magically delicious

A long, long time ago, I lived in Santiago, Chile, preaching the good word, though I brought no children home with me, and got in no trouble (to speak of).

One thing I did do was eat a lot of hot dogs and french fries purchased from any of an infinite number of street vendors. They called hot dogs “completos” and french fries were “papas fritas.” So now you know.

Anyway, the french fries were generally about as hot as molten lava. Or maybe the surface of the sun. Whichever is hotter. We often amused ourselves by throwing hot french fries to any of the infinite number of wild dogs that congregated around the hot dog stands hoping for a bite.

The french fries were generally so hot the dog would pick one up and instantly fling it five feet away because it melted his (or her) tongue. Of course, being a dog, he (or she) would run right over and pick up the fry again. Repeat until the fry was no longer hot enough to blast the enamel off the dog’s molars.

Hilarious, right? Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha. Hey, if YOU lived in Santiago preaching the good word, you would find any excuse to spend hours like this. Seriously.

So, last week I went to lunch with a couple of co-workers to the Original Pancake House in Sugarhouse. Of course, it’s not THE Original Pancake House–the original was below Vesuvius, and we all know what happened there. Okay, I may have made that up.

But it’s ONE of the Original Pancake Houses, and if you haven’t visited one, I can only say “visit one.” It’s that good.

Here’s the Dutch Baby Pancake:

Ben, who is still young enough not to care, ate that entire thing. Kudos.

This is the Apple pancake. It’s like the best apple fritter you’ve ever had, served hot:

And by “hot” I mean, think of that scene in Iron Man when Raza wants Yinsen to open his mouth and eat a hot coal truffle. Trust me when I say, Yinsen would have suffered less eating that hot coal than popping the first bite of this Apple pancake.

Here’s Legrand, after or during violently shaking his head from side to side like those poor stray dogs in Chile:

Notice he’s halfway through his pancake. It’s still that hot.

But magically delicious.

songs and skiing

I can’t figure out if Apple has a specific music taste, or just my iPhone, but ever since I implemented the “random all-songs” play method, I’ve been hearing an awful lot of REM and Christmas music.

Which is okay, since I really like REM, and who doesn’t like Christmas music?

But while I was hiking up Southeast Cardiff yesterday afternoon (really, afternoon, and it was awesome, Rob and I decided maybe in the future we should go to WORK at 4:30 in the morning, and SKI in the afternoon–I think it’ll catch on), I got the following sequence of songs:

• REM, Walk Unafraid (maybe the perfect song for beginning a backcountry tour this year)
• I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Clause (when you’ve buried the iPhone in an inside pocket and you’re committed to the random all-songs play method, you’ve just gotta suck it up)
• L ‘Estasi Dell’ Oro (theme from the Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, sort of, and really, I could listen to this all day)
• REM, What’s the Frequency Kenneth (and the song that got me going on my Apple conspiracy theory, out of like 7 REM songs in two hours)
• The Wombats, Let’s Dance to Joy Division (Ian turned me on to this, and it’s awesome)
• Sinead O’Conner, Her Mantle So Green (and I SWEAR I was not tearing up listening to this, I had something in my eye)
• We Three Kings, Sufjan Stevens (maybe it’s time to retire the Christmas playlist until next Christmas–just a thought)
• The Qemists, Dem Na Like Me (another Ian song, and I’m diggin my Ian songs)
• George Winston, Carol of the Bells (I’m pretty sure this is when Rob passed me with a funny look on his face)
• Ministry, Stigmata (passed Rob right back with this one–”my favorite weapon, is the look in your eyes!”)

Anyway, I don’t want to go on and on about this (ha, too late!). Just wanted to give you an idea of what was in my head. Kind of.

The point is, I slept in and didn’t hike the Circle Awl trees with Mark, but managed to squeeze out an afternoon Cardiff, thinking we’d be skiing steep breakable crust. Turns out, the upper southeast bowl was shockingly good. And we even had a Samurai sighting–Jared made the national team, and was out celebrating by doing intervals up and down Cardiff and Toledo. Two laps to every ONE of ours.

So I’ve got that going for me. Which is nice.

