humour

Ski Economics

Even as a youth, long before I had a university degree in the subject, I was an economist.

Then, my task was simply to squeeze every last ounce of value for money from my daily ski pass: nagging parents to get me to the hill before the lifts opened,  skiing at breakneck speed to get to the bottom faster, then cutting the lift lines trying to beat the hordes to the top again. I skied long after my jeans had turned stiff with ice, my feet had gone numb and my legs had turned to jelly. The game was to pack as many runs as possible into a day, and winning was measured by an ever diminishing ‘cost per run’

A half-century later many things have changed. Very expensive but infinitely more comfortable gear has replaced frozen jeans and lace up leather boots, and ‘vertical feet skied ‘are now tracked with a smart phone app, but the boy inside me has not.

Skiing economics is still a shrewd calculus, and the game is still to squeeze the most vertical feet out of each lift pass dollar. So, each year at  this time there begins a grand game of chess between the boy inside me and the lift pass purveyors of Whistler Blackcomb. Which pass should I pre-order for next winter to ensure the ultimate bang for my bucks? It is a match which, sadly, I have lost for the past several years, ending the season with unused days on my multi- day pass. As they expire with the melting of the snow those days taunt me: Whistler won -I paid for more runs than I was able to ski!

Granted, there are reasons for my losses. I have been variously side-lined by accident and illness, and even by clients who unreasonably expected me to attend to their legal needs on perfect, bluebird, powder days. Truly, there is no justice!

With the sale of Whistler to Vail Resorts I face a new, and possibly craftier Chess Master this year, with Vail announcing an array of new options to tempt and bewilder.

At a quick glance, the best possible bargains are available to local students. I tried that one on for size, explaining to the sales rep that I was a Student of Life, so should be entitled to the best rate, but alas to no avail.

Next to catch my eye was the “Founder’s Pass”, a full season pass with extra perks, offering 50% tax deductibility as a charitable donation to the Whistler Foundation. Since skiing and dodging CRA are two of my favourite activities, the combo looked irresistible – until I clicked through to the price – a cool $6,000 ! One of the founder’s pass perks is lift tine priority for your first ride up the mountain each day, to avoid the plebeian scrum. Frankly, Mr. Vail, I would expect an honour guard of liveried lift attendants and my personal gondola for that price!

The new pass getting most of the press however is the “Epic Pass”. It’s lure is its portability, – you can ski practically anywhere on the planet with it. It fired my imagination immediately- perhaps I should buy one and create the ski bum winter  I never had as a youth, flitting from Whistler to  Kicking Horse to Vail, catching some Telluride powder, and exploring Park City and Arapahoe Basin before heading east to the famous glades of Stowe and  Mount St Anne, then on to Europe to sample Val D’Isere and  30 other famous resorts, and ending up with a week of spring skiing in Japan’s Habuba valley. An Epic ski pass indeed.

Thankfully my chiropractor brought me back to earth even before the family finance committee learned of my daydream, sagely pointing out that I practically lived in his office after just a regular day on the local slopes, so, the damage done by a ski bum holiday was sure to be epic, or worse. He, rather than I, was far more likely to enjoy a vacation as a result of my purchase of an Epic pass.

So, as I click the button to renew my boring, restricted, seniors 5 day pass I light a votive candle and mumble a prayer to the Ski Gods, asking for their indulgence next year.  Let it be the year I guessed right, and ended up ahead of the game. of ski economics.

 

 

Categories: Bucket list, humour, Reflections, Travel | Tags: , , , , | Leave a comment

Reductio Ad Absurdum

Like lawyers everywhere I relish every opportunity to throw around obscure Latin phrases, to confuse and confound the uninitiated. This blog’s headline is an example, although it will be instantly recognizable to students of logic amongst the readership, as well as those who keep a copy of Aristotle’s Prior Analytics on their bedside table.

