The season has started. For our first ski day of the season, we went skiing at Stevens Pass in near-blizzard conditions. Last year, we focused on skiing at Whistler, but this year we thought we’d spend more time at local ski areas and were excited to check out Steven’s after camping there last September. Stevens Pass is about an hour and a half from Seattle, and is amazing. The first impression is that it has some really diverse terrain while not being crowded; there were almost no lift lines, and we were still getting first turns at 11:30am.
We started the day out with a few groomers before Jim and Jess - who are both fantastic skiers - took us off-piste and into Steven’s more challenging terrain. After skiing some incredible soft, deep snow, we found ourselves in a stand of Denser-Than-I’m-Comfortable-Skiing-Through (DTICKT) trees. Jim led the way by hooking his binding under a branch (thank you, pre-season conditions) and doing a lawn-dart into the top of a chute, managing to stop just before going over the lip. I decided I could handle it and started jump-turning down. Being out of shape and a mediocre skier did not work out to my advantage like I had planned: I slid face-first at alarming speed down the hundred-meter slope and landed, with limbs still in their original configuration, in a field of uncut powder. I attribute the unskied snow to the accessibility of this field being limited to over-confident Dutchmen (is there any other kind?) and people riding a luge.
Meanwhile, Michelle had an unfortunate appointment with a four-inch stump (thanks again, pre-season conditions), but cleverly managed to limit the contact to the mid-torso. Note for next time: full body armor may not be as ridiculous as it sounds. I’ll be calling Wayne Enterprises after Christmas to pick up one of Batman’s spare suits. With the cape.
We finished the day by going over to Jim and Jess’s to attend the Solstice Gargle. Good friends, good homebrew, and amazing home-made Eggnog.
Sidenote: it’s remarkable how unsuited I am for social occasions. Lets just say the Dutch are not a subtle people. I felt the low-point of the evening was when I referred to a Menorah as a “Gurka”.
Christmas time is here again. Its not the Christmas music playing everywhere that tipped me off; stores have been playing Christmas music since the middle of August. It’s also not because of all the Christmas cards that we’ve been getting with what appear to be stamped signatures and false wishes of warmth. Don’t get me wrong, there are certain Christmas cards I love getting; but the one from the car dealership in a state we don’t live in anymore wishing us a “profitable” 2008 seemed a little false. (Profitable for who, anyway?)
But we love Christmas Season. As Michelle puts it, it’s ChowDownTime plus Presents. That equals Awesomeness, for those of you who are weaker in the math department. In equation form, it’s
ChowDownTime + Presents = Awesomeness
In essence, it’s all the best parts of Thanksgiving, plus you get presents.
Since we celebrate Sinterklaas, the season starts for us the first weekend after the 6th, which is when we get a Christmas Tree. Every year, Michelle and I have the same struggle: she wants a Christmas Tree that is at least four feet taller than our ceiling and has a girth somewhere between two and three times what our house can accommodate. I have input on which trees I do and don’t like and Michelle does her best to find something that will fit in our place, but once Michelle has her heart set on a particular tree, my protests have limited influence. To be fair, I am easily swayed by a quick estimation of how much loot we’ll be able to fit under the bigger trees. Needless to say, Santa’s got his work cut out for him.
Due to our powers of self-restraint, we usually come home with a tree that’s only about two feet taller than our ceiling. The tree has to get shoved into a corner in our house between the front wall and our bookcase which houses our stereo. You can imagine how much fun it is to turn the stereo on or off, or to swap out records on the record player with pine branches poking me in the ass and going up my shirt. “Tree Hugger” doesn’t begin to describe it.
After pruning the tree from both ends and getting it set up in the house, the real fun begins. Michelle insists on having about 100,000 lights on the tree, with the trunk cloaked entirely in light so it glows from the inside out. (Don’t worry, we live near a fire station, and I’m told they’ve got our backs.)
Since I’m taller, I’m the one who “gets” to put the lights on the tree. This involves getting maimed by the tree’s branches and needles, and getting into a life-or-death struggle with the strings of lights which insist on tangling no matter how carefully I roll them up. I invariably fall into cursing fits, it’s part of my process. Michelle remedies this by buying me a bottle of Scotch of my choosing, which I get to bust open as the first lights go onto the tree. The downside of the deal is that I’m not allowed to swear once it’s open.
It’s that bottle of The Balvenie Founder’s Reserve that tells me it’s Christmas Season.
Ski season is upon us, and it’s a particularly exciting year. Michelle and I are planning on picking up randonee gear for next season, which means this year will be spent figuring out what gear we’d like to get. For those of you who are unfamiliar with randonee, this is the official definition from Websters:
Ran-duh-nay: French for “Can’t Tele”.
Despite the fact that we won’t be able to “harmonize with the mountain” or do other hippy shit, Michelle and I are determined not to buy tele gear for backcountry skiing, partly because we appreciate not becoming a lawn dart any time you enter snow of different densities.
