First day of skiing this year... yahoo!

The first step off the chairlift and down the unloading ramp on the first day of the year is a touch unnerving. Thoughts of: "Did I forgot how to ski?", "I hope I don't break both femurs", or "do these snow pants sufficiently highlight my calves?" might be running through your head. Confidence has been higher.

You buckle your boots. The first 100 or so yards are inevitably flat terrain, but because it is your first day you try to make semi-large arcing turns to warm up, which is just awkward because turning on flats is unnecessary.

You stop at the top of a Blue Square. You're a little tight. You probably didn't stretch. And if you did, it was for 15 seconds. You wonder if your dins are set too high. You wonder how in Gods green earth could so much rust accumulate on your edges. Someone in your ski group probably asked if you ever wear a helmet, and you responded; "No. But I should" (But you never will until you run head first into a native fur while glades skiing). You put down your goggles. The foam is slightly crusted because they just sat in your ski bag for the last 10 months. This doesn't bother you. The people traversing the hill in a snow plow does however.

And then.. you're off. Uneasy at first, but after a few turns it's as though summer never existed and last year's winter never left. If feels natural to be on your skis. They feel comfortable. It's like you've been reunited with a long lost lover or your favorite comfort food (eg: Bagels, Burritos, anything at IHOP). Accelerating, cruising, carving, blowing by all the snow plowing riffraff, you REMEMBER HOW to do this! It's good to be back.

You ski until the lifts close at 4pm. At days end you make a B-line for the apre ski Bar. You take off your hat and your hair looks stupid. -Which is ok, because everyone else's hair looks just as dumb. Your cheeks are rosy. You order a beer (Fat Tire). It's the best beer you've ever had. You talk about the day with your buddies. 15 minutes later you order another beer. It's the second best beer you've ever had. Your cheeks are rosier. It's good to be back.

You wake up the next morning. You can't move. Muscles you were unaware existed are throbbing in pain and soreness. Your lower back is killing. You wonder why your head hurts. You remember the role Fat Tire played the previous evening. You nod your head in acceptance and then wonder why you woke up wearing your ski goggles.. It's good to be back.

Ps. Has a company ever turned a word/phrase that's so fun to say into a word that we no longer want to use like Yahoo.com??

The most athletic vegetable in the world.. Squash

Squash is similar to Racquetball in that games are played in enclosed courts, there are two players, and participants are typically wearing goofy-looking goggles.

But that is where the similarities end.

Squash is a game of skill, precision, athleticism, dexterity and thought, and the ball needs to get warmed up for it to bounce.

Racquetball is more a hard hitting game of athleticism, diving and blue balls.

Whichever game you choose, you will no doubt get one hell of a work out, and very likely suffer some resemblance of a heart attack, collapsed lung and/or heat stroke the first time you play a quality player.

I played squash for the first time in 2 years yesterday, and I cannot move right now.

My lower back feels like Dolly Parton's, my calves and hamstrings are useless, and I can hardly sit in my chair because my ass muscles hurt so much.

Nonetheless, I am psyched to get back into the game, even if it means I am a cripple for 24-36 hours hours following each match. In fact, my new years resolution (starting Feb. 1st) is to substitute drinking with squash, as I might as well be sore for 1.5 days, instead of entirely useless as is normally the case with hangovers.

I suppose I wanna be a toy R' us kid (thinking out loud)

Why are so many of my acquaintances in such a hurry to grow up? Don't we have the rest of our lives to be old??

While I have been kicking and screaming into adulthood, my friends and many of my fellow mid-20 somethings have been getting engaged, sending out pre-meditated Christmas cards, acquiring graduate degrees, matching couch ensembles, mortgages, subscriptions to Hearth & Home magazine, flower vases for their coffee tables, etc.

I mean fuck, my old apartment was completely furnished off of craigslist. Double fuck, I don't even have an apartment right now. Triple f, I wouldn't even know where to buy a vase. A Quadruple f is probably something Oxana Baiul would do in combination with a sow cow

I have always taken the stance that I will officially grow up when I am either A) In a relationship, hopelessly whipped, and I slip one past the goalie, B) In a bar and Irish Car Bombs are no longer fun and tasty, or C) someone younger than me tells me to grow up.

This is not to say I don't take my professional life seriously, because we all want to be successful and contribute to a worthwhile enterprise. I just prefer to delay the inevitable. Here's to never letting the kid in us die. cheers.

Read like butterfly, Sting like a Spelling Bee

What ever happened to Mega Speed Reading??

Remeber that chubby guy, Kevin Trudeau, in infomercials who scanned pages with his hand at a healthy clip (maybe 5 seconds a page) and then he would take a cognition test and score in the 95th percentile??

My first question is; 95th percentile of what?? And who else was taking this test?

Or do you remember the kid on the same infomercial who finished reading a book (with his father creepily hanging over his shoulder watching him read), and when he closes the book, he pumps his fist in delight?? Wonder what that kid is doing now?

I read at what clinical physicians call "a slow pace". Always have. So to remedy the situation back in High School, I repeatedly asked my parents to buy the Mega Speed Reading system so I could unlock the speed reading wizard inside me. But they never budged. I used to put them on guilt trips that they didn't love me and they wanted me to fail out of school and become a subway sandwich artist. (Every parents dream, right?). But still they didn't succumb to my requests.

Well, my parents were right after all. After a intensively diligent 4-second Google search, the top page came back reading:

INFOMERCIAL SCAMS.COM - MEGA SPEED READING

This was followed by minutes of sorrowful weeping, and the unnecessary throwing of objects around my room. I was duped.

