Maxed Out

Okay, let’s talk.

In the dark abyss of the night before Christmas, it was touch and go whether I’d ever make it to New Years, let alone spring and the beginning of the end of the 2005-06 ski season.

Well, there’s no denying that a new day’s dawning for Canada. Unfortunately, it has all the makings of a dull, grey, drizzly, sunless day where we can look forward to eating stale leftovers washed down with weak, lukewarm coffee. Ummm, ummm good.

Skiing and snowboarding, though passionately fun activities for those already converted, have about as much appeal to most people as major dental work. (Sorry Jay.

The day had been the kind of day that makes a guy happy he chucked the whole money, power, success and urban rat race thing to become a ski bum.

On a cold, clear day in February, a couple of season ago, I did something very unusual. I went skiing. That’s not the unusual part; cold, clear days in February generally find me skiing, working or loafing, more or less in that order.

Well, finally. I have something to thank George W. Bush for. Before I thank the president of my home and native land, I’d just like to take a moment to, as gently as possible, serve up this proviso to our very welcome American guests.

So I’ve been thinkin’ about buying a big truck again. Not that I once owned a big truck and want another one, not that kind of again. But I once thought about buying a big truck and now I’m thinking about buying a big truck again. That kind of again.

Is it possible to be both a television snob and a television junkie? Why start a column with a question so obviously loaded? Can we just get on with it and stop asking questions? I am, undeniably, a television junkie.

So Jesus and Mohammed walk into a taverna in Sestriere. Jesus orders sacramental wine; Mohammed goat’s milk. Both ask for it to be served in an official Olympic™ souvenir glass.