âYou are NOT funny!â she claimed, falsely.
Nuns with Shotguns, Vol II of THE WORLD IS MY ASHTRAY, picks up where Pepperoni, Jalapeños & LSD left off. Paul and Lonnie disappear into a Rocky Mountain ghost town to decompress from a manic year in Boulder, Colorado. The town of Eldora is spectacular, serene, virtually uninhabited. Perhaps a hundred hermits hide in the hills, cleaning their guns and guarding their bongs. Now twenty years old and even more determined to write his way to financial freedom, Paul hunkers down at his typewriter and begins banging out his first novel.
Full of Budweiser, hallucinogens, and a young manâs lust, Paul still cannot resist the temptation of the wilder world, however. Before long, heâs relentlessly chasing new women, blasting through the mountains on his motorcycle, and tripping acid on the Eldora valley mountaintops. Wedding weirdness, stunning sunsets, hard drugs, continuous betrayal, and dark mountain saloons punctuate this continuation of P. H. Mountainâs whirlwind comedic memoir. Set against the backdrop of the final decade before the tech revolution, Nuns with Shotguns is a full embrace of reckless living, an unapologetic testament to the stunning beauty of attacking life with the throttle wide open.
âYou are NOT funny!â she claimed, falsely.
Nuns with Shotguns, Vol II of THE WORLD IS MY ASHTRAY, picks up where Pepperoni, Jalapeños & LSD left off. Paul and Lonnie disappear into a Rocky Mountain ghost town to decompress from a manic year in Boulder, Colorado. The town of Eldora is spectacular, serene, virtually uninhabited. Perhaps a hundred hermits hide in the hills, cleaning their guns and guarding their bongs. Now twenty years old and even more determined to write his way to financial freedom, Paul hunkers down at his typewriter and begins banging out his first novel.
Full of Budweiser, hallucinogens, and a young manâs lust, Paul still cannot resist the temptation of the wilder world, however. Before long, heâs relentlessly chasing new women, blasting through the mountains on his motorcycle, and tripping acid on the Eldora valley mountaintops. Wedding weirdness, stunning sunsets, hard drugs, continuous betrayal, and dark mountain saloons punctuate this continuation of P. H. Mountainâs whirlwind comedic memoir. Set against the backdrop of the final decade before the tech revolution, Nuns with Shotguns is a full embrace of reckless living, an unapologetic testament to the stunning beauty of attacking life with the throttle wide open.
Eldora, Colorado
1990
Rummy panted heavily, his tongue hanging out his mouth like a half-eaten salmon filet.
âYou need a drink, boy?â I asked him.
He wagged his tail excitedly. Little guy didnât understand a word I was saying â he could barely form a full sentence himself â but he loved it when I talked to him in that tone. That tone meant treats, car rides with open windows, long walks in the woods.
I stood up from the large rock Iâd sat on, snubbed out my smoke on the dirt path, and stuffed the butt back in my half-empty pack of Marbs. I didnât litter as a rule, but I especially wouldnât clutter up this pristine piece of planet. Stretching, I gazed out at the immense valley a few thousand feet below. The top of the mountain directly behind my cabin provided a breathtaking view â the Continental Divideâs snowcaps to my left, Barker Reservoirâs shimmering waters to my right â and if I stretched my eyeballs to full eyeballity, I could just make out Boulder, twenty miles down the canyon. This was my mountain, mine alone. I discovered the path buried on the other side of Middle Boulder Creek, and in the many times Rummy and I hiked to the top of my mountain, weâd never passed a single soul.
âWell, donât just stand there,â I said, then flicked my hand forward, âgo get yourself a drink, dude.â
He waited until I took one step down the path, then bolted off, leading the way. He knew the routine. The path wound around the mountainâs summit, rolling through the woods and crossing over to the other side before looping back. A few hundred yards away was a freshwater pond, created each spring by winter runoff from even higher mountains. By the time I reached it, Rummy was already submerged up to his neck, the freezing water cooling his little Benji body as he gulped in huge mouthfuls. After he drank what seemed like a third of the pond, I found a good stick, and for the next ten minutes, I hurled it into the water. Rummy splashed after it, brought it back, and begged for another launch. I threw it further and further, and Rummy went after it with the idiotic enthusiasm of an aging businessman chasing a stripper from stage to stage, convinced she wants more than just his money.
âAlright, alright, thatâs enough, boy,â I said after the fiftieth toss.
Rummy cocked his head, wondering why the hell I was stopping the game right when it was getting so awesome. Who the fuck stops playing fetch when they could play more fetch? To punish me for ending the party, he sidled up to me and shook his little body as hard as he could, showering me with freezing mountaintop water.