Rob hiking just below Cardiff Peak:

The drop-in point:

Pointing ‘em down (lap two, since you can see Rob’s tracks on that rock he dropped off):

Me hitting the rock (hard to time it with an iPhone camera):

Rob, after hitting it, since I missed him dropping the rock:

The good stuff (the snow, not the picture–I’m just a camera phone guy):

Happy to have found some good snow, a rarity these days:

the new normal

I’m pretty sure today is the 1,000 straight day the avalanche danger has been either Considerable or High, and maybe the 20th straight day of special avalanche warnings. Utah is now Colorado.

And so, the mellow, low angle tree shots of Mill D North are the new normal.

But it beats the hell out of heading to the basement and riding the Spin bike.

we don’t need no stinkin tents

I would have thought if I was going to lose a kid in a pile of snow, it would be while skiing, not digging a snow cave.

But Holden and I went up Payson Canyon for that manliest of rituals, the Klondike. The rest of the crew wussed out and slept in tents, but Holden and I were determined to sleep like Eskimos. We spent about 2 hours making a gigantic pile of snow, probably big enough to actually house a family of Inuits, but tragicomedy struck when the snow turned out to be rotten.

Holden, playing the part of Yen, had hollowed out enough of the cave that just his feet were visible, when the whole thing collapsed with a loud WHOOMPH. We practically had to do a beacon search to find him. We had him out and grinning within about 5-10 seconds, although it felt like much (much) longer.

He was a bit freaked out for a couple minutes. And cold.

A bit later, we had re-piled the snow, and J.J. was inside digging it out. When the cave collapsed on him, we decided maybe the sugary snow didn’t make the best trusses. So we just removed all the snow, left the walls, and put a giant tarp over the top. Which I guess makes it technically more of a snow “lean-to” than a snow cave, but at least we didn’t sleep in a tent, right? We don’t need no stinkin tents.

After working on the “lean-to” for about an hour, and then learning that he couldn’t sleep in an enclosure with a leader that wasn’t his dad, J.J. spent some time coming up with names for punk rock bands. The best one was “stupd-stinkin-molesting-scoutmasters.” What, you wouldn’t buy their cds?.

Holden, getting feeling back in his face:

The awesome snow lean-to:

From the inside (notice how Holden has totally embraced the “multiple beanie” lifestyle):

From the outside:

While he drifted off to sleep in his double sleeping bag, Holden kept mumbling over and over “this is so cool.”

So I guess we’ll be back next year.

the power of the urinal compels me

I’m not much of a spitter–and I don’t just mean that I don’t spit much. I mean that in addition to not spitting much, I don’t spit well. In fact, I spit poorly. So poorly that my biking friends (and by friends, I mean Elden) hosted an intervention to get me to stop spitting on bike rides, at least when I was within one linear mile of another rider.

And yet.

There is a time when I cannot help but spit. I speculate that the drive to spit when confronted with a urinal holds or held some type of comparative survival advantage to early humans. It may hold an advantage even now, but I cannot divine what that advantage is.

But what I do know is that in the last week, during which I conducted a very scientific test of trying-to-remember-when-I-spit, 100% of the times I peed in a urinal, I spit before, sometimes during, and even sometimes after I peed.

And about half the time when I peed in a regular toilet (like, at a movie when all urinals are occupied), I even spit in the regular toilet. (By “spit” I mean I let saliva drop from my mouth–I didn’t project anything, more like I released something.)

On those times when I peed before or during the actual release, I then amused myself by using the deposit for a target. (I otherwise refrained from amusing myself.)

What is it about urinal peeing that causes this? Do women spit when they pee, or do they spit when peeing only when they use a urinal (I just made myself laugh)? Like I said, I’m not a spitter (which is not the same as not being a blower, but that’s not my assigned topic for today).

But the power of the urinal compels me.

Help. Me.

stop sign with majesty

There is a big building in the Washington D.C area that is urban-legend’d to have caused hundreds of accidents because when drivers come over the hill on the freeway, they are overwhelmed by its beauty and majesty. I think they’re just drunk.

Well, it’s kind of like that at Suncrest, apparently. On the Suncrest Residents blog (up for a Pulitzer, I hear), someone complained about how our 4-way stop sign is hard to see, and that’s why people keep rolling it.

