Splat!
green
Splat!
yellow
Splat!
red
Splat!
yellow
Splat!
greenish-yellow
Thunk?
brownish-orange
The canvas was filling up
Pollock would be impressed
But I can't see
I push the button
mwwwhhhhh
Schwink
Schwink
My view is clear
Splat!
teal
For now
Thursday, June 7, 2012
Thursday, May 31, 2012
“And they,…, turned to their affairs”
I said yes. I didn’t
want to, I already had my day planned out; workout, laundry, garden, read (or
maybe just watch a bunch of reality TV).
A change of plans was not in the plan.
But I am trying to be more flexible, to go with the flow, so when Jackie
suggested going for a hike instead of the gym, I said yes, after a long
hesitation.
Jackie arrived at my house a little after 9, her boundless
energy matched only by that of Jessie, the yellow lab whose head was hanging
out the back window. My hope that Jessie
would have tired himself out by the time we reached the trail head was in vain;
it seemed the car ride was just a warm up.
From the onset of the hike up Sterling Pass trail, Jessie ran ahead and
then back and then ahead and then back, scouting for potential dangers and then
returning to report his findings. Bella
the black lab had little interest in keeping up with Jessie. Her greying muzzle, calm manner and robotic,
deliberate movements betrayed her age. She
tolerated the yellow lab, but saw no need to prove herself by matching his high
energy and instead watched Jessie as he ran back and forth. She was George to Jessie’s Lenny.
As we made our way along the trail I stayed back a bit so
that the surrounding scenery could saturate all of my senses without the threat
of me being knocked over by a 75 pound furry, slobbering weapon. Sterling Pass trail climbs 1100 feet in one
and a half miles up through a wide valley.
Tall spires point sharply at the blue sky, their charred husks a stark
contrast against the red rock walls, lush green vegetation and white, red,
purple, yellow and orange flowers that have conquered the valley bottom. These sentries are the skeletons of what once
were full crowned Ponderosa pines, and while a long ago fire stripped these
great trees of their leaves and branches, their majesty remains as they tower
over the new generation of shrubs and forbs which have taken advantage of the
fire scarred land. It is spring time and
the flowers are in bloom offering sweet smells as I walked along the trail,
this combined with the fluttering song birds, abundant and vocal, made me feel
as if I was in the jungles of South America, not a semi-desert in Arizona.
The sun which in part gives life to the valley bottom was
beating down on me as I followed Jackie, Jessie and Bella up the trail. Despite constantly drinking water and finding
respite from the heat in the shade rorschachly blotted along the trail, I felt
the migraine coming on. It was well
established when I finally reached the summit of Sterling Pass. The dogs had already found their resting
spots, but Jackie was prepared to keep moving.
I quickly picked a side in this argument and slumped down next to the
panting dogs.
After a too short break we started back down the trail
towards the car. Jessie led the way,
leaving barking dogs and irritated hikers in his wake while Bella respectfully
traversed the trail. I fell behind as
both the sun’s heat and my migraine intensified. The feeling that a red hot poker was being
forced through my skull created a pain which distracted me from the scenery
that had captured my full attention just an hour earlier. My concentration was now put towards stepping
one foot in front of the other to get down the trail as soon as possible before
the full onset of the migraine could take place.
It was at this time, close to the end of the trail, that I
came upon Jessie raucously scrounging through the underbrush, no Jackie or
Bella in sight. It took a moment to
process the scene I had walked up on. Birds
flew out of the brush chirping wildly, but Jessie didn’t pay them any
attention, he was still rummaging through the low lying shrubs, there was still
a bird left behind. I yelled for Jessie
to stop, my voice high pitched with panic, my migraine instantly gone. But Jessie ignored me and as he buried his
muzzle into the brush and quickly flung his head back I realized I was too
late. The fledgling bird was flung to
the trail dying as Jessie quickly lost interest in his new toy and ran to catch
up with his mom. I approached the bird
hoping that my being there would somehow reverse the fledgling’s fate. The deep red blood that now escaped from the
puncture left by Jessie’s incisor was a stark contrast to the graphite grey
feathers which had failed to help the young bird escape. Its
yellow beak opened and closed as if it was calling for its mother or gasping for
breath, in, out, out. It stretched out one
of its legs, slowly grasping at the air, trying to hold on to something,
anything. All the while the mother bird sat on a nearby
branch helplessly calling out. There was
nothing to be done and as I raised my head I saw Jackie standing next to
Jessie, he was scolded, but didn’t seem to notice. They started back down the trail. I stood up and began to follow them but
turned around; I couldn’t leave the birds’ body in the middle of the trail. Using two sticks I gently lifted then lowered
the limp body from the trail into the brush, the mother bird watching over us,
still chirping.
