Man. Julia, Dana and I went skiing at Big Sky. Visibility was limited at best, and horrendous at worst. Sometimes you would hit some ice, but you wouldn't know if it was ice or snow, so of course you look down to check, but hey, it's so damn cloudy that I can't even see my skis, let alone what I hit. When things cleared a bit we realized that a bighorn had actually been scavenging for food, digging through the snowpack, and as his head was lodged deeply, I ran over his horn. Of course I keep my edges razor sharp, and so the horn didn't really even stand a chance. I've heard that really, they're only made of hair, which, as you may discover by examining my head, is not as tough as one may think. So, anyway, it was pretty sad to see a one horned bighorn running away (they are very proud creatures), but at least I got a good souvenir. Keep your eyes on eBay for the next few weeks... The snow was great, though, especially considering it's not even December yet. It may be time to put the old rock skis away and bring in the big guns... I met the ski school supervisor, and everyone was amused by my moustache, but encouraged me not to associate with the resort as an employee until I find the common sense to clean myself up.
Danny, Patrick, Julia, Allison (not an official house member, but hey, close enough) and I went to "comedy club" tonight at the Baxter. By comedy, they actually mean that you will pay $3 to sit and listen to a person deemed "funny" by the powers that be talk about god knows what until some members of the audience get drunk enough to start yelling things. In the meantime, the comedian gets drunk himself, somewhere in between taking a picture of his ass with a camera phone and later inviting the owner of said camera phone onto stage to give a toast, which basically equates to, "boobs are nice, but hey, nothing beats pussy!" It was an incredibly profound and moving oration. So, now we have drunk comedian, drunk redneck yelling incomprehensible comments about Wyoming, where it turns out he from, because drunk comedian is trying to set girl from Wyoming up with nice guy from row 1. At some point in the evening, you must say to yourself, "none of this is making any sense anymore. What the hell is going on?" There aren't any jokes, except people are laughing. The drunks laugh, of course, because it is funny when drunks yell at each other. The not-so-drunks laugh uneasily, because if they don't, they are at great risk of becoming the next joke, if the time ever comes again that paid comedian might make one. At this point, even though you have no clue what is going on, you have an urge. You sense something coming. You wait. Is it going to be an incredible climax that leaves you laughing for days? Are you going to see drunkest audience member, previously known as redneck, go up on stage? Might this end in a fight? A great new friendship? God forbid, another toast? Maybe it will just be laughing-his-ass-off guy falling off of his chair, which would quickly become the highlight of the evening, aside from the cute waitress that lingered around as you were ordering just long enough to make you wonder. This urge to stay (you did, after all, spend a hard earned $3), this longing for something; you hold onto it as long as you can. Eventually, however, you thank God that you chose seats at the rear of the venue to make it that much easier to make your great escape. A few people notice, but luckily, the comedian does not notice. How could he? He's yelling at someone on the other side of the room. As you leave, you pause in the door, ears wide open, just to see. But, of course, you're left unsatiated. I can only imagine that this nonsense is still going on right now.