From the “blog”: “Even in good weather, many of us have seen vehicles go through that intersection without stopping, some without slowing at all. This is a hazard for other motorists and especially for pedestrians trying to cross the intersection.”

Uh huh. I know that’s why I always roll stop signs–they’re hard to see.

The solution?

I give you, MORE COWBELL:

Check out all its majesty. Suncrest plus one.

It’s still a bit hard to see at night:

Is it just me? Maybe it’s just me.

righty tighty, lefty loosey

The world is upside down!

Okay, maybe I’m being dramatic. But my bread world is upside down. Or at least backwards.

Here’s the thing–why do the temps in giant bread factories and Great Harvest Stores wrap the twist ties such that I have to unwind clockwise to open the bread?

Everybody except bike mechanics knows (cuz of the cranks), righty tighty, lefty loosey.

Right?

And yet, every time I try to open a new loaf of bread, I end up closing it before I realize the mistake. A guy could starve before he gets a new loaf open.

Let’s review. Righty Tighty. Lefty Loosey.

it’s not much, but it’s sumthin

The Fam and I, sans Maddy, who is now gainfully employed at Zuppas (and comes home smelling of soup–isn’t that weird? I would think she’d smell like zoup), headed up to Park City to outfit Ian with some new ski boots, since we just found out that my old Tecnicas that he’s been using for the last two years are two sizes too big for him.

You can’t make me feel any worse than I already do, so stop shaking your heads already.

Turns out, the Sundance Film Festival, which takes place largely in Park City, just opened. Also turns out, Cole Sport was hosting some kind of hoity toity ski fashion party, with hired dancing models, open bar, live DJ, drunken cougars, the works.

We fit right in:

Future glitterati of Park City, right there.

Anyway, the snow has been falling, and we’re so hyper to get out, nothing can stop us. We had to test out the new boots, right?

But on high avy days with 50mph winds, we go a bit soft, so short Mill D North fit the bill. The big blue bird day lines will come later.

This video is lame in about 6 different ways, but when your boy is loving the powder, well, what’s a proud pappy gonna do? Post it, that’s what. We can’t all be the Powderwhores.

And if you’re wondering, no, we didn’t have dogs with us in Big Cottonwood Canyon–that would be wrong.

disappointed

You wanna know what bugs me? (You know you do, why else are you here? Slow news day?)

Why is it, when I go to the grocery store, even to my beloved Harmons, why, when I get back to the dairy aisle/section, when I’m looking for milk (we drink a lot of milk–I tend to buy three gallons at a time), why, WHY is the skim milk always, ALWAYS the farthest away?

I’ll be walking down the seasonal aisle, enjoying the seasonal candy, especially enjoying knowing that the new seasonal Reese’s Peanut Butter eggs/hearts/pumpkins/trees are now in stock, and as I turn the corner in the dairy section, I spy the milk. But as I approach the milk I start to get a little pissed off.

Oh, look, there’s the whole milk. Who the hell drinks that? Oh, and now the 2%. Sure, if I wanted to pour something over a bunch of peaches, maybe I’d buy that. And, now, the 1%. 1% baffles me. How do you not just drink skim? 1% is no-man’s land–shit or get off the pot already.

Finally! The skim. Why? Why is the skim milk always in the way back? I don’t need the exercise–it’s those giant whole milk people that need the exercise.

Like Otto screams when he opens the safe only to find it empty, “Ok, Ok, DISAPPOINTED!”

upgraded

I have important breaking news.

My brother had lunch at the Pizzeria Seven Twelve today. That’s not the news.

If you’ll recall, I, too, have eaten at this delicious establishment. It’s awesome. But that’s not the news either.

At the Seven Twelve (that’s how we regulars refer to it), they are very accommodating in the restrooms, catering to groups.

Well, they’ve upgraded their accommodations.

I wonder if you can order in there? Rob? Your assignment, should you choose to accept it, is to order food from that table.

pork rinds

I think I’ve made it clear I’m no fan of the Smith’s Marketplace. You know who I love.

But sometimes, you know, you’re on the wrong side of the tracks (mountain) already, and what are you gonna do, drive 10 miles over the hill just so you can go to your favorite grocery store? (My answer: absolutely. Kim’s answer: you go where we have coupons, mister.)

