Five For Five

This is going to be one of those tedious resolution lists that everyone is doing at the moment... check back later to find out if today was the day of the injury.

Accompanied by Bear, book and notepaper, I sat at the bar of Earls and studied the menu. A chap on the opposite end of the bar stared at me intently, I don't think he blinked once the entire time I was there.

I had determined to write down my resolutions for the new year - every other journal seems to be doing it, and one of my resolutions is going to be 'follow the crowd'; striking out on one's own is overrated. Looking at the pint of dark coloured liquid in front of me, resolution number one was simple:

"Quit alcohol"

I have zero self control and rarely manage to steer a course anywhere but to self destruction where alcohol is concerned. Moderation just isn't an option. Tried it and failed.

"Cut out red meat"

I like red meat. Red meat doesn't like me. Enough said. This could well be the first step toward vegetarianism, with the added bonus that it would really annoy my father.

"Cut back on sugar"

Damn, if I don't like chocolate. And chocolate likes my waistline, judging by the stubborness with which it hangs around there.

"Make the first move"

What can I say? I've agonised about this at length in the past. How one overcomes an almost crippling shyness is something to think about.

"Redesign the journal"

Yeah, in three months time I'll hardly be 'Newly' anymore will I? So, do I kill the thing off completely or attempt a redesign. I've got three months to think about it.

I put my notepaper away, paid the check and headed out into the frigid air. I fought the urge to go into to the 'Down Under' bar and correct their poster: "Don't come in if your shy" - the word should be "you're" - apostrophes rock, darling.

Time for snow and ice. The photo? One of the library of bear-related imagery amassed over my time in Whistler. Shame I can't upload the one with all the cute girls...

Kebabbing

"These, dude," said Paul the Australian ski instructor, "Are your snow-boarder kebab sticks. Use them wisely, man"

They looked like ski-poles to me, but Paul was the expert and I wasn't about to argue with him. Even if he'd affected a broad Californian accept for the benefit of his employers.

I felt he was perhaps being a little harsh on snow-boarders - the nature of their craft means they spend large amounts of time either on their posteriors or face down in the snow. Threatening to spear the poor devils with a ski pole as well as all that seemed a tad excessive. Some of my best friends are, after all, snow-boarders. That said, some of them would probably enjoy the insertion of an angry ski-pole.

So, my principle feeling towards snow-boarders was one of equanimity. Live and let live. And so on.

Until today.

Today I attempted to get from the top to the bottom of the mountain. All on relatively easy green runs. I was within sight of the village. It was spread out below me, belying the description "village". A few more turns and I would be there. Triumphant.

It was not be. I heard a shout behind me and the whole world turned blue and white. It appeared that high above me, a snow-boarder had lost his board, which was careening down the slope, out of control (skis have stoppers to prevent this happening when detached from the boot.) As I blearily sat up I could see the orphaned board making its evil progress to the village, taking out three children, two adults and causing general mayhem.

"Snow-boarder kebab sticks" Hmmm... Maybe just the one. Perhaps two...

Oh, and the photo? A charming waitress from The Keg who liked the bear. The waiter pretended not to see it.

If You Could Be Me

Thought for the day - ever thought that a person has a really interesting life, and then when you get to spend some time in it you realise it wasn't that great after all? They have all the same fears and worries, just wrapped up in different packaging.

I've no idea where that came from. Possibly while I sat on my haunches on the Whistler summit being bowled over by the beauty of it all. I'm toying with the idea of staying on an extra day, or maybe more. It is just so, so beautiful here while the weather is so clear.

The room is now eerily quiet, just the regular gurglings of the fridge to keep me company. At some point I should go out, take the Bear somewhere new, book tomorrow's lesson. But for now I'm content to sit and think. And make a noise approximating an orgasm when I finally get these damn ski boots off.

More later. With pictures.

Aftermath

I have some new words that I am going to submit to the Oxford English Dictionary people in the hope of further extending the scope of this great language.

They are:

'jagered' (pron. yay-gerd) - to be intoxicated. Example: "John was completely jagered last night; he could hardly stand up."