I again started down the trail, my migraine had returned to
its full glory. This was not my plan.
Monday, March 5, 2012
The River Wild
During my childhood, my mom would set up remarkable family vacations. Unlike common families who went to the beach in the summer, my family traveled all over the U.S., and even Canada, visiting national parks, riding in trains and going on multi day horse riding trips. At the beginning of every summer Mom would sit my sister and I down;
Mom: Your father and I have a surprise for you!
Dad: We are going to take a cross country trip, in the minivan, and visit your aunt and uncle in Colorado and then travel to Arizona and ride mules down into the Grand Canyon!
Mom: Doesn't that sound great! What an opportunity! You will be required to keep a daily diary.
Me and my sister: Awww, man! That sucks! Why can't we just stay here and hang with our friends for the summer like all the other kids? Ugh, I thought summer time was for not thinking and learning!
Mom: Well tough shit, that's what we are doing. And you will have a good time.
What can I say, we were kids.
Looking back, we did have a good time, we were very lucky to have parents who took us on such great adventures. It's just that we didn't always show our appreciation.
When I was twelve the summer vacation that was planned included a five day raft trip down the Snake River (yeah, you're jealous). The only request my dad had was no rapids. So it was a five day float trip, which was great, but would have been better had I been old enough to drink alcohol.
Mom had arranged for our family of four to have two rafts and two guides, the teams had long ago been determined:
Team 1) Puck and Mom (the fun, interested boat)
Team 2) Me and Dad (the others)
After our guides got through telling us how to survive every possible deadly scenario Mom, Dad and Puck climbed into their assigned rafts. I tried to flee to the safety of the minivan, but apparently this was a part of the vacation the whole family had to be there for. All I could think was "how is almost dying a vacation?"
Fortunately I had brought a book (or two) with me. So while everyone else in my family had nothing better to do than look around at the scenery for dangers like bear and lightning and killer fish and pterodactyls, I was able to relax and read.
In pretty much every picture my mom has of this trip, I am sitting in the raft, hunched over, reading a book. Whether it's sunny or rainy, no matter the amazing scenery, or what animals we came across, I was reading a book.
That first night was the most traumatic. We had to sleep in tents, and I was pretty sure there was a spider in mine, so there was a lot of screaming and crying involved. I just hope my parents left a really big tip for those raft guides.
Meanwhile, my sister took the whole thing in stride, like she was having a good time, traitor.
In the end we survived, and I actually have fond memories of that trip, somehow. The real irony of this story is that I went on to get two degrees in natural resources (B.S. Natural Resources Management, M.S. Rangeland Ecosystem Science), and I work for the U.S. Forest Service, and about ten years ago, I spent a summer as a raft guide, and yes some of the people I had on my raft were absolutely horrible. I believe that is the definition of karma.
And my sister, she works in finance, in Manhattan.
Mom: Your father and I have a surprise for you!
Dad: We are going to take a cross country trip, in the minivan, and visit your aunt and uncle in Colorado and then travel to Arizona and ride mules down into the Grand Canyon!
Mom: Doesn't that sound great! What an opportunity! You will be required to keep a daily diary.
Me and my sister: Awww, man! That sucks! Why can't we just stay here and hang with our friends for the summer like all the other kids? Ugh, I thought summer time was for not thinking and learning!
Mom: Well tough shit, that's what we are doing. And you will have a good time.
What can I say, we were kids.
Looking back, we did have a good time, we were very lucky to have parents who took us on such great adventures. It's just that we didn't always show our appreciation.
When I was twelve the summer vacation that was planned included a five day raft trip down the Snake River (yeah, you're jealous). The only request my dad had was no rapids. So it was a five day float trip, which was great, but would have been better had I been old enough to drink alcohol.
