writing samples/
Stupid Vermont Castings
Every Christmas my family would gather in our charming little cabin on Sopris Avenue to spend two weeks in what was, theoretically, a picture of domestic nuclear family bliss. We lived in Singapore, which means we spent our humidity-drenched days dreaming of Crested Butte. It was a snow globe we pictured: meals would magically appear on the table, the children would happily volunteer to wash the dishes, and for whatever reason Paul Harvey would always be on the radio telling a seasonally-appropriate anecdote. For months leading up to Christmas, the mental picture was one of egg nog fueling our days while we basked in the gentle flicker of light from the wood stove. Everything would smell like cinnamon and carry the soft focus of a Barbara Walters interview. That was the idea.
Skate
Last winter I competed in my second ever Alley Loop. I say competed, but that’s being generous. I was wearing a Western State speed suit from the 80’s with a throw pillow stuffed into my backside to give me some curves. I also had a mullet wig on. Oh, and I was doing the kids’ 3K, so saying I “competed” is being generous. It’s more like I skied alongside a bunch of 2nd graders and resented the fact that they weren’t as winded as I was.
The Hot Tub World Championships
“Should I get in the hot tub? Will it make me wet?
Should I get in the hot tub? Will it make we sweat?
Well, well, well…”
-James Browns’ Celebrity Hot Tub Party
I’m tremendously, cripplingly, devastatingly cheap. Ask my wife. I will make situations very inefficient if I can avoid spending money. Why pay $40 extra to fly out of Montrose when I can save that money by flying out of Salt Lake City? I have buyer’s remorse after getting a hot dog from the Sweitzer boys at Ace. As I write this I’m wearing a sweater that is 14 years old and looks every bit of its age. Needless to say, a significant purchase can be either an opportunity for personal growth or an existential crisis for me. And I pretty much always choose to let it be the latter.
Moment
There is no shortage of competition for our attention. In just the past 10 years it has become normal to have access to the social lives of almost anyone we could care to know about in our pockets. And our experiences become not something to digest and enjoy but to polish and display. We go to the concert only to spend the entire time recording it on a 4-inch screen. We come to the mountains and obsess over getting that perfect family selfie to use for our Christmas card next year.
Dangers of a Good Time
“Well I'll tell you something, this is no longer a vacation. It's a quest. It's a quest for fun! I'm gonna have fun, and you're gonna have fun. We're all gonna have so much fun we'll need plastic surgery to remove our smiles!”
-Clark W. Griswold, American Food Additive Pioneer
This is a cautionary tale. As the saying goes, comedy equals tragedy plus time. Perhaps for family vacations, treasured memories are just profound misfortune coupled with the rose colored glasses of hindsight. When my boys were still quite young, my family decided to go camping for the weekend. I agreed like any self respecting masochist might. “Who needs a bed and a shower, lets go sleep on the ground and poop into a big hole where lots of strangers have been doing the same thing for decades.”
Trudge
In 1988 my dad and I each had our treasured possessions. For him, it was a 1964 Jeep Willy’s Truck. It wasn’t an immaculately restored shining jewel of a thing. Instead, it had a suspension problem that would cause it to shake uncontrollably somewhere around 20 miles per hour. Anything above or below 20 and you were safe. But at 20 miles an hour, the thing was an absolute menace and I would duck my head down below the windows to avoid being seen by friends.
Confessions of an Apres-Ski Rockstar
“There are rich teams, there are poor teams. Then there’s fifty feet of crap.
Then there’s us.”
-Brad Pitt as Billy Beane, “Moneyball”
When I was younger I dreamed of life as a rockstar. I romanticized living out of a suitcase in the hotel room of some nameless town, longing for the sweet embrace of my wife and kids while trudging through middle America serenading cheese-eating fans. The fantasy came with all the trappings; fame and glory and addiction and irrationally tight pants. As a chronically not-goal-driven person however, I didn’t devote myself to the perfection of my craft or spend late nights plumbing the depths of this shared human experience to write the next great American album. Nor did I move to L.A. or Nashville or Brooklyn to pay my dues as a starving artist. No, there was far too much fun to be had with all the procrastinating to do and by God, I was going to do it! If I’ve learned something about myself, it’s that procrastination is the one thing I don’t struggle procrastinating with.
