Tune in!!

Here's something you won't believe. Steamboat has radio stations (notice the plural) that you actually want to listen to.

It's amazing. First off, the narcissistic self-promoting Front Range stations don't broadcast up here. Second, the advertisements are local. All of them. It's unreal. Finally, they play good music!

It's a refreshing change from Whister. Someone told me, though I never verified it, that 20% of the content broadcast by canadian stations must be of canadian origin. While I'm not sure of the social and economic impetus behind that particular legislation, I am sure that it resulted in me shouting "THATS ENOUGH ALANIS!!" at the radio on a bi-weekly basis. Plus BC has a strange fascination with B-side 80s music--you know, things you never heard when they were popular, and for good reason.

And that's all I have to say about that.

Why don't you just buy a mattress?

"Why don't you just buy a mattress?" It's a legitimate question. But I do tire of repeating myself to legions of bemused bystanders. Maybe that's why I like writing: question deferrment. Write it once, then reference.

"But seriously, there's a bed in the other room. You can use it." So I must explain, again, the pile of raw lumber in my tiny room. I hate bad mattresses. Had one in college. Couldn't tolerate it. I slept on the edge of the mattress to avoid the super-saggy black hole. There was no way to sleep on my stomach either--didn't fancy a career as a contortionist.

The standard-issue box spring/mattress combo with a basic metal frame has several shortcomings. It’s too low to store anything underneath. When your living space measures 12' by 15', storage is vital. A decent mattress (one that doesn't double as a hammock) is way out of my price range.

I want comfort. I want utility. I want spatial maximization. I want cost effectiveness. I decide to build a bed. This is problematic; I have no tools. And by no tools I mean absolutely zilch. No hammer, nails, drill, saw. Nothing.

So I headed off for the lumber yard. This is a place where serious men do serious business, like operating forklifts, driving giant diesel trucks, and pointing huge meaty fingers at lumber piles then grunting formidably. This is not a place for punk-assed, Passat-driving, flip-flop wearing, 24year olds with kiddie sunglasses. They should have a sign posted. "This is not the Home Depot. We will not be happy to assist you. As a matter of fact, if you have to ask, we will actively despise and belittle you. When you know exactly what you want, we will get it for you. Grudgingly."

I was swiftly passed from employee to employee. It's the workplace version of hot potato: pass the obnoxious customer. James, the forklift driver, drew the short straw. A disclaimer: I am not pleased to share a name with this man. He was unpleasant, rude, and made it clear from the outset he would have loved to run me over with his forklift. Or possibly skewer me with the prongs and deposit my shish kabobed corpse atop a pile of 5/8 inch plywood in the far corner of the warehouse. Either way, he was not at all happy that I needed "One 14’ section of 2x4, one 10' section of 2x4, both cut into 50" segments, one 14’ 2x4 cut into 80" segments, an 8' 4x4 cut into 2' segments, and a 5/8 sheet of particle board cut into two 48x40inch segments." He informed me repeatedly that he was not a carpenter and that cutting the lumber for me would forever negate the possibility of building anything with it. He threatened to loan me a circular saw and make me cut the planks. I declined. He claimed he would have to use a chainsaw. Seeing the precision table saw mounted on the far wall, I called his bluff.

Once James had suffered the indignity of making ten easy cuts in 4 small pieces of lumber, I paid and loaded up the car.

Lacking a tape measure (remember, no tools) I had hoped a 40x48 inch particle board would fit into the trunk. It did not. Nor, with the particle board jammed unceremoniously into the backseat, did the 80" 2x4s fit into the trunk.

The end result was questionable at best. The particle boards only fit into the backseat with the windows rolled down, so the corners could poke out. Even then the rear passenger door refused to shut. I remedied the situation by looping the seatbelt out the window and tying two half-hitches around the exterior handle. I drove home with 2 of 5 doors open.

Thankfully I did not encounter any police cruisers.

Epilogue

I borrowed a drill from a friend of a friend, bought some wood screws from Ace, and the bed looks great, despite premonitions of grouchy forklift operators.

Blogged Anew

I guess we're off to the races again, and by “we” I mean “I” since I’m pretty sure no one reads this blog anymore.

Near the end of April, I went heli-hutting in the Tantalus range, near Whistler. It wasn’t heli-skiing, because we didn’t get dropped off on any peaks. Instead the chopper drops you at the hut, and from there you climb whatever peaks you desire.