'jagering' (pron. yay-gering) - to drink an unfamiliar alcoholic beverage to excess. Example: "Mary spent the night jagering. By the end of the evening she was well and truly jagered"

'jaging' (pron. yay-ging) - to explosively expell the contents of one's stomach. Example: "Mary and John spent the morning jaging in the bathroom having been utterly jagered the night before."

Yes, I consumed something called Jagermeister. Nasty drink it is too. I peered at the dark liquid and asked myself the obvious question: "People drink this stuff for fun?"

Jan 1 was an odd day. Very subdued. Myself and another member of our party hit the slopes while the others slept off their respective excesses. Television was watched. Lethargy and apathy reigned. We quietly ate a meal. We sat in the hotel hot-tub and speculated on the quantity of foreign fluids, bodily or otherwise, that were causing a thick scum to form on the surface (I'm still itchy, even 12 hours later.)

At 10pm we trotted off to a club.

At this point I have to confess that I don't dance; I didn't dance much before bursting that disk in my back and now the twisting and bouncing about seem a really bad idea. If its going to go again I'd rather it go on the slopes where I might get a ride in the heli-ambulance. So instead I adopted my usual role of casual observer while nursing a bottle of beer. And there wasn't a huge amount to observe, behind me a game of pool was being played badly by some kids with fake ids. Ahead of me tumbleweed was blowing over the dancefloor (aside from one chap who'd clearly taken an illegal substance of some sort and had decided he was John Travolta for the evening.)

I was just beginning to tire of looking at the dance floor and admiring the pick-up technique of my female companions (if its cute, its fair game) when the club dancers appeared and proceeded to gyrate on stage. At this point I gave thanks for being a man. Although I harboured a lingering fear that watching such things might make me go blind... and then fatigue overwhelmed me: "Canada tired you out, huh?"

I wanted to say: "No, the whole cattle-market feel of this place is starting to make me feel like I need a damn good shower." I didn't, of course, instead I mentioned ski lessons the following morning and the fact that out of the whole party, I was the only one who hadn't spent large chunks of the day asleep. I doubt anyone heard over the music.

"No bringing strange men back to the room" I admonished and then was gone, 8 hours of sleep later and the sky is blue and the snow is calling me. Time to load a bullet into metaphorical revolver of my skiing and spin the barrel to see if today is the day that that pesky back of mine finally gives up the ghost.

Mission Accomplished

Long time readers might remember this post

Done it.

What to do next, I wonder?

I See Dead People

...or rather, people who wish they were dead.

Mike B and Ms Sundae are currently passed out on the sofa. The divine Ms U and I hit the slopes at 8, smiling cheerily at employees of Whistler Blackcomb who clearly wished they were elsewhere while we fought off the waves of nausea that drinking far too much alcohol the night before brings.

Skiing with a combination of a hangover and still being drunk is something everyone should do once. And if your level of skiing is the same as mine, then the odds are you will do it only once. And then spend the next year in physiotherapy.

So what of the night before? Its hazy, although I'm pretty sure I had a good time although I sadly didn't wake up 'sticky' as one of our group delicately put it (a euphemism for spotting drunken carnal relations the memory of which is obscured by alcohol, I understand.)

We went to the Amsterdam Cafe, where the bear took a turn. Once with the waitress (see below)




And again with a chap who clearly misunderstood the meaning of the phrase "giving head" (see below)




Other bear related images are sadly censored in order to protect the anonymity of our party. I tried pretty much every drink on the menu before we staggered out into the winter air and back to the hotel to allow the ladies to prepare themselves (being a guy, my preparation consisted of sitting down and saying "are you finished yet?" at regular intervals.

Things went downhill rapidly thereafter. There was a bar. There were shots and then I figured I needed some air. And couldn't find my back to the bar. I'm pretty sure I went somewhere else, did some drunking dialling and somehow made it back to the hotel where it appeared I decided that falling asleep in the lobby was a great idea. Which brings us to the present.

So, all told, a good new year. Although I'm not sure my companions will agree.

Yup

And yes, it did.

How did 2004 end? Dunno
How did 2005 begin? Dunno

All I know is Ms Sundae, Mike B and the divine Ms U woke me up in the hotel lobby... and that, friends, is that...