It refers to a type of argument that seeks to destroy a proposition by taking it to the extreme. In legal argument it is sometimes employed along with its sister, the “Floodgates” argument (“judge, if you find in favor of the idiot on the other side, it will open the floodgates of litigation”)

Let’s have some fun with Reductio Ad Absurdum. Readers of my companion blog will know that I’ve been alternately bemused and incensed by the swelling tide of political correctness that seems bent on erasing the names of Sir John A. Macdonald and Sir Matthew Baillie Begbie from public view, because of their actions against aboriginal people. There have been shrill demands for their names to be removed from schools, bridges and even pubs that have been named after them.

Logically then, any historical public figure whose actions were abhorrent by today’s standard should receive the same treatment. May I present Chief Maquinna, a well known chief of the Nuu-Cha-Nulth. While history will remember him best as the chief who welcomed Capt. James Cook to Nootka Sound, it also records that he was an enthusiastic owner of slaves. Slavery of course, was an established part of First Nations culture, pre-European contact, but Maquinna is also known to have captured European whalers who strayed into his territory, keeping them as slaves, and putting some to death when they attempted to escape. It seems to me that the chief’s conduct ticks all the same boxes as Sir John A. and Sir Matthew.

So, when various school boards vote to rename schools named after Sir John A. McDonald, surely  the name of Maquinna  Elementary school  should also get axed (there are two schools named after Maquinna, incidentally, one in Vancouver and one in Port Alberni )

Last, but not least, since the Kingston  pub Sir John’s Public House recently felt compelled to change its name to simply ‘The Public House’ to avoid offending patrons, should not Tofino’s  venerable Maquinna Hotel follow suit ? Ironically the Maquinna  Hotel bar is  a favorite First Nations watering hole, being conveniently located just above the pier where the water taxi from the Ahousaht First nations Reserve  docks.

Reductio Ad Absudum ?

 

Categories: First Nations, humour, law, Reflections | Tags: , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Of bucket lists and tramp steamers and such

A very long time ago I was a fan of the comic strip Terry and the Pirates. It was a wonderful piece of escapism with a swashbuckling hero traveling through exotic lands and surviving incredible adventures. The lure of faraway places with strange sounding names triggered something in my adolescent brain, and a nascent bucket list was born. I too would someday trudge the markets of old Rangoon, hike the temples of  mysterious Mandalay and stroll moonlit tropical beaches.

Bucket lists are funny things: ever-growing, they tend to morph over time, as tastes and circumstances and resources change. For myself, common sense has pretty well ruled out an ascent of the Matterhorn or a solo crossing of the Spearhead Traverse, and  my financial advisor has strongly suggested that if I wish to eat at least a couple of meals a day in retirement I should abandon any idea of a  submarine ride to the Titanic, or space tourism in general.

I confess to feeling a bit wistful as I stare down yet another birthday and the realization dawns that I may be running out of runway to make it to the bottom of a very long and ever-growing bucket list, but also chagrined, as I have just learned  that my list has unexpectedly amended itself

Last week the venerable  old mail ship the RMS St. Helena (one of only two Royal Mail ships remaining in the entire world), which has for decades been the only link to the isolated island of St. Helena in the South Atlantic, embarked upon its final voyage and I have never had the opportunity to walk its decks.

A  voyage to the island has long been on my list, since it is reputedly stunning, is steeped in history, having been once Napoleon’s residence in exile, but moreover has had the cachet of inaccessibility.  I once investigated the possibility of sailing there aboard a square rigger,  but abandoned the idea after learning that it would have set me back over 50 grand and a year of my time, and I’d have to scramble up the rat lines to reef sails in all weather; so the mail ship was my only other option.

Alas the island has now installed an airport, destroying not only the mystique of sea-only access, but also the viability of the mail ship, which is being retired from service and sold.

Is an island now accessible to any tourist with a plane ticket worthy of a spot on the list? Thinning hair and creaking joints suggest a bit of bucket list triage is in order, so I am afraid St. Helena no longer makes the cut, which is a shame- it’s not the way one should remove items from the list. A big black  “completed” check mark is hardly preferred.

Speaking of which is anyone out there up for a wee jaunt up Mount Kilimanjaro?

