Skiing with Mom and Dad

Occasionally, Pop decides he's unhappy with the current ski trail, shrieks "Shortcut!" and takes off into the woods. This is probably not the worst of it.

What might be worse is the gut-wrenching fear that comes from watching my mother, who tore her ACL and is supposed to be, but is not, wearing a gigantic knee brace. She skis down black diamond trails at a perfect, rail straight, 90-degree angle to the hill.

Meanwhile, Dad decides it's boring to walk back to the hotel so he skis right through the middle of the Winter Carnival, right past the teenagers in the toboggan line and everybody out front the hot chocolate stand. He waves 'hi' to the ice sculptors and tells the ticket takers chasing him down that he's "just passing through."

The rest of us slog out down the road with our boots on. Mom rolls her eyes and says Dad's probably hypoglycemic. Other than that she's not concerned, she informs me, swinging around, skis in hand, to let me know this and taking out three school children on the curb waiting to board their bus.

Here's a picture of my entire nuclear family crashed into each other on a logging trail circa 2003. I like the logger in the background, looking on with WTF eyes.

My brother is pancaked there in the front. Attempting to skate ski on an ungroomed trail, he got his. I felt no sympathy. The depicted event transpired the day after Nutchie skied in front of me, backwards, the entire way down a mountain griping that I really needed to pick it up some for the sake of propriety, appearances and lifetime total distance.

Pop recovers fast, handy with a pole. The logger is spellbound. This is one of my favorite family photos.

Not so fast, Nuchie

My brother was excited to report he biked 4000 miles in 2011. Until he talked to Dad, who informed him that the 700 miles on his stationary bike did not count.

"Stationary bike miles are easier than road miles so you can't include them. If you used a formula, like an indoor mile is worth .68 of an outdoor mile, then... Maybe. I wouldn't do it."

"Running miles, I round to the tenth of a mile and I round bike miles to the whole mile. I always round down. I have always done it that way. I can do it however I want."

"My friend Ed always rounds up."

"I would never ride my bike, for example, 20.95 miles and have to round down to 20 miles. I always look at my computer as I ride down the hill in front of the house. I would just ride down the alley and up Elm street to clock the extra .05 needed."

"At the end of our trip to Ireland, we were at the airport when I realized we had biked 998.8 miles. I took my bike out and rode up and down the service road."

"I like a round number. They're easier to add together."

January 14 Scandinavian Club minutes

4:30 - Meeting called to order.

Freden i Knäred 2
After all my cash fell out of my pocket Friday on my way to the Lower East Side, I immediately keep the trend going by forgetting my credit card and metrocard on a back table. Luckily, the Danish Unit commandeers the table and keeps an eye on it for me. I keep an eye on the Danish Unit just in case they decide to hoist their large Danish flag, invade other tables and hold them for ransom.

Special Guests Arrive
We meet Awe's fästmö Annika at long last. At first, they only speak with other people whose names begin with the letter "A." Luckily, Leslie is very charming and insists they meet the rest of the alphabet.

Snakke snakke snakke
Topics under discussion include banks, 16th street, the punjab region, jazz and Leah's lovely blouse. At one point, the owner of the bar tries to convince me we should meet there two-five times a month and Alex mentions his new Galaxy tablet. We all agree Petrina's new shop-cook-eat logo rocks.

A Small Rant that Ends Well
Not that I have anything against the brooding, the aloof and posturing trés fancy in this fine town, but I really dislike those cliquey-cliquey events where all you see are peoples' backs. I am proud to be the organizer of an awesome group who is wise enough to know that facing forward is much more fun.

Other Things are Going On:
Jenny is now on the board of SVEA. Grattis! Eric's sambo Ashley is hosting a gallery opening on Thursday for a Japanese artist in Chelsea. You should go and have a glass of free wine. Malou's boyfriend Sebastian plays the banjo in an Irish band. We must consider extending diplomatic courtesy and gift the Irish with a rousing kräftskiva at one of his shows.

Tusen Tack
A thousand thanks to Art, Alex, Fredrick, Karin & Petrina for helping lock down the venue.

9:45 - Meeting Adjourned.

A rare and spectacular clusterfuck : Bring it on Minus the Bear

Hottie Jake Snider
manhandles his guitar

"A rare and spectacular clusterfuck" is how Pitchfork, Ian Cohen specifically, described one of the Minus the Bear albums which I happen to melt into a puddle over. Further, Ian claimed Minus the Bear's vocalist Jake Snider sings like a "disinterested outsider." I need to explain some things to Ian.