Many factors contribute to choosing the right randonee gear - factors such as finding the right compromise between stiffness and comfort in the boots, stiffness and weight in the bindings, and weight and width of the skis.
Selecting gear can become very complicated, so whenever choosing new equipment, I find it very helpful to take time to figure out what factors are most important for me personally, and then I focus my search based on those factors.
For me, it comes down to three key items. First, I don’t want to be some chump trying to climb up the hill with some sorry-ass old school Dubtronic 2000’s. Second, when I show up on the scene, I want to do it with some bad-ass motherfuckers, not some wussy shit. Third, when we’re all chillin’ back in the cut sippin’ on cognac and sprites, I need all the ladies to be diggin’ how tight I done rocked my setup.
Armed with my three key points, I set upon the Internets in search of the perfect binding. I have settled on the Marker Dukes, based on the following review at BackCountry.com:
You best get yosef a pair of these less you be a chump trying to climb up the hill with some sorry ass old school dubtronic 2000’s. yesterday i done showed up on da scene with these bad motherf’ers and all the beyotches be like “waa?” and i’m all like “yo fo sho, mang” and then they says like “oh no you d’ int!” and then i slap them in the face and say “check yosef, foo”. Then we all chill and lay back in the cut sippin on cognac and sprites while all the ladies be diggin how tight i done rocked my setup, son.
The bindings probably won’t be perfect, but they should be close enough.
Christmas Season is here, and with is comes the overplaying of Christmas music. Not that I mind; I relish any opportunity to play the Brian Setzer Orchestra’s Boogie Woogie Christmas (best Christmas album ever.) But it brings into sharp relief that there are some instruments that have a questionable place in vocal music. I don’t think I have to tell you what I’m talking about. Those plastic recorders you learned to play in third grade? Quesque c’est le deal avec those? Bob Dylan played a kazoo. I realize he already sounds like a human kazoo, but I don’t see the point in him driving the point home by featuring one on some of his songs.
But the most useless instrument of all is the flute. It has it’s place in classical music, but almost any time I hear a flute in a vocal piece I have to shake my head in disbelief. Especially when the band gives the flute a solo. It makes my eyeballs turn into cartoon-like question marks.
If you’re not “getting” what I’m saying, try this on for size.
By the way, I’d like to take a moment to thank “Joey” for wearing that awesome velvet t-shirt.
Visiting a foreign country where you speak the language fluently is different from visiting a country where you don’t speak the language because you feel less like an outsider and get more immersed in the culture. Visiting the Netherlands is very different for me than visiting other European countries like England or France, even though I’ve been to France almost as many times as I’ve been to the Motherland. (Lets face it: for Americans, English English is a foreign language. Things like “grammar” and “wit” are completely lost on us. I got confused during the boarding instructions.)
Having the opportunity to fall into a different culture is very refreshing; it opens your eyes to things you grew accustomed to - things you stopped noticing in your every day life.
For example, Dutch and American fashion are very different (and I’m not even talking about wooden shoes). First of all, there’s a clothing store in Amsterdam called “Sissy Boy”. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that European guys wear capri pants. On the other hand, I’d completely overlooked the obsession Americans girls have with wearing tight clothes.
Just the other day, Michelle and I were at a clothing store downtown where we could donate used sweaters for a discount on new sweaters. As I waited by the dressing rooms as Michelle tried on some sweaters, a chubby girl in high heels (ouch) strutted by like she was Elle McPherson: shoulders back, boobs out, hips forward. She was wearing a top that was almost - but not quite - bursting at the seams. I did my best not to look, but it was impossible not to. She walked up to a clerk and, with an expression that did little to hide her delight, said, “Do you have this top in petite sizes?”
Now, I’m very happy that she has a positive self image - especially since we’re too obsessed with “skinny”. My point is that I feel bad for the clerk.
The first impression is that it has some really diverse terrain while not being crowded; there were almost no lift lines, and we were still getting first turns at 11:30am.
It’s also not because of all the Christmas cards that we’ve been getting with what appear to be stamped signatures and false wishes of warmth. Don’t get me wrong, there are certain Christmas cards I love getting; but the one from the car dealership in a state we don’t live in anymore wishing us a “profitable” 2008 seemed a little false. (Profitable for who, anyway?)
year will be spent figuring out what gear we’d like to get. For those of you who are unfamiliar with randonee, this is the official definition from Websters:
play the Brian Setzer Orchestra’s 
you feel less like an outsider and get more immersed in the culture. Visiting the Netherlands is very different for me than visiting other European countries like England or France, even though I’ve been to France almost as many times as I’ve been to the Motherland. (Lets face it: for Americans, English English is a foreign language. Things like “grammar” and “wit” are completely lost on us. I got confused during the boarding instructions.)
