Saturday, April 16, 2005

Saturday Morning post-caffiene fueled, after work out drivel:

I got nothing. Nada. Zilch. Well, that’s not true, I still got a cold. The cold from hell. It’s like somebody snuck into my house, opened the top of my skull and poured in a bottle of Elmer’s glue.

Hey, I gots me an idea, I surely does. Why don’t you send me a joke, Slateens and Nuggies? And none of this “Knock Knock” flank steak bullsh*t, go with the London broil. Yeah, treat yourself*. Give me a joke you wrote. If yah’s got the guts. Heh? Does yah?

Man, oh man, it happened again. There I am at the gym this morgan, trying to work out with a head cold. There I was desperately trying to keep up to the Stones’ “Monkey Man” on my iPodimus, desperately in need of a blast of energy when it happens: a guy well over 40 walks in wearing skin tight lycra bike shorts. Now I know how Butch and Sundance felt when they ran out into that Bolivian courtyard for the last time.

Like I’ve said, not even bringing up the entire lumpy ass issue, the worst part of those shorts is that they are like serious road kill. You don’t want to look, but you have to see if it’s as bad as you thought. Is that what I think it is? Ewwwww. The only thing worse than a guy who looks like he’s toting a dead rodent in those nasty drawers is a guy who looks like he isn’t.

It's a good look on no man. No man. Can I get a righteous amen, one time?

And one more gym related item. Those young girls who wear those little shorts with the name of something – their school, team, town, whatever – right across the butt? I contend that is OK to read that name without feeling like a total perv. In fact, you can read it, re-read it and check for possible spelling mistakes.

*That’s right, uh huh, I hung a “Cabin Boy” reference on you.

Friday, April 15, 2005

These just in:
Wendy’s has doubled their reward for information on the original owner of the tip-of-the-finger-in-the-chili to $100,000. That’s a lot of cash at tax time. You have to think there are some people out there seriously eyeing their hedge clippers right about now.

$100, 000 is a lot of money. It’s tax time, so just think of cutting off your finger to collect Wendy’s reward as a type of deduction.

Roll wit it, roll wit it, roll wit it, Torn Slatterns and Nugget Ranchers

We kid the commander in chief
A world wide survey asking women how sexy President Bush is, on a scale of one to ten, did not go well for the president. The average was 1.7 out of 10. Asked to reply about his 1.7 rating with women, President Bush said; “That one isn’t too good but that seven ain’t bad."

Again, we kid George W.
There is speculation that, in honor of John Paul II, the Pope’s successor will take the name John Paul III. Upon hearing this, President Bush said; “I didn’t know the Pope had a son?”

Not at Wrigley Field
At the Boston Red Sox, New York Yankees game, a drunken fan took a glancing swing at Yankee outfielder Gary Sheffield. We know that wasn’t Chicago Cub foul ball flubber, Steve Bartman, he would have swung, missed and punched himself out.

Let’s make it official (Assist Janice Hough)
This weekend, with the Los Angeles Lakers and Clippers out of town, the Staples center is hosting the California Democratic convention. Why not host a Star Trek convention, the French Army, the cast of “Joey” and we can declare the Staples center the loser’s capitol of the world?

You deserved a break fifty years ago , now we really don't care . . .
McDonalds is 50 years old. To mark the big occasion, McDonald’s all over the United States are officially changing their French fry oil for the very first time.

Today McDonalds is 50 years old. And tomorrow morning, frivolous lawsuits against McDonalds will also be 50 years old.

McDonalds is 50 years old. McDonalds serves 50 million people a day. In fact, McDonalds is such a big part of our culture that McDonald invented expressions are part of the vocabulary like Big Mac, Supersize, Golden Arches and “Move over, lard-ass.”

McDonalds is 50 years old. McDonalds serves 50 million people a day. In fact, McDonalds is such a big part of our culture that McDonald expressions are part of the vocabulary like Big Mac, Supersize, Golden Arches and cardiac arrest.

They better be careful
Have you seen the Internet pictures of Michael Jackson’s white-haired attorney, Tom Mesereau? He’s at a party with his pants off, on his knees wearing a dog collar with a dominatrix holding his leash. If they’re not careful, this Michael Jackson trial could get a little weird.

Not clear on the “good thing” concept
I’m not sure Martha Stewart really understands being under house arrest. Today she screamed to her parole officer that he was fired.

That explains it, but, again, we kid the big guy
They tackled and arrested a suspicious man in Washington D.C. carrying two big suitcases. It turns out it was just the guy delivering President Bush’s Comic Books on Tape.

