Tuesday, March 18, 2008

We workin’ it old school, Torn Slatterns and Nugget Ranchers

Color me thrilled
Hope you had a Happy St. Patricks Day. To celebrate in New York, for an extra $50, the hookers in Times Square would Eliot your Spitzer ‘til it was green.

Catchy tune
It turns out that the hooker in the Elliot Spitzer scandal, Ashley Dupree, is an aspiring singer. In fact, she did a great rendition of the 2 Live Crew’s “Me So Horny.”

Cost cutting
Sir Paul McCartney has been ordered to pay his ex-wife, Heather Mills, $50 mil in their nasty divorce settlement. $50 million. Today Sir Paul called Eliot Spitzer and asked for the Emperor Club’s phone number.

Oui kid Le France
The hooker in the New York Gov. Eliot Spitzer scandal’s name is Ashley Dupre. Dupre is French. This explains why, for an extra $1,000, she would let Spitzer invade her Champs-Elysees.

It was bound to happen
New York Gov. Eliot Spitzer admitted he was involved in a prostitution ring. It is now being rumored that Spitzer spent as much as $80,000 on prostitutes using money from his campaign contributors. Wow, a politician finally figured out a way to screw his constituents twice.

That don’t count
The man who replaced New York Gov., Eliot Spitzer, L.T. Gov. David Peterson, is legally blind. He is the first sight-impaired governor, if you don’t count Bill Clinton’s beer goggles.

Fun for everyone
The Macon Music baseball team is going to have an Eliot Spitzer Night promotion on June 13th: The ninth customer (Spitzer was Client 9) gets in free; all people named Eliot, Spitzer or Kristen get in free and for $5,000, the players can automatically be awarded home base.

That is tough to beat
Tiger Woods has won 9 out of 10 and his fifth PGA tournament in a row to win the Arnold Palmer Invitational; Tiger couldn’t be any more unbeatable if he was Eliot Spitzer’s wife, Silda’s divorce attorney.

Apparently not
Eliot Spitzer used to meet his prostitute, Ashley Dupree, at the Mayflower Hotel in Washington; Apparently it wasn’t just Eliot’s ancestor’s who came on the Mayflower.

Since you asked:
What a great time in Park City. That place is the real deal. Plus we had a fun, great group of folks and unbelievable snow. Six inches of fresh the first day, eight the next. And I did some of the best snowboarding I’ve ever done. Great turns, a little bit faster speed. No stops and only rested on the lift. That is right up until my last run on Friday after another great day on Thursday.

There I was cruising on the flat run at the top of the mountain, gaining speed to head off to the side trails and fresh powder for my last run of the day when, before I know what happened, boom. I catch the front edge and slam down so hard on my chest, I had no chance to put my arms out, which is good because I would have broken them if I had. (My first fall of the trip)

Wind knocked out, stunned, on my hands and knees trying to breathe. People on the lift above are nicely asking if I am OK. As I can’t talk yet at this point, I just nod yes. (Thank god I had a helmet or I know I would have been knocked out)

So I just got up and cruised in on the easy way in. Got a great burger at the bottom with a frosty beer and headed back to the house in Deer Valley. When I checked my coat pocket for my sun glasses, I got stuck with a piece of glass. They shattered so much in the fall there wasn’t a piece bigger than a quarter-of-an-inch.

Two hours later it starts. Can’t breathe. Chest tightens. Tender spot on my chest that feels like lightening hits it when I touch it. Yep, broke my rib. I know I broke my rib because this is the fifth time I have done it. First one was in football, the next two were goofing around and slamming into a sharp object, the last one was an accidental car door shut on my ribs.

The next day, Saturday, the conditions weren’t as great as it had been warm the day before and chilled down overnight and the snow was icy and crunchy. No problem, hung out, worked on the computer, took back my rented board and boots, played pool, had lunch with one of the guys who passed on skiing that day.

Sunday morning hurt. As my rib started to hurt more, I couldn’t sleep well, and when I woke up, to add insult to injury, there was a foot of the softest, nicest powder you’ve ever seen. Damn. Oh well. All in all, a great, great trip. Tons of laughs, great food, lots of wine. Folks in Utah were great. Much friendlier than Mammoth, I hate to rat on my fellow Californians, but it is true.

So how do you mend a broken rib? The same way you mend a broken heart. (What, you drive down to Mexico and pick up a drunk American tourist named Becky at an Ensenada Cantina?) No, you mend it with time, you Lex’s inner idiot, you.