Tell Me Why, I Don't Like Mondays?

The wine was flowing like, well, wine on Monday night, as Lauren and I joined Terry Schaeffer and his life-mate Amy (trust me, it's an Aspen concept) at the Little Nell to celebrate the end of Terry's October 15th busy season. Terry allows me to share his downtown Aspen office space rent-free, and as if that weren't enough, he wanted to treat Lauren and I to dinner at one of the finest restaurants in the country. As any good celebration tends to, this one included an abundance of spirits and all the finest meats and cheeses a guy could ever want.

Lauren and I savored every bite of our scallops and rib eye, fully aware that absent another benefactor like Terry, this will likely be our last meal at the Nell. Or at least until our parents come out to visit and open up those checkbooks (hint, hint).

The food was worth every penny, I must say, and the wine left Lauren in a gooood mood. Interesting story...the resident Sommelier at the Nell is a fellow named Richard Betts, who aside from being a fantastic runner and bearing a slight resemblance to Luke Wilson, is one of only 56 Master sommeliers in America and one of only nine in the world to pass his test on the first try. I bet that doesn't hurt with the ladies.

There's Lauren and Amy above, putting the finishing touches on our night. Below is me and my man Terry, a great guy and an Aspen icon. You can't walk 10 feet with Terry without someone shouting hello, shaking his hand, or threatening his life (not joking...trust me). You know, I've never seen a guy get so bombed off of a desert wine, but God bless him, it made for some great conversation.

As wonderful as the wine, food, and conversation was, it was what took place outside of the Nell that made the night most memorable. We had walked in around 7:30, and while there was a bit of a nip in the air, there was nothing to indicate what was to come. By the time the last of the wine was consumed it was 9:30, and as we exited the Nell, we found Aspen immersed in a good old fashioned snowstorm.
After snapping a couple of photos, Terry and Amy pulled away, leaving Lauren and I alone as we walked to our car. For reasons I can't adequately explain, I know I'll remember that moment for the rest of my life. There I was, holding the hand of the girl who means everything to me, her angelic face illuminated against a backdrop of falling snow and a distant street lamp. For just a few seconds, the streets were motionless in every direction, and as I watched the snow paint our postcard-perfect town a brilliant white, I was absolutely certain that life, even if for just that moment, was perfect.

Uhhh...now who saw that Bears game on Monday night? That was something else, huh?

Are You Ready for Some Football?

One thing about those Aspenties, they sure are passionate about their football. Here, local fanatics express their displeasure with dynamic New Orleans Saints rookie running back/receiver/kick returner Reggie Bush. It's hard to say exactly what Bush did to raise the ire of a population 2,000 miles away, as the Saints aren't even on the Broncos schedule this year.

I would imagine signs like this will quickly become commonplace in the City of Brotherly Love, as the multi-faceted Bush just helped lead the 5-1 Saints to a last-second victory over the fast-sinking Philadelphia Eagles. Then again, some cynics might suggest that the average Eagles fan lacks the opposable thumbs necessary to operate a spray-paint can. By some cynics, of course, I mean me.

Whatever Happened To "We're Going All The Way At States This Year?!"

Ahh.. Aspen High School. Where the offspring of the culturally elite come to develop their minds, lay the foundation for a lifetime of critical thought, and yeah, if there's enough time, bring sexy back.

This evening, Lauren and I were invited to a "new teacher reception" at the home of the Skiers, where apparently the cafeteria has been decorated by the last remaining Justin Timberlake fan. Out of place as that sign was in a room filled with kindergarten teachers and rambunctious toddlers, it was quickly surpassed in the "awkward and uncomfortable" category by the sign below, which adorned the hallway outside of the gym.

I'm not quite sure what this sign means, but I do know this: With an attitude like that, it's going to be awfully hard to bring sexy back.

So This Is What It Feels Like, When Doves Cry

Sorry about the infrequent posting, but I've spent the better part of the last ten days curled up in the fetal position clutching a lukewarm bottle of Jack, enduring my annual post-Phillies-elimination-day mounring period. The hurt runs so deep, you know?

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

Look Out, The "Lump" Is Getting Bigger!!

That's right! Stephanie "Stephalump" Balerna is officially a big girl, having turned 3 years old yesterday. HAPPY BIRTHDAY STEPHALUMP!!!

It's On. It's So On.

It is now 1:37 AM EST on Sunday, September 24th. Mark it in your calendar, because it was at this moment that the Fightin' Phils took over sole possession of the National League Wildcard lead following the Dodgers loss to Arizona. You know, it's theoretically possible that they could wind up with a better record than the second-best division winner, meaning -- and correct me if I'm wrong Mike -- they could open up the playoffs at home. Color me giddy.

Dream Fulfilled

I wasn't like every other kid, you know, who dreams about being an astronaut. I was always more interested in what bark was made out of on a tree.

I know…I know…I stole that line from Zoolander. But chiseled good looks and an appreciation for Richard Gere aren’t the only things Hansel and I have in common: I didn’t grow up dreaming of becoming an astronaut either.

That’s not to say I wasn’t a dreamer. It’s just that my dreams of the future were ever-changing; a reflection of whatever unhealthy obsession consumed me at the time.

While in grade school, I figured I’d spend my adult years driving a Jalopy and solving mysteries, the end result of learning to read courtesy of the Hardy Boys.

Sadly, by the time I turned nine, my burgeoning maturity allowed me to pick up on the collections' rampant homosexual undertones. While curious, I decided upon a different path.

In high school, all that mattered was soccer. I couldn’t imagine a future that didn’t involve playing professionally. That dream ended abruptly on the morning of August 24, 1993 -- my first day at pre-season camp at Trenton State College -- when 15 upperclassmen rudely introduced me to the realization that I wasn’t particularly good.

With private investigation and professional athletics no longer viable options, I needed a new escape. I found that escape in skiing. For the better part of the next five years, when I wasn’t trekking up to Vermont for weekend getaways, I was killing time in class committing to memory a dog-eared copy of Ski Magazine’s annual Resort Guide. Detailing the ins and outs of North America’s 50 most popular ski areas, the words on the pages took me far away from Cost Accounting 101, transporting me to distant locales that looked and sounded too serene and beautiful to be real.

I can’t explain why, but I knew then that I wanted to one day call one of those pages home, even if just for a while. It all sounded so appealing: to live in a town where crime is an afterthought and community is more than just the middle name of the local pool, where horse-drawn sleighs replace horn-pounding motorists, where an impending snowstorm is met not with anger over the impact on the morning commute, but rather with an electric anticipation towards the morning on the mountain.

As I said, I can’t explain why this became my dream, nor do I expect anyone else to share or even understand it. But just the same, it did.

This afternoon, I stopped by my office to pick up some client files. Greeting me upon my arrival, lying on the floor where it had landed after its trip through the mail slot, was the 2006 edition of the Resort Guide.

As I looked at the cover, it was 1995 all over again. And I was left with just one thought…

I’m here.