Mom had arranged for our family of four to have two rafts and two guides, the teams had long ago been determined:
Team 1) Puck and Mom (the fun, interested boat)
Team 2) Me and Dad (the others)
After our guides got through telling us how to survive every possible deadly scenario Mom, Dad and Puck climbed into their assigned rafts. I tried to flee to the safety of the minivan, but apparently this was a part of the vacation the whole family had to be there for. All I could think was "how is almost dying a vacation?"
Fortunately I had brought a book (or two) with me. So while everyone else in my family had nothing better to do than look around at the scenery for dangers like bear and lightning and killer fish and pterodactyls, I was able to relax and read.
In pretty much every picture my mom has of this trip, I am sitting in the raft, hunched over, reading a book. Whether it's sunny or rainy, no matter the amazing scenery, or what animals we came across, I was reading a book.
That first night was the most traumatic. We had to sleep in tents, and I was pretty sure there was a spider in mine, so there was a lot of screaming and crying involved. I just hope my parents left a really big tip for those raft guides.
Meanwhile, my sister took the whole thing in stride, like she was having a good time, traitor.
In the end we survived, and I actually have fond memories of that trip, somehow. The real irony of this story is that I went on to get two degrees in natural resources (B.S. Natural Resources Management, M.S. Rangeland Ecosystem Science), and I work for the U.S. Forest Service, and about ten years ago, I spent a summer as a raft guide, and yes some of the people I had on my raft were absolutely horrible. I believe that is the definition of karma.
And my sister, she works in finance, in Manhattan.
Christmas was like two months ago.
A few weeks ago, my boyfriend, Charles, informed me that his father Bob and Bob’s lady friend (let’s face it, when you’re in your 70’s she is no longer a girlfriend), Sally, would be coming for a visit.
Me: When are they getting here?
Charles: I don’t know, maybe sometime next week.
Me: How long are they staying with us?
Charles: I don’t know, a week or two, maybe.
Me: Oh good.
I like Bob and Sally, they are very nice. Bob is quiet and happy with a couch and a T.V., so basically he is low maintenance. Sally makes up for Bob’s taciturn ways. Sally has lead a very interesting life in her 75 years, and I am pretty sure she is trying to get the story out there to anyone who will listen, in a second by second retelling of her life and times. I am always excited to have guests, especially if they are family, especially if they are staying with us during the week, when I have to work (“Sorry, I just don’t have enough leave to take time off! I know, bummer, you’re going to have to go antiquing without me, sucks!”). So I was cool with the short notice of Bob and Sally’s impending welcomed visit.
Then Charles brought up the Christmas card.
Charles: Sally was upset by the Christmas card we sent. (we = me, Charles doesn’t do cards)
Me: Seriously, it’s February. I mean…What was wrong with the card? (I am pretty sure there was an eye roll accessorizing that question).
Charles: I don’t know something about leaving her name off the card. I shouldn’t have brought it up.
Me: Her name was on the card, I clearly remember writing “Dear Bob and Sally”.
Charles: Then I don’t know. Forget I said anything, why are you getting so defensive, GOD!
I couldn’t stop thinking about this horrible and offensive Christmas card I had sent to Charles’ father and his lady friend, what had I written (or not written)? And as the day changed into night I was no closer to realizing my folly. Had I written some hidden message in the text, one that if you held the card up to a mirror in a candle lit bathroom while playing Led Zeppelin backwards, Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer would appear and sing (out of tune) Christmas Carols forever?, because that could make some people a little upset. And as similarly rational thoughts raced through my head at 1:30 in the morning, it finally dawned on me…
They never sent us a Christmas card.
Monday, January 23, 2012
Welcome to the Neighborhood
To start with, I sincerely apologize for having left the blogosphere for so long. I could give you a laundry list of excuses, but in the end, I was just lazy, and it was the holidays. So thank you for your patience, I hope you continue reading about my life in THE mountain town.
My boyfriend and I just bought a house (anotherreason excuse I haven't written a blog entry in a while). And as first time homeowners, we are learning a lot, mainly the value of a Home Depot gift card (priceless). I grew up in a very close neighborhood, everyone knew their neighbor, there were neighborhood parties all the time (scavenger hunts, 4th of July parties, battle of the sexes, Christmas caroling), it was safe, comforting, and fun. This is what I imagine my new neighborhood will be like. The first step in recreating my old neighborhood is to meet the neighbors, and I had come up with a few different ways of accomplishing this task, baking cookies, throwing a party, but fate had something else in mind.