Since you asked:
As I mentioned, I had a great time in Mammoth with one exception. (Sorry, O’Snake, You’ve heard this)

At the fancy new “Village” in Mammoth, I called the Mountain Center to book a snowboard lesson for that same day. The rather snarky-sounding girl that answered the phone told me;

“Sorry. We can only take reservations over the phone for lessons at least two days in advance. Otherwise you have to come down to the Mountain Center and book them in person.”

OK, I hung up the phone, a wee bit annoyed, and immediately trotted all the way over there as we were running late to get going that glorious morning. Once there at the Mountain Center, I immediately recognized the girl at the desk as the snarky girl from the phone when, dripping insincerity, she snarked:

“Can I help you?” Trying my best to sound friendly, I chirped;

“Yeah, hello. Hi. How’s it goin? Say, I’m the guy who just called you a few minutes ago and asked to book a snowboard lesson for today. You told me to come down here, so, well, I’m here.”

Without batting an eyelash, she replied;

“Sorry, we’re booked today.”

With a frozen smile through gritted teeth I said; “You’re kidding me, right?” She assured me she was not. They were totally booked. Doing a little bit of my Jack “Hold the chicken between your knees” Nicholson, I said;

“Heh, heh. OK, now whyyyy . . . didn’t you tell me THAT . . . on the phone . . . and save me a trip . . . down heeeeere?”

Slats and Nugs, we all know I am not smart enough to make up what happened next; when I asked snark-woman why she couldn’t have told me that they were booked for that day on the phone, she, honest-to-god, icily said:

“Like I told you, we only take reservations over the phone for lessons at least two days in advance.”

I was really glad I didn’t have my board with me at the time or I would now be wanted by the Mammoth Lakes police for a brutal, brutal attack.

And they say good personal service is dying?

Fever has been replaced by fury:
This is starting to become insulting.

Maybe this wasn’t my year for the “People” magazine’s top 50 most beautiful people. And, granted, I’ll admit, there might be a few candidates more “qualified” than me to be nominated Pope my not being Catholic to pick nits.

But it is nothing less than shameless how I was snubbed in “Time” magazines 100 most influential people. That British dame that sailed around the world? The top 100 people with too much money and time on their hands, maybe.

Martha Stewart? Everybody without a prison record raise your hand. Se Moi.

Quentin Tarantino? Please. That Ichabod Crane looking motherfizzy is one appearance in a movie gem like “Little Nicky” away from trying to get back his job at Blockbuster Video.

Come on. Yours truly has had jokes in “The Buloxi Sun Herald” Paducah’s “Sun Paintsville” as well as Saskatoon’s “StarPhoenix.” And not just any jokes, but top drawer “Michael Jackson is creepy” and “Rueben Stoddard is fat” jokes.

Dammit, I want somebody’s buttocks in my briefcase come sunup, sabes?

(Que: Clint Eastwood’s flute and whistle music)

Thursday, April 14, 2005

What we might be up in here is a wee bit “tetched” with the fever, Torn Slatterns and Nugget Ranchers

Oops, he did it again . . .
Britney Spears has announced she is pregnant. Out of habit, her husband, Kevin Federline, denied that the child was his.

Well, at least that’s something
Authorities suspect the Wendy’s chili finger may be connected to someone who lost the tip of their finger to a leopard bite in Las Vegas. The good news is that Siegfreid can now give Roy his finger tip back.

Poor Jimmy
A new study from Canada revealed that parents treat their talented kids better than their less gifted children. This explains why there aren’t a lot of people praying to Jesus’s younger brother, Jimmy Christ.

Not very P.C.
The conclave is deciding who to pick as Pope. There has been some talk that they may pick somebody from Asia. The problem with that is the insurance premiums on the Pope mobile would skyrocket.

You would hate to see that
Chicago Cubs manager Dusty Baker, a deeply spiritual man, rubs holy water on player’s injuries. You can tell Baker is very religious, he’s been praying that none of the players hurts their groin.

Irony Mike Tyson
Iron Mike Tyson has announced he will return to the ring on June 11 to face tomato can Kevin McBride. The reason Iron Mike wants to return to boxing? Tyson is $38 million in debt. Tyson is so broke he had to change his name from Iron Mike to Scrap Metal Mike.

Hey, this is my side of the street walking
Producers of “The Simple Life” are looking for a new co-star for Paris Hilton to replace Nicole Richey. Apparently the two don’t get along anymore. Paris feels Nicole is hording in on her skankiness.