So I found myself stuck at what I like to call Shock & Awe.

The only other time I’ve ever, in my life, heard Pork Rinds called out as something someone might want to find or consume? When John Cusack offered Daphne Zuniga a fried pork rind in The Sure Thing.

Really? I spent like 10 minutes trying to find Craisins for a salad, then another 10 trying to find someone to help me find the Craisins. Turns out, Pork Rinds made the cut on the Chips aisle, but Raisins somehow seemed too lowly for the Shock & Awe people to put on a sign.

Pork Rinds. Aren’t those like pickled pig’s feet? Or cheese curds? You know. Novelty items. White elephant gifts.

Or, at the Shock & Awe, the special on aisle 5.

it’s a chicken and egg kind of thing

Let me start by pointing out that some of my best friends are handicapped.

Okay, I don’t mean I hang out with the cast of Murderball, I’m just sayin’. Like, my mom has a handicapped license plate (that is, not that the plate is handicapped–but it does indicate that the vehicle operator is impaired in some way). AND she has a handicapped hanger. Which can be incredibly useful, by the way, seeing as it’s portable and all that.

Now that I’ve established my “friend-of-the-handicapped street cred”, my bona fides if you will, here’s my question.

Are handicapped people bad drivers because they’re handicapped?

Or are handicapped drivers handicapped because they’re bad drivers?

timp flashback

I’m sure you’ve all been watching the weather as carefully as I have, waiting, hoping, wishing for some snow.

Any snow will do.

I get the UAC avalanche report in my Inbox every morning. I’m getting tired of stuff like this:

This has to be what we’d call an “Experts-Only Moderate”. Avalanche likelihood? Possible. Size? Varies. Distribution? Spotty and variable. All unmanageable. Previous tracks can be misleading. Consider taking a step back – these are very unusual conditions in the Wasatch.

So, to make myself feel better, I started looking through scrapbooks (the true spirit of Elijah). Oh, how I long for those halcyon days, when the snow was Utah-traditional, deep and stable.

Like this day (flashback sequence starting, vision blurring, then clearing, circa March, 2005):

Timp is my view out my bedroom window. I’d been on top more times than I can remember, but never in Winter. The South Peak of Timp, something I’d always wanted to do, is the second highest summit (so about 11,7023 feet), only about 25 feet less than the main summit, and stands apart, with a huge face, one of the largest in the lower 48, below it.

I used my debit card as my map for the descent, since the front of my debit card is just a big picture of the prominence of Mount Timpanogos in Winter. And no, I don’t think I’ll put a picture of my debit card on my blog.

Anyway.

I went with Ferris, a split-boarder from work, and we dropped my car at the base of the stairs at the Dry Canyon trailhead in Orem at 4:30am, then we drove Ferris’ vintage Mercedes up to Aspen Grove. We didn’t get hiking till close to 6. We met several hard core tourers who were heading out on snowmobiles to go up the alpine loop road and around to the base of the North face, where they would boot straight up the main northwest couloir of Timp, called Cold Fusion in some guidebooks. That’s on my list. But not this day. This day, I was peak bagging.

I’d never peak-bagged before. I was pretty excited, and pretty nervous. So nervous, that I bought an ice axe for the event, and kept it handy in a belt loop all day, since slipping and sliding down a 40 degree 6,000 foot frozen face was not on my agenda (but it was on my mind). Never used it. Still have never used it. But that’s a good thing, right? It’s for emergencies.

It’s a pretty easy skin up the Primrose Cirque for a mile or so, then you hit the headwall, and you quickly (well, not quickly, but the idea is it goes from easy grade to a headwall rather abruptly) climb from 7500 feet to 10,000 feet, around a waterfall and some cliff bands. Very steep skinning. We’d been out a couple hours, and Ferris was quite a ways back. I waited at about 8200 feet for about half an hour, and when he finally appeared, he was clearly tired. He motioned for me to turn on the walkie talkie. He was cooked and done.

I was not a big enough man to head back down with him. Sorry Ferris. Really. But no way was I missing out on this one, conditions were too perfect. I turned and headed up, steep skinning for quite a while, then I dug a chair into the steep snow with my ice axe (I don’t think that counts as using it), and put on my boot crampons, and booted to the top of the headwall. I’m guessing the Primrose Cirque doesn’t really qualify as a place to put on crampons, but I was alone, and this was my first time.