I spent the first Saturday in my new house unpacking, which lead to a monster pile of boxes which had housed mainly crap. I decided to throw the empty boxes in the trash outside, and as I stepped out of my front door I took note that the door was locked and I didn't have a key in my hand. I decided to resist all instincts and gut feelings telling me to get the keys and instead through caution to the wind and left the door ajar. I mean, the door had never shut on its own the whole time I had lived in the house. I took the boxes out, put them in the garbage, and as I shut the lid to the garbage can, I heard another click.
At this point everything starts going in slow motion. I reached the front door in what seemed like hours, and as my hand turned the knob, the door confirmed what I really already knew, I was locked out. F*%k, f&^k, f%$!
My brain quickly went into triage mode, assess the situation and do what makes the most sense (yeah, this is when I wanted to start using common sense):
1) Use shoulder to knock down front door. Turns out real front doors are nothing like the front doors in Hollywood, or I need a better personal trainer.
2) Lift the automatic garage door with bare hands.
3) Get garage door opener out of locked car by pushing the windows down with my bare hands.
Surprisingly, none of these options panned out. After spending about 1 minute trying to break into my new house, I resolved to accept defeat. And so at 12:00pm on a Saturday, in my pajama pants, t-shirt, fluffy slippers, in 30 degree weather, I sat down on my front porch, head in hands and began waiting for my boyfriend Charles to get home.
Then from across the street I heard "welcome to the neighborhood". I looked up from my sorrow and saw my neighbor from across the street waving at me. My first thought was "really? I am obviously trying to break into my own home in pajamas, and all you can say is 'welcome to the neighborhood'?!" What I said was "thanks", but I didn't sound like I meant it. Then it hit me, this was my chance, quickly before he gets in his car and leaves!
I jumped up from my front porch and ran as quickly as my fluffy slippers would let me across the snow packed street. "Excuse me, sir?" I said with a nervous laugh as I reached his garage. "I seem to have locked myself out of my house and I was wondering if you could call a locksmith please, he he he."
Not only did my awesome neighbor Jon call a locksmith, he lent me a winter coat, set up a chair in his garage next to the space heater and kept me company for the 20 minutes it took for the Lock Doc to show up.
I have since met a few more of my neighbors in a more traditional way, while checking the mail. And while most people would be embarrassed to have their first meeting with a neighbor take place while wearing pajamas, I have moved on. In fact Charles and I have already planned our first party, a Super Bowl party of course.
And yes, Jon is invited.
My boyfriend and I just bought a house (another
I spent the first Saturday in my new house unpacking, which lead to a monster pile of boxes which had housed mainly crap. I decided to throw the empty boxes in the trash outside, and as I stepped out of my front door I took note that the door was locked and I didn't have a key in my hand. I decided to resist all instincts and gut feelings telling me to get the keys and instead through caution to the wind and left the door ajar. I mean, the door had never shut on its own the whole time I had lived in the house. I took the boxes out, put them in the garbage, and as I shut the lid to the garbage can, I heard another click.
At this point everything starts going in slow motion. I reached the front door in what seemed like hours, and as my hand turned the knob, the door confirmed what I really already knew, I was locked out. F*%k, f&^k, f%$!
My brain quickly went into triage mode, assess the situation and do what makes the most sense (yeah, this is when I wanted to start using common sense):
1) Use shoulder to knock down front door. Turns out real front doors are nothing like the front doors in Hollywood, or I need a better personal trainer.
2) Lift the automatic garage door with bare hands.
3) Get garage door opener out of locked car by pushing the windows down with my bare hands.
Surprisingly, none of these options panned out. After spending about 1 minute trying to break into my new house, I resolved to accept defeat. And so at 12:00pm on a Saturday, in my pajama pants, t-shirt, fluffy slippers, in 30 degree weather, I sat down on my front porch, head in hands and began waiting for my boyfriend Charles to get home.
Then from across the street I heard "welcome to the neighborhood". I looked up from my sorrow and saw my neighbor from across the street waving at me. My first thought was "really? I am obviously trying to break into my own home in pajamas, and all you can say is 'welcome to the neighborhood'?!" What I said was "thanks", but I didn't sound like I meant it. Then it hit me, this was my chance, quickly before he gets in his car and leaves!
