perfect.

Racing our Big Wheels on any of the non-steep hills, we would jostle each other like a smashup derby. Falling off and rolling in a grass parking strip was the next best thing to winning.

On 42nd though, it went without saying that you did not mess with another rider in any way. Seconds after pushing off from the top, the pedals in front of your feet were a blur. Your vision shook and the handgrips vibrated the point of making you nauseous. You kept to your lane and so did the riders next to you.

The only real breaks the riders had were their sneakers on the pavement, and soon after the start, those wouldn’t do much. None of us ever went as fast until we got our driver’s licenses, and even then only if we were speeding.

After coasting forever on the long flat run out, each rider would bleed off enough speed to pull the hand break mashing it into one of the back wheels producing a perfect skidding 180. It was the greatest thing ever, and we did it every day.

The first time someone’s mom saw us doing this, she called my best friend’s mom and screamed, “They are riding their Big Wheels from the top of the 42nd street hill!” (My friend was the oldest, so I think his mom was responsible for making us stop.)

She didn’t stop us though. She just said “I don’t want to see it.”

The next time we rode, I noticed my friend’s mom had given him her ski goggles to wear.

I mention all of this because it was while I was riding my Big Wheel on 42nd Street that one of the craziest things I have ever seen happened. A little kid named Markey lived about three-quarters of the way up the hill. He had just started walking but couldn’t talk yet. He still wore a diaper.

He had a big bobble head, and he scooted around his driveway on a plastic chicken on wheels. The chicken had no steering at all. Markey straddled it like a bicycle, holding onto each end of a handle that went through the chicken’s head.

None of us paid much attention to Markey until one day, after watching one of my friends bomb down the hill on a solo run, Markey started out from his driveway totally naked dragging his chicken.

When he started to line the chicken up facing down hill, we abandoned our Big Wheels and ran toward him yelling, “No, Markey, no! You can’t go down the big hill on your chicken!.”

We were running incredibly fast downhill but Markey managed to get astride his plastic chicken and push off before we could stop him.

Mercifully, because he was very top-heavy, he crashed almost immediately. He was scraped all over and bawling as he ran home. His chicken sat there in the middle of the road because we all ran away.

It was a while before any of us was brave enough to go to back to the hill with our Big Wheels. Amazingly, when we did, Markey, clad this time in a diaper, came out again and tried to ride his chicken down the hill just like us. Someone had to hide his chicken in a tree in order to stop him. He bawled at us and at the injustice the whole time we rode the hill.

One time, when my friend and I were back from college driving around, we saw Markey sitting in the back of a car with two girls. The car was driven by another teenager. They all looked about 16.

We were so excited to see Markey, we started yelling, “Markey! Naked rider! How are you man!? Express Chicken to hell! Naked rider!”

I thought he must have been embarrassed because he pretended he didn’t hear us.

Something occurred to me the other day, though. When Markey tried to ride his chicken down 42nd Street, he couldn’t even talk, so all those years later, he probably had no idea what we were yelling about. I wonder what it’s like to have two guys pull up next to you and start screaming “Naked Rider!” for no reason.