This week in culture: fuck it, I’m not even trying for a segue – I saw OJ simpson on vacation…

Mmm, this was a longer delay in updating el blog than I had anticipated, and so to my growing fanbase, I say only this: “Sorry for partying”. Yeah, new expression I picked up over the holidays from my brothers in LA. Used in the right context, it is fantastic verbiage. It basically means: “I am sorry for having disappointed you with my actions, but you should know that mine was not aberrant behaviour; it is simply how I roll, and my attitude has manifested itself into this here episode where our paths have crossed, moreover I would encourage you to try to shape your life and attitude around my personality, as others agree it is magnetic and, frankly, attractive as all get-up.” So again, sorry for partying. Use it when you get into a fender bender and you are at fault. Use it when you accidentally spill a bit of beer on the shoulder of a lassie at a bar. Hell, use it when you go with your instincts and break into an air-guitar solo whilst sitting in your family’s pew during holiday services at synagogue. It’s just how you roll. Sorry for partying.

But Happy New Year, folks. I’ve had about 3 weeks off this thing, and a lot has happened. I took some great vacation time and reconnected with long-distance family and friends. I spent the first week skiing with family in Vail, Colo----wait a second, before I continue down this prosaic road, know this: I saw O.J. Simpson. I’m going to skip a paragraph to underline the gravity and veracity of this event. See you in a couple of lines…

Holy fucking shit did I ever see O.J. He was big and wearing all black (turtleneck and slacks, no balaclava). He’s a large fellow with hands like meat hooks. And he killed people, did you know that? We were at a restaurant, waiting to be seated, when Orinthal James lurched towards the exit, from which I was only 2 meters. I always envisioned he would be terribly shy and unobtrusive in public, trying to maintain a low profile. Not so much. He was loud and boisterous, bellowing something out to one of his friends that sounded like, “I know you’re trying to pretend you can’t hear me, but I know you heard what I just said!”. What the fuck? Ask yourself: when was the last time you faced a cold-blooded murderer? It is creepy beyond belief.

So that was at a ski resort in Colorado. I was out there for six days, 2 of which had me skiing deep powder, which, after intimate lady-time moments, is my favourite thing to do. I like it because it feels like surfing, but easier, it always reminds me of my happiest ski days in Whistler, B.C., and it's a great ego booster because, despite my not possessing the greatest athletic instincts, I'm really good at it. The rest of ski vacation was spent with my Dad and sis, eating fancy meals, early bedtimes, and full ski days. All in all, it was about as enjoyable as detox can get. Highlights were: the powder, the great food, and successfully tolerating my father's second wife (they divorced in 2003) who was, as luck would have it, staying in the same resort town with friends of hers. She and I had never gotten along, and I dreaded meeting up with her for the inevitable "courtesy dinner", replete with delicious venison steak and feigned civility. I was on vacation, after all, and felt that this was an unnecessary exercise. But the good news was that I had a great time, as she didn't speak much at dinner, or the subsequent day she joined us to ski. She had also aged terribly, despite New York's finest plastic surgeons, had a funny haircut, and she had taken to wearing bright designer ski wear that had her looking less like her self-proclaimed "ski bunny" (at 59, this term is wholly inappropriate) and more like a semi-professional rodeo clown. So all was well that ended well.


FS