âThanks, dick.â
He tore off before I could react further, guiding us further along the path. He knew it would loop back around the mountain and bring us right back to the summit on our side of the mountaintop. He also knew I liked taking the full tour, catching the backside scenery, as well. There was something back there that made me look forward to winter for the first time in my life.
Following my dog around a final bend on the path, the Eldora ski area floated into view. How cool. Until Iâd climbed this mountain the first time, I didnât even know Eldora had a ski area. But there it was, in all its summertime stillness. A ski resort feels completely different in summer than in winter, long swaths of soft green fields cutting lightly through the deeper green of summer pines. Mountain flowers bloomed on the slopes, dotting the ski runs with whites and blues, purple columbines, yellow dandelions. Everything seemed so soft, feminine even, when contrasted against the banzai warfare skiers and boarders waged against the mountain in winter. Eldora was particularly deserted in summertime, probably quieter than any other Colorado resort. There was no town to sustain the ski area, no hotels or condos, no reason for anyone to be at the resort if they werenât skiing. It was one of Coloradoâs smaller ski areas, but to my Minnesota eyes, it still looked enormous. I couldnât believe I had an actual Rocky Mountain ski resort practically in my back yard.
To keep Rummy happy, I kept moving until we eventually looped back around to âmyâ rock on âmyâ mountain. It was Paul Mountainâs Mountain, Mount Mountain. A little redundant, but screw it, I dominated this part of the world. Iâd call it whatever the fuck I pleased. I sat on my rock and watched the wind roll across the distant mountainsides, the aspens bowing in unison to the superior force of Wind. I could have stayed there all day, smoking, wandering, studying my wonderfully deserted planet, but Lonnie was cooking up a late breakfast back at the cabin. And once we finished eating, she and I had a huge decision to make.
After an easy hour of downhill hiking and a ten-minute stroll through the woods along the creek, I pushed open our cabinâs screen door. Lonnie stood at the stove, her back to me. Sheâd tied an apron decorated with log cabins around her waist, presumably to keep her gigantic knockers from escaping into the frying pan. Lonnie looked perfectly in place in our little mountain cabin, almost part of the landscape itself. Her pretty blonde hair had grown longer since our Boulder days, now flowing halfway down her back in wandering, wavy curls. I liked it better that way. She was gorgeous when Iâd met her almost a year before, but the two of us falling in love seemed to bring her beauty to fruition.
âJesus, I thought you guys got lost up there,â Lonnie said as Rummy blasted over to her.
The house smelled fantastic. It was August, way too soon to fire up the wood stove, so Lonnie simmered my trout catch from the previous morning on our gas stovetop. Sheâd prepped the fish in my favorite lemon and cornmeal batter, the scent scurrying up my nostrils to wake my appetite.
âJust taking my time,â I said, âtoo beautiful a day to hurry.â
âI know. I wish classes werenât starting up again so soon. I want to stay up here all day every day.â
Our fish was ready before long. Lonnie brought it out to our deck and served it with basted eggs, a hash brown scramble, orange juice and coffee. Damn, the girl could cook, which was wildly attractive. It wasnât as hot as watching her do my laundry, of course, but it was still pretty sexy. We ate slowly on our deck, the summer breeze gently pressing the pines, loosening their scent. Neither of us spoke while we ate, but I knew we were both thinking the same thing.
I finished up my breakfast, stretched out in my ridiculously comfortable reading/smoking/drinking/napping hammock, and lit up my dessert.
âSo,â I said.
âSo,â Lonnie repeated, smiling at me.
âYou ready to add to this little slice of perfection weâve created?â
Her smile grew into a laugh, and she nodded quickly. âIâm so excited!â
âMe too.â
âThen letâs get going!â
Fifteen minutes later, Rummy, Lonnie and I were in her Skyhawk, rolling through Eldora. We passed one person walking her dog. We waved. The woman waved back. Rummy barked once at her dog. Her dog barked once at Rummy. Just another frenzied day on the bustling streets of Eldora, Colorado.
âAre you sure youâre ready for such a big commitment?â Lonnie asked when we exited the canyon and drove into Boulder.
âI think I can handle it. Iâve already been doing it for almost a year.â
âTrue, but itâs a little different when itâs your own.â
I smiled at her. âLetâs be honest, Lon, Rummyâs mine.â
âHe is not!â She punched me lightly in the arm. âHeâs my little man.â
I shrugged. âTry telling him that. Dude adores me.â
âHe loves me, too.â She rolled down her window for fresh air, Boulderâs summertime temp at least fifteen degrees warmer than our 8,700-foot-high home in Eldora. âDo you have a name in mind yet?â she asked.