I jumped up from my front porch and ran as quickly as my fluffy slippers would let me across the snow packed street. "Excuse me, sir?" I said with a nervous laugh as I reached his garage. "I seem to have locked myself out of my house and I was wondering if you could call a locksmith please, he he he."
Not only did my awesome neighbor Jon call a locksmith, he lent me a winter coat, set up a chair in his garage next to the space heater and kept me company for the 20 minutes it took for the Lock Doc to show up.
I have since met a few more of my neighbors in a more traditional way, while checking the mail. And while most people would be embarrassed to have their first meeting with a neighbor take place while wearing pajamas, I have moved on. In fact Charles and I have already planned our first party, a Super Bowl party of course.
And yes, Jon is invited.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
I LOVED that book! What was it about again?
When I was a little girl, my mom would read stories to my sister and I. We loved story time, we would curl up as close to my mom as possible, as if the closer to the source of the words we were, the more magic they held over us. We had to see the words, touch to pages, watch my mom's face as she transitioned from character to character. My favorite book was James and the Giant Peach, I am pretty sure my mom read that about a billion times. And while I was an avid listener, I did not turn into an avid reader. So by the time I was in the second grade my mom, who was a school teacher, decided I should be reading more and did what any good parent/teacher would do, she bribed me, with money:
Mom: Pud, how 'bout I pay you for...
Me: Yes
According to my memory (see blog post #1, My first time), I received $1 for each book I read, my mom says it was $0.25. Either way I would say she owes me a lot of money because I have read tons of books since our agreement was reached. But I will let it slide since she has bought me stuff through the years, and there is that whole giving birth thing, so let's just call it even. Operation "Bribe Pud to Read" worked so well on me that my parents decided to try it with my sister when she entered the second grade:
Mom and Dad: Puck, if you start reading we will pay you $1 for every book! How does that sound?
Puck: I will start reading when I want to.
Puck was not as easily persuaded as yours truly.
Soon after being bribed to read, I found that I loved reading. I became immersed in the stories, which played like a movie in my head. I could see, smell, touch everything the characters could. I would read and it was as if I was in a trance, my immediate surroundings turned into whatever scene I was reading in the book. No stimulus from the real world could break my concentration. Sometimes I would pretend I was one of the characters, other times I would become a new character that I had made up and inserted into the story. Reading was fun.
My first "chapter" book was The Boxcar Children. I didn't quite get the concept of chapters so I picked the chapter with the best sounding title and started there. Turns out "chapter" books do not make much sense if you start in the middle. I then moved on to "series" books, The Babysitters Club, Anne of Green Gables, The Chronicles of Narnia. I couldn't stop reading, I wanted to know what was going to happen to the characters as soon as I could, I had become friends with them, so to speak.
I loved reading so much that I would read anywhere, on vacation, on a raft, during BBQs, inside, outside. I would read during class; math class, science class, social studies. I thought I was sneaky, I thought no one could see that I was holding a book inside the cubby of my desk and reading it during class. It turns out the teacher could. In the fourth grade my teacher sent a note home to my parents stating that I read too much. This is probably the only case in the history of the world of a teacher discouraging a child from reading.
When we were given a book to read at school we were only supposed to read the pages assigned, we would then discuss what happened. The problem was, I couldn't put the book down, and I usually finished it within a few days. Of course I forgot all the minute details and even major plot lines, and when it came time to discuss the book I was at a loss. This problem was not exclusive to books assigned in school. Even when reading books for leisure I would forget plots or confuse characters. As time progressed I read more and more, which meant I accumulated more and more characters and plots to mix up and intertwine in my memory . It's like a 40 story New York City tenement building up there.
Yet somehow I persevered. I kept on reading. And while the genre of books have changed over the years a few things remain the same. I am still put in a trance whenever I read, I can still see the stories playing like movies in my head, I still see myself in the stories, I still feel like I am losing a friend whenever a story or series ends. I still love to read.
My favorite book is that one where Elizabeth Bennet falls in love with Prince Caspian who is in love with Kate Minola who may or may not be a vampire and who's family is mortal enemies with the Montagues who are werewolves and live at Hogwarts in Paris immediately after World War I where all the young people just seem so lost so they all start going to Spain to watch bull fights. Don't worry there is a happy ending, I think, I can't really remember.
Mom: Pud, how 'bout I pay you for...
