Please show me more of these

• Tips
• Techniques
• Demonstrations
• Ideas
• Product reviews

And fewer of these

• Attractive, wealthy people hanging out in a backyard

Skiers and snowboarders negotiate snow-covered slopes the way they negotiate interstate highways. Very poorly.

I refer not to actual locomotive ability. I am a wonderfully mediocre and incapable skier, and I know what it’s like to learn—it sucks. I’m about as likely to criticize a beginning skier’s ability as I am to complement an advanced skier’s prowess. Which is to say not at all.

No, I speak instead of an apparent absence of courtesy and lack of respect for other snow sports enthusiasts. We all share a common space when we’re out there, and presumably we all want to have a nice time. But the outright dangerous behavior of some of my fellow skiers and snowboarders often leaves me as pissed on the piste as I am on the road. I think one’s conduct as a skier or snowboarder and one’s performance as a motorist are probably identical. To wit:

• Listening to an iPod while skiing is basically the same as texting while driving.
• Leaping out of the trees and onto the ski run is pretty much the same as failing to check the mirrors and blind spot before merging into traffic.
• If you’re skiing too closely behind the person in front of you, I’m willing to bet money that you tailgate on I-25.
• If you routinely come close to mowing down the five year old who zigs and zags her way across the slope, then you probably drive a big shit-kicker truck and intimidate your way down the interstate.

I guess my philosophy for both skiing and driving are the same:

1. Be kind
2. Common sense above all else
3. Just because you can doesn’t necessarily mean you should

I suppose I expect more out of humanity than is frequently offered in return, which is probably why I’m usually disappointed, whether on skis or behind the wheel.

Every conversation I have with a stranger on the ski lift goes pretty much like this:

Nice day, huh? (Them)
Yes, it is, indeed.  (Me)
Getting some good runs in?
Yeah, I’m having a good time today.
Yesterday was even nicer.  Much better conditions than today. I demoed these sick twin-tip powder skis.
That’s great, glad you enjoyed it.
Of course, I only ski on the Mary Jane side of the mountain. The runs are much harder than on the Winter Park side.
Uh-huh.
Strictly black mogul runs for me. I don’t ever go over to Winter Park because it’s full of green run Texans.
One of whom, I gather, you are not?
No, I live in Denver. And I only ski black runs.
Cool, how long have you lived in Denver?
About five years.
Where’d you move from?
Ummm..
Texas?
Houston.
Right...

The cat discovered his shadow for the eighth time this week.  Let the festivities begin.

Please, please, please stop saying it.

Truly amazing chocolate that is affordable enough to be enjoyed on a daily basis. Same goes for wine, cheese, bread, and mass transit.

Restaurant waitstaff that don’t pretend to be your best friend. All I really want waitstaff to do is answer questions about the menu and bring food and drink to my table. They do that in Europe without pretending to like you. In fact, I think usually they don’t like you. I also miss walking into a cafe alone and not being treated like a second-class citizen.

German bookstores. They are fantastic, all of them groaning under the weight of books printed in every conceivable language.

Architecture. Buildings should be more than just containers for things and people.

Mainstream environmentalism. One of the more pleasant surprises living in Germany was the way environmentalism was not a fringe movement. It was out in the open, taking place every day. Every time I bought anything in a glass or plastic container, I could take it back to the supermarket and get Real Cash Money, sometimes as much as €0.25 per container (A few states in the US have similar programs, but no one bothers). There were solar panels on nearly every roof and wind turbines turning away on the hilltops. Germans seem to accept environmental responsibility as a part of everyday life.

Awkward cinema intermissions. They just stop the film mid-dialogue — nay, mid-sentence — for about ten minutes and give everyone time to take a whiz and buy another beer.

Real effing bread.  Good beer is readily available in most civilized parts of the US now. Good bread is considerably harder to come by, and it generally costs a small fortune.

I’m only a 33 year old (Jesus!) Coloradan, but in motorist years, I’m a good 67, easy.  And from a respectable suburb of Tampa.

I’ve recently started taking immense pleasure, you see, in driving with painstaking caution and observing with wide-eyed excitement as other motorists go utterly ape shit.  I don’t do anything particularly unreasonable, which makes it all the more amusing.  In fact, all I really do is obey the speed limit and exercise caution, things we ought all do, right?  It’s kind of eye opening to see just how little patience others have for obeying traffic laws.

I sincerely enjoy watching Billy Bob Hemi (cousin to Joe Sixpack) behind me lose his freaking mind when I drive 30 in a … 30.  An outside observer could easily be forgiven for believing that I had misread the posted speed limit, if distance between bumpers is a trusted indicator.

What is it about the irresistible combination of tender, buttery pancakes; sweet maple syrup; smoky, crispy bacon; and a hot cup of coffee?  Few things are as comforting.

Lexicographically speaking, I suppose a goose down comforter ought to be, but as it is neither tender nor buttery nor delicious, its candidacy was pretty much over before it even started.

It’s moldy.
Does it get moldier?
If so, does it matter?