Skinning up to the saddle after a particularly exhausting day, we crested the ridge and were greeted with a vista spectacular by any standards. Inspired, sentences began to form in my mind, and I raced to the cabin, grabbed a pen and paper, sat down, and BAM. Nothing. Pen and paper is my kryptonite.

My solution? I bought a palm-powered device, called a DANA. It has a full keyboard, long battery life (AA powered), and it’s designed for use in public schools--hence, durable.

The idea here is to write every day. I'm hoping to take this nifty device with me wherever my travels may lead. What you’re reading now is the fruit of those labors.

Poof!

Just like that, it's over. The village is deserted. The broadcasters have left, taking with them the screaming throngs emblazoned with red maple leaves on their foreheads. There are traces that the olympics were once here, but the metamorphosis has been swift and unforgiving.

I can't speak as to what happened in Vancouver during these past two weeks, but I will say this. Whistler was a dreamland. To all those Whistler locals who, poisoned by the whining of naysayers complaining about lack of parking and the inconvenience of the games and the incompetence of VANOC, abandoned their hometown during the Olympics: you missed out. Big time.

For those who stayed it was magical. We were there when thousands turned out to watch the torch come thorough Whistler, there when Canada won its first gold medal on home soil, there when the village had 4 concerts daily, at the sliding center when the USA took gold in the 4 man bobsled. We perched on the hills above the Dave Murray downhill and watched the world's best skiers pit themselves against our home mountain (making us look like chumps in the process). And most importantly, we saw Whistler at its all-time best.

Its all-time best.

Hockey and Salt.

I had no idea so much hockey was played during the Olympics. The difference in coverage between US networks like NBC/ABC and Canadian ones like TSN and CTV is both remarkable and telling. In the states, hockey is practically an afterthought, whereas in Canada, hockey carries as much weight as all other sports combined.

The US defeating Canada somewhat resoundingly comes then, as a huge blow to the Canadian ego. Not that it stopped me from jumping up and down screaming "U S A! U S A!" in the middle of Whistler square surrounded by legions of maple leafs and dumbstruck faces, but I do find it inappropriate to rub more salt in the wound. Any self-respecting Canadian feels the sting far too acutely, and strolling down the village walk after the victory singing "America the Beautiful" at the top of our lungs was probably sufficient.

The Olympics continue in spectacular fashion. The weather has made every effort to bolster the party atmosphere. February the 23rd feels like spring. The temperature was a balmy 50 degrees--and warmer in the sun. We sat on the deck in Tshirts eating ice cream and pondering going swimming. But I'm not ready for spring just yet. Hopefully the winter hasn't burned itself out too quickly.

Hasta entonces!

The Olympics, In fact.

The Olympics are, quite simply, too big to touch. The village seems to vibrate with all the events.

In fact, 2010 has given me the most wicked FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out) I've ever had. I want to be everywhere all at once. Between work, skiing, events, concerts, world-class DJs, and general craziness of the village, I've hardly slept in a week.

In fact, in fact, I've never seen such a large, diverse group of people SO ECSTATIC and SO HAPPY to be part of something. Everyone is smiling and friendly, never in a hurry, gracious in defeat and exuberant in victory. On Saturday, two competing drum corps (French and American?) ran into each other in the village and blended their acts for a solid 15 minutes, blocking the entire village stroll in the process. Yet nobody got peeved about having to detour, and the crowd was SO STOKED to see the musicians in action. It was quite a scene.

In fact, in fact, in fact, people love to be on TV. The CTV broadcast booth in Whistler was constructed right in front of Surefoot. Anytime they go live to the Whistler studio, the crowds go wild behind the camera, jumping up and down, screaming, then checking their phones to see if some acquaintance saw them on TV and called. We can hear the racket from the shop. In related news, I will be attending the 4 man bobsled finals on Saturday the 27th. I will try to stand in front of an NBC camera, if I can find one. Hypocrite.

In fact, in fact, in fact, in fact, never tell the Swiss "more cowbell."

Granola a la Slantz

OK, for all you CO hippies out there.....here it is, the coveted granola recipe. Well, technically it's not Emily's recipe. I made a few modifications, like cutting the grape nuts (since they seem to be about as expensive as regular nuts), eliminating the butter (health!), cutting the sugar (more health!), increasing the oats (oatey oat oat oat, oatey oat oat, look at all these oats!), adding banana chips (for the monkey in us), and changing the baking directions slightly.

I think that's a wrap. Click on the picture to blow it up. Click, Click, Boom.