And the worst part is, as each World Series favorite gets knocked off (Yanks, Twins) or crippled with injuries (Mets, Cardinals), you can't help but let your mind wander and wonder what might have been, had the Fightin's just managed to hang on to a one game Wild Card lead with a week to go. Had they not walked the bases loaded and blown a seventh inning lead against the Astros on Monday afternoon. Had Charlie Manuel fought off senility just long enough to argue that Chase Utley's foul ball against the National's was really a home run, as it clearly was. Had...ah, forget it. That's what you get when you emotionally invest in the losingest franchise in the history of organized sports. (That's true by the way, you can look it up. But you won't. Because you're lazy. That's right, I'm talking about you.)
Anyhoo, life in Aspen has been delightful. I introduced Lauren to an interesting concept called "public transportation," which means we're no longer burning through 50 bucks a week in gas despite owning one car and working within 3 miles of our apartment.Here we are waiting for the bus one brisk October morn.
The hiking has slowed down, partly because the weather has turned colder, and partly because Lauren still hasn't forgiven me for our last trip: a ceremonial climb to the top of Aspen mountain on the last day the gondola was running until the start of ski season. It turned out to be a tad bit snowier above 9,000 feet than anticipated, and after 3 and a half long hours of trudging through knee deep snow, an ill-prepared Lauren wound up with wet, cold feet and a bitterness that just won't die.
In an effort to make amends, I surprised Lauren later that week with matching his-and-hers snowshoes. The next time it dumps, we'll be ready.
You know, sometimes I'm guilty of seeing Aspen through rose-colored glasses, and that skewed vision is passed on to you in the glorified propoganda machine that is this blog. In an effort to be a bit more fair and even-handed, I thought it was time I gave you a glimpse of Aspen's seemy underbelly: a part of the community that the locals won't acknowledge, and newcomers like my wife and I don't discover until it's already too late.
There it is, the Aspen you don't read about in magazines. Some local toughs thought it would be a laugh riot to take some chalk and deface the street outside our apartment. In this particular piece of grafiti, the author(or authors) is expressing his displeasure with Aspen's long time arch-nemesis, Vail Resort, by pointing out in 3 foot-tall letters that Vail does, in fact, suck. It's a war as old as man itself, really, and if history is any indication, the response from Vail will be swift and decisive. I can only pray that my beautiful wife and I don't become the latest in a long line of innocent casualties.
On Friday, I drove Lauren to Denver so she could fly to New Jersey and visit these friends and family she keeps talking about. We had time to stop by our favorite sushi restaruant, Fontana's, where a packed dining room indicated that those egregious health code violations we heard about on 9 news were nothing to be concerned about.
After three rounds of sushi, Lauren received a standing ovation from a neighboring table for essentially eating her body weight in raw fish. The thing is, you think I'm joking, but I'm not.
On Saturday, I was flying solo, so I headed back to Aspen (that's Independence Pass, by the way. It seperates Aspen from, well, the rest of the world, really.) and made my way to the Wheeler Opera House, where I eschewed any form of Opera, opting instead for four hours of ski movies. While watching teenage punks huck themselves off 100-foot cliffs in an endless loop is fun and all, I'm quite certain I left considerably dumber than when I arrived.
Hope everyone is doing well back East. I'll try to keep the updates coming.
Tony
