Surviving the Colorado Curse

Steep atop Denver International’s darkest crag lies perched, peering, seeing, watching: the cursed stallion.

 

With beady red eyes, bulging blue veins, and a nasty bite he haunts the mile high city. All who fly into Colorado’s newest, great airport are cursed. Cursed with a terrible curse.

I myself was afflicted by the apocalyptic hell beast, and it began the day prior to my arrival – a tribute to its cursiness. An innocents night sledding was ended tragically by my left knee bending in half the way nature never intended. Contributing factors may have included sledding from the top of a three hundred plus yard sledding hill, a small craft advisory, and a near complete lack of prior sledding experience; nevertheless, I was without warning catapulted from my sled and onto my left leg which promptly collapsed like papermache. I additionally somehow got a road rash on my right forearm from the experience, the stallion!

A few days later transgressions continued when I learned my four-week clinical “elective” would actually be four weeks of 12 hour days, tedious dictations, and regular floggings. I had hoped to commute to the hospital via bus or carpool with a friend, but the partial ACL tear, mild MCL sprain, mild LCL sprain, patellar-tibial contusion, and gastrocnemius strain all limited the feasibility of the former while working till the darkest dark of night limited the feasibility of the latter. Eventually I was forced to rent a car for the mere sum of a whole hell of a lot more than advertised.

Paying about 3 times more than listed for taxes, fees, and any lick of insurance coverage was actually one of the few fortuitous decisions I made, however, as within 2 days of acquiring the new car – and 5 days from my original sledding accident – a young woman decided to drive into the side of it. Her initial reaction to pulling out into traffic and hitting my front bumper consisted of “why didn’t you stop?!” as if in the US -- or anywhere on any planet for that matter -- it’s perfectly acceptable to make left hand turns in front of rapidly oncoming automobiles whenever you want. Once her boyfriend pointed out this was insanity she then fell back to exclaiming, “it’s not my fault!” endlessly until the police finally came. My reward for this? A new car and a significantly more expensive new rental car contract. Curse you cursed stallion!

I had to lay low for the next few weeks while the jinx passed, and was thankfully sheltered by my friend Adam and Kate in their basement under an alias. They thankfully are exceedingly generous hosts, Kate’s cooking exceedingly delicious, and their children exceedingly prone to hop merrily in place at the slightest provocation. Aside from some additional difficulty finding dry cleaning – I eventually had to go to Denver’s Korea Town – and a general lack of improvement in range in motion of my knee, things began to blow over. Unfortunately a final blow came the final week when an unknown assailant struck down Dara their slouchier, whiter dog. Some say it was a veterinarian putting an old, good dog down to her final resting place. Others say it was that stallion. And still others say it was the stallion posing as a veterinarian. All that’s clear is that through Dar-Dar’s sacrifice the curse was lifted. Or it just went away on its own. Curses are weird like that. The boys were saddened by the loss of their beloved pet, but after determining she had gone down into the pits of the Earth to doggy heaven and that they’d likely be getting another, younger dog in the future they decided they were ok with their other remaining pets. They eventually returned to hopping, and after working far more than I ever cared to on an elective, I flew home away from the demon's stare.

This post is dedicated to Dar-Dar. The best old, white dog I have ever known. We'll miss you girl.

 En memorum.

This photo is an approximation. I do not actually have a photo of Dara, but she looked kind of like this. But older.

Hullabaloo Quebec, Quebec

Quebec, Quebec. Where Canada's at its coldest, snowiest, and Frenchiest. None of that may be individually or collectively true, but what is true is Quebec, Quebec is the home of the BeaverTail: Canada's contribution to the global obesity arm's race. Watch out America, they got Nutella on their funnel cake. Which they then smashed out and flattened with an iron... 

 If it's two-dimmensional there're less calories right?

Perhaps just as imporant as beaver tails in ensuring Quebec's eternal awesomeness, though, is the Carnaval de Quebec. In part because they have an ice castle, in part because they have Caribou liquor in hollowed out plastic canes, and in part, a very large part, because they have human fooseball.