âNah, gotta meet the little guy or girl first.â
âI want a girl.â
âItâs not your decision to make.â
âYeah, but I still want a girl.â Lonnie stared out her window for a few seconds, then asked, âDo you think youâll be ready for human babies after this?â
âNope.â
âI was hoping this was practice for bigger things.â
âNope.â
She pouted. âI only want two.â
âTwo kids to ruin one life: mine.â I glanced over at her hopeful face. âLetâs just stick to the plan, Lon.â
Sticking to the plan, I pulled into the Boulder Humane Society parking lot and found a place in the shade so Rummy wouldnât overheat. We cracked the windows for our little guy and headed toward the building to find him a friend.
The Humane Society is the happiest and saddest place in the world. The instant we pushed open the door, the roar of animal life filled my soul. Squawking birds, yowling cats, and barking dogs fought to be heard, like a band tuning up before a big concert. The reality that only one of them would be leaving with me, however, soon dampened that initial blast of positivity. Walking away from a hundred animals, leaving it up to someone else to free them from their cages, is heart wrenching. I wanted to take them all, set them loose in a field, then wait for them to overpopulate and dominate the planet. A world of puppies and kittens was a world I could handle, a furry world of unlimited play, long afternoon naps, and big piles of poop.
Iâd wanted a dog of my own for as long as I could remember. Some people with horrible fathers want children, hoping to prove to themselves, their dad, or God that thereâs a better way to raise kids. In the same way, I wanted a dog. My dad loved our family dog way more than he loved any of his children, but he was still cruel and militant and physically abusive with her. Several times, I watched him kick her in the stomach and throw her down our stairs, drag her through the house by her neck and hurl her out the back door. Even those my dad loved best took it on the chin from time to time, which I kind of had to respect. At least his violence was universal, if not always equally distributed.
âLetâs go find the puppies!â Lonnie said loudly, raising her voice over the symphony of two hundred caged animals. She grabbed my hand and tried to yank me past the kennels, but I resisted.
âMaybe we should get an older guy.â I stopped in front of a cage. Back in the corner of the kennel, a quiet, graying dog lay curled up near his bowl. Without lifting his head, he stared at me, his eyes resigned, knowing I wouldnât save him. Someone had raised him and then abandoned him when he got older, left him out on display like an old whore in a brothel filled with cheerleaders, no chance of being chosen. It was the saddest thing in a universe overflowing with sad things. I wanted to crawl into his cage, let him cry in my lap, then slip him a few hundred bucks and tell him he could and should spend it all on booze.
âDonât stop,â Lonnie said, pulling me away from the old dog. âIf you stop, youâll want to take every dog in this place. I know you, Paul. Youâre a softie when it comes to animals. Weâre here to get you a puppy.â
She was right, of course, so I pressed on and tried to forget, doing my best to avoid further eye contact with any of the other dogs. It was hard, though. I could feel their desperation, heard the urgency in their barks. Get me outta here, man! They MURDER us in here! Putting us âto sleepâ is a fucking euphemism, dude!
At the end of the cages â they make you walk through the kennels to get to the puppies, counting on hearts as pliable as mine â we finally reached the puppy rooms. All sadness immediately fled. The Humane Society had three current litters: one group of boxers, a maniac batch of yellow labs, and a pack of German shepherd / black lab mixed pups. I walked right over to the mixed dogs, knowing a couple different bloodlines calmed the wilder side of puppies. Weâd raised Rummy through his madness year, kept my shoes and socks locked in closets, no clothes on the floor, no food on the counter. When I went for a middle-of-the-night whiz, I had to keep my eyes peeled for the land mines Rummy occasionally scattered in the early days. Nothing worse than dog shit between the toes at 3:00 a.m. I didnât want to go through another puppy year like that, so a calmer mixed breed suited me.
Lonnie and I stood outside the German Shepherd / black lab room â Shepradors â and watched seven furry clumps roll all over each other. Some crawled on top of the pile of bodies before falling off, while others pushed each other playfully with their soft paws, all of them struggling against puppy narcolepsy to keep their eyes open .
âOh my god, that is the cutest thing Iâve ever seen!â Lonnie said, her hands over her mouth. I glanced at her, and sure enough, she was crying. Good lord, Lonnie could cry at Mardi Gras in New Orleans, finding the beads just soâŠsoâŠbeady.