“American Idol” Ryan Seacrest is getting a star on the Hollywood walk of fame. And he is going to be honored at Grauman’s Chinese Theater, but instead of imprinting his hands and feet in the cement, Seacrest will imprint his knees and lips.

In addition Seacrest’s star will feature a picture of a closed closet door.

Jacko ain’t the only Whacko
Witnesses to the Michael Jackson trial seem to question the accuser’s mother’s credibility. For example, there was the time she tried to sue Jackson claiming to have found a finger in a bowl of the Neverland chili.

At the Michael Jackson trial, the accuser’s mother says she was told her performance in a video was unacceptable because she didn’t say Jackson cured her son of cancer. Seriously, who’s going to believe Jackson can cure cancer when he can’t even re-grow his own damn nose?

Since you asked:
The start of the most boring conversation in the world? “I had the weirdest dream last night.”

Anyway, I had the weirdest dream last night. It might be the fever talking.

I’d been temporarily hired for a writing project that took me to this wild somewhere-in-Central-Coastal California town that had been specifically built for entertainment folk. It was quirky beyond words, a sort of Bohemian, Spanish, funky, circus-like functioning art colony/commune where performers, writers, musicians, painters, actors, directors all worked, lived and played together to inspire and support each other in the hopes of creating something great. You could practically smell the oil paint, Paella, red wine, green tea and the desperation of insecure egomaniacs. And the Vodka. You could really smell the Vodka.

The standing rule of this nutty berg was that the big shots helped the struggling artists, either by giving them advice, a job break or by paying bar and restaurant tabs. It was funny in that, just as you’d expect from human nature, the struggling artists were dying to appear as big shots and the big shots were dying to be as conspicuous as possible.

As I was pretty much an outsider, it was an interesting glimpse into the high adrenaline, and over-the-top drama of the lives of creative people who live from project to project in the; “What have you done for us lately?” world of art and entertainment.

At one point in the dream I was talking to Sheryl Crow. She seemed really nice. Of course, I could tell she dug me. And, to my wild excitement, I discovered the project I was working on turned out to be connected to none other than David Letterman his own bad self. (Although I saw the big guy off in the distance in a crowd, I couldn’t seem to get to him. I wanted to ask him for a leather “Pants” jacket)

That’s when things started to fall apart, as they will do sometimes in dreams. My excitement in writing for Letterman sent me scurrying to the phone to tell my parents. Then I suddenly remembered that my parents were no longer alive. Then I found out I was not writing for Letterman’s show, but for some low-priority pilot that was on the backburner of Dave’s production company “World Wide Pants” and that the pilot was more than likely to be dropped.

At the current rate, the dream was about to descend into the “I have a final exam but I can’t find my drawers” status when I decided to take the reins, sit back and enjoy the eclectic carnival atmosphere. Not shockingly, I headed to the nearest Topas bar. Guess who was there? My girl, Sheryl Crow.

That’s when I woke up.

My lovely wife, Virginia, had let our craziest of the two Labradors, Wrigley, out of his crate and the big Wrig promptly jumped up on the bed landing directly on my crotch.

One minute you’re eating shrimp with Sheryl Crow, the next a dog jumps on the boys.

Welcome back to the real world, Lex. Welcome back to the real world.

And still no messages from the Vatican.

(Polite applause)

Wednesday, April 13, 2005

Loopy, loopy, loopy, Torn Slatterns and Nugget Ranchers

And Euro Disney ain't doin' so hot neither
They still haven’t worked out all the kinks at the one Paris only Starbucks. Today a German tourist ordered a latte with three shots and five employees surrendered.

Maybe they're not doing that great after all
The C.I.A. proudly announced they have become more efficient, more technologically up-to-date and better informed. When President Bush offered to send the C.I.A. a congratulatory e-mail on their progress, the C.I.A. asked; “What’s an e-mail?”

Oops, she did it again
Britney Spears is pregnant. It’s kind of cute, Britney has been going to Lamaze class where she’s learning to lip-synch her breathing technique.

Losers by any other name
Today the City of Los Angeles decided to call the Los Angeles Lakers the Anaheim Lakers but Anaheim refused to accept them.

The Anaheim Angels are now called the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim. And, after this season, the Los Angeles Lakers are the Los Angeles Lakers of Mayhem.

