Stay strong

"Getting it together in Crested Butte means having a pair of powder skis, a pair of rock skis, and four jobs."

More Pictures

Rise and shine.

 This is the main bus stop on the way up to the resort. On a powder day, there's a crowd of people out front.

  This is Wily (as in cunning). Arvin and Danica got her from a rescue shelter in Santa Fe during Thanksgiving. She is a master of the puppy-dog eyes. 

Home sweet home

I live in a house. My bedroom window is on the upper left.

Enter the house, go up the stairs, turn left. (The ice cream is guarded by Spiderman)

Turn left again.

Up the stairs. (the red star is the window is visible in the exterior shot)

Turn right.

And if you look out the window, to the Northwest...

Or off the porch, to the Southeast...

Behind the scenes

The staff of the Ice Bar had to take a skier proficiency test today. With the exception of the head chef, we all did fine. The head chef, however, fell and hit his head. Disoriented and incoherent, he was diagnosed with a concussion and his ski pass was flagged. Ski patrol must green-light him before he can access the restaurant by himself. The opening schedule was pushed back three days, so I have tomorrow off.
And Brother, it's ripping.

Yesterday featured a snowmobile ride around the resort. It was a bit like riding a golf kart around the Disneyland backlot, only with stunning vistas and serene natural beauty. And a fox. I mean, a Fox. Like a fox fox. You know what I'm talking about.
I spent the rest of the day working one-on-one with the as yet unconcussed head chef prepping lobster soup and hand-made gnocchi. He made us a special dish combing the gnocchi, lobster stock, fried tomato, and elk sausage. We ate lunch in the fancily furnished, but completely empty restaurant overlooking the resort. It reminded me a bit of this business.

On Imagination and Reality

Is it weird that I'm into this kind of stuff?

I'm living with a couple, Arvin and Danica, in a duplex. Arvin and I have connected over pop culture. He has a lot of comic books, hero movies (Super, Bat, Spider, and Iron men, the Bourne trilogy, etc.), and a huge box of NES games. Last night I got through two and half episodes of Batman the Animated Series before putting in The Dark Knight. We had a stimulating conversation about the timeless values and themes present in Gotham's struggle for salvation and the role of the Caped Crusader as a characterization of our conflicted desire to disrupt our own moral weakness.
Which is my way of saying that I really like Batman.
But it also got me thinking about Fantasy as a lens to view Reality. I'm a sucker for romantic comedies, nostalgic music, and the wild adventures of colorful heroes. I like soaking up the drama because it inspires me to savor those qualities in "real life". My concept of reality is as far from Truth as any child's fantasy, so why not have some fun with it? 
I think that's why comics and animation are so appealing to me. It's one thing to watch a movie where the hero never runs out of bullets, but consider the sense of wonder that comes with stepping into a whole new world. I'm not talking about anthropomorphic animals or advanced technology. I'm talking about the difference between this and this. 
Evocative, colorful, and exagerated ...but compared to what?
"Normal" is a relative term. If you couldn't detect it, there are some Buddhisty themes swirling around in here. Try this: step into this world for a moment. OK, now look around you. Is it possible to apply the curiosity with which you studied that image to the keyboard in front of you? Or the pattern of the wall? Or the texture of your pants? Even harder, can you see your life as equally colorful and bizarre and exciting? Just because what you're used to seems less interesting doesn't mean you have to ignore it, or— God forbid, get bored by it. 
Savor the flavor.

Ski to Kill

I think we're gonna need a helmet.

Day Two on the mountain found me trying to keep up with part of the Ocho crew, including the Philippine-born, Tennessee-raised, army-trained sonofabitch who's been watching my back for the past week. He's hooked me up with a job interview, ski poles, down-home dinners, and a whole lot of encouragement. He describes Crested Butte as a town of world class nobodies, and I'm here to you he's one of them. Laddies and gentlemen, I give you Zi:

I can't say I've ever seen anyone move that fast across snow. Just trying to keep up with him was enough to put the fear of God in me. He rides with a motocross helmet and body armor, so the least I can do is put a shell around my green melon. This decision seemed in line with sentiments overheard waiting for the lift:
Ski fast, learn or crash.
It's nice to be surrounded by people who all share a drive to excel at the same thing. So much of the language around here is based on getting some, going huge, or doing the stupidest fucking thing anybody's done all week. When it snows, it's ripping. I'll always love the sense of community in Davis, but the focused energy around having fun on the mountain is invigorating and creates a unified social emphasis on play over work. And there was much rejoicing.

Thanksgiviiiinzzzz

Thanksgiving Day, 2010 
Fresh powder means getting an early start on the day. By the time I showered and left apartment #8, the boys (and girl) of "the Ocho" had already been up on the mountain for a couple hours. I had an interview with the head of Guest Services to volunteer as the resort's mascot. Even though I'd landed a job that earned me a ski pass, I wanted to follow through on the interview as a show of good faith. When I explained the situation to the jolly, quoth the secretary, "Australian Matt", he looked at me like I was crazy and sent me out the door.
Better to be seen as crazy, than lazy.
I got back to the apartment around noon. The boys (and girl) had planned to be back by then to deal with the 18lb. turkey defrosting in the sink. At 12:30, I got a call: They had come in from the cold (20º in the sun) and started drinking at the Avalanche. They would be back in an hour. Yeah right. I settled into an ancient Thanksgiving tradition of mine, and awaited their "shit-hammered" return.
At 2:30, they stumbled upstairs and collapsed in front of their totem— that ever-erect polyurethane dispensary of their wacky-tobaccy. I was prepared for the worst, but over the course of the next seven hours we would miraculously assemble an array of dishes that, heaped high on our plates, fulfilled the highest standard (did I mention it was a miracle?) for a Thanksgiving feast.
The turkey was moist and perfectly cooked. The mashed potatoes were barely able to contain the fresh gravy made from the turkey juice, the green bean casserole complemented the stuffing in both aesthetic and pallet, and more pumpkin pie and ice cream than we could master taunted us from the table as we rolled onto the couches.
For the first time since I can remember, I actually fell into a food coma. Never underestimate the power of the muchies.