Plus, crampons are like night-vision goggles–if you have em, you really want to use em.

I topped out at just over 10,000 feet there, had a Twix and a Red Bull, and text messaged Sunderlage to let him know I missed him.

How do you like that beanie? I bought it in Alagna, Italy, where it was knit by a 90 year old woman in the local beanie style. I am not making that up.

From the top of the headwall, it’s easy skinning to Emerald Lake, where you could go right, to the Timpanogos basin or up the Robert’s Horn ridge (there was a free-heeler heading up there to ski the face of Robert’s Horn (possible only in very deep, stable snow years)–that is NOT on my list), or left, up what in the summer is called the snowfield or glacier.

The Summit cliff wall is on the right, 1500 feet straight up, and the first part of this cirque is easy skinning, gradually getting steeper, until at the end of it, I had to boot/crampon the last few hundred yards. (Okay, maybe I didn’t HAVE to, but again, I BROUGHT the crampons, I might as well wear em, right?), bearing left to avoid the big cornice at the saddle. I measured 48 degrees at the upper portion by the cornice, although I’m no whiz with the inclinometer. That might be a bit of an understatement.

I reached the saddle at about 11,400 feet, where I was finally in the sun, and I booted/cramponed the last hundred yards to the South Peak summit, 11,723 feet. Spectacular.

I have freakishly long arms to be able to get that glamour shot. And those glasses are maybe the worst possible shape for my face. Why don’t people tell me these things?

Since I reached the top just after 10am, it was very cold and very very windy there. I bundled up and hunkered down, thinking the snow was probably not soft enough for corn yet, and I wasn’t very excited about skiing 6,000 feet of bulletproof. I stomped around on the summit for a while, keeping warm, and drinking Diet Coke with Lime. I peed off the 1500 foot cliff toward Sundance. I don’t like Sundance.

I waved at the guy over on the Pyramid summit half a mile to the North, who was probably doing exactly the same thing I was.

About 11am I couldn’t stand the wind anymore, so I gathered my stuff, and headed down. Top 500 feet or so were a bit chattery, but not too bad, not too steep, and very wide open. After that first 500 feet the snow quite suddenly turned to the nicest corn snow ever, and remained so for about 4,000 vertical feet. All I can say is wow. WOW.

The face finally narrowed down to a gully about 20 feet wide, but somehow the gully had good snow in it all the way to almost 6500 feet. Unbelievable.

Then I bushwacked down a dry stream bed for about a mile. That was awkward. Without giant ski boots to keep my ankles straight, I think I would have ended up with several dozen severe sprains. Hi Shelle!

And, finally the big clearing above the Dry Canyon cliffs, where the Bonneville shoreline trail comes in from the south.

Not many mountain bikers riding that in those days.

And, the car:

Oh, those Canaan Days, where did they go?

i’m officially weirded out

On New Year’s Eve, we enjoyed the evening with friends at their condo in Park City. The friends have a little yapper dog, and the friends, who had been there for a day or two, forgot to bring food for the dog. That is, dog food.

So while we were hanging out, we sent Maddy and Emily to the store to get some actual dog food, so the dog wouldn’t spend the weekend eating Doritos and popcorn.

They came back with the dog equivalent of Doritos and popcorn.

Not only did they bring back doggie Doritos instead of plain old dog food, but that dog on the left is sporting his best O face. Maybe at the expense of the dog on the right.

And as a bonus weird pic, apparently I have a queen ant working in the single wide next to me.

See? Just like this:

I’m officially weirded out.

people are funny like that

In my previous neighborhood, an older couple moved in down the street, and pretty soon after that, we would see the woman (it was one of those man/woman couples) walking her little dog into our cul de sac, waiting patiently while the dog crapped on our lawn (to be fair, the dog crapped on everybody’s lawn, not just mine, but this is my story, so, you know, my lawn), and then walking back to her own nicely green and crap-free yard.

Disagreement arose over how to handle the situation. Kim’s ire was fairly piqued. At first, I argued that it was not a big deal, it was just dog poo, and maybe we shouldn’t do anything. After stepping in enough excrement, my feelings eventually aligned with Kim’s.