She kicks like a French-Canadian girl

No, excuse me. Human fooseball on ice. Just in case strapping children to metal poles in freezing wheather wasn't already a good enough idea, they then make them dance. And if they don't want to dance, that's fine. They can feel free to dangle limpy from their chains. Unfortunately we only got to play human ice fooseball twice -- and the second round was prematurely ended by a family from Bufallo who play ice fooseball as if the life of their family pet depended on it -- but it was quite possibly the highlight of my year. Regular fooseball will never again provide the same joy.

A few brief moments struggling to stay upright while people kick balls at my head is not where the Carnival de Quebec ends, however. No, no my ignorant angloophone friends. There're also ice sculptures, toboggan rides, innertube slides, late night dance parties, maple syrup on ice, hottubs on ice -- which I guess are just regular hottubs -- broom hockey, regular hockey on TV probably somewhere, fancy crepes, psychadelic light parades, and snowball castle attack -- where you throw plastic snowballs through each other's ramparts or just at each other. It was awesome because instead of saying, "brrr it's snowing outside, lets stay inside and watch some curling," they said,"brr it's snowing outside, lets strip down and roll in it!"

Lest things get too sexy...

This isn't to say the Carnival de Quebec was all fun and whiskey, though. It also involved showers without shower doors -- why do Europeans insist on this insanity? -- long lines at the border, a few surely Quebecois restaurant owners, escargot, sleeping on the ground using hotel window curtains as blankets, and an indomitable, French-Canadian snow-king-man.

Juiced by a Caribou-fueled rage.

Photographie!

In Lieu of Cash, Please Send Granola

I have lived in the Upper Valley for over a year now. I am now qualified to pass judgement.

And my first judgement? Granola. I don't want your stinkin' granola. Who wants your granola? I don't know anyone who wants your granola. And, yet, everyone here makes it. Do they eat it? Feed it to their birds? Wash their childrens mouths out with it if they say naughty things? For something that generally costs a few bucks from the grocery store and tastes like different flavors of "myeh" I never could fathom why people bought it, and now I live in a land where people make it.

Making things is a way of life in Vermont and New Hampshire. In that sense it is this certain sense of true self-reliance and "Yankee ingenuity" which makes folks up here remarkable and unique. Unfortunately where as back in the day people made wooden trunks and wagon trains, now they make bad art and apple sauce.

Which brings me to my second judgement: apple sauce. The second largest state export behind granola? Apple sauce. I am fairly certain in the rest of the United States apple sauce does not remains a food product passed the age of three, but here everyone takes pride in their sauce. I'm sure there's even an apple saucing subculture if I were to look hard enough. Complete with their own lingo and apple sauced-based inside jokes. Initially I was inclined to believe the popularity of apple sauce stemmed in as much part from Vermonter's refusal to admit they just grow too darn many apples, but the longer I stay here the more I am convinced they may just realy love apples.

And lastly, syrup. I know grocery store syrup is essentially a flavored corn product, but it sure takes like syrup to me (in the sense that syrup to me tastes like a flavored corn product.) It's thick, it's amber, it's smell syrupy, it's essentially syrup in ever way aside from the fact that it's not. Most importantly, though, corn syrup syrup costs half the price of real deal, genuine maple syrup. Nevertheless, despite this, genuine maple syrup is the way people prove their Yankee roots in New Hampshire. Nothing will go further for your Upper Valley street cred than showing off a pantry full of maple syrup in every grade. Yes, there are apparently multiple grades of syrup? Why? Because the last thing you want to be seen doing is eating riff raff syrup.

There Are No Puffin in Maine

Puffin are little tiny birds that live in the North Pole and can only be seen by Eskimos. They are also a delicious cereal. They do not, however, despite claims to the contrary, seem to exist in Maine. I had never before considered what it would be to see a puffin in person, and would never before have claimed to have wanted to do so, but then I moved to New Hampshire which apparently is next door to Maine, and that's where I was told puffin hang out, like, all the time. Now I had to see one. Capture and befriend one if possible. Forget moose, there're itty bitty flightless birds up here! They are flightless right? And grant wishes?