Me: Yes
According to my memory (see blog post #1, My first time), I received $1 for each book I read, my mom says it was $0.25. Either way I would say she owes me a lot of money because I have read tons of books since our agreement was reached. But I will let it slide since she has bought me stuff through the years, and there is that whole giving birth thing, so let's just call it even. Operation "Bribe Pud to Read" worked so well on me that my parents decided to try it with my sister when she entered the second grade:
Mom and Dad: Puck, if you start reading we will pay you $1 for every book! How does that sound?
Puck: I will start reading when I want to.
Puck was not as easily persuaded as yours truly.
Soon after being bribed to read, I found that I loved reading. I became immersed in the stories, which played like a movie in my head. I could see, smell, touch everything the characters could. I would read and it was as if I was in a trance, my immediate surroundings turned into whatever scene I was reading in the book. No stimulus from the real world could break my concentration. Sometimes I would pretend I was one of the characters, other times I would become a new character that I had made up and inserted into the story. Reading was fun.
My first "chapter" book was The Boxcar Children. I didn't quite get the concept of chapters so I picked the chapter with the best sounding title and started there. Turns out "chapter" books do not make much sense if you start in the middle. I then moved on to "series" books, The Babysitters Club, Anne of Green Gables, The Chronicles of Narnia. I couldn't stop reading, I wanted to know what was going to happen to the characters as soon as I could, I had become friends with them, so to speak.
I loved reading so much that I would read anywhere, on vacation, on a raft, during BBQs, inside, outside. I would read during class; math class, science class, social studies. I thought I was sneaky, I thought no one could see that I was holding a book inside the cubby of my desk and reading it during class. It turns out the teacher could. In the fourth grade my teacher sent a note home to my parents stating that I read too much. This is probably the only case in the history of the world of a teacher discouraging a child from reading.
When we were given a book to read at school we were only supposed to read the pages assigned, we would then discuss what happened. The problem was, I couldn't put the book down, and I usually finished it within a few days. Of course I forgot all the minute details and even major plot lines, and when it came time to discuss the book I was at a loss. This problem was not exclusive to books assigned in school. Even when reading books for leisure I would forget plots or confuse characters. As time progressed I read more and more, which meant I accumulated more and more characters and plots to mix up and intertwine in my memory . It's like a 40 story New York City tenement building up there.
Yet somehow I persevered. I kept on reading. And while the genre of books have changed over the years a few things remain the same. I am still put in a trance whenever I read, I can still see the stories playing like movies in my head, I still see myself in the stories, I still feel like I am losing a friend whenever a story or series ends. I still love to read.
My favorite book is that one where Elizabeth Bennet falls in love with Prince Caspian who is in love with Kate Minola who may or may not be a vampire and who's family is mortal enemies with the Montagues who are werewolves and live at Hogwarts in Paris immediately after World War I where all the young people just seem so lost so they all start going to Spain to watch bull fights. Don't worry there is a happy ending, I think, I can't really remember.
Monday, November 28, 2011
Tourons
During one of my previous lives I lived in a real mountain town, this being defined as having more than one mountain, a ski resort instead of a ski hill, and a bar to people ratio of 1:10. Most people moved to this town with one goal, to ski. And while some may have called us locals, we preferred to be called ski bums. Ski bums alone are not enough to keep the economy of a small mountain town alive, unless it is a hops based economy. There must be an outside source helping to support the local economy. Enter the tourist.
Tourists are great, they stimulate the local economy, they are excited to be there, and they are grateful for all the help from the locals. Tourists look at locals like zoo animals. Not just any zoo animal, the cool zoo animals, the lions, the penguins, the Asiatic black bear with Kung Fu moves (seriously check it out on YouTube):
Tourons are generally unhappy to be anywhere outside their natural habitat (sitting on their couch watching TV). They think locals are only there to serve them, to unzip their neon colored onesies so they can use the bathroom. They ski in jeans and a Starter jacket, and refuse to take their ski boots off, even hours after they have stopped skiing and are sitting in a restaurant eating dinner. When it comes to tipping they still live in 1950, and you will take that dollar and be you will be happy that you got anything at all. Tourons look at locals as creatures that even Dr. Frankenstein would not create:
Anyone who has ever been on vacation has been either a tourist or a touron, and whichever you may have been (more than likely a tourist), one thing is certain, you asked a stupid question. And no matter how serious you were about getting a straight answer, the local ski bum delved down into the deepest darkest part of his wit and gave you a smart-ass answer.