First of all, Neat-As-A-Button is dogmatic and predictable and irons his white cotton underpants. Not that I have anything against Pitchfork darlings like Cults, that last School of Seven Bells record, Rome, or Neutral Milk Hotel*, but their music is unrelenting in its symmetrical perfection. It's like two trendy little chairs perfectly angled by a trendy little sofa.

And attractive as your modern euro-design 3-piece livingroom set may be, I'd prefer to be draped across a night-colored canapé surrounded by vintage taxidermy, a tray of really good tacos and five "over-produced" math rockers from Seattle. Any day of the week. Bring it on, clusterfuck!

Second of all, about this "disinterested outsider" tag-- get a girl on your review team for the love of the gods, Pitchfork! Bad boys don't heave their bosoms or weep, especially when describing driving around drinking vodka out of a lemonade carton. The lyrics are a simple, iniquitous play-by-play uncluttered by any sentimental posturing. It is exactly what it says it is: some debauched dude recounting the libidinous thing that happened last week backed by a gargantuan stack of noise. I'm not saying that a few of the songs aren't mouth-breathers, but the ones that go the whole way easily round all the bases.

*Just in case someone actually get it into their heads to fact check this diatribe, please note that it is subject to the flexible quality standards of the internet.

Umbrella Scandal declared Completely Outrageous by Melissa

Dateline 12/27/11: While enjoying her evening in a deceptively snug restaurant in vermont, Melissa's umbrella was purloined from the communal umbrella jar by the door. Although in direct proximity, Vermont is not New Hampshire. In Vermont, there is no living free or dying all dry and comfortable beneath someone else's expensive wind-proof, auto-open umbrella. The criminal element, especially ones predisposed to fine dining, should keep an eye on state lines.
 
Possibly unbeknownst to the perpetrator, the heist resulted in serious repercussions beyond the obvious damp clothing problem. Umbrella theft is no victimless crime and such was the case yesterday. Inadvertently, Silla plucked a third-party umbrella from the communal stand causing a thievery chain reaction and thrusting her deeply into the thug life. The bandit slope is slippery. Next, she may feel the lure of the rain slicker! 
 
Although crack reporters such as myself are paid a large percentage of all blog profits to maintain our objectivity and refrain from offering advice only relevant in hindsight, I was unable to curb my zeal for a new and surefire business concept: Umbrella PomPom Crime Deterrent Craft Kits. 

The idea would be to attractively and distinctively decorate the exterior pelt of the umbrella with sequins, LOLcatz waterproof stickers and shiny non-edibles. Now that they are retired by the loving grace of Jesus, Silla and David may want to consider investing a top drawer idea like this.

 
In summary, despite my best efforts and how much they amuse me, I was unable to work the words "chicanery," "rectitude" or "virtue" in this recounting of actual events.

Tom's Charity #Fail

Tom exits the grocery store and throws a ten dollar bill in Santa's basket. Santa hollers that he is simply there to hand out candy canes. Tom fishes his money out of the pile of candy canes and puts it back in his pocket.

This fricassee tastes like paper

Since it is unlikely that I will ever find myself interviewed about my so-called artwork by a publication like the NY Times or the Randolph News Bee, I've decided to interview myself.

Me: What is the genre of your art?
Me: I call it Hedgewitch Modern. Or maybe Abstract Packrat. My genre is loosely based on Joan Miro and his large-scale dystopic paintings of potatos.

Me: What inspires you?
Me: I'm inspired by paisley, scuff marks, lantana, fingerprints, paint chips, metal dust, used Scotch tape, crumpled paper, shredded fabric, circular objects, moss, black chess pieces, bubbles, reptile scales, crystaline molecular structures, mutilated stripes, and things that have been burned in a fire.

Me: Where do you keep your art supplies.
Me: In the dishwasher, your rumor mongerer. I will also have you know I've removed my sweaters from the oven. Although admittedly a titanic example of storage genius, a fire hazard risk-reward evaluation caused me to reassess.

Me: What brochures are you most likely to cut into strips?
Me: I've grown partial to Rubin Museum member mailings, Starbucks handouts and AAF catalogs. I also enjoy slicing up New York Magazine.

Me: Have you ever boiled a Resoration Hardware Catalog?
Me: Only that one time.