That was the plan at least. Kristen and I ventured up to Boothbay Harbor, Maine, this last weekend nominally in search of a charming bed and breakfast, but secretly to abscond with a magical sea parrot. Unfortunately it turns out they only seem to manifest in late spring and early summer in these parts of the planet so we failed. That should come as no great surprise considering puffin are probably as real as the chupacabra -- made up beasts to keep children in line. "Eat your soup or the puffin will get you!" What was perhaps more of a surprise, though, was that there are apparently no people in Maine either. March is still the off season for tourism in the area as it is typically still encased in snow and prowling with blood thirsty snow men, and so the town of Boothbay Harbor is still in the hands of a caretaker government consisting of a pair of snowbirds too old to migrate and a swarthy sea captain who just can't quit the sea. The town was sparsely populated during the day and all but abandoned at night. We could have looted the place at will had we only thought to bring a larger car. Seeing as off season also means cheap season though we went anyway, and it was great.

We stayed at the Welch House Inn, affectionately known, we imagined, as the Wench House Inn by the locals, and it was amazing. For $90 a night we had a beautiful room, a gorgeous view of the harbor, a tasty breakfast, a cozy gas fireplace, and a whirlpool bath. The owner was exceedingly friendly and helpful and made a delicious Gypsy Eggs Benedict which was both the first time I'd eaten Eggs Benedict and the first time I'd eaten gypsy. The whole experience was as I would expect a bed and breakfast experience to be were I to have ever before considered a bed and breakfast. I am not sure any other B&B will be able to compete now; we will forever be bed and breakfast snobs.

Tour guides say Maine is the land of lighthouses and that is true. Just look at our pictures -- they're stacked like dominoes. But Maine is also just as much the land of toll booths and toll ways as it seems you cannot drive on any highway without being asked for a dollar. As a man that prides himself on his supply of quarters he carries (I sometimes have to drive a toll road for work), I was quickly quarterless. Thankfully Kristen had an assortment of loose change scattered throughout her purse and we did not have to resort to offering the contents of my glove compartment in barter. I suspect the majority of the nation’s quarters are currently residing in Maine thanks to their toll booths, and I have a suspicion it is secretly feeding an underground pinball economy. 

Anyways, for those who have not been to Maine here is a summary. It is rocky. There are a lot of lighthouses because of said rocks. People say "wicked" a lot. Oh, and lobster.

Pink Slime is Ruining America and Poisoning Your Kids

Pink slime. Hide your children. Hide your wives. It's in your beef, and it's in your family. If the volume of attention a subject gets is any indication of its importance in life -- and it is -- pinky slimy slime is single-handedly destroying, corrupting and befouling everything, everywhere, all the time. Beware the slime Yahoo News tells me.

Thankfully we still have heroes. Thankfully we still have TV chefs, a feckless press, and a shallow social media which can all mobilize to save our great nation. Thanks to their tireless yet trendy efforts pink slime, or ammonia-treated ground beef filler as it is perhaps less pejoratively known, has been removed from a number of fast food chains and now, glory be, will be removed -- at least in part -- from our children's schools. With this great victory in mind let us revel.

Never will we have to be like the Native Americans who consumed all parts of the animal. Huzzah! That's what pets and Fancy Feast are for.

Never will we have to worry about infections from a food product never associated with infection. Hurray! But lets fret anyway. 

Never will we have to pay for ugly food. Hot dang! Instead we can pay more for normal, regular food.

Never will we have to worry about ammonia in our beef. Shazam! Just the ammonia in the hundreds of other food products.

Never will we have to think critically about a subject. Good gravy, holy moly! Blog posts and Internet petitions are sufficient substitutes for due discourse and democratic action.