Fortunately, other’s boiling points were lower than ours. Or maybe their circumstances were more sensitive. Because another neighbor, one with toddlers who tended to put anything and everything they found in their mouths, objected a bit more strenuously.

This other toddler-having neighbor, who’s limit was reached when he watched the woman guide her dog onto his lawn and encourage the little yapper to “do his business”, snapped, sort of.

He packaged up the package in a brown paper bag, marched (okay, maybe the use of “marched” sounds a bit too militant–he may have just walked. Or even sauntered.) down to the dog owner’s house, and presented her with the bag. “I think this is yours” he said.

When she realized what was in the bag, she was incredulous. “That’s incredibly rude” she said.

“You walked your dog up to my yard and asked him to crap on it. That strikes me as a bit on the rude side too” he replied.

“I didn’t know it was your yard” she said.

“Really? THAT’S your defense? I’ve got little kids. Everybody in this neighborhood has little kids. They EAT stuff on my lawn. I don’t want them to eat this.”

“Wow” she said. “This is the unfriendliest neighborhood we’ve ever lived in.”

This kind of thing isn’t confined to dogs, though, is it? People do this all the time, in all walks of life. They show up uninvited, they shit on your grass or in your living room, and then act all wounded or insulted when you object.

People are funny like that.

let’s eat some babies

At what point did some product manager or marketer in a conference room say “Guys! GUYS! Check this out–you know how the boys in the lab have come up with some kind of soft confectionary candy type thing? Well, I know most of you are leaning toward making them in the shape of a platypus. Or maybe something amorphous. But let me run THIS up the flag pole and see if anyone salutes it–BABIES! That’s right, not just candy, but edible CANDY babies. Little ones, maybe with a coating of some kind of gross powdery sugar stuff.”

Well, I’ll tell you at what point. It was some guy at Bassetts’ headquarters in Sheffield, England, in 1919, and Bassett’s introduced the Jelly Baby as a way to commemorate the end of World War 1.

That’s right. Everybody does what they can, and produces according to their comparative advantage. Bassett’s, of course, made candy. So they commemorated the end of the worst war in human history by creating and marketing edible candy babies.

Thanks, Nick (a friend from, and I can never remember which, but from Australia, New Zealand, or South Africa. Ha! People from those places LOVE jokes that get them all confused (okay, fine, he’s from Australia. I think.)), for sending me a bag and bringing this paean to ingenuity and humanity to my attention.

Last April I talked about E.L. Fudges, and how that seemed a bit like friendly cannibalism.

This just seems weird. The babies have NAMES. They have personalities. And they are BABIES. HUMAN babies. James Cameron will be making a movie about them someday, I feel sure.

Happy Armistice Day!

The verdict? Kind of icky. And by the way, they contain some gelatin–so you’ll be glad to know they are off limits to vegetarians.

The Jelly Babies Wikipedia page says that a popular science class experiment is to put them in a strong oxidizing agent, and see the resulting spectacular reaction. The experiment is commonly referred to as: “Screaming jelly babies.”

Guess what I’ll be doing this week? That’s right, I’ll be shopping for a strong oxidizing agent.

I’m all a flutter.

fixing jeopardy

It feels like forever since I ranted about something. Doesn’t it feel like forever?

So here goes–I hate Alex Trebek.

When Kim and I were first married, had little to no furniture, no money for movies, no kids, we used to eat dinner on our little TV trays and watch Jeopardy. I was more forgiving then, and just concentrated on getting the answers right.

Recently, I’ve taken to Tivoing Jeopardy and watching an episode when I have a minute, or I feel like seeing how dumb I am. And I’ve discovered that what I really need isn’t a mute button, but a zonal mute button. That is, I want to point the remote specifically at Alex’s smug little mug and mute just him.

Him and his “I can’t believe you didn’t know that, I so disapprove of you and your ignorance” smugness. (Does he think he’s fooling anybody? Are we supposed to think he actually knows the answers?) Him and his hyper correct pronunciation of foreign language words, which, you just know, are spelled out phonetically on his archaic little 3X5 cards he has in his hand.

