Hey Salt Lake, I Fu*kn Love You

Happy anniversary, sweetie. Nine years ago today I landed here and immediately fell in love at first sight. I fall in love with you more every day. Thanks for being you and letting me do the things I love to do right in our back yard. Preserve the sexy, you fine piece of city.

Most Definitely a Gift

This just makes me want to get the most out of my life that I possibly can; doing the things I love to do.

The Barnes & Noble Bathroom Experience

Several people that know me also know that I friggen' love Barnes & Noble. It's by far one of my most favorite places to go when I've got nothing else going on, or when it's time to flip through the newest Surfer's Journal.

Every now-and-again the urge to do the business (drop trow, lay pipe, take the kids to the pool, etc...) will randomly strike me while flipping through readables at the magazine rack. Now, being one who isn't terrified of the public restroom, I quietly duck out to take care of the task at hand. Usually everything goes as planned. Except this one time. Join me, while I paint you this one-of-a-kind picture.

The Sugarhouse B & N (closest to my casa) men's room has three stalls. Two 'regular' stalls and then the handicapped stall at the end. Now, I try to avoid using the handicapped stall when regular stalls are available out of principle. I opened the door to the first stall - not a pretty sight. The next (regular) stall was occupied by a relative unknown, forcing me into my last option. Whew, the handicapped stall was both unoccupied and clean.

I posted up and began working on the project at hand (really trying to stay away from the typical bathroom jargon, here). I started flipping through texts on my phone and deleting old messages to pass the time and keep my mind occupied. But, while doing so, I couldn't help but notice the man's feet in the stall next to me. Correct me if I'm wrong, but not many people sit down with their feet pointing out at 90-degree angles. Nor do their feet twitch nervously - unless they're really bearing down and growling one out (sorry...descriptions you could do without...). All signs were pointing to 'no' with regards to this fella having b.m. troubles. Then it happened. An audible noise. No. Not a burp. Or a fart. Or a laugh, even. Any of those would have been welcomed. Rather, on the other side of the stall wall, I could hear a faint, "Whap, whap, whap." Then silence. Then more, "Whap, whap, whap." Then some rustling of whatever this dude was 'reading.' Then a few more whaps..."Whap, whap, whap."

Yeah, you get the idea. If you don't, share this with a friend and maybe they'll see what I'm getting at with regards to what this dude was up to. Needless to say, I cut this particular trip to the men's room short and got the hell out of there.

I still love me some B & N, though.

That Dog Named Joe

I moved into the place I currently live somewheres around October of 2007. This is now, officially, the longest I've lived in any single dwelling outside of my parent's house. I can hear the faint round of applause; thank you.

One fall afternoon back in the stacks of 2007, I recall being outside; I was bringing groceries in from my car. It was after work. I'd probably had a long day. And as I was walking up the sidewalk to my front door I remember hearing the lady across the street shouting. It went kind of like this:

"JOE! Come back here! Get over here! NOW!! JOE!!! Inside, now!!!"

So tell me, what the hell would you have done? Probably exactly what I did - never looked back and got inside the (my) house as fast as I could.

Instances similar to this kept occurring, randomly, over the next few weeks. Granted, it's my own fault I never went over to see what she needed me for. Then I met Joe; well, the other Joe, at least. The Joe that this lady had been shouting at the whole time. This Joe in particular stands, on all fours, about 12 inches off the ground, barks ferociously at times and actually comes to his owner on command.

People names for pets....now I know we can do better...

Razor Burn

In these 27 years I've woken up to some shit. I'm sure you have, too. Room mate having puked all over your bookshelf in college? Check. Room mate puking on the wall/floor while he sleeps. Check. All the furniture in your house turned upside down? Check. Front window in your house smashed through? Check. Car broken into? Check. Eggs smashed all over your car? Check. My Dad rapping on my second story bedroom window when he locked himself out late one night after returning from a biz trip. Yeah, Check. The neighbors next door having gratuitously loud sex? ....Check.

This morning, however, I woke up to this:

Shaving cream. And the shit smelled like mint, too. So, to whomever decided the stubble on my Element was a little too rough, you missed a few spots.

After you tagged my car I hope you passed out in a gutter somewhere, waking up this morning to a few teeth gone missing from falling flat on your face in life and wishing you had something better to live for than defacing people's property.

The Quiver of One

I'll preface this post in that it's been long, way too long, since I last smeared some food-for-thought here. I've had a lot on my mind lately, though, so keep coming back because I'll be updating this piece more regularly; that's for sure. Just be glad I never deleted this blog - I almost did a few months ago (I can feel the sighs of relief from the peanut gallery). However, I'm glad I didn't.

If you know me well-enough, you know I hate...no...absolutely despise, the use of the word 'quiver' in describing one's arsenal of skis. Quiver? Really? Do you keep your skis in a tube that you sling over your shoulder? Do you? Honestly? Didn't think so. Do you ski on arrows? Of course not. They suck in the fresh. Am I speaking from personal experience? No. But I could be. There in lies my issue with this word being used in that sense.

Now, I'm not here to harp on the word quiver; I promise, even though I kind of just did. My initial intention for this post is to share some exciting news about skis. There is no single ski that "does it all." There's no such thing as a "quiver of one" (there we go again...). If ski companies made a ski that did it all it would a) suck big time b) they wouldn't make any money* and c) the skiers would be left with a paltry pool of skis to choose from. Where's the fun in any of that? Fun you say? Here's a picture of fun at the Huck House II, c.2005 - well, at least this was fun, until we needed to get to our food.


Like every other American, I'm of the philosophy that it's best to have as many / much of something as one possibly can. Well, kind of. Actually, I'm not. But really, no one needs tens upon tens of pairs of skis - nor should they have just one that "does everything" (or so they were told). Out in the real world you probably only need two pairs of skis: one for pow days and one for everything else.

Now, we're not going to get into which skis are good for what and so on and blah blah blah...figure all that out on your own (or you can just email me, I'm happy to hook up some legit info if you're truly seeking it). But honestly, pony-up for a set of pow sticks (110mm or fatter under your footies) and pick up a groomer ski (90mm - 110mm underfoot) with whatever is left over ;)

Oh. And it's great to be back!

*ski companies making money - this is another topic completely unto itself. Doubtful that we'll visit that later on....but who knows.

Snow

The east coast has been getting hammered as of late. Quite the opposite out here in Utah.

This stuff just isn't fun unless you can ski...or rally your car...in it.

Bear with me on the lame 15-second advertisement at the beginning here; I cherry-picked this off KSL.com.

Video Courtesy of KSL.com