Alright. This is getting boring already. Time to tweet about Kony. I hear he's dating one of the Kardashians.

The Winter of My Discontent

When I first moved to New Hampshire I was told to get my affairs in order, I would likely die this winter by snow storm. Inevitably at some point during the six months of continuous freezing maelstrom that is a Northern New England winter I would perish in a snow bank, in front of a snow plow, underneath a snow mobile, or inside a giant snow ball. The towns would all freeze over and the wilds would be no refuge. Especially seeing as how they would both be packed with blood thirsty snow men living in snow forts bent on righteous snow vengeance, the worst kind of vengeance.

Instead there was never more than a few inches of snow. Temperatures never got below zero. Only actually got to zero once the whole time. And my snot never froze to my face -- a true indicator of a good winter I am told. January was actually most notable for the amount of drizzle there was. It was an angry drizzle, no doubt, but just drizzle. I never got my chance to break a leg snow skiing, fall through the ice ice fishing, fall through the ice ice skating, fall through the ice snow shoeing, or even to build an army of eight foot tall snowman storm troopers a la Calvin and Hobbes. I was robbed. I was promised an icy death and all I got was a relatively temperate, boring waiting period between fall and spring.

Speaking of spring. It is now springing and I am told to anticipate the start of Mud Season where, from what I can gather, everything gets covered in mud. I'm not buying it, though. I come from a state where it rains mud! Unless I'm swept away in a river of brown goop sometime this April I will be unimpressed.

Not all was lost this winter. We did have enough time to build a tiny late season snowman -- err snowthing.

Part snowman. Part mothman. Trapped in two worlds, he is accepted in none. He will lead a life of tragic irony chasing the light that will one day be his demise. Coming to Lifetime this spring.

Little Laura Goes to War

A short while ago my good friend and former roommate Laura got a letter instructing her to get her gear, she's going to war. Deployment time. Brass knuckles time. Whether it would be Afghanistan or Iraq was still to be determined, but a few things were clear: she would be the first of us to deploy and she'd need to find a way to strap more grenades to her chest. As it would turn out her deployment was not per the usual, however. When her deployment letter finally came instead of being tasked to a forward operating base or major theatre hospital in country hers read: you're going on vacation! Her six months of service to the nation would be an all-expense paid trip to Germany where she'd visit the Swiss Alps, lounge in Bavarian beer gardens, and take in culture and class at many a Baroque Austrian palace or concert hall. Sure she'd be caring for patients and war wounded at the medical center in Landstuhl, but as judged by the constant stream of Facebook photos since, she's mostly there to party.
 
Despite the fact that she had likely ruined deployments for all the rest of us for all the future I decided to pay Laura a pre-deployment this-may-be-the-last-time-I-see-you-alive visit. It was also secretly a visit to the Historic Triangle of Revolutionary America and an excuse to get a tricorne hat. The trip was successful on all accounts.

The trip was not without hardship; however, especially if you like to use the word "hardship" as a stand in for "never ending rain." The rain didn't start till after we set out on our twenty something mile bike ride, but once it started it never stopped coming. Quickly we were soaked, but still we rode on.

Whenever I insisted we stop and admire a local landmark Laura often insisted she wait under a tree. We then had a very wet lunch, and proceeded to have a very wet ride back after leaving behind very wet chairs and table clothes behind us.

We didn't stay in Yorktown or Old Williamsburg all too long, but there's always time for victory poses. Just like back in 1776.

Once all that was said and done we settled down to what really mattered. College football and puzzles.

Laura made this while slowly losing her mind -- smashing together decorated styrofoam is apparently more difficult than it looks. Coincidentally I was also losing my mind for an entirely different reason -- thank you Fighting Texas Aggies. We also saw a movie, had some food and drink, and then Laura went off to war. Went off to war a few weeks later after visiting other family and friends to be entirely accurate, but I'm pretty sure what prepared her most was my inspiring visit. My hat spurred her into a patriotic furor.