Categories: Bucket list, humour, Reflections, Travel | Tags: , , , , | 1 Comment

Of Gremlins and Etymologiae and such

I have long believed in wee forest folk, and have blogged about my affinity towards them previously. My belief now extends to their urban cousins, the computer Gremlins. These rascals take up residence in the machines that have now taken over our lives, where their mischievous ways wreak utter havoc.  Continue reading

Categories: computers, humour, Reflections, religion | Tags: , , , , , | 2 Comments

How to Show a Lady a good time

Ours was an arranged marriage . We were prodded out of our comfortable, but untidy living arrangements by my parents, who gently but inexorably nudged us towards the altar; eventually hosting the nuptials to ensure the job got done.

The event was planned for December 27th, to coordinate with the annual gathering of the widely dispersed clan for the Christmas festivities.

I awoke to my first as a married man to discover that my bride was deathly ill- probably the flu,  but just possibly a delayed shock reaction to my impulsive decision (for the first and only time in our married life) to shave my beard for the wedding ceremony.

Our honeymoon was to be a free-form driving excursion down the coast to Tijuana, (which, being young,  I thought  seemed like a suitably  romantic destination)  so I bundled my ailing and feverish bride into my aging VW Rabbit and pointed it south. Not wanting to detract from the spontaneity of the event, I had eschewed all forms of advance planning. We would be gypsies, free as birds and responding only to the siren song of the open road.

By the time we hit the Oregon border it was pitch dark, and  my gypsy bride lay swaddled in blankets in the passengers seat, moaning softly every now and then just to let me know that she hadn’t actually expired. When the fog rolled in, I knew it was time to get off the Inter-State and park the gypsy caravan for the night.

I took the next exit, hoping  that it might lead to into a town with accommodation, only to discover that the fog was even thicker off the highway. I could see nothing beyond the circle of light cast by my headlight, and no signs of habitation anywhere. Slowing to a crawl,  I strained  to see through the gloom, for what seemed an eternity, and rejoiced when finally,  a neon motel sign appeared out of the darkness. The sign was somewhat  dilapidated, and not all its letters were alight but it announced both a motel and a vacancy. I couldn’t discern the motel proper, just a dimly lit office, so, with some trepidation I turned in.

My first clue should have been the wire cage that protected the receptionist seated beneath faded signs declaring “CASH ONLY”  and “NO REFUNDS“. I glanced out the grimy office window in search of an alternative, but saw none. Exhausted, and with  the heavy weight of my new found responsibility as a husband of finding shelter for my sick  bride descending upon me, I ponied up the cash.

Our entry to our ‘no refund’ room, lacked entirely the  panache and romance traditionally associated with a newlywed couple’s entry to the bridal suite, but in fairness, the Timberland Motel’s finest wasn’t quite up to bridal suite standards (dubious that it was up to  local health or building code standards for that matter)

Surveying the grubby room, which reeked of stale cigarette smoke, and worse, my gypsy bride stared hard at the yellowed sheets and frayed  blanket covering  the thin mattress, and croaked, “I’m not sleeping in that” before wrapping herself in her coat, and curling up on top of the bed.

The horror of the room was surpassed only by the condition of the bathroom, a detailed description of which I will omit, lest it offend more sensitive readers. I too elected to sleep in my clothes, on top of the bed, and rationalized that gypsies probably didn’t shower every day, so there was no need to attempt the rusted shower enclosure.

The second day of our married life dawned clear and sunny, to reveal, a scant 400 yards down the road, a sparkling new and shiny Howard Johnson motel with quality  accommodation fit for a young  gypsy King and his Queen, had only we persevered not two minutes more.

Perseverance is one of the hallmarks of a successful marriage, and we must have acquired some somewhere along the way, since today marks out 37th wedding anniversary !

Now, reluctant as a fellow is to ask for advice or directions, does anyone know of a first class hotel that caters to geriatric gypsies ?

 

Categories: Etiquette & manners, humour, marriage, Reflections, relationships | Tags: | 2 Comments

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