Scrap Iron Mike

In announcing his next fight, Mike Tyson said he is going to cause a train wreck. What’s he talking about? At $38 million in debt, Tyson can’t even afford to take a bus.

Since you asked:
I got a sinus infection that makes me sound like Whitney Houston after New Year’s Eve.
As this is the rant portion of our entry, let me just say that political correctness is like the padded outfield walls at most major league parks. (OK, I know your head feels like an alien is about to burst out and hiss at everyone and then scamper away, but I think you’ve lost it)

No, inner tirade, stay with me.

Someone decided that those outfield walls are hard and players that run into them could get hurt. They had the brainstorm: I know. Why don’t we pad the outfield walls to protect our players and keep them safe? It was done with the best intentions. What happens? Players know the walls are padded, run full speed into them and then get seriously career-ending hurt. (Case in point, the Padres Eric Young) Where doesn’t that ever happen? Wrigley Field. Why? Because the walls aren’t padded, they are the naked truth of solid brick merely made pretty with vines. Sure, those red brick vine covered walls are pretty, but if the players try to mess with them and run full speed into them, they’ll be crushed, so they don’t run into them and they don’t get hurt.

When we try to pad our words and protect people from the truth with political correctness, they just come back a lot harder and then get really hurt. If they know they’re not protected in the first place, they won’t.

No, that’s OK, no need for applause. That’s why I’m here, Slats and Nugs, that’s why I’m here.

So, when the Vatican calls, I don’t want a lot of P.C. glossing over and sparing of my feelings, ala Paula Abdul on “American Idol.” Give it to me Simon Cowell and Wrigley Field walls-like: If I don’t get the job tell me I don’t get the job.

Pope Lex. Dammit, it would have had such a nice ring to it. Oh well. Facts are facts, the white smoke probably won’t be blowing for your ol’ buddy Lex, Slats and Nuggies. The white smoke . . . will not . . . be blowing . . . for your ol’ buddy Lex.

(Heh, heh, he said “be blowing”)

Where is that Sudafed?

Tuesday, April 12, 2005

This just in:
Former world heavyweight champion Mike Tyson announced he will return to the ring on June 11 to face tomato can Kevin McBride. The reason Iron Mike wants to return to boxing? Tyson heard all of the Wendy’s finger chili jokes and, well, it made him hungry for an ear.

Why is Tyson boxing again? You guessed it, he’s flat broke. Tyson is so broke, to make ends meet, he’s been polishing the coffin that Don King sleeps in during the day.

What’s the dealio, my frizzles, Torn Slatterns and Nugget Ranchers?

Sort of like that
Cardinal Bernard Law, who failed to stop sexually abusive priests, led a Mass for thousands mourning Pope John Paul II. Isn’t that like hiring Michael Jackson to entertain at a Chuckie Cheese?

That would explain it
In Nevada, a special education teacher was arrested for suspicion of flashing her breasts to students and possessing marijuana. This does, however, explain why the boys overwhelmingly voted her “Teacher of the Year.”

Hate to see that
At the Los Angeles Lakers 1985 championship reunion, Magic Johnson said his old team could beat the current Lakers despite their age; upon hearing this, Kobe Bryant had Magic traded to the Miami Heat.

When he heard about what Magic said, Kobe Bryant got so mad he almost fell of his room service waitress.

Yeah, right
Pfizer, the company that makes Viagra, reported that profits went down 6% last year. Pfizer nervously explained the reason that profits were down was that they were tired, anxious and had too much to drink.

Premise from Janice Hough
The Beverley Hills Teddy Bear Co. is producing a talking Jesus doll. I bought one, pulled the string, and the Jesus doll said; “Why the hell did they take so long to bury the Pope?”

Good news, bad news
A State Department official said that Bush nominated U.N. Ambassador, John Bolton, was “An 800 pound gorilla” who abused his power and bullied underlings. The bad news for Bolton is that this could kill his nomination. The good news is that Martha Stewart has now fallen madly in love with him.

Since you asked:
The worst thing is a snob, but a close second to a snob is a hypocrite, and the only thing besides a snob that is worse than a hypocrite is when it turns out you are, in fact, that very hypocrite.

When it comes to responding to e-mails, I am officially the biggest hypocrite on the planet. No matter how necessary the response, I can casually sit on an e-mail for weeks, only responding when I am good and ready, thank you. And I actually get peeved when somebody sends me a whining e-mail asking why I haven’t responded. I haven’t responded because I haven’t responded, OK? Sheesh. Back off, Slappy.