âYour face is leaking, Lon.â
âI know,â she said, sniffling, wiping her eyes. âI canât help it. Those little guys are just too adorable. Letâs take them in the yard and find you a new best friend.â
Ten minutes later, Lonnie and I were out in the Humane Societyâs play yard with seven little maniacs. Actually, there were only six maniacs. The seventh was extremely calm, strangely so for a pup, and that particular one came right over to me when I stretched out on the ground. The tiny dog sat a foot away and stared at me, its mostly black face beautiful and inquisitive.
âI think she likes you,â Lonnie said.
âHow do you know itâs a she?â
âA woman knows.â Lonnie reached out, picked up the little pup, and checked the undercarriage. âYep, itâs a she.â
She set the puppy back on the ground, and the little girl didnât run back to her brothers and sisters. Instead, she wobbled even closer to me, made her way right up to where I lay stretched out in the grass, and gave my face a good long smellinâ. After several seconds, I must have passed the sniff test, because she sat down six inches away and stared into my eyes. I reached out and rubbed her puppy-soft black head, tickled the tan swath down her nose, and smoothed the little splatters of tan above her eyebrows. I scratched her right behind her floppy, color-flecked ears, and she rolled her head playfully under my fingers. When I pulled my hand away, she didnât demand more attention. She simply stayed seated and watched me. Other puppies from the pack came over, crawled over her, crawled over me, played with each other, and tried to pull my patient pup away. Sheâd play along as much as necessary, but when her siblings bounced away, she remained.
I tilted my head to the right and the little puppy tilted hers to the left, mirroring me. I reversed the tilt, and the puppy played along.
Lonnie laughed and clapped her hands. âI donât think you get to make the decision, Pablo. I think this little girl picked you.â
âIs that right?â I asked the pup. âYou want to come home with me?â
âYes!â Lonnie answered for her.
I laughed. âYou sure this is the one, Lon?â
âYes!â
I nodded. âMe, too.â
After a half-hour of filling out a strangely personal adoption form that asked about everything from my income to my smoking habits to whether I took my LSD intravenously or anally, I carried the new family addition out to Lonnieâs car.
âIâll sit in back with the dogs,â I told Lonnie, âsee how they do together.â
Rummy was always thrilled to see us, whether weâd been gone ten minutes or ten hours, but when I slipped into the back seat with the carrier, he knew something was off. Mom and Dad rode up front together, no one in back. A second after seeing the carrier, Rummyâs nose caught the puppyâs scent, and he grew agitated. I opened the lid, Rummy stuffed his head in, then stepped back in shock. His tail sprang into action, whapping the seats, and he moaned and groaned with concern. I checked in on our pup, and for the first time, she looked uncomfortable.
âSheâll get used to Rummy, itâll just take a little time,â Lonnie said. âBesides, sheâll probably outgrow him in about two months.â Lonnie reached into the backseat, grabbed Rummyâs collar, and gave it a soft yank. âCome on up here, buddy, sit with your mom.â
He did, but he turned around in the front seat and stared at the new puppy the entire drive through Boulder. I lifted her out of the carrier and held her close, letting her know she was safe, and before long, puppy yawns turned into puppy slumber.
âSo now that youâve met her, whatâs her name?â Lonnie asked as we drove out of Boulder and headed up the canyon.
âIâm toying with Brutus.â
âRight.â
âHow âbout Thunder?â
âSheâs a girl, Paul.â
âThatâs true.â I rubbed my chin. âFallopian?â
âBe serious.â
I laughed and scratched my new little girl behind her color spattered ears. She rolled her head, pawed the air, but didnât open her eyes.
âI think Iâll name her Eve, actually.â
âEve?â
âYep, as in Adam-and.â
Lonnie studied me in the rearview mirror, scanning for sarcasm. âWhy Eve?â
I shrugged. âI donât know, pretty name, first female, innocence and all that.â
âWhat about the whole apple thing, going against Godâs will and cursing the world with original sin?â
I laughed. âAll the better! Eve it is.â I reached down and pet my pupâs head, still not waking her. âWhat do you think, little girl? You want to go against Godâs will and curse the world?â
She groaned, pressed her small paw into my palm, and licked her nose. I took that as a yes.
Lonnie stretched her hand into the back seat and scratched our new puppy. âI kind of like it, too, now that I think about it. Suits her. She can be my little Evie-girl. I can teach her how to cook and do her makeup, make her some cute little dresses.â
A half hour later, I carried little Evie â sheâd already had her name elongated â down our walkway. Rummy bounced up and down, dying to wrestle with his new playmate, but I thought it best to go slow with the introduction. I walked Evie into the yard for her very first poop and pee at her new home. She did a great job at both, her poop coiling into a tight spiral biscuit, her pee flowing like Middle Boulder Creek. I was so proud.