Note to reader, the following questions have actually been asked by tourists.
Example #1
Tourist: What do you call those white bumps on the ski slopes?
Local: Moguls
Tourist: Yeah mobiles! Where do you store them in the summer?
Local: In a warehouse
Tourist: What do you store in the warehouse during the winter?
Local: Bear, deer, moose. In the summer we pull them out of storage and strategically place them around the mountain so tourists can have their pictures taken with them.
Tourist: Did you hear that Henry, they have Nature Animals during the summer!
Example #2
Tourist: Will our river rafting trip end at the same place along the river where it begins?
Local: Yes, rivers in nature are exactly the same as the Lazy River at Six Flags.
Example #3
Tourist: At what elevation do deer turn into elk
Local: Due to the genetic differences between deer and elk, one cannot turn into the other at any given elevation. However elk turn into moose once the temperature drops below 15 degrees F.
Example #4
Tourist: (as a beautiful, ethereal whistling wafts through the forest) What kind of bird makes that song?
Local: That's an elk bugling
Tourist: Ohhh, I've never heard of an elk bugling bird!
So as you and yours prepare for winter vacationing season, remember; leave good tips, be respectful, have fun, and unzip your own onesie. Now I have to go explain to some tourist why only one side of the chair lift is loaded with people.
Tourists are great, they stimulate the local economy, they are excited to be there, and they are grateful for all the help from the locals. Tourists look at locals like zoo animals. Not just any zoo animal, the cool zoo animals, the lions, the penguins, the Asiatic black bear with Kung Fu moves (seriously check it out on YouTube):
Tourist: "Look Timmy this young woman actually lives here! She gets to ski every day and party every night! Isn't that great! Maybe some day if you work hard enough you will get to be a ski bum! How does that sound? Now go stand next to her and I'll get your picture!"And while most tourists are pleasant there are always those few that act as if being on vacation is some kind of horrible punishment. And if they must suffer, then damn it, so must everyone around them. These people are called tourons (think moron + tourist = touron).
Tourons are generally unhappy to be anywhere outside their natural habitat (sitting on their couch watching TV). They think locals are only there to serve them, to unzip their neon colored onesies so they can use the bathroom. They ski in jeans and a Starter jacket, and refuse to take their ski boots off, even hours after they have stopped skiing and are sitting in a restaurant eating dinner. When it comes to tipping they still live in 1950, and you will take that dollar and be you will be happy that you got anything at all. Tourons look at locals as creatures that even Dr. Frankenstein would not create:
Touron: "Jimmy get away from that local! There is no telling where he has been! You must not get any closer or you may catch whatever disease he has that causes him to be a lazy, unproductive member of society!"
Anyone who has ever been on vacation has been either a tourist or a touron, and whichever you may have been (more than likely a tourist), one thing is certain, you asked a stupid question. And no matter how serious you were about getting a straight answer, the local ski bum delved down into the deepest darkest part of his wit and gave you a smart-ass answer.
Note to reader, the following questions have actually been asked by tourists.
Example #1
Tourist: What do you call those white bumps on the ski slopes?
Local: Moguls
Tourist: Yeah mobiles! Where do you store them in the summer?
Local: In a warehouse
Tourist: What do you store in the warehouse during the winter?
Local: Bear, deer, moose. In the summer we pull them out of storage and strategically place them around the mountain so tourists can have their pictures taken with them.
Tourist: Did you hear that Henry, they have Nature Animals during the summer!
Example #2
Tourist: Will our river rafting trip end at the same place along the river where it begins?
Local: Yes, rivers in nature are exactly the same as the Lazy River at Six Flags.
Example #3
Tourist: At what elevation do deer turn into elk
Local: Due to the genetic differences between deer and elk, one cannot turn into the other at any given elevation. However elk turn into moose once the temperature drops below 15 degrees F.
Example #4
Tourist: (as a beautiful, ethereal whistling wafts through the forest) What kind of bird makes that song?
Local: That's an elk bugling
Tourist: Ohhh, I've never heard of an elk bugling bird!
So as you and yours prepare for winter vacationing season, remember; leave good tips, be respectful, have fun, and unzip your own onesie. Now I have to go explain to some tourist why only one side of the chair lift is loaded with people.
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