But, oh Lordy, no sooner than I let go of the mouse button to send an e-mail, I expect a response back but now and fast. One minute is too long to respond back. And then do I start sending the whiny e-mails complaining like a little bee-yatch that they haven’t sent me anything.

No lie, I will actually sit there hitting the send/recv button until I land a returned e-mail like a flopping trout from an Eastern Sierra icy stream.


Send me an e-mail and I’ll prove it. But when I finally do respond? Oh, brother, you had better send it right back to me. Or there will be whining in your future. Oh, yes, my friend, there will be whining in your future.

(Polite golf-like applause)

Labrador update:

OK, we’ve known all along that Kasey is a smart dog. Very alert, very quick, very easy to train. Sure, she is a shameless food scrounge, but she is smart. Wrigley? Not so much. But get this: Wrigley may be a lot smarter than we give him credit.

What has the big Wrig, the diesel weasel, Wrigger the digger, the confused looking hound beast been up to? When I let him in each night after I feed him, if I’m sitting on the floor back against the couch watching the TiVo’d Cubs, as I was last night, Wrigley will casually stroll by and try - or succeed - at stepping right on my, well, crotch. It is his all-too-unsubtle way of reminding me he is still not happy about the unfortunate procedure I once put him through.

Let it go, Wrigley, the boys are as gone as the old west. Did you know that Mrs. Fields named a chocolate chip cookie after ol' Wrigley? Semi-sweet, no nuts.


The Vatican has not called
I don’t mean to be a pessimist, but I think it’s important to be somewhat of a realist. So, I just have to face it, I don’t think they are going to pick me as the next Pope. No, I know what you’re going to say, it’s still early, and don’t give up, and I’d make a great Pope, other than not being Catholic and being married, but that is exactly why I think they should choose me.

Think about it. Last time they went with devoted, brilliant, Catholic, workaholic, sainted wonderful, nearly perfect man who was celibate. Now they should go in another direction, and it doesn’t go more in the other direction than me.

And I would pick a cool name like Pope Rope-a-Dope, or Pope Liquid Soap, or Pope "Ain’t no" Dope. That last one would be my Rapper Pope name.

But enough lobbying. If they pick me they pick me, if they don’t well, I will have to turn the dirty black beast Cherokee back into a Jeep from the converted Pope mobile. I sure hope that tailor will take back those robes and the big-ass hat I had made. That is one big-ass Pope hat, let me tell you . . .

It’s too bad. My yellow labs Kasey and Wrigley looked really cute in their big, pointy dog Pope hats.

Let’s just imagine, for a second, that, despite all odds, they picked the biggest jerk from your high class school as the Pope? Pope Judd Edwards. That would make the next reunion interesting.

“Oh, they named you a senior partner? Wow. Well they named me Pope, lawyer boy. Now run off and get your pontiff another scotch and soda. Capice?”

It would make it hard to hit on the ladies as Pope.

“Wow, Susie, you’ve been working out. Say, um, this party is dying. Let’s say I take you for a spin in the Pope Mobile. What? Oh, that. Listen, between you and me, that whole celibacy-thing is kind of a P.R. stance. Let’s just say, between you and me, well, when this basilica’s rockin’ don’t bother knocking. Susie? Hey, come back . . .”

It's official, I'm going to H E double hockey sticks.

Monday, April 11, 2005

Oh yes, we back. Oh, we backer than a mofizzle my sistizzles and brothizzles, Torn Slatterns and Nugget Ranchers

The ol' Golden Bear
Well, it was an emotional weekend for the aging, lumbering Golden Bear. But enough about Camilla Parker Bowles, golf-legend Jack Nicklaus retired from the Masters.

Why? Why so mean? No need. No need. Bad Lexter
Prince Charles and Camilla Parker Bowles honeymooned in the Scotland highlands. Prince Charles didn’t want to honeymoon at the beach; he was afraid the cats might bury Camilla in the sand.

Hate to see that. Get it? See that? Oh, I kill me . . .
The winner of Wisconsin’s Ms. Wheel chair lost her title because a newspaper photo shows her standing up. That’s not all, Ms. Blind Wisconsin was caught watching an old “Hee Haw” rerun.

Point of clarification
Last weekend, the Pope was buried and Prince Charles and Camilla Parker Bowles were wed. In case you were flipping channels back and forth and got confused, the Pope was the one that wasn’t moving.

You know what they call the morning after Prince Charles and Camilla Parker Bowles’s honeymoon? “Dawn of the Living Dead.”

