Much like the Republican Party, Sunday comics, and the defending World Champion Philadelphia Phillies, this blog has recently lost its way.
What started as an homage to life in the tiny mountain hamlet of Aspen, Colorado has somehow evolved into a glorified slideshow featuring my infant son in various staged -- if adorable -- poses.
And while the little guy is certainly growing on me, I'll be damned if he's going to take over the website I've poured so much of my blood, sweat, and employer's time into.
So as of today, A Little Place Called... is getting back to its roots, to a time when we regaled readers with tales of harrowing mountain climbs, exhilarating powder descents, and B-list celebrity run-ins. In other words, life in everyday Aspen.
This weekend, along with the rest of America, the Nittis' celebrated the 4th of July. Every year I get my hopes up for an Independence Day filled with high-octane action and excitement just like in that movie, The Matrix. Instead, it invariably ends up bland and disappointing, like that movie Independence Day.
Speaking of the Will Smith blockbuster that's become a staple of July 4th cable programming, while I like watching shit get blown up as much as the next guy, there's one thing about the movie that bothers me.
It's the Randy Quaid character. He's introduced early in the movie as the town drunk; a pathetic figure who attributes his hardships to what is universally percieved as a clearly fabricated prior alien abduction.
Towards the end of the movie, after scores of aliens have invaded the planet, the army is soliciting volunteer pilots to launch a counterattack. Randy Quaid volunteers, and adds to his verbal resume that he'd like a little revenge for his previous kidnapping.
And when he does, everyone in the vicinity of Quaid's story rolls their eyes and snickers at his "insanity."
For Chrissakes, at this point, is there really any reason to continue doubting the validity of the guy's story? What more proof does he need? The majority of Earth lies in smoldering ruins after interstellar attackers went all Hiroshima on our major cities, and yet everyone continues to dismiss him as a nutcase for suggesting he was once abducted by aliens. That's just plain insulting.
Sorry about that. It just frustrates me that -- cynics that we are -- a raging alcoholic can never get the benefit of the doubt. Instead, people just immediately dismiss all the wild bullshit that comes out of their mouth. Well, unless you're G.W. Bush, that is. Then they elect you for a second term.
Back to the 4th. Now, on my "favorite ways to spend a Saturday" list, going to a parade falls slightly ahead of a spinal tap and just behind an ass kicking. But the way I figure it, now that I'm a dad I'm facing a solid decade of doing things I once loathed, so I may as well hit the ground running.
Here's a shot of Aspen Mountain, devoid of snow for the first time since early November.
As you can see, Ryan was clearly enthralled by the doings a-transpiring. 
The single greatest part of life in Aspen is just how efficient you can be with a small amount of free time. On Sunday, I found myself with two hours of freedom and decided to head out on my bike and see if I couldn't get myself lost.
Not a shabby view from Hay Park, nestled in the Thomas Lakes wildnerness at 9,600 feet.
On the descent, I stopped to snap a couple photos of the wildflowers in full bloom.
And a shot back towards the Roaring Fork valley.
Back in the car and heading home, I had to shoot this close-up of the twin summits of Sopris.