In short, I don’t like him.

But he’s not the worst part. I hate the way he walks out at the start of the show, acts like he’s in a hurry to get going, starts the first round, then, when we come back from our “break” he decides to get to know the players.

Well you know what? I don’t give a rat’s ass WHO is playing. I don’t want to get to know them unless they win like a month in a row and become a minor celebrity. THEN I’m interested. For now, they’re just puppets who magically make the questions appear on the board.

And, finally, speaking of puppets making the questions appear, what the hell is up with those clickers? Instead of stopping the game to let me know that Gwendolyn of Tulsa is an aspiring arborist, how about you explain the magic of the clicker? Every question I see each the contestants pounding furiously on their clickers like laboratory rats banging on the cocaine button, and when they fail to ring in successfully, they stare at their clickers like I look at my tennis racket after smashing a forehand 50 feet over the fence.

I know. Wikipedia explains the way the clicker works. Something about lock-outs, waiting, blinking lights, all that.

So all I’m asking is, instead of finding out that Contestant Number Three is a philatelist from Nome, Alaska, how about we take a look at the clickers? Practice with them for a minute, maybe let a player ask for a replacement if they feel like theirs is defective. I’d even like to see them bring their OWN clickers, like a pro tennis player with a bag of rackets.

“Whoops, Alex, I’m gonna need a minute, I just splintered my clicker with my thumb. No worries, I’ve got six more right here.”

What, you wouldn’t watch this? Ratings wouldn’t go up?

switch

Let me paint you a picture–me, at the top of a short run in my brother’s backyard in the mountains behind The Canyons. Me n the boys have just built a kicker, and I’ve just tried and failed to land switch a half dozen times already (today, I’ve tried and failed dozens of times in other locales). It’s now getting quite dark, I can barely make out the kicker below me, and I can’t see much of the backyard and the landing.

But I don’t care. It’s been my dream to land switch off a kicker, even if it’s a weanie backyard kicker. I’ve landed switch off little humps on ski runs and cat tracks many times, which is no big deal, since I’ve never gotten more than a foot or two off the ground.

Kim, who has been telling me it’s time to get in the car and go for about 20 minutes, is standing to the side with Maddy and Holden and the others, and watches me go by in a rush.

I follow Ian’s advice, crouching low, not beginning my spin until I’m clear of the jump, and I POP off the lip and start looking over my shoulder.

And, I land, leaning forward a bit, since my tails are now my tips. I take stock of my situation.

I’m still up and moving! Yay me! I’m king of the world!

I can barely see my family shouting and waving at me in triumph as I start to raise my arms to celebrate.

Unfortunately, they were waving and shouting about the gigantic tree toward which I was hurtling, but, you know, backwards, so I couldn’t see it.

I don’t care. Didn’t even hurt (and there was very little bruising). Because I landed SWITCH.

and, we’re back

Okay, so it’s not much, but I thought it important to tell you that the Dawn Patrols have started. And even though it’s only pretty good instead of epic so far, it’s still one or two more days a week I don’t have to feel guilty for not getting on the trainer.

Yay.

imagine my relief

I think I’ve mentioned that I live at Suncrest. And I think I’ve mentioned that I’ve mentioned that I live at Suncrest. But I’ve only got so many clever openings, sometimes I have to make do.

Suncrest is awesome. It’s kind of like a high class township. Like District 9.

Anyway.

Suncrest, as I think I’ve mentioned, sits at about 6,000 feet astride the ridge that divides Salt Lake County from Utah County. A 4 mile road drops down each side, north and south.

Our winters can be a bit harsher than the average winter for the average valley dweller.

I think that’s the last of the staccato descriptive sentences I’ll use for a while.

For example (an example of our winters, not of staccato sentences), this is a typical scene at my house during winter:

I think it’s safe to say we Suncrestians know how to deal.

So how grateful were we when the city decided to put a fancy electronic sign at the bottom of our hill to “advise” us on road and snow conditions?

So grateful.

Um. Thanks for the tip.

Seriously. We LIVE up there. We are the only people who live up there. Who do they think that “advisory” is for? It’s winter. It’s snowing. And, now we’ve got a big sign to remind us that the snow falling on our windshields is real.

Imagine my relief.