Did you know what they call the honeymoon video of Prince Charles and Camilla Parker Bowles? “CSI: Windsor.”

Montanans Advocating Drunk Driving
Montana just passed a ban on drinking and driving. The Montana house passed the ban on drinking and driving 76-21. The 21 didn’t mean to vote against it, but they were really drunk at the time.

Sweet revenge
A North Carolina man was sentenced to nine years in prison for junk e-mail spamming. Once he gets to prison, boy, is he going to be sorry he pushed those penis enlargement and Viagra pills.

Wendy’s gone digital
That California woman who claimed to find a finger in her Wendy’s chili turns out to have a history of frivolous law suits. Wendy’s executives suspected this woman was a phony, but they just couldn’t put their finger on it.

They did a DNA test on the Wendy’s chili finger and guess what? It belongs to Ted Williams.

This Wendy’s finger chili scandal has gotten out of hand. Today Mike Tyson went to Wendy’s and ordered a bowl of ear chowder.

Buy me some steroids and growth hormone, I don’t care if my nuts turn to stone
Baseball has started sans steroids. Now if you want dangerous, unhealthy chemicals at a baseball game you’ll have to get them the old fashioned way: in the hotdogs.

They are serious about the baseball steroid ban. At a game, I went to get a hotdog and it wasn’t any bigger than a tiny cocktail wiener.

You can tell the steroid ban is working in baseball; all the players need smaller hats and bigger cups.

Where do I get this stuff?
Interest in the U.S. over the Prince Charles/Camilla Parker Bowels wedding was low. Some cite the fact she isn’t royalty, some disapprove because she was his mistress, others cite the fact that the couple looks like two retired professional bowlers in drag.

Golf dirt
In two of Masters green jacket ceremonies, Tiger Woods refused to acknowledge last year’s winner Phil Mickelson. Their relationship soured when Tiger learned Phil planned to hire a hit man to whack Tiger’s knee.

The main difference between Tiger Woods’s winning Masters putt and last year’s winner Phil Mickelson’s winning putt? Tiger jumped higher than Phil did, and Tiger didn’t even jump.

She put the special in special ed
In Nevada, a special education teacher was arrested for suspicion of flashing her breasts to students and possessing marijuana. A female teacher who flashes and smokes pot? Now that's what I call special education.

Several students complained that she flashed her breasts. You know what you call a male student that complains when a teacher flashes her breasts? A drama major.

Me included
Anna Nicole Smith is a writer for “The National Enquirer.” Repeat, Anna Nicole Smith is getting paid by a national magazine for writing a column. In a related story, 140,000 aspiring writers have now been put on suicide watch.

Back to golf dirt
In an article about the spats and cliques in golf between top players Phil Mickelson, Tiger Woods and Vijay Singh, “Time” magazine said the P.G.A. was like a school lunch room on tour. So, apparently the PGA also has hair in their meatloaf.

How . . . snowy . . . was it?
Colorado got hit by a blizzard. To give you an idea how bad it is, in Boulder, it is so snowy the police have an excuse for not solving any crimes.

Since you asked:

Epic trip to Mammoth with la famalia, Slatteens and Nuggies. (Well, not all the family, the beasts had a dog sitter)

You cannot believe the historic amount of snow in the Easter Sierras. Hell, I felt like eating the Donner party. Took a boarding lesson from an Aussie named Mike. He taught me to roll the board over in the turns allowing it to carve it better.

But then I had my snowboarding epiphany. I left my hard boots and narrow carving board home and rented a more regular “soft” setup. Oh . . . my . . . god. It was like going from trying to paddle a razor thin canoe in the rapids to driving a cigarette boat on the bay. Flying. Turning. Carving.

With the new Village, the town gondola and new and faster chairs, Mammoth is really an epic ski resort that still a lot of people outside of California don’t appreciate. Only Park City, Utah would rank higher in my mind and that is only if they have a ton of snow.

On the way up we tried to get Ann Caroline to pronounce condominium, but it just didn’t come out right. Condonimuium. That’s OK, I told her the president can’t say it either.

One early evening, fueled by Apres boarding Jagermiester and wine, I took my daughter to the huge outdoor pool and Jacuzzi at the resort. I showed her how to deal with having a cold. Hot water, cold pool, and then a roll in the snow. Repeat. Of course, being a six-year-old girl, she was way too smart to roll in the snow. She was, however, impressed by her insane father.

For some reason the next day my cold was worse. Repeat after me: I’m not a smart man.