The four of us spent the night on our living room floor, drinking, rolling around, hurrying Evie onto the newspaper weâd spread out in the kitchen whenever she started to leak. Rummy learned quickly that he wasnât allowed to roughhouse with her too much, and when he mellowed out, little Evie-girl started approaching him cautiously, sniffing his face, introducing herself. It was the cutest damn thing Iâd ever seen. Lonnie cried many, many times, a tear here, tear there, sob here, blubbering there. The beer didnât help her emotional rollercoaster, either. I did not and never would understand such depth of feeling. Women have an experiential advantage over men, feeling this life invade them, torment them, uplift them, clean them out and resurrect them. As if that wasnât enough, the lucky bastards could have multiple orgasms, too.
Night fell, and shortly after, a crescent moon rose slowly over the Eldora valley mountains. The forest symphony warmed up their instruments, the crickets tuning their wings, the night insects vibrating their organs. Squirrels slipped cautiously through the woods and delicately shuffled leaves, fearing night predators. A soft summer breeze oozed through our open windows, quickly growing chilly at 8,700 feet. We latched the windows closed long before midnight and switched from forest songs to rock ânâ roll records. Eventually, we had to fuck, because no nineteen and twenty-two-year-old can drink that much beer without reverting to sex, so we arranged our couch cushions on the floor, turned out the lights, and fucked slow and passionate in the moonlight. The dogs snored while Lonnie came, and I studied her as she straddled me, her back arched, hips thrust forward, palms flat on my chest. The moonlight grazed her body with thin strokes of lunar paint, accentuating her beautiful breasts, her neck, her thighs. After she came a second time, we fell asleep folded together like origami animals, and in the night, our dogs snuck onto our makeshift bed. The four of us slept soundly under the heavy influence of contentment, the most effective sleeping pill the world has ever known.
In this book, the second installment of THE WORLD IS MY ASHTRAY, you are once
more given front-row seats to witness the adventures of brash, artless young author and protagonist, Paul Mountain. His story continues to unfold in the insanely picturesque setting of Eldora, Colorado, where Paul and his girlfriend Lonnie are living in a rustic cabin tucked away in the mountains. This time, Paul is only slightly older and, based on the dubious activities he regularly partakes in, not much wiser than when you saw him last. Despite the outward perfection of his life, young Paulâs appetite seems utterly insatiable. And when opportunities come knocking, he never fails to eagerly answer... especially when whatâs knocking is drugs, women, or adrenaline.
Although engaging in every ounce of available recklessness that presents itself, young Paul somehow seems subtly more mature this time around, as if taking inner, personal accountability. Sure, he still readily participates in ample debauchery, but at least heâs self-aware. Realizing that this is, after all, a memoir, it may only be a culpability discovered after the fact by an older and NOW wiser author. But regardless of when it began, the musings he offers on his wanton behavior are always deeply insightful and penetrating.
As you read this work, you do have to ask yourself⊠How hasnât he already crashed/been caught/overdosed!? Because, despite Mountainâs penchant for bad decisions, heâs still alive and kicking. And after reading about his youth, that is certainly saying something. Taking acid as a 14-year-old? Climbing onto the roof of your vehicle as it careens down a mountain in the dark? Hooking up with your buddyâs little sister, an infamous plant murderer? This book could easily have been described as a point-by-point account of exactly how lucky one guy can be. Although you may not approve of his lecherous and alarming choices, itâs hard not to like the guy. Mountain reminds you of your own glorious youth, full of impassioned conquests and lamentable mistakes alike. It reminds you just how horny young boys are and how disjointed an acid trip can feel. More importantly, Mountain reminds you that the mistakes of youth are a universal constant, an innate part of growing up. As Mountain himself wrote,
ââŠbecause sometimes love and sex and motorcycles and rye whiskey and waterslides and Faulkner and cabins and mountains and youth get all mixed up and dumped into a weird and uncontrollable blender. The final concoction often makes no sense at all, like playing Shakespearean parts or enjoying sex crime fantasies or believing that love is limiting or exclusive or forever.â
Reading Nuns With Shotguns is certainly not for everyone. Reader beware as obscenities, substance abuse, and sex scenes abound. It is even possible that some of you may not laugh out loud after reading each of the hilariously titled chapters. The immature tone of humor is an appropriate one, however, for a story told through the eyes of a 20-year-old kid. Although life isnât always funny, even at his darkest moments Paul Mountain is able to draw upon some great inner vat of humor within him to just keep on going. He reminds us how important it is to be able to laugh in the midst of everything else. As Paul once said,
âThis life is comedy, baby, nuns with shotguns, goggles on donkeys.â