But have no fear, because I just purchased Evelyn Wood's "7 days until you read like a nascar racer" program, which is a steal at $199.95.

How y'all doin'??

Have you ever noticed how fun it is to speak with a different accent?? It rarely fails to bring a smile to your face- probably because you're butchering the accent terribly, but every once in a while the smile arises because you're actually pretty good at it. My smiles are mostly derived from my ruthlessly sucky accents, or the fact that I often complement them with an impromptu ethnic dance (think irish jig or canadian tuxedo slide).. However, after my most recent road trip to the Southeast, you are now talking to the grand master flash of the Southern Accent. I am regular Davey Crockett**. While I realize it is near impossible to purvey my southern accent over a Matador blog (look for a podcast in late April) please be certain that it is perfect. I think I was meant to be a southerner. I've talked with a few of the South's HR directors and I'm thinking about sending in my application in the next few weeks. Here are my credentials: 1) I haven't worn them in decades, but I bet I look excellent in overalls. 2) I like Chick-Fil-A restaurants and alligators. 3) I love saying 'please pass mo' pecan pie', 'way down yonder' and 'the deader the better'. 4) I am a champion of Shrimp Cocktail. 5) I'm fork-lift certified. I realize these are stereotypes of the south, and in actuality, my opinion of the south is that I really dig it. Another actuality is that I really suck at the southern accent. But it's fun as hell to do, and I'll post it on small world too, but if any southerner wants to do a mutual language/accent swap, I'm in. **I assume he had a southern accent.

Doing my best to not talk shit about the south

Never in my life did I think I would spend any time in Asheville, North Carolina. Nor did I believe an afternoon of my existence would be spent lallygagging in Chattanooga, Tennessee. But I proved myself wrong. Twice. I also firmly believed that I would never actually use the word lallygagging in written or verbal communication. But again, I have proven myself inexact.

On a road trip from DC to Atlanta with my friend Keri, both of these unlikely events took place. It is tough to write amazing reviews about these places, but the fact of the matter is, I have to, as I am writing this under the stringent guidelines of Keri (a southerner), who articulately remarked: "Don't talk shit about the south".

The reason it is tough to write an amazing review of Asheville, NC or Chattanooga, TN is not because they aren't cool places, but rather I didn't spend enough time there to properly absorb all that there is to do.

Here is my honest review of ASHEVILLE, NC: The visitor's center is nice and offers free internet. The lady at the hotel had a really thick accent. Tuesday night is not hopping in town. Their main square has a statue of two bronzed pigs. They are surprisingly comfortable to straddle. The Biltmore Estate, the largest home in the U.S., is in Asheville (175,000 square feet). Asheville is reportedly the Berkeley, CA of the South. Or the Burlington, VT of the South. Which is a round about way of saying people smoke a lot pot there. The hotel breakfast restaurant was showing "Montel" on the big screen tv. What was scary was that all the patrons were glued to the tube like a 15 year old boy's maiden viewing of VHS porn. Overall Grade: I love Asheville.

Review of CHATTANOOGA, TN: Did you know Chattanooga was NOT on the Chattahoochee river?? Furthermore, do you know what a Hoochie Coochie is? and if so, how hot one is? Chattanooga is really quite a cool city. They have a dope river front park, a brand new Aquarium, a Ben and Jerry's Ice Cream. They also are home to the Chattanooga Lookouts, a minor league baseball team. (I only know this because I used to have one of their goofy looking team hats when I was going through puberty. (an awkward period all around).

Overall Grade: B++

In actuality, both of these places (like most places and things in the south) were very cool, and I wish I had more time to check them out. Especially the Montel Williams show on "Extreme Baby Making".

Floam, East Coast Road Tripping and Couch Surfing

I got Floam for Christmas (during a Yankee Swap). I wrote a blog a while back about toys from our childhood and several comments followed highlighting the dumb toys from our younger years, and we inexplicably omitted one of the dumbest of the dumb: Floam. It is a micro beaded play-doh goo, that smells like coagulated chicken poop, and provides absolutely no enjoyment.

Anyway, after a great Christmas in Maine, I embarked on a journey. I am in the midst of a road trip from Scarborough, Maine to Atlanta, Georgia, with stops in Boston, NYC, Washington, DC and multiple hick towns between DC and Atlanta. (because those are all that exist south of DC, right?)

I have been on many road trips before, but what is especially troubling about this one is the frequency of alcohol consumption on my trip. I am learning that when you move away and then come home to visit friends, benders ensue.

Notes from the trip thus far (more elaborate posts to come):

Boston was great. Went to a bar called the Poor House and sat in the back corner of the basement portion of the bar. (I am certainly on the up and up). I slept on a couch.

NYC was a blast. I don't really remember what happened, but I do know that when I woke up, I was on a couch.

DC was an unmitigated shit show. I ate a slice of pizza the size of a pennant flag, and then went out for New Years. I slept on a sofa.

Funny story about new years (at least to me). My buddy, Mal, normally likes to lay the ground work for midnight and have a fail proof make out plan when the clock strikes midnight, so he scouts out several girls and advises them to come find him at midnight. Well, this plan backfired slightly, as one of those girls went found him and started making out with him, and when he looked up, two of the other prospective girls were standing right behind him, giving him the death stare. Pure hilarity. kinda.

The next night was in Richmond, Virgina. I slept on a love seat. My neck hurts.